by Peter David
The ride to the commweaver’s home was pleasantly incident free, and I could only hope that it was a good augury for things that were to come. As the Heffers trotted along, I kept dwelling upon what Marie had said, and her apparent confidence that we would know when we had arrived at the weaver’s home. Well, when she’s right, she’s right, because about midday we turned a corner in the road and I knew, beyond question, that we had come within range of the commweaver’s house.
In many respects it was ordinary-looking, almost mundane. All the shutters were closed, and I could swear I saw multicolored lights dancing within that might have been fairy lights. What made it clear that this was the home of an unusual individual was the large structure situated atop the roof.
The only thing I can say is that it was akin, in its shape, to an enormous cup. It lay lengthwise along the roof, the open end facing the road. The cup was sufficiently large that I could easily have climbed into it, and had room for Entipy to join me therein. I couldn’t begin to conceive what such an odd structure and object could possibly be used for. It seemed to be constructed out of some sort of hammered sheet metal, which meant that it was likely heavy as hell. I wondered how in the world Dotty could possibly have gotten it up there, and realized that it would probably be better if I didn’t know.
It wasn’t just the sizable gleaming metal cup that caught my interest, though. It was what was behind it or, more precisely, attached to it.
I didn’t spot it at first. The thing with magic is, you have to look at it indirectly. Catch it just out of the corner of your eye so that you have an idea of what it is you’re going to be looking for when you stare at it straight on. At least, that’s how Tacit explained it to me once, and considering that he claimed to have been raised by unicorns, I had to go with the assumption that he knew what he was talking about.
That was exactly what happened in this instance. I’d been staring at the cup, then looked down at the house itself and—as I did so—caught a quick glimpse of something that I hadn’t seen before. I looked back at the cup, holding in my mind the image of what I’d thought I’d seen and, as a result, was able to see it more clearly.
It was what I can only describe as magical thread, the type that weavers use. It was gleaming red, and it was attached to the far end of the cup, floating gently in the breeze although it was hard to believe that something as pedestrian as wind could have an effect on something so magical. It was drifting lazily, like extensions from a willow tree, and even though I was looking directly at it, it would vanish from sight every so often before returning to my view once more. There was something that appeared to be a steady pulsation that was running along the thread’s length. I had absolutely no idea where the thread might have been anchored at the other end, because the thread extended above and beyond the trees and out of sight.
Entipy noticed I was staring. “Strange cup,” she commented.
“Do you see it?” I whispered.
“Of course I see it. The cup’s right there,” said Entipy, obviously a bit impatient. Her horse shook its head and whinnied in impatience. It had no idea where it was going, but this simple standing around on the road was not to its liking. The other Heffer started following suit, displaying similar impatience.
“Not the cup … the thread.”
“Thread?” She frowned and tried to see what I was referring to. Finally she shook her head. “Sorry … I just don’t see what you’re talking about.”
“It’s all right,” I said after a moment. “I’m probably just imagining it.”
“Well, don’t start imagining things,” she said tartly. “That way lies madness, and if you’re going to be of any use to me, you’re going to have to be sane.”
Now, that sounded more like the Entipy of old, and I couldn’t say I was especially glad to have her back. I bowed with a look of mild annoyance on my face, and then snapped the reins of my horse briskly. The Heffer let out a brief whinny of annoyance and started forward, followed by the other.
When we arrived at the small house, we dismounted and tied the animals up to a hitching post conveniently set up outside the house. There were other hoofprints around; clearly she did a brisk business. I walked up to the door and then hesitated before knocking. I still wasn’t thrilled about having any sort of business with weavers, and knocking on the door of one seemed ill advised, as if we were begging for trouble.
“Well?” Entipy prompted impatiently.
Having no ready answer to “Well?,” I rapped with what I hoped sounded like authority.
At first there was no sound, not even the noise of feet scuffling across the floor to answer my knock. I wondered what the hell we were going to do if, for some reason, Dotty was unable to help us. What if she was ill or, worse, dead? She’d hardly be in a position to provide us aid then, and I didn’t have the slightest idea where to find another commweaver in these parts. Before I could decide what to do, however, the decision was made for me. The door swung open and there was no one standing there. For a moment I assumed it to be some sort of magical door, but the far more earthbound answer presented itself when a woman stepped around from behind it, obviously having been responsible for pulling it open. At least, I think she was a woman. She might have been a toad or frog with delusions of humanity. Gods knew the resemblance was there. She had a wrinkled face, and eyes that darted around as if searching for passing bugs that she could lay claim to. Her hair was little more than white straw, and her skin was leathery and cracked like an old boot. Her tongue stuck out suddenly and, with the toad imagery in my head, I took a quick step back lest that tongue lash out, wrap itself around me, and yank me into her expanding jaw.
“Who’re you?” she said.
“I’m Apropos.”
“Of what?”
“Of nothing.”
Her voice sounded both nasal and shrill, and I was getting a headache just listening to her for ten seconds. I couldn’t begin to imagine what prolonged exposure to her would be like. Her gaze flickered to Entipy. “And who’s this one?”
“Marie,” said Entipy, glancing in my direction, and I realized instantly that Entipy was being wisely cautious. This was a weaver, after all. They were not to be trusted, because their priorities were always a mystery to mere “norms” such as we (“norms” being the occasionally contemptuous term weavers were heard to mutter under their breaths). Entipy’s name was unique, and we didn’t need it ringing a bell with the commweaver and suddenly finding ourselves beset by Shank’s troops, alerted to a royal hostage in their territory.
The old woman looked from one of us to the other and back again. I wasn’t sure if she believed Entipy’s quick lie, but after a moment she shrugged and I realized she simply didn’t care. That was fine by me. “What d’ya want?” she demanded.
“You’re the commweaver called Dotty?”
“Mayhap. What d’ya want?”
“Well, obviously,” I said, trying to rein in my impatience and only partly succeeding, “we want to send a message to someone.”
“Really. Where might they be?”
“Isteria.”
“Isteria. Long distance.” Her lips puckered and unpuckered several times very fast, as if blowing a succession of kisses.
“Can you do it?” asked Entipy.
“Henh.” It was not so much a word as it was a noise, sounding like a gargling of phlegm. “I could … if I were a commweaver … which I haven’t said I am yet … haven’t said I’m a weaver at all …”
“If you’re not a weaver, why do you have a magic thread connected to that great bloody cup on your roof?”
That sure caught her attention. Entipy might not have been there at all for all the attention that the commweaver was paying to her. The old woman’s full attention was on me; she looked at me with dark, unblinking eyes. “So … you saw that, did you?” she said with a hiss. “What color did it appear to you?”
“Well … it was red …”
She shook her head impatiently
. “Purple. In actuality, purple. Still … seeing it as red … you’ve something of the adept about you, it seems. Who did you say you were again, boy?”
I was starting to be uncomfortable that I’d told her my real name, but there was no going back on it now. “Apropos,” I said again.
“Henh. Come in. Come in, Apropos, and …” She paused and looked Entipy up and down as if she knew the princess was hiding something. ” … Marie.”
We entered. The main room, when all was said and done, looked relatively normal, or at least more normal than I would have expected it to look. It seemed more like a large kitchen than anything else. There was a falcon crouched on a stand. Unlike others of its kind, it was neither hooded nor anchored to the spot. Instead it hopped around at will, glancing here and about at whatever snagged its interest. At one point our eyes met, and I couldn’t help but feel that it was sizing me up and trying to determine whether I would provide an interesting meal. Apparently not, since it quickly lost interest in me and turned away. There was a small attachment to its leg that instantly made the creature’s use clear: It ran airborne messages for Dotty on a purely local basis. She saw me studying her hawk, but said nothing.
There was a pot bubbling in the corner, which the old woman shuffled over toward, and she took down a ladle as she removed the lid. I clapped my hands to my ears as a cacophony of high-pitched noises—which sounded like chimings of bells as incarnated in the throat of children—filled the room. Entipy was likewise discommoded, but the old woman seemed utterly nonplussed. She stirred it two, three times and then covered it again, the heavy lid cutting off the sound. She looked back to us, saw the confusion on our faces. “Baby Spells,” she said by way of explanation.
“So you would be Dotty, then,” I said.
“Henh. I would be, yes. And would you be someone who can actually pay for my services? The middle of the day is more expensive than evening. The most casts are going through at that time, so it’s the most effort.”
“I don’t think we especially want to wait, so now would be the best time,” I said. Entipy nodded in agreement. “As for remuneration …” I reached into my purse and pulled out a fistful of coins, and placed them on the table in front of her. She regarded them with raised eyebrow.
” ‘Tis enough. ‘Twill serve,” was all she said. “And what would your message be, pray tell?”
I resolved that our phrasing had to be careful. I had no desire to broadcast that the princess was with me, since I had no idea how trustworthy Dotty might be, nor did I know for sure that no one would be able to tap into the lines of communication. Apparently, however, Entipy was thinking exactly along the same lines, for she spoke up before I did. “Inform Queen Beatrice,” she said slowly, “that the package Apropos was supposed to deliver her is intact here in the Outer Lawless regions, but travel conditions indicate an escort would be preferred to avoid thievery. A rendezvous is highly desirable.”
I nodded approvingly. For no reason my mind wandered back to the Lady Rosalie, whom I’d had to brace myself for every time she opened her mouth. Entipy, on the other hand, was a very different animal. Very different. I was actually finding that she was somewhat reliable when it came to matters requiring wit or quick thinking or pressure under fire. At first I had considered her to be so unpredictable that she was dangerous, and there was still some element of that. But of all the women I’d met in my life, she was rapidly becoming the only one that was remotely akin to dependable in a pinch. Not that I trusted her implicitly … but then, who in the world could I say that of?
Dotty nodded, jotting down a few notes with a quill pen. “I assume you wish to receive an answer. Could take a day or more.”
“Is there somewhere we can wait?” I asked.
“I have a small barn out back. Unless that’s not good enough for you,” she added with faint disdain.
“Ohhh, we’ve gotten quite used to making do, thanks. A barn will be fine,” said Entipy.
We unhitched the Heffers and brought them around to the barn. Night came early in these parts, so although there was still significant daylight, the shadows were already stretching their dark fingers. The animals seemed happy for the shelter, and I looked at Entipy thoughtfully. She saw me studying her. “What is it?” she asked.
“I’m just surprised that you accepted such humble lodgings so readily,” I admitted.
She shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
“No, it’s not ‘nothing,’ ” I replied. “You’ve made it very clear what you feel you’re entitled to as a princess, and shelter inside a barn certainly seems outside that entitlement.”
She laughed softly at that. “Yes. I suppose it does, all things considered. I guess to someone like you, who thinks you know me so well, it’s confusing.”
“It is a bit, yes.”
There was a bale of hay in the corner, and she sat on it, stretching her legs. “If you want to know the truth … although I don’t mind tossing my rank around to annoy people … I’ve actually very little love for the status of ‘princess.’ Of royalty in general. It’s one of the reasons my parents sent me to the Faith Women. We would meet other royalty or nobility, people with title brought to me with an eye toward future marriage, when I was no more than eight or nine years of age. Can you believe that?” She made a contemptuous, dismissive noise. “Eight years old and they wanted to circumscribe my future for me.”
“Most people of limited means—peasants and such—have their futures circumscribed at younger ages than that. Circumscribed by the circumstances of their birth and the nature of their station in life,” I pointed out.
She pursed her lips and studied me thoughtfully. “You’re probably right. I hadn’t considered that.”
My gods … she sounded more and more human. It was beginning to make me nervous.
“Anyway,” she continued, “in would walk these princes or young lords or young dukes or whomever, each one filled to the brim with his own importance. Each one acting as if I should be thrilled that they were even considering me for a possible bride. Each of them so mannered, so smug. I came to revile them, each and every one. And perhaps the most repulsive thing was that I was seeing male reflections of myself. If they were so repulsive … what did that make me?” I didn’t answer her; the question seemed rhetorical. “So each suitor I treated with the increasing disdain I felt not only for them … but for myself as well.”
“Causing havoc every time such an encounter was made.”
She nodded. “My parents felt that I didn’t appreciate all that I had. They had it wrong, though. I appreciated it for what it was … a sham, an arbitrary accident of birth. I was no more deserving of all that was handed to me than anyone else. My vision in the matter was clearer than theirs. They just wouldn’t acknowledge it. So they sent me to the Faith Women, hoping that I would come to be happy for what I had through the simple expedient of taking it away from me.”
“And did it work?”
“What do you think?”
I sized her up. “I think you understood all the reasons your parents did what they did, but still resented them for it. And that resentment became as hard as stale bread, and you took it out on the Women, even though you didn’t really mind the hard work since it eased your conscience.”
“Ah. So you’d credit me with having a conscience then. Not all that long ago, I don’t think you would have.”
“You’re probably right.”
“And now?”
“Now?” I shrugged, a gesture that she seemed eminently comfortable with. “Now, frankly, I don’t know what to think of you.”
“Good.” She smiled at that, and you know what? When she was making no effort to be an arrogant little shrew, she had a genuinely lovely smile. I didn’t tell her that, of course. I’d have been insane to say something like that to her.
Then her face clouded and she looked down at her boots. Immediately the old apprehensions started to return. “What’s wrong?” I said.
“
Tacit’s not coming, is he,” she said. Despite the phrasing, it was not a question. “I thought he was a hero. He said he was a hero. But a hero would have come for me. A hero would have been there for me.”
I shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling ill-at-ease in my own body. “I’m sure he would have come if he could. Just because he, uhm, couldn’t … doesn’t make him less a hero …”
“Yes. It does,” she said simply. “When you promise things and then don’t come through on them, when someone was counting on you … it makes it harder to count on anyone in the future. Makes it harder to trust anyone.”
“I can certainly sympathize with that view,” I said.
Her gaze fastened on me. “Why?” she asked.
“It’s not important.”
“It is to me,” she said, and from her tone of voice I could tell it really was. “Why do you say that? Does it have anything to do with how you managed to acquire all that money? I saw you go out of the room with that countess. Did she betray you somehow, and you extorted the money from her in exchange for silence?”
Gods almighty, she had a brain sharper and better targeted than an arrow. I made to deny it, but I looked into those eyes and realized that, for some reason, I couldn’t.
So I told her.
I had no idea why I was telling her. It really wasn’t her business. I didn’t have to spin some lie off the top of my head; I could have just said, “It’s none of your business,” and left it at that. But something in me … wanted to tell her.
I didn’t go into my entire history, of course, and I certainly didn’t make any mention of my connection to Tacit. But I told her of how Astel had taken not only my virginity, but whatever rudimentary ability I might have had to trust anyone. Of how she had left me with the literal taste of ashes in my mouth, penniless, with no resources.
Entipy took in every word, and when I stopped talking—after what seemed an age—she said in amazement, “If I were you, I’d hate the world.”
She really did understand me. The concept frightened me.