by Andre Norton
“Frey—I seek Gervys. Is he here?” she panted, holding her side.
The grizzled old veteran scratched his unshaven chin. “He delivered the wild boar and chamois the high priest ordered for his feast, and then disappeared. He said Thunderer had picked up a pebble in his hoof. You know how Gervys feels about that horse, missy. Maybe he went back to the hills.”
Bitter disappointment froze her heart. Gone. She’d missed him. And it would be a long year before she’d see his smiling eyes again. Slowly Dereva walked on to the crest of the hill and gazed over the roofs of Ithkar to the distant jagged mountains. In one of the far-off hidden valleys was her home. Sudden depression wrenched her, and longing for the countryside. This town was stifling. Perhaps this would be the last fair for her, and the folk of Wolvendale would have to seek another means of earning silver.
At length she turned and walked back through the encampment, descending the hill toward the palisade.
“How’s your ankle?” a deep voice queried.
She lifted her head and took a long breath. Beside her strode a tall man in leather, his rugged face smiling.
Dereva couldn’t speak for an instant. Then she asked, “Have you caught any more ladies in your traps, Gervys?”
“I couldn’t be that lucky twice,” he replied, and slipped his arm around her waist.
“I thought you’d gone back to the hills,” she remarked unsteadily.
Warmth and amusement tinged his deep voice. “Now is that very likely? Would I go without giving you a chance to turn me down again?”
She nuzzled his strong shoulder, inhaling the scent of his leather jerkin and vest and the man himself.
In a low voice Gervys said, “I think about it all the time, the two of us roaming the greenwood and the purple moors, tramping side by side, lying under the shade of an oak to rest when the sun is high, hearing the skylarks singing. I think about the two of us sitting outside our tent at night, watching the stars and talking softly to each other in the darkness. Sometimes it’s so real to me I can almost see you in the light of the campfire. How many more years are you going to make me wait?”
Dereva turned her head away. The words were hard to speak. “You know I still have a responsibility to Lila, even if you say I baby her too much. I can’t desert her to hunt with you.”
Gervys paused for a moment, fighting for control, and then deliberately lightened his tone. “We’d make a great team. Thunderer packs the wild boar out of the hills, but he can’t help me pull them down.”
“I always knew you only loved me for my teeth,” Dereva said lightly.
“Is that what you think?” he answered rather roughly, and fell silent.
Her long strides matched his as they strolled companion-ably back toward the northern gate of the palisade, pausing for a time to admire the sunrise that tinted the horizon with streaks of gold and crimson.
Then the noise and bustle of the market rose around them again. Vendors and peddlers were preparing for the first day of business, unrolling striped awnings, arranging trestle tables and benches, and lighting charcoal braziers. Some of the vintners stood idly by, sampling their own wares. The passersby were a blur of undefined shapes to her as she trod back toward her booth. Only the man at her side was real.
Dereva pushed open the curtain of her foodstall and found devastation.
Caldrons lay empty, their contents spilled. Trodden into the dust were trays of pastries. Tools had been scattered and flour shaken from sacks. Into the spilled flour had been traced one word: “bitch.”
Dereva screamed with inhuman rage and raced outside to see a fair-ward advancing with Otrok, whose arm was bandaged.
She snarled, and her lips drew back from her teeth.
“Dereva, don’t. It won’t help,” cautioned Gervys, and he gripped her arms, hiding her paws within his vest. Slowly she allowed her hands to return to their human shape. But there was nothing human about her green eyes now. They had the glare of a wild creature.
“There she is, Officer,” blustered Otrok.
The coarse voice sent shudders of hatred down her back. Gervys tightened the grip of his encircling arms.
“That bitch sister of yours wrecked my shop, and nearly tore my arm off. I’ll have her shot like a mad dog, or if she changes back into a woman, I’ll have her hanged.”
Then, when he saw the glare in her eyes, and the power of the man who accompanied her, Otrok stepped back to shelter himself behind the bulk of a glowering fair-ward brandishing a metal-tipped staff.
The fair-ward said grimly. “This man claims your wolf attacked him and destroyed his property. We caught the animal in a net. It appears to be untamed and vicious.”
Otrok whined, “That wolf you caught is this woman’s sister. I demand they both be handed over to the inquisitors on charges of black sorcery.”
Gervys stepped forward and faced the burly, irritated fair-ward. His voice held authority. “This man is drunk as well
as malicious. The wolf was left to guard Dereva’s property, and he startled the animal when he was tearing up this cookshop.” With one arm Gervys pulled back the curtain, and the ward gazed at the wreck of Dereva’s booth.
“Let’s inspect the animal,” ordered the scowling ward. “If it’s mad, a sword thrust will finish the matter.”
Gervys tightened his clasp around Dereva’s shoulders to prevent her from giving herself away. Rage quivered through her whole body.
They heard the infuriated howling of the wolf long before they reached the guardhouse at the eastern end of the fair-grounds. Guarded by two wary sentries, the wolf lay entangled in a rope net within an iron cage that was used as a portable lock-up. Her yellow eyes were completely bestial.
“The iron— it’s hurting her,” Dereva moaned.
“Kill it, officer—it’s rabid,” demanded Otrok, licking his cracked lips.
To the fair-ward Gervys spoke, in the tone of a man accustomed to being heeded. “Let me in the cage and I’ll prove the animal is tame.”
To Dereva’s startled protest, Gervys murmured, “Stay out of this, or the officer will suspect a connection between you and the wolf. Lila won’t injure me.”
But the hunter’s rugged face was rather white as he walked with long strides toward the iron cage and grasped the barred door. The wolf thrashed madly within the net, gnashing her teeth and flinging saliva from her snapping jaws.
“Open the cell, Eiger,” ordered the fair-ward. Gingerly one of the guards unlocked the barred door, and Gervys stepped inside the cage, latched it behind him, and knelt beside the maddened beast. He laid his hand lightly on Lila’s flank through the net, and the animal twisted in fury, snapping.
“I’m going to untangle you, Lila. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tear my throat out,” he murmured, and whistled a slow tune to himself as he found the edge of the snare. The thrashing head of the wolf thrust up, and her fangs raked his hand through the mesh. Gervys drew a harsh breath and concealed his bleeding hand inside his deerskin vest.
Dereva saw the slash of Lila’s fangs and heard Gervys’s indrawn breath. She raced forward, ignoring the jagged waves of nausea and pain that shot through her body as she neared the cage. She gritted her teeth and forced her arm between the bars, stroking the shoulder of the infuriated beast.
“Lila—easy—easy,” she gasped.
Gervys pulled the net free. The animal staggered to her feet, and the hunter saw his death in her baleful eyes. Then the wolf turned her shaggy head toward Dereva and thrust her hot tongue against the woman’s reaching hand.
Gervys closed his eyes for a second, then said to the sentries and fair-ward, “As you can see, the animal is tame, and was merely guarding the property.”
Unlatching the cage, Gervys stepped out, leaving the door unlocked but closed. He didn’t trust Lila within sight of Otrok.
He supported Dereva, who had almost passed out from the pain of the cold iron, and led her away from the cell. To the fat baker, Gervys sa
id grimly, “Collect your things and be gone within the hour, or the customers will be eating pies made of your face.”
“He’s threatening me, Officer!” Otrok whined.
“I want all of you off the grounds before the gates open,” ordered the ward. “I’m banning both of you from this year’s fair. Anyway, I got sick from those cat-meat pies you sold me last year, Otrok.”
The baker protested loudly as he waddled after the two sentries and the fair-ward. “Those tarts were made of the finest veal!”
“Well, I found a whisker in mine,” declared the ward as the guardhouse door closed behind them.
Gervys swung open the barred cage door, and the wolf leaped down to the ground. Away from the cold iron, she regained her strength at once and frisked around Dereva playfully.
Dereva dropped to her knees. “Can you understand me, Lila?” The wolf nodded her shaggy head.
“Go on back to Wolvendale on all fours,” she ordered. “Don’t stop to raid chicken coops or chase sheep, and avoid farmhouses. Do you hear me?”
The wolf seemed to grin, and the sharp face had a look of the human Lila. The forested crags of the mountains were where she wanted to be.
Dereva stroked the animal’s hairy shoulder. “And you really should thank Gervys for rescuing you.”
Saucily the wolf flipped her tail. She’d never have any use for humans. With a low howl of joy, Lila loped toward a gap in the palisade and headed out toward the distant mountains.
When she was gone, Gervys asked gruffly, “You’re not going with her?”
Dereva stood up and stretched luxuriously. “I’ve babied Lila long enough. I’m beginning to think you and I might make a great team.”
Gervys’s stern face lightened magically.
“I’ve waited ten years for this,” he exclaimed, and his arms went around her. They kissed passionately, and then the hunter laughed to himself.
“What’s so funny?” Dereva chided.
“There’s something I’d like to know,” said Gervys, raising one eyebrow.
“I don’t turn around three times before I sleep, if that’s it.” She grinned.
“If a canine ages seven years for every human year, are you really a woman of thirty-five or a wolf five years old?”
“Catch me at the right time of the full moon, and maybe I’ll tell you,” she teased.
They walked out of the noisy fairgrounds and kissed again under the wide sky, then turned toward the fresh green countryside without looking back at the narrow streets and stuffy houses of the town of Ithkar.
The Magic Carpet
James Clark
It was the second day of Ithkar Fair, and Gorahdan, dealer in carpets and rugs, was in an excellent mood. Much of his good humor was due to the high quality of the merchandise he was offering for sale this year, and some of the mood could be attributed to the small keg of ale at his side. He had begun tapping it in earnest, and it was an excellent brew. Still, his cheerfulness extended beyond these reasons. He was happy simply to be in Ithkar.
There was no city like Ithkar at fair time.
Gorahdan knew this to be true,’ but he had speculated for many years without coming to a satisfactory answer as to why. Perhaps it was the presence of so many pilgrims, come for the festivals at the Temple of the Three Lordly Ones. Or the fair laws, which forbade the bearing of deadly weapons. Or the prohibition on the use of magic. Or even, though Gorahdan sincerely doubted it, the attendance of so many lords and ladies. Something made Ithkar a city without equal.
It even extended to the sounds of the city. There was a melody in those sounds that the merchant had never heard in a long life of travel. The rumble of countless feet, the blend of voices that always reminded him of the sea, the sharp cries of others hawking their wares, and the squeaks and rattles of passing carts. No temple chorus or lord’s entertainers had ever made more beautiful music. Of course, he was careful never to make that claim aloud. The lords and the temple were his best customers.
In such pleasant musings did Gorahdan while away the second morning of the fair. No customers interrupted him, nor did he expect any. His clientele were the powerful and the wealthy, and they would find him soon enough. Sipping from his flagon of ale, he reminisced pleasantly about his days as a caravan driver. That was how he had first come to Ithkar. Looking back, they seemed romantic and adventurous.
The merchant was still in his exalted mood when a large man, dressed in the uniform of a squad leader of the fair-wards, ducked into the stall. It was Daven, a man Gorahdan had cultivated as a friend for many years. “Fair day to you, Daven,” called the merchant, chuckling at his pun. “I hoped you would not let another day pass without dropping by. How have you been this past year?”
“Well, Gorahdan, well. The Sky Lords have blessed me with another son, and health for all my family. I would have stopped by yesterday, but the first day of the fair is our busiest time. I sometimes think that merchants are the pettiest people in all the world.” He rolled his eyes.
Gorahdan laughed. “Tell no one I said so, Daven, but you’re right. We scrabble for every advantage and every half-copper to be had. It’s in the blood, I suppose. Bah. What foolishness is this to talk of between old friends. Sit, sit, and I’ll show you I’ve not wasted all my time since arriving in Mikan” He produced another flagon and began to fill it from the keg.
The fair-ward laid aside his weighted staff and sat on the floor. He breathed deeply, sampling the rich aromas of high-quality dyes. “Your carpets are of high character this year.”
“Even I would agree with you, my friend,” the merchant said with a smile. “But allow me to be the proper host. Join me in a cup of this most invigorating ale. I purchased it yesterday, and it would please me greatly to introduce you to it.
Daven drank deeply, lowering the mug with a sigh. “An excellent brew, indeed. Fully worthy, I’d say, to be offered at the fair. But what of you? Have your travels enriched your purse? And what of the world?”
“The world is still there, for the most part.” Gorahdan chuckled. “Oh, an odd kingdom or two has fallen to some conqueror, or some ruler was murdered in his bed. And more than a few travelers have been waylaid by bandits. But on the whole, the world is much the same.”
The fair-ward shook his head. He had never traveled more than two leagues beyond the limits of the city, and he found such news hard to comprehend. These things happened seldom in Ithkar. Still, he asked more questions, and Gorahdan answered. Most interesting were the doings of wizards.
For a dealer in carpets, Gorahdan was a superb storyteller. He beguiled Daven with tales of strange deeds and stranger people, wars, wizardry, and even of business. Through it all, though, he was careful to give no hint of how he himself had done. Gorahdan was a cautious man. He kept Daven so enthralled that he never even noticed the omission.
Relating the affairs of the world was thirsty work The keg was much emptier when the recital finally ran down. As he drew another flagon, the merchant shook his head. “It is a great pity, Daven, that I can find ale of this quality only at Ithkar Fair. Compared to this, what they serve at inns and alehouses in other lands is tepid stuff indeed. Did I not know of the fair laws forbidding magical merchandise, I would suspect a touch of sorcery in the brewing.”
The fair-ward nodded. “I’ve had suspicions from time to time, it’s true, but not often. The penalties are too severe. Confiscation of goods and belongings, and sometimes even outlawry. Few but fools would risk it. Do you not remember what happened to Hanibar last year?”
“The vintner? I know him, but I recall nothing special about him.”
“Ah, then I’ve news for you. He was summoned before the fair-court on the last day of the fair, accused of selling two casks of spelled wine to Lord Servin. The casks were spelled, sure enough, and two more like them were found among his stock. The court confiscated all his wines and named him outlaw. He escaped Ithkar by the thinnest of margins. There were rumors that he was aided by followe
rs of Thotharn. There were also rumors that he was aided by an eastern wizard.”
Gorahdan pulled at his chin. “I knew none of this. I left the fair early last year.” Shaking his head at the folly of men, he piously called upon the Three Lordly Ones to grant mercy to Hanibar and wisdom to those who sought to break the laws for gain. Daven joined in the prayer.
The merchant guided the conversation to more pleasant topics. He produced small gifts for the fair-ward’s family, insisting that it gave him joy to give, which it did. He honestly liked Daven, but it was not any less a calculated policy to make him a friend. For a traveling merchant, friends among local authority were uncommonly valuable. Gorahdan cultivated many such in his wanderings. He had always considered it a wise business practice.
They talked until the fair-ward, saying he had neglected his duties long enough, stood, placing the merchant’s gifts in a belt-pouch. He retrieved his staff and was about to leave when the first customer that Gorahdan had seen entered the stall. Daven nodded to his friend and moved back out into the crowd. Gorahdan, affecting a rolling seaman’s gait, went to greet his customer.
On close examination, he recognized the man as one Zyk, apprentice to the wizard Lyrtran. Gorahdan had a fine memory for those able to afford his goods, though neither man had ever patronized him in the past. In fact, for a wizard as powerful as Lyrtran was reputed to be, the merchant could recall nothing about him save that he was powerful, wealthy, and paid his debts promptly. Of course for Gorahdan the last was the most important. He needed to know nothing else.
He stepped forward, bowing. “Welcome, Wizard Zyk, to the finest collection of carpets and rugs ever seen at Ithkar Fair. Carpets for the floor of a harem or the walls of a king’s hall. Carpets of a soothing single color or of the most intricate and beautiful pattern. Carpets and rugs of any weave or size. You have only to tell me how I may serve you, Wizard Zyk.”
Zyk, however, paid no attention to the merchant. Lips moving silently, he prowled among Gorahdan’s stock. Here and there, he would stop to finger a carpet and then move on. Gorahdan let his patter trail off and watched, hiding his growing amazement behind a fixed smile. This was strange conduct for a customer. This was even strange conduct for a wizard.