by Dave Duncan
Dragontrader was a big man with a monstrous copper beard. His face was roughened and scarred by weather and he usually sported a showy sword and outrageously bright clothes. In Narshvale, he bundled up in llama hide like everyone else, but his boots were dyed blue, his leggings yellow, and a green scabbard hung out from under his red coat. Above all that he wore a black turban. Undoubtedly he would have a white shirt or something on underneath—no god in the Pentatheon would ever be able to complain of being neglected by T'lin. He seemed almost as large as one of his dragons.
As Eleal approached, his eyes flickered over her with no sign of recognition, but almost at once he clapped one of his companions on the shoulder, ending the discussion. He stalked away in amongst the dragons, pulling a rag from his pocket. Eleal doubled around the herd to approach from the other side, glad that he had not been trading with a customer.
A few of the great shiny beasts were standing, munching at bales of hay, flapping their frills up and down softly in pleasure. Most had lain down to chew their cud, but the fences of horny plates along their backs rose higher than her head and concealed her admirably. The long scaly necks stood up like palm trees. She caught glimpses of Dragontrader's turban and worked her way in his direction.
She loved dragons. That was how she had met T'lin—hanging around his herd. Sometimes he had only five or six, sometimes forty or more. Today she thought about fifteen or twenty, so he might be either buying or selling. When she was young she had toyed with dreams of marrying T'lin and being with the dragons all the time. They looked so ferocious and they were so gentle. They smelled good, and they spoke in funny belching noises. As she went by them, she trailed fingers over the shiny scales, admiring the play of light on them. Bright green eyes watched her under heavy browridges, jewels in caves. In darkness, dragon eyes actually glowed.
She made out Starlight and detoured to greet him, T'lin's own mount. No dragon was ever a real black, but Starlight was what was called deep twilight, and the twinkle of light on his scales had given him his name. He truly resembled a starry night. The two long frills that extended back from his neck were magnificent, longer than any others she had ever seen, like small wings. He lowered his head to snuffle and belch hay scent quietly at her. She liked to think he remembered her, but that was probably just wishful thinking.
T'lin was standing beside one of the cud-chewers, a five-or six-year male of the color called Osby slate, a sort of blue-gray. It was not yet docked, the long crest of plates standing unbroken along its back. The big beast purred softly as T'lin busily polished its flank with his rag. He bent over as if to examine its claws. Then he squatted down on his heels and grinned at Eleal through his bush of beard. His face was still not very much lower than hers. They were quite private here, between the Osby slate and a glacier blue female. They were also sheltered from the wind.
"And how is the Beloved of Tion, the Friend of the Gods, the great singer?"
"She is very well, thank you,” Eleal said politely.
He looked oddly weary for so early in the day. Perhaps he had been traveling all night. She noticed a small gold ring in his left ear and wondered if that was new, for she could not recall seeing it before. How odd! And why only one ear?
"How is the goddess-impersonating business?” he asked.
"Slow, in Narsh at least. Tonight we shall meet with more fitting recognition. The citizens of Sussia appreciate art. If the gods will,” she added.
T'lin snorted loudly. That was a habit of his. She suspected he had picked it up from listening to his dragons’ belchings.
"You do not care for the worthy burghers of Narsh? You prefer that maniac rabble in Sussland?” He shook his big head in disbelief. “They are born mad and then go crazy."
Eleal racked her brains. “Narshians are so mean they won't even give you a cold.” She had been practicing repartee recently, and thought that remark showed it.
T'lin's green eyes twinkled. “Sussians don't know an assembly from a riot!"
She went on the attack. “How is the dragon-rustling business?"
T'lin covered his face with his big rough hands and wailed. “As the gods are my witness, the child wrongs me! No more honest trader ever crossed a pass."
That remark reminded her of the troupe's problem and stopped her from indulging in more banter.
"I have some information for you,” she said.
T'lin's shaggy red eyebrows shot up. “I await it eagerly. You are an invaluable source of information to aid a poor honest man in wresting a living."
He was joking of course, but his quick green eyes had noted her worry. Probably very little Eleal told him was ever news to him. Sometimes the troupe played in rich people's houses, and even in rulers’ houses, and then she might hear or see things he could not learn elsewhere. Everything else was mere gossip or obvious to any sharp eye, although he never said so. He was curious about all sorts of things: the chatter in the forum or bazaar, the price of foodstuffs, the lives of the rich, the grumbles of the poor, the edicts of the gods, the crops, the roads.
"When I buy a dragon,” T'lin had told her once, “I do not just look at its claws. I look at every scale, every tooth. I look in its eyes and its ears. Sometimes very small things can tell me very important things, especially if they can be added together, yes? Now, a young dragon with his saddle plate already docked but no wear on his claws and no girth marks on his scales—do you know what those mean, Avatar of Astina? Why, it means that he has never done much work, does it not? So he has been a lucky young dragon, yes? Or he has a problem, maybe. A bad temper, maybe. Now when I come to a land to trade, I do not just ask the going price of dragons, because no one would tell me. Well, they would tell me, but I would not believe them. No, I look at everything in that land—in the whole vale, everything! Finally I decide what the price of dragons should be, and whether I want to buy or sell there."
Then he would smile triumphantly and stroke his copper beard, and she could never tell if he spoke seriously or in jest.
When Eleal Singer reported to T'lin Dragontrader, therefore, she reported everything she could think of. He never said he already knew something, he never said that anything did not interest him. When she had finished, he would pick out an item or two from her list and ask for details, but she never knew which topics he would choose, or whether he was really any more interested in those than the others or was just being a good trader. His face never changed expression by as much as one red beard hair.
At the end, he would reward her. When she had been little, the reward had been a ride on a dragon, but now he gave her money—sometimes only a few coppers, once a whole Joalian silver star, but he would rarely tell her what she had said to earn it. Sometimes he would comment that she had reported well, or that she should have observed this or that, things she had missed.
She had learned how to note Things That May Interest T'lin as she went about her life. She had learned how to remember them and keep them organized in her head. Actors were good at memorizing, of course.
She took a deep breath and began with the floods in Mapland. Then she described the riot in Lappin with six people killed and two houses burned, and the unusual number of monks and priests on Fandorpass—all colors, white, red, blues, yellows, greens—and how there were as many waiting to get on the mammoths, although he would have noticed that for himself. She mentioned the magistrate who had died here in Narsh and the assembly to be held next Headday to elect his replacement. That reminded her ... “I am told there is a reaper in town!"
The glacier blue female belched thunderously and turned its long neck to stare at her reprovingly, as if she had made that disgraceful noise.
"There's a lot of Thargians in the city,” she finished proudly. “I've heard them talking. They were trying to disguise their voices, but we theater people are very attuned to accents. There were two blue monks at the show two nights ago, and three well-dressed women last night, although I only heard one of those speak. I heard two young
men in the baker's. There was a fat man with a local merchant and his wife I've seen before. And I overheard a white priest in the street. They were all trying to speak Joalian-style, and the men had beards, but I'm sure they were all from Thargia. Well, from somewhere in Thargdom, anyway.” She thought quickly for a minute, and said, “That's all."
During her whole recital T'lin had just stared at her, motionless as a statue, balanced on his toes. She would not be his only informant in Narsh. Often she had seen him talking with people who could not be customers—children, beggars, priests. Most of them must be locals; she was probably the only one who traveled as he did. Once or twice he had remarked on that. Residents knew a lot, he had said, but travelers who came rarely saw changes better and noticed differences between places.
Now he took his rag and began to polish the Osby slate dragon thoughtfully. The monster purred. A dragon purr was an awesome sepulchral sound, like a hollow metal shell full of bluebottles.
"Men die all the time,” T'lin murmured. “Not every unexpected death is caused by a reaper."
"But some are!"
"And not all Thargians are spies."
"Then why do they try to disguise their voices?"
He shrugged. “What set off the riot in Lappinvale?"
"Followers of D'mit'ri Karzon attacked a house they said was being used by worshipers of the Prime. The house was burned and six people killed. The governor did not punish anyone,” she added. That should intrigue him. The Thargians usually kept very strict order in lands they ruled, although Thargland itself was said to be a rowdy place.
After a moment T'lin said, “In Lappin there is a temple to Zoan, the god of truth, who is an aspect of Visek, the Prime. Why should the whites need to worship him in a house instead of the temple? And why should Karzon followers care anyway?"
"That was what I heard."
He scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Are you sure it was the Parent they were supposed to be worshiping? Tell me the exact words you heard."
T'lin Dragontrader had never admitted before, as far as she could remember, that anything she had told him was news to him. She felt rather excited, wondering how much he would pay her this time. She closed her eyes and thought very hard. Then she looked at him again.
"The One?"
"Are you sure or are you guessing?"
"Mostly guessing,” she admitted.
His eyes were like hard green stones. “What do you know of the One?"
"Well ... Usually it means Visek, the Parent, the Source. Or one of his aspects, like Zoan."
"Blessed are the avatars of Visek, father and mother of gods, blessed be his name. You said ‘usually'? Who else is the One?"
"Dunno.” Theology was confusing, and not something she had ever known T'lin to show an interest in before.
Now he polished the dragon in silence until Eleal began to fidget.
"There is a god whose real name is never mentioned,” he said solemnly. “He is called the One True God, or the Undivided."
"Visek."
The dragon trader shook his head. “The Parent was not called the One like that until this other came. Other gods do not approve of the Undivided. He has few followers in Lappin, I expect. Fewer now, you tell me. He has no shrine or temple there."
Eleal nodded, perplexed by his sudden interest in gods. Probably it was a blind anyway, for he suddenly changed the subject.
"These Thargian visitors? Can you describe any of them so I would know them? Any squints or cauliflower ears?"
"Of course not! What sort of a spy would he be? But the fat one I saw with the locals ... the local was Gaspak Ironmonger. He's thought to have a slight chance of being the new magistrate and if he supports the Joalians instead of the Thargians—"
T'lin chuckled and rose to his feet. “Did you ever hear of the chicken farmer who bought a leopard to rid his land of foxes?"
"No,” she said, bewildered.
"Joalians are the foxes."
"Oh! And the Thargians are leopards?"
Dragontrader laughed. He fumbled in a pocket. “Indeed, you are a mountain of useful knowledge, Beloved of Tion. Here!"
She held out her hands and he sprinkled silver into them without bothering to count it. She gasped in delight at this shower of riches.
"Well done, Leading Lady of the World,” T'lin said. “Give my love to Suss."
"If we can get there ... T'lin! Dragons can go over mountains!"
"Yes,” he said warily.
"Then, since the mammoths are so busy this year, and we need to get there more than, oh, a merchant say, or a priest—I mean, our art is important! I was just wondering...” She saw a glint in his eyes.
"Yes, I could put you and your friends on my dragons and be a ferryman, but I wouldn't get away with it twice. Do you know who owns those mammoths, Aspect of Astina?” He bared his teeth. “The temple of Ois! And the priests would not appreciate competition. They would have my trading license canceled."
"Oh."
"Yes. So you stick to acting! Good fortune at the festival."
How could he be so tactless? Did he not know the rules? “I have decided my art is not yet mature enough for me to enter."
T'lin shrugged. “Well, good luck in Sussland, anyway."
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9
THE STRAPS OF HER PACK WERE CUTTING THROUGH EVEN her heavy fleece clothes as she trudged back to the mammoths across the muddy meadow. Squish, squash, squish, squash ... Her hip hurt, and she could feel a stitch starting in her side.
As she neared the loading point, the line of mammoths was already moving out, the leaders wading across the river. One last shaggy bull stood by the stair, and he raised his trunk to trumpet, perhaps calling on the others to wait for him. The loading had gone quickly. There had not been time for the others to complete another sacrifice in the temple; Uthiam Piper had known where Eleal was; they would not have left without her. Another night in miserable cold Narsh!
When she reached the crowd squashed in around the steps, she could see no sign of the troupe. She began squeezing her way through, ignoring angry protests about what the world was coming to and the usual mutters that children had no respect for their elders these days.
She could not see the huckster, but she heard voices raised in frantic competition as the customers bid for seats in the last howdah. Even if T'lin had given her enough money for a ticket—and it sounded as if the offers were being made in gold—she could not just go on by herself. Not without telling the others. It would have been a good idea to send her on ahead, though, because Gartol Costumer had left two days ago to make arrangements for a performance in Filoby tonight. He would wonder what had happened. A missed show meant patrons disappointed and more money lost. What a disastrous day!
The festival started in three more days! To miss the festival would be a tragedy.
Then she thought of even worse disaster. Ois was goddess of all passes. Suppose she would not turn aside her anger, and the troupe was stuck in horrible Narshvale forever? Even Fandorpass could be dangerous.
Something poked hard in her back. “Child!” said a sharp voice.
She wriggled around in the crush, and discovered the ancient blue nun peering at her accusingly. It was her staff that had done the poking.
"Is your name Eleal?"
"Yes! Do you have a message for me?"
"Oh, no!” Sister Ahn's long nose seemed redder than ever, her faded eyes even moister. “But that explains why we keep meeting."
"Do you know if my friends have left?"
"Friends?” She shook her head sadly. “Oh, your friends are irrelevant, child. You are the only one mentioned."
Suddenly the crowd moved like leaves in the wind. The two men in front of Eleal backed up so fast she was almost knocked over. She staggered, recovered, and found that she and the blue nun were alone in an empty space, looking across at the huckster. He was a beefy, red-faced young man, and there was an expression of comical ast
onishment on his pudgy features.
"Well, that helps,” Sister Ahn murmured, almost inaudibly. “Come, child.” She leaned a twisted hand on Eleal's shoulder and pushed with surprising firmness.
Eleal resisted. “I can't go without my friends!"
"You are the one who matters!” the nun snapped. “Is it not written, Eleal shall be the first temptation?"
"Written?” The crazy old priest had mumbled something about a prophecy. “Written where? Written what?"
"If you do not know, then it is probably destined that you shall not know. Come!"
She pushed harder. Peering down nervously to make sure the unsheathed sword was not about to cut her off at the ankles, Eleal found herself being propelled toward the huckster. She looked up suddenly as he uttered a wail of horror.
A man had come forward to the base of the steps—probably a man, possibly a tall woman. He was swathed in a heavy robe, like a monk's, keeping his head bent so the hood would hide his face. He was black, all black. Even the cord around his waist was black. The hand that reached out to offer a coin to the huckster wore a black glove.
The huckster dropped his satchel with a loud jangle and leaped back, colliding with the mammoth's leg. He tried to speak and made no sound at all. His eyes bulged; his face had gone comically pale. Trong Impresario himself could not have depicted terror more convincingly.
Again the black-robed stranger tried to offer payment. Again the huckster refused it, sidling away farther, clearly determined not to let that fateful hand come close to him. With a shrug the dark monk turned to the steps and proceeded to climb slowly up to the howdah. The mahout stared down in horror as this sinister passenger made his approach.
The crowd was scattering in sullen silence, many of them running.
"Truly the gods reward those who have faith,” proclaimed the blue nun. “Come, my dear, let us see what the price of a seat is now.” She hobbled forward on her staff, urging Eleal along also, but she had taken only a couple of steps before the huckster grabbed up the satchel he had dropped, dived through under the mammoth, and took to his heels as if Zath himself were after him.