by E. E. Knight
“So what do you think of the circus, Wistala?” Rainfall asked from Stog’s back as Stog’s ears followed the pounding hooves around the audience.
“Delightful! I’ve never seen happier people,” Wistala said. “They all perform as though driven by joy, rather than the coins flung at them.”
Rainfall leaned down. “Some of the coins are thrown by the circus men themselves, to give others in the audience the example. They are more often paid in eggs and cheese. But I am pleased you enjoyed yourself. Ragwrist is one of my oldest and dearest friends—though a sharp rascal, as you will learn.”
Wistala wondered what the last portended. Rainfall sometimes preceded action with an assortment of exploratory statements to judge reaction, like a cook tasting broth as the ingredients went in.
Many of the performers continued their exhibitions, informally of course, in Jessup’s tavern that evening. Rainfall held a dinner in his long dining room for Ragwrist and a few of his “Old Guard”—the expression in Parl was one of Rainfall’s, but Ragwrist seemed to know who he meant.
They gathered around two mismatched tables covered by a single ill-fitting cloth, sitting on chairs that had been brought in from other rooms—Rainfall’s better dining furniture had been sold off in his years of want, and there were candelabras under the fitting for the missing chandelier.
Other than Ragwrist, who had cast off his colorful coat for a plain black long-shirt, were Intanta the fortune-teller—a toothless old woman who turned her food into mash, the dwarf Brok, the long-bearded lead gargant-driver, who stuck his facial hair in a special sleeve to keep the food off it, and a horse trainer named Dsossa, whose tight-bound white hair seemed brittle as ice, though otherwise she looked human.
Dsossa and Rainfall seemed to share some special understanding, for they clasped warmly on her entry and touched hands frequently throughout dinner.
Wistala, who had eaten earlier, sat at the far end of the table and crunched the others’ fishheads and tails—smoked fish from the fall’s salmon run up the Whitewater River had been served—as they finished their meals and started on their wines. As they reminisced, she learned that Brok, in his wild youth, had been judged by Rainfall after he was caught breaking into a bakery to steal food. Rainfall offered him one year of quarrying stone or two years indentured to Ragwrist.
Of Intanta she learned nothing, for the old woman kept silent save for a polite comment or two. But as the conversation echoed events she’d never seen and faces she’d never known, she began to doze.
She awoke to a rattle before her. Someone had rolled a coin down the table so that it dropped off the edge before her nose.
“Yes?” Wistala asked, as wide awake as she’d been deep asleep a moment before.
“A coin for a good story, green daughter of the skies and the earth’s deepest flame,” Ragwrist said. “I want to hear how you disposed of the troll!”
“I hardly did it alone,” Wistala said. “And I’ll tell without asking for payment. I might as well ask for money to look at me.”
Ragwrist laughed, and Wistala liked the easy sound of it. “Ho! Our ears are quite closed to that line of argument. Rainfall says coin aids your digestion or somesuch. There’ll be another if I’m well entertained.”
Wistala told it again, imitating the noises as she had with the courier dwarves. She found she took less pleasure from remembering the events and more from her audience’s reaction. She was rewarded with a coin from Ragwrist and another from Brok, and they soon joined the others within, leaving Wistala in a contented mood.
“I have a suggestion, Wistala,” Rainfall said. “Will you hear it?”
“I’ll hear anything from you,” Wistala said.
Rainfall looked around the table and got nods from everyone save Intanta, who dozed. “I’m of the opinion you should travel for a while with Ragwrist’s circus.”
She didn’t have to think about it. “I can neither ride nor clown. I can’t imagine what use I’d be.”
“Will you hear my reasons?” Rainfall said.
She tired of having her head raised above table edge—she became light-headed if she went nose-up too long—and approached the party and wound herself into a circle next to the table. “Of course.”
Rainfall brought two fingers together under his chin. “First: Hammar now has a grudge against you. Your life is all that stands between him and possession of Mossbell, its lands, and the bridge. He’s not above hiring even the Dragonblade. He fears no murder charge.”
Two more fingers came together. “Second: in happier days it was the custom, as part of a High Hypatian’s education, to tour the cities of the Empire, the Inland Ocean, and such lands on the borders as are of interest. I’ve begun your education with the few poor volumes left in my library, but I want you to become worldly in the best sense of the word, and love the greater Order as I do. You cannot travel in the normal manner—once I’d thought of taking you on a few brief journeys myself, but since—well, I won’t repeat the obvious.”
He brought the rest of his fingertips together. “Lastly: our rate of sheep and goat, lamb and kid consumption is alarming, and will only grow with you. A prosperous circus should be able to afford your upkeep.”
“Prosperous?” Ragwrist objected. “You haven’t seen my accounting recently. Bled by—”
Rainfall ignored the interruption. “And consider this: You will eventually sprout your wings, perhaps wish to find a mate. You’ll have more knowledge of the lands, though I should like you to return now and again—in fact, the law will require it.”
“Why is that?” Wistala asked.
“The thane will have you declared legally dead if you do not show yourself at least every five years. Of course, there are provisions, were you to be serving in the Hypatian forces, for your existence to be verified, but I mention it more in hopes of receiving visits from you than as a legal matter.”
“We come up the Old North Road every two or three years, in any case,” Ragwrist said.
“What would I do? Stand like an exhibited animal?”
“That would hardly pay for your food,” Ragwrist said. “Wistala, I will offer you the same terms all my other entertainers get. You pay me each new moon for your food and sheltering—”
“He only adds the smallest of surcharges,” Dsossa said.
“Ho!” Ragwrist said. “I take great trouble managing the supplies; I’ve yet to receive thanks for procuring palatable wine among the Vang Barbarians or those Pellatrian ascetics! But back to the deal: I receive a tenth-part of such coin as you acquire in your displays—”
“Fair warning,” Brok said. “If you keep three coins in ten out of his clutches after upkeep and surcharges, you’re doing very well!”
“If I’m such a scoundrel, I wonder why you’ve been with me these threescore years, my good dwarf?” Ragwrist asked.
“There are skimmers in all walks of life, but few do it with such pleasant smiles and compliments,” Brok replied.
“And I’ve a soft heart and softer head for honeyed words,” Dsossa added. “Being cheated by Ragwrist is painless.”
Ragwrist extended his arm and pointed to a patch at the elbow of his shirt. “Cheated! Do I look like a rich man? My teeth are worn down from biting off the ends of pencils to keep accurate track of expenses, and my voice grows hoarse haggling over quality of flour, all so my beautiful riders may keep flesh on breast and hip.”
“They would happily be spared your frequent evaluations of same,” Dsossa said.
“I will sympathize after I see the accounting books of the Diadem dwarves, who you yearly visit with chest-laden pony,” Brok said.
“This is the reward for generosity, Wistala!” Ragwrist said, turning to the young drakka. “Wild tales! Accusations.”
“How would I earn?” Wistala asked.
“A dragon is an attraction, certainly,” Ragwrist said, pulling his hair behind his elegantly shaped ears. “One so well-spoken even more so. But while your aspect
inspires admiration, and later awe as you grow, we must marry that quality to a reliable moneymaker for you and the Circus at large.”
“I’m all interest,” Rainfall said. “I thought she might just do fireworks.”
“Any competent chemist can make better,” Ragwrist said before turning back to Wistala. “I mean for you to be my new fortune-teller.
Intanta all this year has begged to return to her family, now stretching four generations beyond her, but I’ve hesitated, for her protégés have been disappointments.”
“I’ve tol’ ye manys,” Intanta said with a yawn. “A fair smile’s fine, but sen’ a girl of wits. Lev’ her know when to keep those teeth hi’ and be silent, for the signs are best read in silence.”
Some of Wistala’s warmth for Ragwrist left her. “I’ve no gift at that sort of thing. I can hardly foretell the afternoon weather on a fine morning.”
“It’s part skill, part showmanship,” Ragwrist said. “You can better both with practice.”
“To tell folk what they wish to hear takes no skill a’tall,” Intanta said. “The trick is the know of which wor’ their ears long for. Aye, there’s the magic.”
“That seems like . . . lying,” Wistala said.
“Not lying,” Ragwrist said. “Offering—guidance. Insight. Your opinion. People bring their dreams and fears into Intanta’s tent, and come out happier and better prepared for meeting both. Is that so bad?”
Wistala felt confused and crunched some fish bones to hide the fact.
“Ragwrist can talk a falcon out of his talons,” Brok said.
“I should decline,” Wistala said. “Kind as your offer is.”
“Don’t be so hasty!” Ragwrist said. “Talk to some of the other performers. Join the circus and see the world! See the fishing boats come in across an Antodean sunset, or the Grand Arena of Hypat, the crystal waters of Ba-drink under the mountain towers of the Wheel of Fire, the red pennants flying from the walls of Kark—”
“Rainfall! Save us from this travelogue!” Brok said. But Wistala didn’t hear him. She’d stopped listening as soon as Ragwrist mentioned the Wheel of Fire.
“How often do you visit these places?”
“We have regular routes,” Ragwrist said.
“And you’ll return to this good elf and enjoy his gentle talk that washes all road-weariness away,” Dsossa said. Wistala marked warmth in her gaze and new softness in her voice.
“When does the circus leave?”
“We’ll perform again tomorrow, and then pack up,” Ragwrist said. “The winter is rather ahead of us.”
“You will have my answer before you leave.”
Wistala spent a sleepless night thinking of dwarves and the Dragonblade, promises and parentage. Unable to sleep, she walked around and around Mossbell and the barn, until one of Widow Lessup’s daughters tossed the cold ashes from last night’s fire on others in the dustpile.
The next day Hammar and a party from Galahall rode in to see the circus and sample the wine and drink of the inn. Rainfall, at the urging of his granddaughter, offered him the use of Mossbell’s stables. Fortunately his party arrived early, before Lada was properly dressed and coiffed.
Hammar paid only the briefest call on Rainfall, and Wistala watched from her former nook. After barely perceptible bows and cold pleasantries Rainfall invited Hammar to dinner after the show.
“I will decline,” Hammar said, refusing a chair brought by Forstrel with a wave. When he didn’t have the oversize helmet on his head, he was a more pleasing youth, especially when clad in a dark riding cloak and festive winter neck-cloth.
“Have you read my letter?”
“Unless you have any proof beyond the words of a girl of dubious parentage, I wondered why you bothered.”
Rainfall leaned forward. “Both of us are guilty of hard words to each other in the past. I fought your assumption of the thane-title on your father’s death, and you have coveted my property as more suitable ground for the thane-seat than Galahall. The coming child gives us a chance at alliance in Hypatia’s interest, if for no other reason. I offer you this chance before we become enemies.”
“Open enmity?” Hammar asked. “That’s not like you. As to chances, I’ve higher title, better men, and enough good yew bows to feather the creature better than that torn pillow. You took too great a gamble when you put so much hope into one scaly beast. Its head will adorn my trophy room.”
Rainfall cocked an ear toward her panel door, perhaps fearing a telltale creek.
“She’s a Hypatian Citizen, and I hear murder being threatened against her in my own receiving hall. Hypatian law is greater than any man, yea even a thane.”
“Law is only as strong as the men to enforce it,” Hammar said. “And here, I’m the law. I’ll wish no good day to you, elf.” Hammar turned on his heel and strode out the door.
“I sometimes wonder if it would be easier to just give him Mossbell,” Rainfall said to her when she emerged.
“How can I ease your cares?” Wistala asked.
“You’re careworn enough, stomping around the grounds last night. Go watch the circus and forget all worries.”
So Wistala watched the antics again from a discreet corner of the inn’s roof, sheltered from the wind by a warm chimney. The audience, prosperous farmers and tradesmen, were better dressed today, and had ridden from farther away to attend, answering the calls of Ragwrist’s announcement-riders. Jessup’s Inn—she couldn’t call it the Green Dragon, the name seemed silly to her—had a number of parties staying.
Numerous bills and messages were tacked to the notice-post in front of the inn, surrounded by those literate enough to read and discuss the news as they passed, but the local talk of villains wanted for hanging and auctions left off when Lada walked across the road from Mossbell, intent on seeing the circus and attended by Forstrel.
She looked lovely, Wistala guessed, judging from the stares of the locals, in her heavy fur-trimmed coat, which hid the small increase at her midsection, hair under its cap curled and tucked so it resembled a bouquet of flowers. Her eyes and cheeks, brightened by the cold of the day, glowed.
All eyes were on her but the ones she sought. When Hammar rose from his chair before the stage and took his party of huntsmen to the inn for a new cask to tap, he walked out of his way to avoid her at the edge of the crowd. She fought her way through, tripped and muddied herself, but managed to come up on the men at last.
Wistala didn’t catch what she said, but she did hear her call out to him.
Thane Hammar stared at her for a moment and then turned his back. The tall man who’d given orders on the road stepped forward. Two of the men at the tail-end of Hammar’s party slapped each other, pointed to her, and laughed.
Lada broke into tears and fled the circus.
Wistala didn’t overly care for Lada, whatever Rainfall’s regard for his granddaughter, but even if she was an ungrateful whelp, she didn’t deserve contempt.
Wistala decided.
She missed the rest of the circus to hurry back and speak with Rainfall, once he emerged from Lada’s room in the small barrow-chair Forstrel moved him about in.
“I want to stay at Mossbell,” Wistala told him as Widow Lessup sighed at the dirty dragon-tracks on the stairs. “If things go hard with the thane, I want to be at your side, Father.”
“It will fade. Hammar will put an arrow through a winter wolf or a mountain bear and forget all in boasting,” Rainfall said. “But your presence here might tempt him into rashness.”
“I’m set.”
“Oh, my poor floors. I wish she would go away,” Widow Lessup said to herself—loudly enough for all in the upstairs to hear—as she bent with a rag.
“Nevertheless,” Wistala said.
Rainfall sighed and scratched her between the ears. “I shan’t be sorry for your company. You are a far smoother ride up these bumpy stairs than this barrow-chair. I suppose next spring I can teach you how to properly tend the garden, even
if vegetables aren’t to your taste.”
Chapter 19
Wistala heard feet hurrying up and down stairs the next morning—more than the usual morning noises. There’d been another raucous celebration with the circus folk, but Wistala had kept to her low room. When Anja threw open the door of Wistala’s basement refuge, she knew something had put the household in disarray.
“Is Lada down here?” Anja asked.
“Why should she be?” Wistala asked.
“She’s not in her room, and sir’s asked for her,” she explained, hurrying off.
Wistala wondered at her absence. She might have gone for a walk—save that nothing tempted Lada from a warm bed in the morning until a steaming infusion roused her. She yawned, stretched, and went upstairs to the lively sounds of running feet and doors slamming.
She heard Rainfall in his dressing room. As she walked through his bedroom, she smelled fresh ink by the bed—it was very unlike Rainfall to work in his bedroom. He might stay up all night in his library but believed in leaving any cares elsewhere when it came time to go to the dreamworld.
Forstrel was pulling Rainfall’s riding boots on, an easy operation, thanks to the somewhat withered state of the elf’s legs.
“She was in a mood last night,” Rainfall said. “I should have talked to her.”
“What has passed?” Wistala asked.
Forstrel finished with the boots and handed Rainfall a woolen vest.
“Lada has run away, I fear. She took her new winter boots, her hairbrush and comb, her favorite book of Tenessal’s poems, and riding habit. Anja said there was a wet quill on her desk, but we found no note.”
“Note? Have you checked your bed?”
Forstrell didn’t wait to be told but hurried over to the bed and overturned pillows and heavy winter blankets. He came up with a folded piece of paper.
“Wistala, you’re a wonder,” Rainfall said, accepting the paper. “How—? Oh, I suppose you smelled the ink, or paper, or her footsteps. You’ll all excuse me for a moment while I read this?”