by Tanith Lee
The peeve modestly kept quiet and bounded off. This sickening fawning, though, Tanaquil remembered how the peeve had been with Lizra. Maybe it—he—just had a flirtatious streak.
"I'm hungry, Rorlwae," said Velvet.
They went, arm in arm, across the garden. It was so easy. To be in love, to be together.
Tanaquil frowned. She slid down the tree, scraping her ankle, when she knew she could have floated.
She, at least, was still invisible. She passed two gardeners, one of whom flung a shovel of dirt all over her. When she reached a slender fountain, she lifted the handy brass cup to her mouth and drank. A small boy, who had been watering the path, saw the cup, sailing up and down by itself, or so it looked, and rushed into the shrubbery calling and waving his arms. She needed to be more careful.
What am I to do?
She must go in and find the princess. She must talk to the princess. It came to Tanaquil that by now somebody might have noticed her escape from the dungeon.
She turned and shouted across the early morning lawns of the roof garden: "Peeve! Peeve!"
When he came, he had been garlanded with orange daisies by someone, and in his mouth he now held a large slab of new bread filled with fruit. They divided this by the fountain.
"I'm going to have to see the princess."
"Gone to race," said the peeve.
"How do you know?"
"Heard it."
"What is this race, anyway?"
The peeve looked at her. He said, innocently, "Chairs."
Through a gap in the foliage, an enormous yellow crocodile pushed its way, closely followed by two more.
Tanaquil sat absolutely still, holding the peeve in a vise of steel.
The crocodiles' mouths, as they waddled by, were lined with sharp, awful teeth. They ambled among the bushes. From the frightful mouths, long thin tongues darted out, and slipped gently into the hearts of flowers.
"Suck nectar," said the peeve. "Daffodils."
"But the teeth . . .”
"Don't use teeth."
Tanaquil sat in wonderment. The peeve ran off again and played round the daffodiles, which grumbled faintly, showering him with spilled pollen, lumbering over him, sharing the bushes with the early bees.
It did seem most of Tablonkish was going to the Rot-Chair Race.
Tanaquil recalled where the race track had been, but it would hardly have mattered if she had forgotten. Chariots and crowds on foot were streaming along the main roads. Many wore ribbons or sashes or even flowers in a selection of bright colors, undoubtedly the racing colors of various competitors.
There was an air of festivity and good humour that Tanaquil felt unsuitable. Nobody else knew that the city's princess had murder in her heart. Nobody knew the cold prim little Sulkana was the cause of such hatred.
Tanaquil was jostled, and the peeve was trodden on. In the end she pulled him aside into an alley.
"Listen, I don't like this."
"No," agreed the peeve.
"I mean I don't like the fact I can't be seen. I keep hearing private conversations. It was bad enough being able to overhear what Tanakil said."
"Rrp."
Tanaquil explained her notion to the peeve. "I don't even know if it will work. But everything else has, here. I don't know why."
"It's you," said the peeve.
"No, it can't be. I've never been able to make myself invisible before. Or pass through solid walls on my own. Anyway. Let's see."
She shut her eyes, and visualized herself, clearly to be seen, but in a quite different form. When she opened her eyes she gave a faint scream.
"It's me," she said to the peeve.
"It's you," said the peeve.
"Don't scratch that collar," she added quickly. Now on show again, the peeve had a (magicked up) collar of silver set with large topazes.
"Itch!"
"It can't, it's only an illusion."
However, the sky green silk dress she had invented for herself felt real enough and whispered as she moved. It was embroidered with blue beetles.
Tanaquil turned, and in a glass window at the alley's end, she caught a glimpse of her new self.
She was fairly imposing. A large handsome woman, with thick black hair in an ornate style, and holding a proper ladylike sunshade.
Tanaquil had always rather admired large women, perhaps a supressed admiration of her mother . . .
"You must walk to heel. Please."
The peeve pattered to her side. She hoped it would stay helpful.
Now I'm a shapechanger, just like Worabex.
When they joined the crowd once more, people gave way in respect. Men stepped gallantly aside. Children goggled. She now heard her clothes discussed, and who she might be.
Eventually, at the gate to the race course, an usher asked politely for Tanaquil's ticket.
"Wretched servant lost it," cried Tanaquil in a plummy ringing voice. "Sent him home, of course."
"Well, of course, but you see . . ."
"Ah, there's Oynt," declaimed Tanaquil, seeing the princess's fat little noble spy, riding up in an open carriage. Today he wore three shades of clashing, sicky green, with an enamel pocketwatch, and a knot of extra-clashing red ribbons for the race. "Oynt, my dear man. Please explain to this person I must come in with you."
Tanaquil loomed like a ship's figurehead. She felt herself doing it. Oynt, looking flustered, annoyed, but also flattered, jumped down and came capering over. "It's Lady, er, Lady . . ."
"Feather," boomed Tanaquil, using her other false name. She rapped him playfully with a feather fan she had conjured up. Oynt simpered, and flapping his own ticket to the Race, escorted her proudly through the gate and up the terrace to the best seats, all the while his head on a level with her shoulder, and the peeve skipping behind, eyeing Oynt's puke-shade tasselled shoes greedily.
"In my town of Umbrella, we don't have this race."
"Oh, no. It's unique to Tablonkish. The former Sulkan, Tandor, didn't care for it, said it was undignified."
"But the Sulkana allows it."
"The Sulkana Liliam has everyone's best interests at heart. And here she is!"
Trumpets were sounding over the course. Everybody rose.
Just below their cushioned seats was a silver throne with a silver banner planted behind it. Tanaquil had noted that Liliam's emblem was a silvery unicorn's head. Next to the throne was a chair with another banner, a red unicorn, head and body, the device of Princess Tanakil.
Down the steps came slowly the very dignified—her father's daughter still—Liliam. She wore dark grey and gold. Not a single racing color. (You imagined her saying, "I must show no special favors.") She might have been made of packed snow, a snow-woman, but one made by a professional adult artisan who never smiled.
Had Lizra been as cold as this? Not at first. Later. Had she?
Behind the Sulkana and her attendants walked the redhaired princess. Tanakil looked pale and awkward, and one of her fingers was bandaged. Tanaquil sensed that Tanakil was rarely seen without some cut or bruise, and even as she looked at her and thought this, a string of pearls round the princess's neck, broke, and scattered them all over the steps. There were smothered titters, and the servants scurried to pick up.
In the middle of this, Counselor Jharn walked down the steps, straight past Tanakil, and took the Sulkana to her throne.
He too looked pale, and set. His resemblance to Honj made Tanaquil's heart twang like a harp string badly played.
But she was Lady Feather now, and Oynt was offering her chocolate-covered orange slices and raisin tea.
The peeve sat on Tanaquil's lap, so well-behaved and brushed-looking, she was distinctly uneasy.
Instead, it was the princess's black veepe which was chasing pearls all over the steps, barking. Its leash, of course, had snapped.
When everyone was finally seated, a herald strode out on the race track and, reading through a gilded megaphone, informed the crowd of the names of
the racers.
Tanaquil did not really concentrate on this. She was watching the royal party just below her. But nothing seemed to be going on, and though there were drinks and sweets, Liliam declined them all, and Tanakil was nervously eating and drinking them, and spilling things.
Tanaquil was acutely aware of Tanakil's words about poisons, herbs, not waking up. This last, however, implied the bane might not be given her sister until the evening. Also she would surely need space and time to prepare the fatal draft, a lot of space and time, given her incompetence.
"Try these strawberry candies from Sweetish," said Oynt. "The Princess likes them."
Now anyway, the racers were riding out, and the crowd was cheering, brandishing flags, and stamping.
"There's my man," declared Oynt. "Fnim son of Phnom. A noble, but got no money, lives in a hut."
"What—what are they riding in?" asked Tanaquil-Feather with her most Jaivesque imperiousness.
"That's it, you see. Not a chariot. Each man drives in a rotten chair, on wheels."
"But that's absurd."
"Oh yes. It's traditional."
"Isn't it dangerous?"
"I'll say. Look, they're lining up now."
Tanaquil watched in amazement.
At the starting line directly below she could now clearly see, and add up, twenty-seven racers.
Each man, or woman, of whom there were seven, wore the bright color of one of the ribbons or sashes the crowd had on. Also a sort of leather body armor, boots, and helmet. Each person was firmly strapped into a huge grotesque chair. Some appeared to be made of ebony or mahogany, a dozen had goldwork, and a couple seemed to be solid gold thrones. Some had bits missing. Others leaned to one side.
Under each chair was a sort of axle and four wheels, and a yoke-pole ran out to a pair of horses standing side by side, polished yellow as plums, or dark yellow, like laburnum, or faded yellow as old paper.
All the horses seemed rather too energetic, kicking and plunging and shaking their heads, each of which had plumes to match the racer's color.
"Why rotten chairs? Or are they?"
"Partly. They have to be past their best or they can't enter. It makes for better sport."
"Oh, I see. And the horses are all mad."
"They feed them on grain soaked in wine. The horses are a bit drunk."
Tanaquil frowned. Thought better of it. She was Lady Feather now. She slapped Oynt quite painfully on the wrist with her fan. "Excellent."
Just then the herald waved a flag from the side of the track. The crowd, everyone, townspeople and nobility alike, not the Sulkana perhaps, began to count.
"One. Two. Three . . .
"GO!"
And the race was on.
"There he goes! There goes Fnim!"
"Lovely," said Lady Feather. "The one in bright red?"
"That's him. The chair's been in the family for two hundred years. Oak with gold rosettes. Got woodworm. He always races. Always overturns. Broke his leg last year. Fnim's drunk too."
The peeve was standing up on Tanaquil's lap. He looked interested. Gaping after the racers, who were now whirling and bucketing down the track at a reckless speed, she thought she recognized redclad Fnim. He was the man who had sat under the magnolia and given the peeve his cake last night.
When the track curved to the right for the first bend, three of the chairs toppled over. The back came off one, another lost its wheels and axle, the third ended upside down. The horses jumped and bellowed, and grooms came running from the side of the terraces to drag them away. The upset racers crawled out as best they could, shaking their fists.
Twenty-two rot-chairs careered onward, one of them being Fnim's.
Some of the riders were quite elderly, at least two had long gray beards. Fnim, as Tanaquil recalled him, was about thirty, slim, but lazy-looking. He had had a sad, humorous face.
Oynt was standing up now, as the racers bundled rowdily round the next bend, and went by below their section.
"How many laps?" Tanaquil asked.
"Lots," said the peeve, approvingly.
Tanaquil slapped him weightlessly. "Not that sort of lap, not to sit on. I mean how many times round the course."
"Oh, does it talk?" asked Oynt vaguely. "Just like the princess's veepe. You must be a witch, my lady."
"I just dabble, you know," said Lady Feather.
"It's only five laps," said Oynt. He gave a yell as Fnim son of Phnom nearly collided with one of the graybeards. They slid dramatically into a group of four other chairs, all of which went over, and one of which—the second graybeard's—exploded in bits. This graybeard had no ideas of leaving the course. He cut the straps holding him to the remains of the chair, leapt on one of his horses, and was off down the track howling.
"Disqualified," said Oynt, damningly. "But you see, Fnim's still in his chair. He puts a special raspberry poultice on it, you know, just before the race. Makes the woodworm sleepy."
"How quaint."
In the front line of the royals, gorgeous Commander Rorlwae, dressed to the hilt, was slapping the air and shouting. He too wore a red ribbon. Velvet wore an entire red dress and she too was waving, a small brown cat with a red ribbon on its tail, meowing from her shoulder.
Though poor and hut-dwelling, Fnim must be popular with the court.
Now the graybeard on the yellow horse dashed by beneath. The crowd cheered and jeered him. Next came the remaining twenty chairs. Fnim was placed sixth.
"Come on, Fnim son of Phnom!" shouted Oynt, Rorlwae, Velvet. Even Jharn stood up and shouted. He looked happy for a moment. Tanaquil quaked.
As he went by, Fnim lifted a graceful hand, and nearly lost control of his horses.
By now there was a lot of wreckage on the track—three more chairs had gone, one breaking in half—and although the horses were led off, the wrecks were left where they happened, creating obstacles.
Tanaquil watched everything in an astonished blur, standing up now, as everyone except the Sulkana and the princess seemed to be, the peeve round her neck and leaning out like a snake.
At every turn, chairs crashed into each other or simply collapsed. Two more aggrieved riders were galloping about the course on their horses, one a woman with horseyellow hair, going the wrong way.
The whole thing was chaos.
And in the midst of her muddled, tickled horror, Tanaquil thought, Just like everything else. Was this what life was, a mad race full of accidents and spills, the need to win or at least survive, the likelihood of going over, and all of it strapped in a chair that was magnificent but rotten?
Smash-bash. Two chairs turned somersaults. Their four horses, bucking free, went thrashing off at top speed. Another chair went into the back of the other two. These horses were presently standing on the fallen chairs, with furious grazed human faces peering between their legs.
The yellow-haired woman went pounding past again on her horse, the wrong way, a groom hobbling after her yelling "Lady Wombat, please get down . . ."
The course was now littered with multiple wrecks and stray galloping horses. It was apparently the fifth lap—Tanaquil had lost track entirely—and there were ten chairs left. Fnim was running second.
"Come on, Fnim! Comeonfnim!"
As they approached, Fnim drew suddenly into the lead.
A white ribbon had been lowered, showing the finishing line, directly under Liliam's throne.
The previously leading chair, with a man in bright blue, was now not quite neck and neck with Fnim.
They had perhaps ten yards to go. The blue man abruptly craned over, pulling something from his leathers, throwing it—it was a black cloak—directly over Fnim's head.
Fnim, the chair, disappeared in the cloak.
The terraces shrieked.
"Foul! Foul!" squalled Oynt.
The air was loud with curses.
Fnim's chair, inky-wrapped, spun over and went down. The horses dragged it. But the blue man who had cheated rode into the fini
shing ribbon.
"Disqualified!" screamed a thousand voices.
Tanaquil saw that the Sulkana was on her feet. She was at the barrier, leaning over.
For a moment, even seen from the back, Liliam looked like a little girl.
Jharn had gone to her. Tanaquil heard him say, "He's all right, Lili. The horses have stopped. Look, he's getting up."
"Fnim's family to her, you know," said Oynt to Lady Feather. "Fnim's third-cousin-removed to Lili."
Fnim, flourishing the cloak, stood under the barrier, grinning like a clever clown who had meant to do it all.
It was Rorlwae who leaped over the barrier and seized Fnim's hand.
As the last chair racketed in to the finish, Rorlwae raised Fnim's arm high.
"The winner!"
The crowd bawled. Oynt kissed Tanaquil's (Lady Feather's) hand. Oh dear. Apparently he was getting a thing about Lady Feather.
Through it all, Tanaquil saw Princess Tanakil had risen and was offering Liliam a goblet of reviving drink. Which after all might not be what it seemed.
"Peeve! Go knock that cup over!"
The peeve did not argue.
With exquisite agility he sprang, knocked the goblet flying all over Tanakil's dress, and landed smack on top of the black veepe. Veepe and peeve resumed their battle with cheerily consenting violence.
XII
And so, if life was a Rot-Chair Race, you could lose and still win.
As Lady Feather was riding back to the palace of Hoam, (Or Harm, as she had discovered most of the nobles called it) in Oynt's open carriage, a guard rode up and saluted.
"What is it, Werp?"
"Lord Oynt, there's been a little difficulty."
"Excuse me," said Oynt. He stopped the carriage and walked to the side of the highway with Werp.
Tanaquil looked at them. A pity she could not hear from this distance, and over the noises of the passing crowd, what they said.
At once, she found she could hear. She heard Werp and Oynt as clearly as if she stood between them.
"And so we didn't take her any supper, but went down this morning, quite late, because of having a bet on the race."
"Yes?" asked Oynt impatiently.