Norton, Andre - Anthology

by Magic in Ithkar 04 (v1. 0)

  "She's not blind, Oskar, look at her," Gwynngold insisted, realizing what it was Luca could see.

  "Help me up, hurry! Bear, don't get underfoot. Oskar, hold my arm." She stared straight ahead, unblinking. "It's all ruddy and dark . . . we're heading for Macao's stall."

  "I know where that is!" Roanne announced. "Come on, Haiduks!"

  "Go quick, but hide when you get there," Luca told her.

  "We don't know how many are there yet, we're still in a pouch. ..."

  “She's seeing through the Thorn, Oskar," Gwynngold told him. She took hold of Luca's other arm, noticing Bear was carefully hidden beneath his mistress's skirt, only the tip of his tail and the occasional grumbling comment revealing him.

  "1 never should've let her do this," Oskar complained as they helped Luca through the dark aisleways past the last of the fairgoers wending their way back to their own tents.

  "We can smell," Luca was mumbling as they sped her along, "and see . . . Macao! He's forcing gems into his birds!"

  "We're almost there, Luca," Gwynngold told her.

  "That smell, it's awful!" Luca complained.

  "Kaffa cud," the Irfan woman decided, "on Macao, no doubt."

  "No, it's on the boy, Tagus's boy . . . who weeps from his heart for his dying sheep." And Luca began, herself, to cry.

  "If they cut that stone, she'll die!" Oskar hissed through his teeth. "How did I ever agree to this?"

  "Turn here, this is near enough!" Luca ordered them, and reached under her skirts to extract her terrified dog. "Don't come any closer, no matter what happens!" She thrust the dog against Oskar's chest. "Don't let loose of him, Oskar, promise?"

  "What now, Luca, what are you planning?"

  "Promise, Oskar. Even if he nips you."

  "Do it, Oskar!" Gwynngold shook the man. "She's got to do as she's bid."

  Luca jerked suddenly as though she'd been struck and yelped in surprise. "Oskar, please, I can't stay here ..."

  "All right!" shouted the perplexed bravo. "All right, I've got him!"

  Luca turned blindly in the direction of Macao's tent and called, "I'm coming! Don't worry," and stumbled away even as Oskar clutched her dog, who lay surprisingly calm in his arms.

  To Luca, the world seemed a dark, ruddy place, fractured into dozens of repeated images. It was hard to balance herself, place one foot before the other, while at the same time watching a multiple group of Quitos and Macaos and Taguses mill about her. The Thorn was showing her the world through all its many facets, and gradually she was learning how to focus. Any moment now, she knew Quito would land his next, sharp blow, shattering the gem.

  The mallet hit its mark when Luca was just behind the tent. She threw her arms across her face as the jewel exploded into a billion fragments. The thick fabric of the tent was shredded as the minute sharp shards swirled up and up into a mushrooming cloud that roared and boomed and blossomed flame.

  Luca was dimly aware that the eruption of sound and light had roused every fairgoer across the length and breadth of Ithkar. As if from far away, she could hear the shrieks of frightened people shouting for heal-alls and wizards to fight this terrible magic. Somehow, she knew that all the priests were leaning far from their windows and seeing all too clearly this formidable demonstration of true power.

  The cloud of tiny gems began to coalesce into the shape of a gigantic snake-headed demon with razor teeth and burning eyes. Luca was framed by the glimmering creature, shading her eyes against the rainbow light and grinning. Her vision was her own again, and she could see the cloud beast as he formed with huge clawed hands and flaring hood. As his rainbow hide sparkled with all the tiny shards of Luca's shattered gem, he pointed a finger at the three cowering and terrified thieves.-

  As one person, all the converging fairgoers halted and fell silent as the guilt of the thieving conspirators crystallized within each and every mind. As soon as this knowledge was shared and understood, the unnatural quiet was shredded as Macao began screaming and tearing at his throat, even as Tagus clutched at his belly and fell over and Quito clapped his hands over his eyes and moaned. Before the crowd of astonished onlookers, Macao vomited a cascade of gems and sprouted a soft down, Quito revealed eyes that had become the milky stone found in Gwynngold's mountains, and Tagus began growing a luxurious woolen fleece, his hands and feet becoming small, cloven hooves. His son fled, shrieking, back to his own stall.

  Luca walked calmly over to the chickens caged near her. She was not at all surprised to find that the gems sitting leaden in their crops had been spewed from the gut of their owner, and the birds, now healthy, were scratching at their feed. Macao's shrieks were sounding more like chicken squawks, and his legs were becoming scaly. Luca somehow doubted he would end as a rooster. She also knew that when Tagus's son finally looked at his sheep, he would realize they were now freed of the poisonous powder. The drug enhancing their fleece swirled in his father's blood, forcing wool from his pores, even while the demon's magic transformed the brutish man into a large but gentle lamb. The dishonest jeweler could still see out of his gemstone eyes, but the images were opaque and multiplied through each tiny facet.

  Finally, the cloud beast turned to Luca. Bringing his massive hand down to her, he held his palm up, and it was bleeding. She pulled the hand into her lap gently, then plucked something from it and held it aloft. As the demon dissolved into shimmering dust that fell slowly to the earth, Luca turned to her friends and showed them her Thorn, restored to her again.

  "Tagus's son is a fine lad," Oskar told the women as they relaxed around Gwynngold's fire after a few hours' sleep, "cruelly forced to do his father's work. He's returning home with his ewes all cured and a new flock of hens—including one big, ugly one. He canceled the sale, and he'll have no further trouble from his father, who seems still not quite used to . . . well, being a sheep!"

  "I suspect he should produce quite a fleece once he's shorn," Luca offered, and the women burst into giggles.

  "I thought it was noble of you to cure him of his own poison, Luca," Gwynngold said, knotting a new holder for the Thorn from colorful strands of Kaffa yarn. "He didn't deserve such kindness!"

  "He's just another beast now," Luca reminded them, "no different from the Kaffa, Bear, or us." She gave her dog a gentle hug.

  "Oh, it's funny now," Oskar grumbled, "but some of us were damned worried! And I don't know if I'll ever be able to call on Haiduks or Roanne for aid again. They were scared nearly witless. Roanne's even threatened to take the veil!"

  "That reminds me," the Irfan woman asked excitedly. "Tell us, Luca, what the priests had to say about all this!"

  "Oh, they said they had visions of the Three and their blessings upon my Thorn. They've decided I should be checking the beasts as they enter the gates from now on— and if the gem dims, well, that's all the evidence I need."

  Suddenly, Gwynngold cleared her throat and blurted all in a rush, "I've been looking for the right moment to ask you this, Luca. The Irfan have never had an animal healer come to our mountain. I thought perhaps if your work on the fen might be left for a while, you could come home with us after the fair and train me—you would never want for decent food, remember. We'd return next year for the fair, of course. Oskar, wouldn't you care to see the mountains?"

  "Gwynngold, I've seen all the wondrous things I'd ever care to this very day. Luca is my dearest friend, and I'll miss her, but I'll be following her on her rounds next year at this time."

  "Leave Ithkar?" Luca looked down at Bear, but he declined to comment, choosing for once to remain silent. "And Oskar, what would you do all year without me?"

  The long-limbed man folded his arms behind his head as he rested against the placid Daras. "Earn my pay carin' for the priests, as usual, and eat plenty of succulent carcass, my dear!"

  The guttural sound of rising cud brought Oskar scrambling to his feet faster than a hot coal, and Bear's baying only punctuated the women's laughter as Daras slowly chewed with lidded eyes.

&nb
sp; THE GENTLE ART OF MAKING ENEMIES

  Claudia Peck

  Nimrod Beangh would have been notable in any gathering with his perpetually wind-tossed brown curls shot through with gleams of auburn and premature silver, his dark brown beard, and his maverick eyebrows, one light brown and one white. And were he the type to be overlooked, still cek mounts would have caused some stir on most of the well-traveled Ithkar roads in areas other than the south. Ceks, much admired by northerners for their fleetness, their streamlined appearance, but not for their lumpy and almost wartlike noses, were rarely found beyond their natural boundaries. And one could scarcely miss a voice that carried for lengths down the trail.

  “I saw a maid milk a bull," Nimrod roared out in fine baritone. "Fie man, fie. I saw a maid milk a bull; who's the fool now? I saw a maid milk a bull." His voice lent a peculiar emphasis to the remaining lines. "Every stroke a bucketful. Thou hast well drunken, man, who's the fool now?"

  Nimrod let the song trail off unfinished. He couldn't understand it. He had not seen anyone since he'd left home, despite the fact that he was on his way to one of the most popular ceremonies in Ithkar. A knot on that edderman, he thought, the man's cast something on me.

  He leaned back and laughed. Trouble had driven him out of town, trouble for serenading the edderman's house with that tune and getting the old man in trouble with his mate. For all the edderman's pomp, he had been a humorous sight then.

  A more thoughtful, and perhaps more sober, man, Nimrod decided to leave until the edderman was in a better temper. One trick meant ill temper, but two ... It would be late fall spinning at least before the leader got over his discomfort. And if Nimrod's other escapade came to his attention—as no doubt it would—it could only be a matter of time before his visits to the edderman's sister became known.

  It was a matter of little time to gather his weavings, tapestries, and handmade hair saddles, to capture his half-wild pair of ceks, and to be off to Ithkar Fair.

  Ah, well ... He sighed, settled even deeper into the broad cek-traveling saddle, and opened his mouth to sing the chorus. Just then he saw a wine-gold flicker off in the underbrush. He drew in his breath and quietly stopped his mounts. He dropped the cek's weighted tethers.

  Dismounting as quietly as he could, he left the trail to slip into the underbrush. The blurred glimmer moved ahead of him in erratic darts, and he followed. It didn't take many attempts to close with the creature for Nimrod to verify his hopes: it was indeed a hyn he pursued. If he could catch it, he could sell it for enough to pay for several trips to the fair. In that case he needed to adopt different tactics. The hyn, he knew, was a clever magical. It had the ability to both change shape and transfer location. Rumor was that the creature had a third power; however, they were so rarely seen that some of their lore had been forgotten. A witch or a priest might have known more of them, but he did not. Still, if he could but catch it— Ah, but there was the difficulty. Hyns had been captured, but how?

  Patting his pockets in search of a pipe and brownmir,

  Nimrod sat beneath a tree and stared at the hyn thoughtfully. It hovered just a few lengths away. If a ripple of color could be termed a jeer, then it did so. Nimrod chuckled. The hyn dipped twice, then settled to the ground, still safely distant, and began to run through a series of transformations, almost as if to amuse itself. It seemed to be able to adjust height, width, or features without any difficulty.

  The weaver's chin itched; he raised a hand to scratch it. The hyn was off, flitting around the trunks of two small trees.

  Two things, then: the hyn was curious, and perhaps it couldn't move farther than a short distance. He seemed to recall vaguely that if one could ever touch a hyn, it would not be able to transfer.

  Nimrod settled down and pretended to yawn and nod. Closing his eyes, he peered at the hyn beneath his eyelashes. It fluttered in indecision and moved a little closer. Nimrod realized the creature was larger than he had first thought; it looked to be about the size of his forearm in length and the width of a medium-sized tree. Stilling his breathing to a slow rise and fall, he watched the hyn approach. If he left, he'd be kicking himself for want of sense. If he stayed, there was no guarantee he would capture it. He relaxed his shoulders. It would not matter if he delayed his journey for an afternoon. ...

  Cursing under his breath, Nimrod walked back to the ceks. They had strayed down the road since he had last checked them, but not too far. He was hot; he was disheveled; and he had wasted the better part of a day using all his woodcraft. Traps did no good; he had known that from the beginning. However, he thought surprise might work. None of his choice food had interested the hyn. Its color had varied more than ever—Nimrod was certain by this time that the color flicker was the hyn's form of laughter. He scratched his chin. Perhaps only one versed in magic can capture such a creature. . . .

  Shrugging his shoulders, he called softly to the ceks as he approached. Then he stopped in astonishment. He had pursued that variegated, four-limbed imp of a hyn all over the area, and here it hovered just above his pack animal. As he watched, it calmly alighted and blinked its membrane-covered eyes at him.

  "Now can you fathom that?"

  Nimrod gathered up the tethers, looped one over the neck of a cek, mounted the other, all in one smooth motion. His cek moved reluctantly. Glancing behind him, Nimrod saw that the hyn rode along without any hesitation.

  "How long will you stay, my fine friend?" he murmured.

  Soon Nimrod took up a song once more. "I saw a Nim chase a hyn, fie, man, fie. I saw a Nim chase a hyn; who's the fool now? I saw a Nim chase a hyn, far into a wicked fen. Thou hast well drunken, man. Who's the fool now?" He laughed heartily and winked at the creature. "Now that's a good sign," he said, "for the beginning of a journey."

  Nimrod groaned. These ceks were bony creatures. Even if they grew as large as barrels, still their bones would protrude to give a rider pain. He'd forgotten how far it was to the Shrine of the Three Lordly Ones. Here it was well-nigh dark and no sign of the fair boundaries.

  They rounded a curve, then the lights of the fair-wards shone, dazzling his eyes. Nimrod heaved himself upright, banishing the weary slump of his shoulders, and waved his hat at the wards. He could barely see their outline through the glare. "Ho," he yelled, "and a fine meeting."

  "Fair wind at your back, Nimrod Beangh," was the reply. "Have you weapons?"

  Nimrod replied, "A minimum," wondering all the while how they had known it was he.

  "Toss them behind you. Stand for search."

  Nimrod dismounted and waited patiently while they searched his clothing, patted him in places he'd have cried insult another time, and looked with care through his packs. They were stern-faced and spoke little. Nimrod stared at their leathern-covered backs and brass helmets. It was only then that he noticed a cloaked figure off in the shadows. Tie wizard-of-the-gate, no doubt, searching for concealed logic. A huge angry bellow reached them, possibly from tie tent of the Vardos, who were prone to ill temper and battles among themselves. The wizard, his attention distracted, glanced in their direction.

  One of the wards spoke abruptly. "Enter. Keep the peace, Jimrod Beangh." Nimrod's eyebrows rose. "Yes, we still recall you. Were it up to us, you would not be granted admittance. Do you think it was chance that you rode alone from the south?"

  Then he recognized the fair-ward as one who had risen to an officer in the last fairing. They must have marked him well to have an officer awaiting him, he mused.

  "Keep the peace and all will be well. Good fairing to you." The fair-ward inclined his head.

  Nimrod avoided his eyes with the ease of long practice. 'I'll not be looking for trouble; I can promise you that. Good fairing and less trouble to you." He moved toward his cek, but the clerk at the ward's side stretched out his slate. Reluctantly Nimrod scribbled his name, dropped his fee into tie waiting palm, and remounted. "See that you give me the table I have marked."

  The scribe's eyes flashed.

  It bothered
the priests not at all if two weavers purchased the same spot, although they were less likely to pull that ort of play on the wealthier cooks.

  Nimrod passed through the great gates with a slight inclination of his head to the small carved likenesses of rhe Three Lordly Ones in the upper niches. His nod was as luch to annoy the fair-wards as to pay respect.

  It was not until they rounded another curve that he looked back behind him. The hyn was just settling onto the bundle laden cek. Its color glowed brighter in the half-light. As he watched, it altered its appearance until it looked a rough copy of himself—a much younger self. The image wavered. The hyn winked a membraned eye at him. Those eyes. He shivered. It was disconcerting to look at large, slant-orange eyes through clear membrane. Then the image settled into place. Why had the hyn accompanied him? ... It was a strange little thing. ... He shrugged. It was a mimic, nothing more.

  They reached the middlemost section of the fair, and Nimrod tumbled from his saddle. He tethered the ceks, pulled his sleeping robe from the left pack, took off the heaviest of the bundles, and promised himself an early rising. Looking around the section, lit by the glowing crescents that marked cooks' tents and the softer light rods that marked the weavers', he could make out the glint of the skyreaches of those lucky enough to have dwellings. He pulled out two of the weavings he had marked for the thank-offering to the temple. No matter that it was night; the doors of the temple were always open for offerings. He could safely leave his wares to the guardianship of the ceks—they were less than courteous to strangers—though in the morning he would have to move them to proper quarters.

  Nimrod trudged up the pathway toward the temple. Fine gravel crunched under his feet, and he guided himself by that sound and by the feel of the night. It was early yet, the fair not properly begun, and the preparations were not complete. Later the pathway would be well lit. Nimrod tossed the guard at the outer wall a bribe, crossed the cobbled stones to the inner gate, and bribed the second guard as well. Fairing was always expensive due to the need to bribe the fair-wards, pay for tables, and give a thank-offering. And if his offerings were not acceptable, he knew from experience that one of the temple members would accompany him to search his pack for a better. The two weavings he carried with him, however, were worthy offerings, colored by rare dyes.