by Tanith Lee
A voice came abruptly from the air. Another device, but startling.
"Here is the boy Tanaquil. He is able to mend games and toys, and seeks admission to our guild. Meanwhile, he has worked without membership and owes the guild a fine of three weights of copper. Also he cannot pay the fee of membership. A sponsor is asked. Say brothers, will any do this service for the boy Tanaquil?"
One of the masked men, thin and bony, cranked to his feet. Sourly, he said, "Vush the Master has proposed that I do so. I'll therefore pay the silver for the boy Tanaquil, which he will then owe me as a debt, plus interest to me of one half-weight of bronze, all cash to be returned to me during the next year, before next year's Festival of the Blessing." He sat down.
"We heed," said the voice in the air, "the generosity of our brother, Jope. Does the boy Tanaquil hear and comprehend? Does he owe that he will honor this loan, and repay it at the proper time?"
Tanaquil shrugged. "If I must. If I can. Do I have a choice?"
"No," said the mask with Vush's beard. "Answer correctly."
"I'll repay the loan," said Tanaquil. "What if I can't?"
"You will be whipped through the city by the guild, as a defaulter," said Vush's mask, annoyed.
"Wait," said Tanaquil. "I'll give it up. I won't mend anything. I can find different work."
A loud murmur came from the room, and she picked out another of the masks saying, "I told you, it's that girl I heard of with the animal that talks."
Vush cleared his throat, and the hall was silenced.
He said, "Too late. It has been decided." And then he thundered: "Bring forth the Fish of Judgement."
With a slight rumble of hidden wheels, part of the floor moved sedately backwards, drawing twenty-nine of the chairs up to the walls, while Vush's chair ran in a graceful arc to the right.
The peeve growled.
The wall with the gold symbols and lettering split on a high rectangular door.
Tanaquil had a glimpse of trees in some yard or garden behind the Guild Hall, of peacock-blue evening sky sewn with stars—escape—but something came instead into the hall, and the door closed.
The voice in the air droned:
"From the sea comes the wealth of the city. To the sea we give homage. Let the sea be our judge."
An iron table was sliding from the wall and up to Tanaquil. On it rested a bronze balance, the two cups of which swung as it advanced. There was a strong, now-recognized, odor.
The brotherhood of the guild arose. "The Fish!"
Tanaquil thought of her mother's dinner.
In the left-hand cup of the balance lay a silver-scaled fish. It was artisan's work, and beautifully made, like the snake in the bazaar. In the other cup of the balance was another fish. This was greenish gray and smelled to high heaven. A real fish, from the fish market.
The guild brothers were raising their masked heads and arms.
Vush said, face to the ceiling, arms upheld, "Choose now, boy Tanaquil, which fish is it to be?"
Not having had the ceremony explained to her, Tanaquil assumed she was to choose the made fish, which anyway would be more pleasant. On the other hand, perhaps the reeking real fish represented honest toil? If she chose wrongly, what ridiculous and ghastly punishment would be inflicted?
She thought, irresistibly, The last idiotic ceremony was my mother's dinner. The unicorn got me out of that.
She pictured one of the doors that led into the hall crashing open and darkness flying in behind the seashell moon of the horn.
Then she looked down again at the two fish.
There was only one.
Was this divine intervention? The fish that was left was the nice example, which had been made.
"Well I suppose," said Tanaquil. She stopped because the artisans had also lowered their heads, and even through the masks she guessed they were gawking at the empty cup on the balance.
"Where's that fish?" said the sour voice of Jope.
"It was here," said another one. "I smelled it."
"Without the fish the ceremony is null—"
"Where, oh, where—?"
"There's the fish," tolled Vush.
Tanaquil became aware that something hot and furry sat by her leg, and from its pointed face, out of its motionless jaws, drooped three inches of silvery green tail.
Tanaquil snatched the made fish from the other cup.
"Behold!" cried Tanaquil. "I choose the fish that is made. But my peeve has chosen the fish which may be eaten."
"Sacrilege!" moaned Jope. "The ancient ritual has been mocked. Am I to put up all that fee for her now?"
"This is certainly very grave," said Vush.
Tanaquil confronted the ring of wicked-looking masks, the laughable dangerous darkness of these men, who were probably even madder than her mother, and much more unjust.
"What punishment for eating the fish?" moaned the wretched Jope.
"The fish," muttered Tanaquil, "the meat, the soup, the stairs, the door—I put you together out of bones and clockwork and you came alive—Is this a spell I'm making? Where are you?"
"She's seen our hall," said Vush, "and the ritual of membership. But she can't join. It would be bad luck on us all."
"It's the harbor for her," said a voice she recalled.
7
The wall under the letters, hammer, and chisel changed. Then, quite easily, it parted. There again were treetops and a darker, bluer sky of wilder stars. Pernickety as a cat, the unicorn came, as if on shoes of glass, in through the opening, down across the hall. There was no violence, no speed. It moved to the rhythm of an elder dance, putting all the rituals of the world to shame. Black, silver, gold, and moon-opal, night and sea, fire, earth, air, and water.
This time I did call it. Or every time I did.
At her feet Tanaquil heard the peeve swallowing the whole fish in one gulp. And the unmuffled drum of her own heart.
Then one of the artisans shrieked.
"It's the Sacred Beast! Fly! Save your lives! The city's lost!"
And somehow the mechanical chairs were knocked over, and the shut door to the corridor was wrenched open, and out of it the artisans sprang and sprawled with masked shouts and frightened thumps.
The unicorn, mild-mannered as a deer, trotted lightly after them. It went by Tanaquil like a wave of stars. She thought she heard the music of its bones and of a night wind wrapped about the horn.
As the unicorn passed through the door and along the corridor toward the outer exit, the peeve tugged on its lead to follow. And once more Tanaquil was propelled to chase the night-dream thing.
In the corridor the plaster heads turned and poked out their tongues irrelevantly, and then there was the street beyond the opened pillared door. And down the street rushed the artisans in their secret regalia, revealed, speechless now in the single-mindedness of panic. With the unicorn dancing after.
Tanaquil hauled on the leash. "No—let it go—I shouldn't have—no—no—" And the leash snapped and the peeve bounced out into the street, pursuing maybe only its old fantasy of a meal or a treasure—the bone—and Tanaquil walked after. She forced her mind to do some work, while her feet tried not to run.
How had the unicorn entered the city? She saw it leap from the sky like a falling planet. But no, the event had been more simple. She seemed to see the narrow gate through which she had come in, and one soldier asleep by a wine flask, and the other standing idle, regarding something come quietly up out of the groves and orchards of the plain. A horse? Yes, a fine horse lost by some noble. And the horse came to the gate, and the soldier who was not drunk enough to be asleep smiled on it, and tried to pet it, and somehow could not. But he undid the entry to the city, and like a vapor the unicorn went in. "Horse-horse," said the soldier fondly. "One day, I'll have a horse."
There were torches burning along the street at intervals, and here and there a lamp hung in a porch or a lit window gave its stained glass brilliance.
Through cold arches of shad
ow and cold blasts of light the fleeing artisans milled. They panted like rusty bellows now, and sometimes groaned or cursed. One or two craned over their shoulders, now and then, and, seeing the slender blackness of their terror still nimbly prancing after, made fresh rushes of flight that soon broke down.
Nobody looked out to see what went on. The city was full of noises day and night. They met with no one, either.
However, at its end, the street was crossed by another, a wide avenue of special splendor. It was lined by lions of gilded iron, and had lamp standards with lanterns of sapphire, green, and crimson glass. People were passing under these, and there was something of a crowd at the road's edges, standing and looking along the street with mild concern.
The artisans had no charity for this barrier. They plunged into it, hitting out and blustering advice to run or at least to get out of the way. But the crowd rounded on them intrigued, gesturing at the masks: "Look, it's the Artisans' Guild! They've all gone crazy." And when the artisans, breathlessly blaspheming, laid about them with sticks and fists, the crowd responded in kind. A spectacular fight began.
Tanaquil, about eighty feet behind, took her eyes from the upheaval. She saw the unicorn had stopped, clear as the statues in the lights of the avenue. The surging crowd seemed not to see it there. "No," said Tanaquil again, "don't." And the unicorn, as if it heard and would tease her in its sublime unearthly way, turned to the side with a little flaunting, horse-like gambol. There was a garden or an alley there, and into it the unicorn minced.
Tanaquil ran. She caught up to the peeve, who was running still. And at a gap between tall houses, both came to a halt. They peered down a tunnel of dark, and nothing was in it. Once more. Vanished.
The peeve sat on the road and washed vigorously, as if it had just been running for exercise, not chasing anything. Tanaquil got its leash.
The racket from the crowd was now extraordinary. Tanaquil grasped that not only could she hear the fight, but the notes of cheers and whistles up the street, and drawing nearer. Citizens uninvolved in battle pointed. She made out an orderly movement and the glint of lanterns on spears. Soldiers were approaching to correct the disorderly crowd. And beyond the soldiers came other lights, drums, the roll of wheels.
"It's a procession," said Tanaquil.
She went forward cautiously.
The flailing artisans and their assailants were now mixed up with scolding soldiers in burnished mail and plumed helmets. The riot had spilled out into the avenue. Suddenly the whole mob unravelled and flooded right across the roadway.
Tanaquil pulled herself up onto the plinth of a lamp, while the peeve scurried up the pole.
Artisans and crowd members were rolling on the road, soldiers were ladling out blows with spear butts, and an entire row of drummers was falling over them with shrieks, while horses reared and chariots upended, and flowers and fires whirled through the air.
"It's not a procession any more," remarked Tanaquil.
She was gazing with wonder at the chaotic muddle, which seemed unlikely ever to be sorted out, when a surprisingly intact chariot shot straight out of the mess and pulled up smartly close beneath Tanaquil's plinth.
The chariot was small, painted and gilded and garlanded with flowers, and drawn by two small white horses. The driver was a girl perhaps a year younger than Tanaquil. She had long ropes of very black hair, and a cloak of red velvet and pure gold tissue that seemed to be embroidered with rubies.
"What," shouted the girl in a penetrating, high, and regal voice, "is this disgusting silliness?"
At once there was a hush. The fighting on the roadway ceased. The combatants, where able, detached themselves. Removing masks, holding cloths to bleeding noses, they stood about looking cowed.
She's that important, then, thought Tanaquil. And staring down at the girl, Tanaquil had the most curious feeling she had seen her before.
"Well?" said the girl, still theatrically, but more quietly, now there was silence. "What are your excuses?"
"Ma'am, these rowdies just rushed out in front of us," said a stylish officer of the soldiers.
"Obviously," said the girl. On her head was a goldwork cap with a red feather. "You," she added to Vush. Vush got up, his mask half off and a black eye glaring above his beard. "You're the Master Artisan, aren't you?"
"Yuff," admitted Vush through a split lip.
"What was the meaning of this affray?"
An expression of despair crossed Vush's swelling face. He squared his big shoulders.
"We were chafed by a uniborn, your highnuff."
"A what?"
"A uniborn."
"He means a unicorn, madam," said the officer. He gave a stagey laugh. "Really!"
"Where is it?" said the girl. She looked round with genuine fascination. "Are you making this up?"
"No, your highnuff. The Fabred Beaft manifufted among uff." Vush said in a dreadful voice, "Doom. It meanf the end."
A sigh passed over the crowd. Tanaquil saw here and there the making of signs against evil and ill fortune.
"The Sacred Beast," said the girl, "if ever it were to return to us, would offer its loyalty to my father, Prince Zorander. We've nothing to fear. As for you, I believe you were all drunk at some artisans' rite. You scared yourselves into seeing things and then ran out here and caused this disturbance. My father will doubtless fine your guild. Look forward to that, and stop spreading unwise rumors of unicorns."
The artisans drooped. They had been atrociously embarrassed. Hints of doubt were murmuring between them. Had they imagined the unicorn?
Then a thin, cranky artisan stamped his foot on the road, and thrust a skinny finger at the lamp standard, the perch of Tanaquil and the peeve.
"She's the trouble maker. She's a witch. She made us see things," howled Jope.
Every head turned. Every face for a mile, it felt to her, was raised to Tanaquil's own. Including the face of the Prince's daughter below.
The Princess frowned. For a minute she might have been puzzled, possibly by the apparition of the peeve, hanging by one paw and its tail from the lantern hook.
"This girl?" asked the Princess.
Vush said heavily, "Fhe fneabed into our hall difguifed af a boy. Fhe profaned a ritual—"
The Princess interrupted. She said directly to Tanaquil: "What have you got to say?"
"I'm not a witch," said Tanaquil promptly. She stared at the girl and caught herself back. "Of course there wasn't a unicorn. Because I can mend things they tried to force me to join their guild. They threatened to drown me if I didn't."
"Oh, yes," said the Princess. "Father will be interested."
The artisans muttered. The officer glanced at them and they stopped.
"Then," said Tanaquil, "they went quite mad and ran out into the street screaming about sacred beasts. I'm a stranger to this city. I'm not impressed."
"Of course not," said the girl. She looked at the soldiers. "Clear the road, please."
Order came after all. The other vehicles were righting themselves, the soldiers herding artisans and citizens out of the way. As Vush was deposited at the roadside there were jibes and laughter.
The Princess said to Tanaquil, "Come down and get into my chariot. You can bring your animal."
Tanaquil said, "I'm sure I don't merit the honor."
"It's not an honor," said the Princess. "It's an invitation."
Tanaquil got down from the lion, and the peeve slithered after her. They climbed into the chariot of flowers, and the Princess flared her reins. The small white horses darted off, straight through the loiterers on the road, who tumbled aside.
A few flakes of snow, unusual in the city, spotted the air.
"By the way, I'm sorry, but Father won't fine the artisans. It would be useless trying to persuade him. It talks, doesn't it?" said the Princess. "The animal."
"I can, er, make it seem to."
"Good. I thought you'd be all right."
They sped out of the avenue of lions in
to an avenue lined by gilded, lantern-lit dolphins. Then they raced to the foot of a hill and roared up it. The peeve wrapped itself round Tanaquil's leg and clawed her. "Too fast. Want get off."
"That's excellent," congratulated the Princess.
"Ow. Thank you."
Over the top of the hill, where the road was lined by lantern-lit gilded octopuses and camels alternately, appeared a peculiar white, lighted mountain.
"My father's palace," said the Princess, faintly bored.
As the chariot slowed, Tanaquil tried and succeeded in counting the lines of windows, balconies. There were fifteen stories.
"You can use that room, if you like it," said the Princess. Her name was Lizra, she had revealed. "Have a bath and choose one of those dresses in the cedarwood closet. Then we'll go down to dinner. It goes on for hours. Won't matter if we're late."
She had thrown off her cloak, and sat about in a red gown with gold buttons.
On their entering her bedchamber, Tanaquil had been half affronted, half delighted. It was a colossal room, and every wall was painted like a beautiful garden of fruit trees and flowers, with a flamingo lake whose water was inlaid lapis lazuli that seemed to reflect and ripple. On the blue ceiling were a gold sun and a silver moon and some copper and platinum planets that moved about in appropriate positions. When Lizra pulled a golden handle by the bed, three white clockwork doves flew over. The bed itself was in the shape of a conch shell, plated in mother-of-pearl. There were no fireplaces. Pipes of hot water, it seemed, ran under the floor and behind the walls from furnaces in the basement.
The peeve, too, was overwhelmed. It immediately laid some dung on a woven-gold rug, then folded the rug over the misdemeanor like a nasty pancake.