“I make no claims,” said the man. “And you?”
“Judge for yourself,” said Lythande, for the last thing she wanted was a display of her powers in this company where she felt alien magic was to be found. “Call me but a poor minstrel and juggler. Would it please you, Mary, to see such powers as I have?”
“Indeed it would please me,” said Mary, her blue eyes shining. “Though the thought of magic frightens me.”
“What you shall see is but juggling and trickery,” Lythande reassured her. And then she called the witchfire, showing flames that roared to the roof and became dragons which sang in the voice of a tenor; then she called up a fishbowl of golden fish, who prophesied in the voices of children, and finally flew away like birds; and finally called forth a head, robed and crowned, who told every guest what he wanted most to know, if it was pleasant, and finally forecast the weather; rain for many days to come. The guests begged like children to see more marvels, but Lythande knew the secret of pleasing audiences was to leave them hungry for more, never satiated; so she pleaded weariness, and watched the company go to their beds. She would willingly have slept before the fire—she had slept in many worse places—but the innkeeper would not have it.
“If there were a chamber free you should have my best,” said he, “but as it is—you shall share with only two late comers,” and he conducted Lythande into a room with only the dark traveler and his pretty traveling companion.
And at last—since the only alternative was to stalk haughtily into the rain—which now was falling more heavily than ever, Lythande let herself be persuaded to spread out her cloak in their room, although nothing would persuade her to take a share of either bed.
“No,” she said, “Truly, the fire will do as well—”
“What, lord magician! Surely you do not believe that I—or my companion here—will steal your soul! I have the greatest respect for Adepts of the Blue Star, and not for worlds would I engage in sorcery in their presence.” And all the time the pricking of the Star between her brows told her of the action of strange magic.
So she might have turned to young Mary—it would not be the first time one had seemed innocent and been magical—but Mary whispered to her, “Remain, I beg you; in your presence, at least, he cannot force himself upon me.”
“I though him your father, my dear; how come you, then, to be traveling in his company?”
“Father I have none for many years; I dwell with my grand-dame upon the moor—and would I were back there—and when he passed by—I know not how—he said ‘come’, and I could not help but come, leaving behind my grand-dame and all that I love.”
“I shall remain,” said Lythande, grateful at least that this girl was not one to whom Lythande’s disguise was transparent, but who had appealed to her gallantry.
So, thought Lythande, the girl is spelled; and I thought rightly that this is a great sorcerer. Aloud she asked, “Has he offered you any insult?”
“No, lord magician; I have not seen so much as his fingertip beyond that great dark mantle he wears,” said Mary.
Lythande was almost sorry; for if he had done so, her vows, which bade her always fight law against chaos, would force a confrontation; but the girl had made no complaint and she could not interfere—nor from the experience of several lifetimes, would she have done so. She was not the first girl, and Lythande did not suppose she would be the last, despite a pretty face and innocence, to be lured away.
And so at last—telling herself that in her presence at least, the girl would suffer no insult from her companion—Lythande stretched out on the floor between the beds, refusing an offered share of the dark man’s bed. She removed no garment but her boots; nor did the dark man, still wrapped in his enormous cloak. And so she composed herself for sleep.
But she did not sleep. All the night, conscious of the prickling of the star, and of unknown magic as stealthy as the mice in the walls, she did not sleep, but lay wakeful, conscious of the turning earth and of the snores of at least one of her companions, the soft breaths of the other. At last, toward dawn when pale light began to steal into the room, all fell silent, and Lythande fell into a fitful doze; and though her distrust of her companions was at highest pitch, she did sleep a little.
And from this sleep she was wakened by an almighty clamor, on the steps of the inn. A peasant woman, rough-handed, all soaked with the rain, her hair dripping wetly round her shoulders, was pounding at the door.
“Open! Open!” she cried, “wretch, monster, what have you done with my grand-daughter!”
So saying, she rushed past the protesting inn-keeper, who with sleepy astonishment made not much move to prevent her, and to the bed-chambers on the second floor. One by one she examined the sleepers, passing over Lythande and coming to the dark traveler; where she cried, “So! Rascal, devil—this is the man who lured away the child by magic—”
“I? My good woman, your grand-daughter, if such she be, followed me of her own free will,” said the man. “Has she said otherwise?”
“No; but she shall make complaint when she is free—for Mary is a good girl—”
“So says every grandmother, and rightly so,” said the dark man. “Ask of her, or of this stranger, if I have stirred this night from my bed; nor would I be capable of harming her.”
Thus appealed to, Lythande agreed that he had never stirred from his bed, but toward morning, owing to a disturbed night, Lythande’s sleep might have been too heavy to hear what took place. Then the grandmother, rushing to Mary’s side, drew back the covers, demanding of her unstirring form that she answer, but Mary lay still, unmoving, and at last the grandmother howled that she was dead. And so indeed, she proved to be, without a mark upon her, nor any apparent cause of death.
“It was you nevertheless who slew her with your magic,” insisted the grandmother. “Or how did she meet her death?”
“My dear lady, am I to blame if the girl was taken by a vampire, or a restless spirit?” he demanded. “I did not go near her—”
“I slept; I cannot attest to that,” said Lythande.
“No; but these can,” said the man, dragging off the traveling cloak and betraying two legs withered and like pipe stems, “For many years my legs have not borne me a single step without two walking sticks; and even I could not rise and cross the room upon them without awakening the magician here—not unless I were more nimble than any acrobat. How am I capable of doing harm to living man or beast? And you cannot prove I slew her by magic—no more than you could make that claim of the magician himself.”
And Lythande realized she had been very neatly mouse-trapped; all the guests of the inn had seen Lythande do magic, and if inquiry were made about murder by magic, inquiry might as well turn to Lythande herself, and her identity would soon be exposed. Yet the prickling of her star told her very clearly that some form of magic was in use; he must have slain the girl by the same magic by which he had lured her from her home.
But in that case would he have made jokes about soul-stealers?
Yes; such was his arrogance; he had not said, either, that he had not killed the girl, but only that he was not capable of motion.
So be it; then Lythande would devote herself to proving that he could not, in her very presence, commit a magical murder with impunity.
While the bereaved grandmother—having thoroughly disrupted the entire inn—was being consoled and offered wine in the main room, Lythande stopped the man, who was readying himself for departure, and made a dreadful wry face at the old woman’s lamentations, echoing through the breakfasting room, “What, no breakfast then? Or has the death spoilt your appetite?”
“I have fed well,” said the man. “What a cacophony! As a musician, you will join me in regretting it.”
“What I regret,” said Lythande fiercely—was the soul-stealer actually boasting of his deed?—“is only the pure soul who has gone.”
“Is it so?” asked the man lightly. “By now, I dare say, she regrets only her purity.”
&nb
sp; Lythande made an involuntary grimace, and the man, as if aware he had angered the magician, laughed a little. “You are shocked? But of course her death had nothing to do with me.”
“Nor with me,” said Lythande. “But I would see justice done.”
“Why should I care for justice if it comes to that?”
“It is the obligation of every civilized being—” said Lythande, fastening her mage-robe about her throat.
“But I care not a fig for justice, as you call it,” said the cripple, taking up his great traveling-cloak and preparing to leave the room.
“Then, since you have no interest in the girl, for life or death,” said Lythande, “you will, of course, have no objection to calling down divine retribution on her killer?”
“Oh, no, no,” he said, and as he prepared to leave the room, discovered that Lythande was standing directly in his way so he could not pass.
“As will I,” said Lythande, “since I have no other way to prove I did not slay her by my magic. So I swear willingly; may the footsteps of divine retribution follow me forever, waking and sleeping, if I had art, part or knowledge of the death of this innocent soul. Now swear you the same.” She made a mystical gesture, and the crippled man flinched.
“How know you her soul was innocent?”
“That has nothing to do with her death,” said Lythande. “That is between her and whatever God may make it his business. Do you then refuse—before these witnesses—to swear to innocence of her death?” She gestured at the other guests at the inn, who began to look very ugly indeed.
“I fear no soul, innocent or otherwise,” said the man. But I would have no chance against such footsteps, being a cripple.”
“Then you refuse?”
“I so swear,” he muttered.
“That the footsteps of divine retribution may follow you forever till her death is avenged?”
White as death itself he nodded. “I so swear,” he growled at last. And Lythande stepped away and permitted him to leave the room.
Yet Lythande believed he would somehow manage to repudiate his oath; she beheld him preparing to depart.
“You go?”
“I go. Or are you preparing to follow me like the footsteps of—what was it—retribution?”
“Do you then fear those Footsteps? I would, if I were you.”
“I fear no footsteps, divine or human. And by the same token, you may follow me to the end of the world, if you have nothing better to do, and much good may it do you.”
“I will take my chances on that,” commented Lythande, resolving at that moment that she would see the footsteps.
All that day the rain continued to fall, and when the night came, the dark man sought shelter, with Lythande at his very side, so that they were shown into the same chamber, for it was the only one vacant. Lythande, who had slept little the previous night, slept well, until she was wakened. It was full daylight, and her companion had cried out with alarm; for round and round the bed, in a ceaseless crossing and re-crossing of steps, were footprints upon footprints.
“That poor girl,” said Lythande. “Do you suppose they have buried her in the rain?”
“How the devil should I know—or care?” snarled the man; but Lythande noticed that as he took his walking sticks and dragged himself from the room, he turned aside to avoid treading on the prints.
Still the rain continued to fall, and as they traveled through it, Lythande noticed that the other kept turning his head to the rear, as if against some sound. He asked at last, “What is that sound?”
“What sound? I heard nothing,” said Lythande truthfully. “What sort of sound is it? Footsteps, perhaps?”
“How should I know?” snarled the man with a curse, but Lythande noticed that he still kept turning his head to the rear, as if to listen.
That night, when Lythande and her involuntary companion were shown to their room, Lythande woke again to find the room all but filled; her companion stared at the muddy marks on the rug, murmuring in horror, “Footsteps....”
“...of retribution,” said Lythande curiously, but the man replied only with another curse.
“Mud,” she said, “They must have buried her in the rain after all.” He made no answer, but then she was not expecting any answer.
Magician,” he said, “Can you rid me of a haunting?”
“I can.”
“Name your fee, and do so.”
“I can,” said Lythande. “What sort of haunting?”
The man gestured at the muddy footsteps and hung his head. “You know,” he said.
“Swear, then, your innocence in the matter, and I will do so at once,” she said; “I take no commission from a man under a curse. But if you can swear there is nothing upon your conscience; then—”
There was no answer; the man left the room, turning again aside so that his foot would not cross the now-caked mud. His face was drawn with horror. When Lythande came up with him in the courtyard, he said truculently, “I forbid you to follow me further, Lythande.”
“How do you propose to prevent me? I have not heard yet that you own all the roads hereabout,” she said. “I go where I will, and if I choose to travel in the same direction as you—”
“Follow me then, since I cannot prevent you,” he snarled, and went on his way. Lythande, traveling almost out of his sight, at the far range of his vision, saw that now and again he would turn and look backward; she did not think he was looking for her.
All the same she made certain to arrive at the inn with him at the end of the day, when the host led them to the top of the building, up flight after flight of stairs, again to the same chamber, one with a two beds, one of which was against a window, looking out on a stone flagged court below. On this bed the other traveler, without so much as a gesture at asking Lythande which she preferred, flung his pack and turned to Lythande with his hand resting on his knife.
“You will stop following me,” he said, “or I will kill you.”
“I would not advise that,” Lythande said in her mellow neutral voice. “That would not prevent me from following you, but then I could walk through walls, or float in at windows like that one—oh, do take care, the landlord should at least have put a railing there!”
“Damn you,” he burst out.
“If that be ordained,” said Lythande calmly, “I assure you I have adequately seen to my own damnation and have no need of yours. However, if I were dead, I could, as I say, follow you—”
He flung out of the room with a curse. That night the man sat late in the tavern portion of the inn, swallowing pot after pot of ale. Lythande, on the contrary, went to bed directly she had finished singing, and slept the sleep of the proverbial just, being wakened near dawn by the entrance of her travelling companion, very drunk, stumbling in the dark. He lit the lamp and surveyed the unmarked carpet.
“You see?” he demanded, “There is nothing there.”
“The night is not yet over,” said Lythande. “Do take care you do not fall from that window.”
With a savage snarl, he extinguished the lamp, went stumbling to his bed and fell into a restless snoring sleep.
Lythande slept again, being wakened by a cry from the cripple, who was staring in horror at the footprints, this time encircling his bed round and round.
Seeing Lythande awake, he said contemptuously, “Mud again; the footsteps of retribution are lacking in imagination.”
“That is not mud,” said Lythande, bending to pick up a crumbling fragment. “It’s graveyard mould. What will be next, I wonder? Blood? Bone dust? Ectoplasm? Oh, take care—”
She was interrupted by a cry; the man staggered and fell headlong from the high window, with a shriek which was abruptly cut short. Lythande stepped to the window, looking down at the corpse below.
“I guess he didn’t want to know what came next,” she mused. “I never will understand mortals who have no curiosity.”
Then she called for the innkeeper to tell him he had a corpse in
his courtyard; and while she waited she noted that the footprints had vanished.
“Mud,” she mused, fingering the fragment still in her hands. “I wonder what graveyard mould does look like?”
But of course there was no answer.
The Wuzzles
Lythande looked at her traveling companion and wondered if she would have to kill her. The law under which the Adept lived was rigid; she might never be known to any man as a woman; she knew that the law was perfectly literal and did not apply to a woman confidante, but the first such confidante Lythande had chosen had been tortured in the attempt to force from her the secrets of Lythande, and Lythande did not wish to expose her new companion to such a contingency. Yet she could not simply kill the girl out of hand, so the question was one which occupied Lythande’s mind at the moment, without gravely troubling it as yet, for the country through which they passed was deserted, and for several days they had met no other travelers.
Now they appeared to be coming into a little village, and she must come to some conclusion about the girl. Frennet was not her lover—hardly, indeed, her friend, but she owed the girl something. Frennet had in fact saved her at the adventure of the inn at The Hag and Swine, and she did not want her to be killed, or tortured, to force her secret from her. So sooner or later the problem of her traveling companion must be faced, and if they were again coming to inhabited parts, sooner rather than later.
Fortunately, Lythande thought, Frennet had no inkling of the life and death problem which occupied the mind of the magician-minstrel. She yawned, stretched, and said “We seem to be coming to a town up there. I do hope it’s a good one, an’ we can get somethin’ to eat.”
“You don’t know? I imagined this was your part of the world and you would be more familiar with it than I,” Lythande said.
The girl laughed and replied, “Not I; that old hag I worked for wouldn’t let me outen the house even at high festivals, far less any other time. I never been here—or anyplace else, not since’n I was a baby.”
“Which, I dare say, you hardly remember,” Lythande said. “As for an inn, I hardly know; but there is no charge for hoping, at least. If all else fails, I suppose once again I may sing for my supper; little country towns are fine for that and welcome minstrels, if not always magicians.”
The Complete Lythande Page 20