"And why should you curse my chosen home, this splendid marsh?" the lady said, with a scowl coming between her fine-arched brows, and Lythande drew a long breath.
"Only that in this—this blessed expanse of bog and marsh and frogs I have becomes drenched, muddied, and lost," she said, and the lady gestured her to the fire.
"For the sake of Tashgan's lute I make you welcome, but I warn you, if you have harmed him, slain him or taken his lute by force, stranger, this is your last hour; make, therefore, the best of it."
Lythande went to the fire, pulled off the mage-robe and disposed it on the hearth where the surface water and mud would dry; removed the sodden boots and stockings, the outer tunic and trousers, standing in a linen under-tunic and drawers to dry them in the fire-heat. She was not too sure of customs this near to Northwander, but she surmised that the man she appeared to be would not, for modesty's sake, strip to the skin before a strange woman, and that custom of modesty safeguarded her disguise.
Lythande could—briefly, when she must—cast over herself the glamour of a naked man; but she hated doing it, and the illusion was dangerous, for it could not hold long, and not at all, she suspected, in the presence of this alien magic.
The lady, meanwhile, busied herself about the fire—in a way, Lythande thought as she watched her out of the corner of her eye, better fitted to the little old lady she had first appeared to be. When Lythande's under-tunic stopped steaming, she hung the outer clothing to dry over a rack, and dipped up soup from a kettle, cut bread from a crusty loaf, and set it on a bench before the fire.
"I beg of you, share my poor supper; it is hardly worthy of a great magician, as you seem to be, but I heartily make you welcome to it."
The vows of an Adept of the Blue Star forbade Lythande to eat or drink in the sight of any man; however, women did not fall under the prohibition, and whether this was the little old hearth-witch she had first surmised, or whether the beautiful lady put on the hearth-witch disguise that she might not be easy prey for such robbers or beggarly men as might make their way into the bog, she was at least woman. So Lythande ate and drank the food, which was delicious; the bread had the very texture and scent she remembered from her half-forgotten home country.
"My compliments to your cook, lady; this soup is like to what my old nanny, in a far country, made for me when I was a child." And even as she spoke, she wondered; is it some enchantment laid on the food?
The lady smiled and came to sit on the bench beside Lythande. She had Tashgan's enchanted lute in her arms, and her fingers strayed over it lovingly, bringing small kindly sounds. "You see in me both cook and feaster, servant and lady; none dwells here but I. Now tell me, stranger with the Blue Star, how came you by Tashgan's lute? For if you took it from him by force, be assured I shall know; no lie can dwell in my presence."
"Tashgan made me a free gift of the lute," Lythande said, "and to my best knowledge he is well, and lord of Tschardain; his brothers perished, and he returned to his home. But first he must free himself of the enchantment of the lute, which had other ideas as to how he should spend his time. And this is the whole of the tale, lady."
The lady sniffed, a small disdainful sniff. She said, "And for that, being a little lord in a little palace, he gave up the lute? Freely, you say, and unforced? A minstrel gave up a lute enchanted to his measure? Stranger, I never thought Tashgan a fool!"
"The tale is true as I have told it," said Lythande. "Nor is the lute such a blessing as you might think, Lady, for in that world out there beyond the—the blessed confines of this very marsh, minstrels are given less honor than lords or even magicians. And freedom to wander whither one wills is perhaps even more to be desired than being at the mercy of a wandering lute."
"Do you speak with bitterness, minstrel?"
"Aye," said Lythande with heartfelt truth, "I have spent but one summer wandering at the behest of this particular lute, and I would willingly render it to anyone who would take its curse! Tashgan had twelve years of that curse."
"Curse, you say?"
The lady sprang up from the bench; her eyes glared like coals of fire at Lythande, fire that curled and melted about her with sizzling heat; fire that glowed and flared and streamed upward like the wings of a fire-elemental. "Curse, you say, when it brought Tashgan yearly to my dwelling?"
Lythande stood very still. The heat of the blue star was painful between her brows. / do not know who this lady may be, or what, she thought, but she is no simple hearth-witch.
She had laid aside her belt and twin daggers; she stood unprotected before the anger and the streaming fire, and could not reach the dagger which was effective against the creatures of enchantment. Nor, she thought, had it come yet to that.
"Madam, I speak for myself; Tashgan spoke not of curse but of enchantment. I am a Pilgrim Adept, and cannot live except when I am free to wander where I will. And even Tashgan could not linger as long beneath your gracious roof and accept your hospitality as long as his heart might desire; and I doubt not he found that a kind of curse."
Slowly the fire faded, the streamers of blue dimming out and dying, and the lady shrank to a normal size and looked at Lythande with a smile that was still arrogant but had a kind of pleased simper to it.
In the name of all the probably nonexistent Gods of Old Gandrin, what is this woman? For woman she is, and like all women vain and greedy for praise, Lythande thought with scorn.
"Be seated, stranger, and tell me your name."
"I am Lythande, a Pilgrim Adept of the Blue Star, and Tashgan gave me this lute that he might return to become Lord of Tschardain. I am not to blame for his folly, that he willingly forwent the chance of beholding again your great loveliness." And even as she spoke Lythande had misgivings, could any woman actually swallow such incredible flattery? But the woman—or was she a powerful sorceress?—was all but purring.
"Well, his loss is his own choice, and it has brought you here to me, my dear. Have you then Tashgan's skill with the lute?"
That would not take much doing, thought Lythande, but said modestly that of this, only the Lady must be the judge. "Is it your desire that I play for you, Madam?"
"Please. But shall I bring you wine? Tashgan, dear boy, loved the wine I serve."
"No, no wine," Lythande said. She wanted her wits fully about her. "I have dined so well, I would not spoil that taste in memory. Rather I would enjoy your presence with my mind undimmed by the fumes of wine," she added, and the lady beamed.
"Play, my dear."
Lythande set her fingers to the lute, and sang, a love-song from the distant hills of her homeland.
A single sweet apple clings to the top of the branch;
The pickers did not forget But could not reach;'
Like the apple, you are not forgotten,
But only too high and far from my hands.
I long to taste that forbidden sweetness.
Lythande looked up at last at the woman by the fire. Well, she had done a foolish thing; she should have sung a comic ballad or a tale of knightly and heroic deeds. This was not the first time she had seen a woman eager for more than flirtation, thinking Lythande a handsome young man. Was that one of the qualities of the enchantment of the lute, that it inspired woman hearers with desire for the player? Judging by what had happened on this journey, she would not be at all surprised.
It grows late," said the Lady softly, "time for a night of love such as I often shared with Tashgan, dear lad." And she reached out to touch Lythande lightly on the shoulder; Lythande remembered the farmer's wife. A woman rejected could be dangerous.
Lythande mumbled "I could not presume so high; I am no Lord but a poor minstrel."
"In my domain," said the lady, "minstrels are honored above princes or lords."
This was too ridiculous, Lythande thought. She had loved women; but if this woman had been Tashgan's mistress, she would not seek among women for a lover. Besides, Lythande was not happy with the thought of Tashgan's leavings.
> The geas she was under was literal; she might reveal herself to no man. 1 am not sure this harpy is a woman, Lythande thought, but I am certain she is no man.
"Do you mock at me, minstrel?" the woman demanded. "Do you think yourself too good for my favors?" Once again it seemed that fire streamed from her hair, from the spread wings of her sleeves. And at that moment Lythande knew what she saw.
"Alnath," she whispered, and held out her hand. Yet nothing so simple as a fire-elemental; this was a were-dragon in full strength, and she remembered the fate of Ellifanwy.
Lady," she said, "you do me too much honor, for I am not Tashgan, nor even a man. I am but a humble minstrel woman."
She bowed her head before the flames suddenly surrounding her. Were-dragons were always of uncertain temper; but this one chose to be amused; flames licked around Lythande with the gusting laughter, but Lythande knew that if she showed the slightest fear, she was doomed.
Calling up the memory of the fire-elemental, Lythande made a clear picture in her mind of Alnath perched on her wrist, flames sweeping gracefully upward. She felt again the sense of kinship she had experienced with the little fire-elemental, and it enabled her to look up and smile at the were-dragon confronting her.
The gusts of laughter subsided to a chuckle, and once again it was woman not dragon confronting Lythande: the little hearth-witch. "And did Tashgan know your sex—or did he expect you to take over his round in all things?"
Lythande said ruefully "The latter, judging by the instructions he gave me,' and the lady was laughing again.
"You must have had a most interesting journey here, my dear!"
Lythande's mind suddenly started working furiously, recalling quite clearly the instructions Tashgan had given her. He had definitely been amused about something: yet Lythande was sure he had not known her secret. No, what amused him had been . . . "Beauty!" The lady was regarding her attentively. "By any chance, Lady, was he given to calling you—Beauty?"
"The dear boy! He remembered!” The lady was positively simpering.
He certainly did, Lythande thought grimly. And boyish is a mild description of his sense of humor! Perhaps he thought me as vulnerable to playing with fire as EUifanwy? It would have amused Tashgan to send her to share Ellifanwy's fate. Aloud she said, "He asked me to give you his love." Her hostess looked pleased, but Lythande decided that a bit more flattery would probably help. "Of all the sacrifices he made for his throne, you were the one he regretted most. His duty called him to Tschardain." She hesitated slightly, remembering the look in the dragon-woman's eyes at the sight of the lute. "If you would not object, I think this affair would make a splendid romantic ballad." By now the were-dragon was virtually purring.
"Nothing would delight me more, my dear, than to serve as inspiration to art."
"And," Lythande continued, "I would be honored— and I know it would give Tashgan the greatest pleasure— if you would accept this lute as a small token of the devotion we feel toward you."
Flame flared almost to the ceiling; but the were-dragon's face was wreathed in joyous smiles as she gently took up the lute and caressed the strings.
Early the next morning, Lythande took cordial leave of her hostess. As she picked a careful way through the bog she could hear the strumming of the lute behind her. The were-dragon had more musical ability than Prince Tashgan, that was certain, but the ballad that formed in Lythande's mind was not of love bravely sacrificed to duty, but of a wandering were-dragon minstrel and an unexpected guest at the Yule-feast in Taschardain. Making a mental note to spend Yule in Northwander—if not even farther north—Lythande left the bog behind her and went laughing up the northward road.
Introduction to Looking for Satan
One of the rules of the original Thieves World anthology was that characters were free to write about other people's characters, although with certain restrictions, e.g. no killing off or reforming someone else's character.
When Vonda, whom I esteem very highly, sent me a copy of this story, it seemed that in essence she had "reformed" Lythande, for in Vonda's original draft, Lythande agreed to return home with Westerly and her crew, in essence giving up her wandering life. This struck me as an almost too-good solution of Lythande's future, but I coiddn't see Lythande doing anything so sensible. I conveyed my doubts to Vonda, and she obligingly rewrote the end in a way which made it clear that Lythande was accepting this as a temporary solution to her difficulties in the world where she was.
But when she goes again to roaming, no doubt there will be other adventures in different worlds . . .for the essence of Lythande's magic is that she crosses worlds at will; she can be not only wherever but whenever she chooses. . . .
LOOKING FOR SATAN
BY VONDA N. MCINTYRE
The four travelers left the mountains at the end of the day, tired, cold, and hungry, and they entered Sanctuary.
The inhabitants of the city observed them and laughed, but they laughed behind their sleeves or after the small group passed. All its members walked armed. Yet there was no belligerence in them. They looked around amazed, nudged each other, and poined at things, for all the world as if none had ever seen a city before. As, indeed, they had not.
Unaware of the amusement of the townspeople, they passed through the marketplace toward the city proper. It was growing dark and the farmers had nearly finished packing their awnings and culling their produce for anything worth saving. Limp cabbage leaves and rotten fruit littered the roughly cobbled street, and bits of unrecognizable stuff floated down the open central sewer.
Beside Wess, Chan shifted his heavy pack.
"Let's stop and buy something to eat," he said, "before everybody goes home."
Wess hitched her own pack higher on her shoulders and did not stop. "Not here," she said. "I'm tired of stale flatbread and raw vegetables. I want a hot meal tonight."
She tramped on. She knew how Chan felt. She glanced back at Aerie, who walked wrapped in her long dark cloak. Her pack weighed her down. She was taller than Wess, as tall as Chan, but very thin. Worry and their journey had deepened her eyes. Wess was not used to seeing her like this. She was used to seeing her freer.
"Our tireless Wess," Chan said.
"I'm tired too!" Wess said. "Do you want to try camping in the street again?"
"No," he said. Behind him, Quartz chuckled.
In the first village they had ever seen—it seemed years ago now, but was only two months—they tried to set up camp in what they thought was a vacant field. It was the village common. Had the village possessed a prison, they would have been thrown into it. As it was they were escorted to the edge of town and invited never to return. Another traveler explained inns to them—and prisons—and now they all could laugh, with some embarrassment, at the episode.
But the smaller towns they had passed through did not even approach Sanctuary in size and noise and crowds. Wess had never imagined so many people or such high buildings or any odor so awful. She hoped it would be better beyond the marketplace. Passing a fish stall, she held her breath and hurried. It was the end of the day, true, but the end of a cool late fall day. Wess tried not to wonder what it would smell like at the end of a long summer day.
"We should stop at the first inn we find," Quartz said.
"All right," Wess said.
By the time they reached the street's end, darkness was complete and the market was deserted. Wess thought it odd that everyone should disappear so quickly, but ho doubt they were tired too and wanted to get home to a hot fire and dinner. She felt a sudden stab of homesickness and hopelessness: their search had gone on so long, with so little chance of success.
The buildings closed in around them as the street narrowed suddenly. Wess stopped: three paths facec them, and another branched off only twenty paces farther on.
"Where now, my friends?"
"We must ask someone," Aerie said, her voice soft with fatigue.
"If we can find anyone," Chan said doubtfully.
&nb
sp; Aerie stepped toward a shadow-filled corner. "Citizen," she said, "would you direct us to the nearest inn?"
The others peered more closely at the dim niche. Indeed, a muffled figure crouched there. It stood up. Wess could see the manic glitter of its eyes, but nothing more.
"An inn?"
"The closest, if you please. We've traveled a long way."
The figure chuckled. "You'll find no inns in this part of town, foreigner. But the tavern around the corner—it has rooms upstairs. Perhaps it will suit you."
"Thank you." Aerie turned back, a faint breeze ruffling her short black hair. She pulled her cloak closer.
They went the way the figure gestured, and did not see it convulse with silent laughter behind them;
In front of the tavern,,Wess puzzled out the unfamiliar script: The Vulgar Unicorn. An odd combination, even in the south where odd combinations were the style of naming taverns. She pushed open the door. It was nearly as dark inside as out, and smoky. The noise died as Wess and Chan entered—then rose again in a surprised buzz when Aerie and Quartz followed.
Wess and Chan were not startlingly different from the general run of southern mountain folk: he fairer, she darker. Wess could pass as an ordinary citizen anywhere; Chan's beauty often attracted attention. But Aerie's tall white-skinned black-haired elegance everywhere aroused comment. Wess smiled, imagining what would happen if Aerie flung away her cloak and showed herself as she really was.
And Quartz: she had to stoop to come inside. She straightened up. She was taller than anyone else in the room. The smoke near the ceiling swirled a wreath around her hair. She had cut it short for the journey, and it curled around her face, red, gold, and sand-pale. Her gray eyes reflected the firelight like mirrors. Ignoring the stares, she pushed her blue wool cloak from her broad shoulders and shrugged her pack to the floor.
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