A Liaden Universe Constellation: Volume I

by Sharon Lee

  LATER THAT EVENING, Moonhawk fed twigs to a fire while Lute grumbled over the state of his property.

  “Is your bag really worth so much?”

  “So much?” He stared at her in disbelief. “My dear Master, may he rest in the arms of the Goddess forever, taught that a magician’s receptacle is his life.” He stood, bag in hand. “It’s his prop.” A sharp shake and legs appeared. Lute set it firmly on the ground.

  “His means of living.” Bright scarves dazzled in the firelight.

  “His safe.” Coins glittered and clinked.

  “His watchman.” A moment of that hideous noise that had started the escape!

  “His lightning.” A quick flash of pyrotechnic light danced about his hands.

  “And his restaurant.” A tin arced across the fire and she caught it, laughing.

  “Hardly fresh milk!”

  “Fresher than we had elsewise,” he retorted, and came to sit near her, letting the bag stand. “Where do you go now?”

  “Where the Goddess sends me.”

  He nodded and moved his long hands. A wooden top spun in one palm. He played with it, dancing it over his fingers, vanishing it from the right hand to appear in the left. Moonhawk laughed in wonder.

  “How are you doing that?”

  He glanced up with a grin. “Magic.” The grin grew speculative. “Would you like to learn?”

  “May I?”

  “You seem to have a certain aptitude. And I need an apprentice. Been putting it off far too long. Since we both go where the wind blows us, there’s no need for us not to go together, is there?”

  “No,” said Moonhawk, “there isn’t.”

  “Good,” he said and vanished the top. Standing, he went to the bag. “We should, though, head more or less toward Huntress City.”

  “Why?”

  He turned and the firelight glinted off the dull blue barrel.

  “I took this from the Noble Lady’s hall. It seems to me such a thing belongs with others of its kind, under the careful eyes of those who know their dangers, rather than loose in the poor, half-wild world.”

  “Will I have learned magic by the time we reach Huntress City?” Moonhawk wondered and Lute laughed as the weapon disappeared into the depths of his bag.

  “It depends on how apt a pupil you are.”

  THUS DID MOONHAWK and Lute meet and decide to travel together across the world, this with the blessing of the Goddess, our Mother.

  * * *

  The first tale ends here.

  A Spell for the Lost

  THE WIND WAS out of the southwest, carrying the acrid odor of baking rock. The sun was out of the same quarter, and backlit the magician in the weed-choked square, casting spears of light into the eyes of his audience.

  Moonhawk, the magician’s traveling companion for this month or so, sat on the cistern wall, face turned aside the sun-spears, and watched each gesture with care.

  It was to be a rope trick now. Lute showed the crowd the length of common brown cord, called a lad from the audience to test its strength and, finally, tie it snugly into a loop and hold it high above his head.

  Lute held up the circle of steel and waved it under the rope-holder’s nose. The lad called out that it was only a saddle-ring.

  Moonhawk leaned a little forward where she perched on the wall, opening herself to nuance, as she had been taught in Circle. The ring-and-rope trick always baffled her, though she had seen it fifty times in the past month. Perhaps this time—

  “And now,” Lute intoned, voice thinned only slightly by the wind, “by the grace of the elements of hemp and iron, by the impermanence of the things we aim to touch and hold, by the wind and by the sun—Ho!” He made a forceful gesture of throwing—and reached forward in nearly the same instant to steady the village lad who had staggered, letting the rope loop sag.

  The lad got his feet under him and shouted aloud, holding the rope up so the crowd could see the loop, unbroken, with the saddle-ring threaded neatly as a pendant, spinning lightly in the wind.

  There were then as always several from the crowd who must need test rope, knot and ring, all under the magician’s tolerant eye.

  Moonhawk settled back on her wall, a most un-Witch-like curse on her tongue. Befatched again, Goddess take the man! Well, she would simply ask him the way of it. But it galled her to need to do so.

  The crowd had demonstrated to its own satisfaction that rope and ring were inextricable. Lute had the mating back and untied the knot, with a well-worn patter praising the skill of the knot-tier and the efficacy of the knot. He slid the ring free, hung the rope over one shoulder, frowned at the ring and with a gesture vanished it. The audience roared, men stamping their feet and women clapping their palms together, and Lute announced the show was over.

  “But if you will, friends, a bit of something for the work expended—a coin, an egg, a loaf, a sup of ale—for, as great as magic is, not even the greatest magician can conjure himself a meal . . .”

  It was a giving crowd. By the time its disparate portions had wended home, five eggs, a new loaf, and a quarter-sausage had come to rest on Lute’s tattered yellow prop cloth.

  “And if a great magician cannot conjure himself a meal, does it follow that he may not conjure a meal for another?” Moonhawk asked, stepping forward and bending to retrieve the three nesting wooden cups.

  Lute looked up, mischief glinting in his dark eyes, gaunt face stern.

  “The ways of the Craft Magic are not for the student to ridicule,” he said austerely. “You will learn these mysteries in the proper order and with the proper respect. Until then, you will keep a civil tongue in your head, madam.”

  He sounded so like old Laurel, the Witch who had the training of the child Moonhawk, that the adult—woman and Witch in her own right—laughed aloud. Lute grinned, and waved a graceful hand at the accumulated bounty.

  “Besides, we’ve conjured enough for a fine dinner and a bit left aside to break our fast. And—” A flourish, a snatch, and he held out a quarter-moon, brittle with age. “A coin to trade for ale at the inn. I’m told this village boasts an inn.”

  Moonhawk glanced about her, frowning as much against the ill-kept square as against the sun. “It does?”

  “There you go again!” Lute cried, slipping the cups from her hand and placing them carefully in his bag. “I can’t recall the last time I spoke to so disrespectful a woman.”

  “No doubt my early training is to blame,” Moonhawk returned. “And the fact that one is used to city comfort!”

  “No doubt,” Lute agreed, with mortifying sincerity. He finished the various fastenings and straightened, gripping the bag’s handle and giving it a sharp shake. The legs retracted with a snap—mechanical magic, this, not sleight-of-hand. He gestured, showing her the dusty square and rag-tag huts.

  “Look about you well. For the world is more nearly like this than it is like Dyan City. The lot of common folk is hard work and short lives, relieved—and the Goddess smiles—by love, and by children, and by an occasional diversion such as myself.”

  He dropped his hand, and in the fading light looked abruptly tired. “For the most part, the Goddess blesses those more, who live nearest the Temples.”

  Moonhawk kept still. She knew the correct response—knew that every teaching she had ever received told her she put her immortal self at danger, traveling with such a one.

  Yet, his voice reverberated with Truth, and Witch-sense showed her his sincerity. She sighed. The man sowed disquiet like gladola seeds. And yet—

  “Master Magician!” The woman’s voice was breathless with hurry and though she herself was somewhat better dressed than most of the crowd had been, her hair was coming unbraided and dust lay thick upon her. She rushed up to Lute and caught his hand in both of hers; Moonhawk marked how well he controlled the instinct to snatch the precious member away.

  “Lady,” he said, respectfully, bowing his head, and taking the opportunity to slip his hand free. “How may I ser
ve you?”

  “My daughter,” she began, and lay her hand against her breast. “Oh, thank the Mother you are here! My daughter said that you would not aid me, but I pray—Indeed, how could you not? It is the responsibility of power to aid the powerless!”

  “So I have always been taught,” Lute said carefully, while Moonhawk opened herself to the other woman’s self and scanned each nuance of emotion.

  Distress, she found, but no disorder such as madness might generate. She glanced at Lute and saw he had reached the same conclusion.

  “Before aid can be bestowed, we must be aware of the nature of the problem,” he told the woman gently.

  “Yes, certainly!” she cried, and gave a breathless little laugh, though Moonhawk detected no joy in the sound.

  “It is my daughter,” she said again. “Three days together she has been gone. Her sister would have it that she is only about some madcap scheme and will return when it occurs to her, but she is not like that! Wild she may be, and heedless of manner, but her heart is good. To worry me so—and she must know that I would worry! No, I cannot believe her so cruel. She must have fallen aside of danger—she may even now be lying in some rock-catch, broken-legged and hoarse from calling . . .” Her voice faltered and Lute stepped expertly into the small silence.

  “Lady, I am distressed to hear of your trouble. But surely this is a matter for those of the village who are familiar with the country roundabout and who will know where best to search.”

  “They have searched,” she said, suddenly listless. “They say—they say she must only have gone off with a lover and will return, in a day or six. They say, no one could stay hidden so long, from all the wilder-wise.” She bent her head. “They say, unless she is dead.”

  “Goddess forefend,” murmured Lute devoutly. Moonhawk slanted him a slicing look, which he disarmed merely by refusing to meet her eyes. He kept a grave face turned toward the woman. “But this other—that she is gone with a lover to celebrate the Goddess’ best joy—is that not possible?”

  “With her own betrothed sitting at my hearth, wringing his hands and wondering what is come of her? I say again, Master Magician, she is not a cruel girl.”

  “Ah.” Lute did glance at Moonhawk then, eyes explicitly neutral, then looked back at the grieving mother. “What is it you think I may do for you, Lady?”

  “Find her!” she cried, and made as if to clutch his hand again, a move he adroitly avoided. “You have magic . . . power . . . the sight . . . In the name of the Goddess, Master Magician! In the name of she who bore you! My child must be found. My child—” She gasped, bent her head and struck her breast three times, slowly, with a shaking fist.

  Lute cleared his throat. “Alas,” he said, face and voice betraying nothing but the utmost sincerity, and perhaps a shade of sorrow. “There is magic and there is magic. I have no ability to find what is lost—”

  “But I have,” Moonhawk said abruptly, and lay her hand briefly upon the woman’s head, feeling the warmth of the unraveling hair beneath her palm. “Peace on you, Sister,” she said in traditional benediction. She took her hand away and met the woman’s incredulous stare with firm coolness.

  “You are—Sing thanks to the Goddess! You are of the Circle?” The woman’s eyes shone with tears, with transcendent hope. “A priestess?”

  “I am Moonhawk,” she said austerely. “Witch, Healer, and Seer. I may find that which is lost, by the grace of our Lady.” She glanced aside, saw Lute watching her intently; returned her gaze to the woman. “There are certain items I require in order to search most efficiently.”

  “Certainly!” The woman cried. “Certainly—and you shall have them! You shall come—both of you shall come!—to my house, sup with us, sleep, you may have all I have. Only find her, Lady Moonhawk! Find my child.”

  “I shall try,” said Moonhawk and felt a sudden chill.

  THE WOMAN’S NAME was Aster and her house was a large one, set just above the village, with two goats in the front yard and a hen house in back. Taelberry twined up an arbor by the door, the heavy purple blossoms silking the air with fragrance.

  “Here we are,” said Aster, leading them to the flower-hung porch and working the latch. “Lady Moonhawk, Master Lute—please be welcome in my home.”

  “Peace on this house,” Moonhawk returned in proper ritual.

  “Joy to all who live here,” Lute said sweetly, bowing his head in respect before stepping over the threshold.

  Moonhawk followed, then the host, into a kitchen smelling of new bread and warm spices. By the hearth stood a slim and well-made young man, dejectedly stirring the stew pot. From another portion of the room hurried a girl: brown hair neatly done into a knot at her neck, sturdy hands drying themselves briskly on a clean white apron.

  “What’s this?” she cried, her eye full of two tall, ragged strangers; then she spied Aster. “Mother? You said nothing of guests—”

  “I said I was gone to fetch the magician from the village, if he was still there and looked kindly on my case,” said Aster sharply. “As it happens, he did, but could do nothing for me. However, his traveling companion has skill in finding what is lost and she has consented to help.”

  “Traveling—?” Again, those quick brown eyes counted Lute and Moonhawk, flashed back to the older woman’s face. “You bring us a pair of gypsies to guest?”

  “Even not, gracious Lady!” cried Lute. “For gypsies have the foresight to bring their houses with them, where I am so dimwitted as to have no house at all!”

  “And so we ask travel-grace,” added Moonhawk, in her deep, level voice, “from charitable homes along the way.”

  The boy at the cauldron laughed once, a sharp-edged sound carrying more scorn than merriment. “Bested, Senna,” he called out. “Make welcome before they eat you alive.”

  “Wrong also, young sir,” Lute said dulcetly. “For what person of dignity will stay in a house where welcome is not a gift?”

  “As it is here,” cried Aster, bustling forward, “most sincerely! Senna! Cedar! Your manners want brushing! Bow to Lady Moonhawk, Witch of Dyan Temple, and to Master Lute the magician! Lady, Master—my eldest daughter, Senna; and—and Cedar, who is betrothed to my youngest—to Tael . . .” She caught her breath hard, then straightened and clapped her hands together.

  “Quickly now, children! Senna, show the Lady and Master to the guesting room. Cedar, take hot water to fill the basins. Give them houserobes, Senna, and put their things to wash. I will be along in a moment with wine and a bit of cheese, to help you through till dinner . . .”

  So directed, the two young things obeyed with startling will, and it was not too long before Lute was reclining shamelessly among a mountain of pillows, wineglass in hand, dressed in a houserobe of rich vermilion wool.

  “Much better than eggs,” he announced with satisfaction, and took a deep draught of wine.

  Moonhawk looked over from the table at which she was combing her hair and paused, comb arrested. Lute glanced up, eyebrow quirking. “Yes?”

  She recovered herself, finished the stroke and began another. “It is only that you look very nearly respectable, dressed so.”

  His eyes gleamed and he brought his glass up to drink.

  “Who is he, Zinna?” demanded a girlish falsetto from across the room. “What do you mean who? That handsome fellow in the red gown, of course! Do you suppose he’s a wealthy merchant? Perhaps a noblewoman’s son . . .”

  Moonhawk laughed, conquering the urge to turn and stare at the girl she knew was not there, put the comb down, picked up her glass and moved over to the pillows. “I didn’t say handsome,” she protested. “I said respectable.”

  “My hopes dashed,” he sighed, face reflecting unsurpassed sorrow. He assayed the glass, slanted his eyes at her face. “Perhaps I’ll have a try for the eldest daughter. This will be hers someday, after all, and with a few manners I’m certain she’d be quite tolerable.”

  “A mannerly woman is very important,” Moonhawk a
greed with false gravity and he inclined his head.

  “Present company excluded, certainly.”

  She froze on the edge of hurling the contents of her glass into his gaunt brown face; sighed and shook her head.

  “Always one step before me, Master Lute,” she said, with equally false softness.

  He tasted his wine. “Hardly that. At the most, half-a-step ahead and half-a-step to a side.” He leaned forward suddenly; surprisingly extended a hand. “Come, cry friends! I swear I hadn’t meant it to sting so sharply!”

  Carefully, she put her hand in his, felt his fingers exert brief, warm pressure and then withdraw, leaving something light and cool in her palm. She cupped her hand and turned it over, revealing a tael-blossom.

  “Named for the berry that gives the good wine,” murmured Lute. “Heedless, but not cruel. And the elder sister’s a shrew.”

  Moonhawk glanced up. “You think she left with forethought—and intent?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps they argued—the shrew and the heedless one—or perhaps love’s veil was somehow shredded and she saw that dull young fellow for the boor he is.”

  “Quick judgments, Master Lute,” she chided him. “You were with them for less than a quarter-glass.”

  “It’s my business to make quick judgments,” he said, unperturbed. “Magic must be good for something, after all.” He waved a hand at the hourglass, now three-quarters done. “We shall soon have the opportunity to make less hurried appraisals. And then you will do your magic.”

  “Then I will ask the assistance of the Goddess in the pursuit of truth,” Moonhawk corrected austerely, and he sighed.

  “I WILL REQUIRE a new candle,” Moonhawk told Aster, “a length of string or thin rope and something that belongs to Tael—preferably something she often had about her.”

  “At once,” said Aster, face glowing with the half-sick hope that had filled her all through the meal, so that she pushed her food around the bowl and shredded the good, warm bread into untasted crumbs. She turned to her eldest, who was hovering with Cedar by the fire. “Senna. Bring Lady Moonhawk what she requires.”