by Andre Norton
“A moment longer and I’ll be ready,” the man called. She heard a clattering, and then he emerged carrying a small carved wooden box. Though she had spent many hours in her father’s shop when she was young, she had never before seen such peculiar, twisting patterns as decorated this piece. “I will take a little time,” Pino said, “but you can be sure I’ll get to the answer this way. Now you tell me if your problem gets worse.” Pino brought the box closer to her chin. The itching had ceased for now, and she wondered if he had already found a solution. What if he offered a cure, yet asked a price beyond her means?
He took the box away, made more noises within the wagon, and then returned to repeat his earlier actions. Only on the fifth try was there a difference. As soon as the box neared her chin, she felt a furious itch. Pino clapped his hands but insisted on additional experiments. At last, when her patience was nearly gone, he pronounced himself satisfied.
“Then you have my cure?”
“Soon,” he answered. “But please . . .” He slapped his hand against the wagon’s hard bench. “You wait here while I go see a friend.”
Reluctantly, Flarrin climbed up and sat in the uncomfortable place while Pino hurried off along the row of wagons. The little man looked back several times, as if afraid she might vanish in his absence. And he had reason to be concerned, she thought. Dusk was approaching, and the basket-weaver did not fancy remaining in this dark place much longer.
Pino returned quickly, accompanied by a pair of tall and dangerous-looking men. When she saw them, Flarrin was doubly eager to hurry back to the safety of Jejnon’s cookstand.
“We’ll go for a walk, young miss,” said Pino. “In order to know for sure what your malady is. I want you to be careful to tell me exactly when the itch gets very bad.” Then one of the toughs offered clumsy assistance as she stepped down from the wagon. His breath reeked of cheap wine and garlic, and his clothes stank of manure.
She felt slightly more at ease when she realized that they were heading back into the main part of the fairground. Here torches and lamps were already being lit for evening. Yet there remained many shadowed places where a person might vanish. Her pulse raced with fear, though she still half believed that Pino meant to cure her.
“Remember,” said the short man. “Only when the itch is strong.” With the toughs flanking them, they toured the potters’ stalls and lingered in the area where the most expensive wares were displayed. Flarrin felt a mild tickle but said nothing. Then they reached the perfume sellers, whose tiny vials commanded substantial prices. “Look around,” Pino suggested.
The basketmaker found the perfumers’ stalls uninteresting to look at. The smells fascinated her, but she could not think of wasting coppers on such luxury. Coppers? They probably wanted silver! Then an odd-looking fellow in a disheveled gown strode past. By his clothing he did not look prosperous, but he walked with a certain haughtiness that suggested a noble upbringing. Suddenly her fingernails were clawing at her chin.
Pino whispered loudly enough for his companions to hear. “The grimy one with the short beard!” At once, the toughs took off after the man who had started her itching. Pino remained with Flarrin while his friends followed the unwary stranger.
There was a gap between the stalls up ahead; then the three were in shadow. A cry rang out of “Thief! Thief!” Pino stood his ground for a moment, then took the young woman’s arm firmly and began to run in the opposite direction. The basket-weaver’s only thought was to flee with him. But a fair-ward was coming, his bronze-shod staff held ready to smash anyone who disobeyed. Pino released her and dodged to his right, but another ward blocked his way. Then Flarrin felt a harsh hand on her shoulder.
Several dark-garbed women were being held in the ante-chamber where Flarrin was taken. A fair-ward stood at the doorway while the women huddled together in a corner away from the single lamp. “So,” said one on seeing the basket-weaver pushed into the room. “A palm reader by the looks of her. She chose the wrong place for that flam.”
“Palm reader, my bony feet. She’s a pickpocket. I can tell every time.”
“They hang pickpockets,” observed the first. “She’s better off a witch even than a dip. Is that it, lass? Got caught casting a tiny spell?” The two began to laugh.
Flarrin wiped away a tear and said nothing. Her thoughts were in a scramble; she must prepare herself to face the judge. But even if she could tell her story exactly as it had happened, why should he believe her? Pino and his rogues were already having their say. If they could blame the whole incident on a friendless basket-weaver, they would surely do so.
Ithkar’s justice was moving quickly that night, Flarrin discovered. The women in the corner were still discussing her fate when she was summoned before the fair magistrate. On the writing desk to his left stood a candelabrum, its three smoky candles dripping wax onto the scribe’s ledger. Behind the magistrate stood a tall man wearing flowing yellow robes and a peaked silvery cap.
“State your name and origins,” said the magistrate in a bored tone.
For a moment she could not find her voice. Her fingers trembled, and she sought the amulet for assurance. But when the fair-ward shook her, she answered quietly. The scribe leaned forward to catch her words, then dipped his quill and began to write.
“You are Pino’s woman,” the magistrate said, more in statement than question. The scribe continued writing.
“I am not,” protested Flarrin in a strengthening voice. “I never saw the man before tonight. He promised to cure my . . . ailment.”
“And what sort of ailment might that be?” The magistrate’s expression suddenly turned to one of lecherous curiosity. The scribe held his quill in readiness, and the tall man took a step forward.
“I’m cursed by my chin,” she said with a sob. “And because of it, I’ve been ruined by three scoundrels.” She lifted her face, thinking he might see the chafed skin and take some pity on her. Or perhaps she would only provoke disgust. . . .
“Chin?” The magistrate’s leer vanished, and for a moment he seemed unable to form his next question. Suddenly the yellow-robed man leaned forward to whisper in his ear. After a brief exchange, the magistrate looked up and barked an order to the ward. “Take her to be examined and bring her back when he’s done with her.” He pointed to a side room. A moment later, Flarrin found herself closeted with the man in the peaked hat.
“You . . . you’re a mage,” she dared say.
He smiled in an ugly manner. His pale beard, though neatly cut, smelled of cloyingly sweet perfume. One of his eyes studied her coldly, but the other was a featureless orb that shone like silver. “From your point of view, a most important mage,” he said. “I have to advise the court whether you’re guilty.”
And will you hear my story?”
“I’ve heard enough from your . . . companions. Let me see if I can come up with the answer my own way.” On a table sat a polished wooden casket. He opened the lid and removed a small silk handkerchief that glowed redly in the lamplight. “Study this carefully,” he said. Then he took the square away and turned from her briefly. When he turned back, he showed her two closed fists.
“I want you to tell me which holds the silk. Now to do this properly, you must have the image fixed clearly in your mind.” Flarrin noticed that one fist was larger than the other, its fingers arrayed unevenly. “Think of the handkerchief,” he ordered as he moved the uneven fist close to her chin and held it for several breaths. Then his fists traded places.
If her itch was to condemn her, then she would not give in to it. But she could not help squirming. He held his position, and at last she was obliged to scratch. “Good,” he said. He opened the hand she had thought empty, the one close to her chin, and the balled silk fell out.
“Now let’s try another,” the mage said, showing her a mother-of-pearl button. This time she knew how to fool him. She would disregard his instructions and not think of the button. But how do you not think of something without, in fact, th
inking of it? She bit her lip to keep from scratching but lost again. Her itch found the mother-of-pearl.
“No reason to prolong this,” he said with another unpleasant smile. “Dowsers aren’t common around here. And it so happens I have need of your talent tonight.”
“Dowsers?”
He slapped her smartly across the face. “Vixen! Would you like me to charge you with use of unauthorized magic?”
“But . . .” The blow had caused more surprise than pain. She vowed not to let him see her tears.
“Maybe you are such a fool that you don’t know what you’ve got. Where you come from, they probably think dowsing means finding water with a forked twig.”
Flarrin shook her head. There was some kind of sense in his words. He had just proved to her that by thinking of something, the itch would tell her when she was close to it. Earlier, she had been concerned about money. Pino found that much out through his tests and tried to use her to find a heavy purse. Now this dishonest court mage had another purpose for her affliction. “All right,” she said with a sigh. “What do you want of me?”
A leer crossed the mage’s face for a moment, but then his expression darkened. “That, too, maybe. But later. What I want now is this.” He took from the casket a large brooch on which a craftsman had portrayed the features of a woman. Flarrin could not say how this wonder had been achieved, but the face appeared like living flesh. The woman possessed a broad, pleasant mouth, high cheekbones, peaked eyebrows, and eyes with a curious, impish tilt. “Can you remember that face?” he asked.
To Flarrin, the features were so distinctive that she could still see them when he closed his hand. She nodded.
“Then find her for me. She is here, at Ithkar.” He raised one hand and splayed his fingers. “I can sense that much. But I’ve had men looking to no avail. And I myself searched several times. . . .” His voice trailed off in a tone of despair that suddenly aroused Flarrin’s sympathy.
“Your daughter?” she asked.
“Daughter? She’s my wife.” He put the brooch away. “Are you ready to go find her?”
“And if I succeed? Suppose she won’t come with me?”
He gave a self-satisfied smile. “I have an arrangement with the fair-wards. When my servants need help, they merely call out my phrase. If you shout ‘Silver-eye,’ then someone will come to your aid at once.”
“And what of my charges before the court?”
“They’ll be dropped. Come. I must tell the magistrate now that I find you innocent. But before I let them release you, I need some assurance . . . that you’ll do as you promised rather than run back home to the mountains. You’ll leave me a bond.”
“Bond?” Her hand moved to her purse. “All the money I have is here.”
“A few coppers?” he said with a sneer. He pulled the purse from her hands and put it aside with a dull chinking of metal. “You must have something that means more than this to you.”
Flarrin said nothing.
“Do you know the penalty I can ask for? You’ll be stripped naked and whipped out of the gates. You’ll lose whatever it is anyway.” He held out his palm.
Still she said nothing.
“Then I have no choice. The court awaits my decision.” He pushed her roughly toward the door.
“No.” She reached for the amulet. “My father carved this. I’ve worn it all my life. . . And I don’t know if my dowsing really works.”
“It will have to work now,” he said with a final laugh as he continued to push her ahead of him. Then he took her arm and propelled her toward the scribe’s desk. “And just in case you decide to run off anyway,” he whispered, “I’ll have the wards watching for you at every gate.”
* * *
Flarrin was escorted roughly out of the court and back to the fairgrounds. The court’s fair-ward gave her a last shove with his staff and laughed as she nearly stepped in a pile of dung. She was just outside the temple enclosure now and heard the clink of coins in a money-changer’s box. Her chin felt numb.
Where ought she to search for the lost lady? Might she be here, right under her husband’s nose? Flarrin had never seen this part of Ithkar. Past the money-changers sat vendors of rare objects and strange substances. On one table, illuminated by a pair of bright lamps, lay shards of twisted metal. At another stall, withered sacs hung from a transverse rod. These Flarrin guessed to be desiccated organs of small beasts. She shuddered and looked away. Still her chin felt nothing.
She closed her eyes and brought back the face from the brooch. Then she turned her head slowly, but not the smallest tickle arose. Perhaps the idea about her dowsing talent was a mistake after all. Her itching had always come and gone with seemingly no explanation. The mage might have been misled by an eagerness to find his wife.
Without thinking, her hand went to touch her amulet. When she recalled why it was absent, she nearly wept. Now she was a captive within the palings of Ithkar, held by the mage’s invisible cord. Scarcely noticing her direction, she began to push through the crowds.
The face. Remember it, she kept telling herself. But her stomach was empty, and her chin itched as she passed a cookstand. How could she find her quarry if she was hungry? Her chin would merely lead her to the nearest foodstall.
With a sigh, she leaned down as if to fix her shoe. The mage had taken her purse, but she was not totally without funds. Unraveling a bit of her skirt’s hem, she extracted one of her hidden coppers. At once she bought bread and cheese and began to eat while she walked.
A tickle came again. Had she been picturing the woman? she wondered. Flarrin stopped where she was and tried to ignore the jostling by passersby. Turning one way and then another, she felt the itch once more. But the direction her chin pointed ran straight toward the weavers’ tents, and she saw no way through their closely packed row.
The crowds thickened as she tried to reach another footpath. Where she had hoped to turn, a wagon blocked the way. The fairgoers cursed the merchant who was unloading his goods at this hour; they surged about the wagon like stream water swirling about a boulder. Flarrin was pushed along with them, crushed by the packing of bodies. Then she realized that she was going under the belly of the wagon, for there was no other way to pass. She ducked her head and tried to keep her balance. One misstep, she knew, and she would be trampled here. And suddenly she was on the far side, spat out into a thinning and receding throng. She had missed her turning and could not go back.
She hurried forward, at last finding another path to lead where her chin had pointed. Here the traffic was lighter, and she could stop to seek her bearings again. But this time she found nothing. Had the lost wife moved, she wondered, or was she too far away now for the talent to work?
The basket-weaver pressed on, turning back to reach the area behind the weavers’ tents. A stout man staggered toward her, and she smelled the reek of ale. “Join me for some ‘freshment?” he said, trying to grab her arm. She dodged him and began to run. But when a fair-ward gave her a suspicious glance she slowed to a hurried walk.
“Some trouble?” said a hoarse voice as a hand grasped her arm painfully. She looked up into the ward’s scowling face. “You’d better show me what you’re hiding.”
Flarrin was nearly out of breath. What had the mage told her about fair-wards?
“Now!” demanded the ward. He began to feel for hidden pockets in her clothing.
The young woman found her tongue. “Silver-eye,” she said softly, and then repeated it louder. “I’m on his business.”
The ward’s expression suddenly changed from one of hostility to respect. “My mistake,” he said quickly. He raised his staff in salute, nodded once, then turned away.
At last she reached her destination and paused to try her peculiar talent again. Nothing. In despair, feeling not a feather’s tickle, she turned about slowly once more.
What if she failed in this foolish quest? The mage could do what he wished with her. Not only was her hope for a cure gone, but she wo
uld never reach the towns of Ith Valley. Perhaps, she thought bitterly, she should have endured the miseries of home.
She slapped her fickle chin. If it had once possessed powers, it was serving her no longer. She began to wander without thinking of where she was going. “Make way. Make way!” voices called. There was a rush of people as a horseman came past. Flarrin was pushed into the side of a tent and then knocked to the ground.
The horseman rode by, and the crowds moved off. Flarrin picked herself up and guiltily brushed her grimy hands on the cloth of the tent. A lantern seemed to be shining directly in her face. Then someone shouted a curse and shoved her out into the midst of the path. She hurried off, her cheeks burning with shame. And all because of a straying wife. . . .
At that moment, the itching returned. Which way? Quickly checking her directions, Flarrin found where the sensation was strongest. This time she did her best to run.
By the number of amorous sailors she passed, Flarrin knew she was near the docks. She was forced to dodge more than a few embraces. Fortunately, most of the men were too drunk to pursue her. One beardless youth persisted, however, and she raced around a corner before she was halted by a troupe of performers whose audience clogged the path.
She could lose herself in the crowd, she thought as she glanced nervously back. The youth was no longer in sight. The basketmaker threaded her way through the onlookers, aware only vaguely of the acrobats who leapt and tumbled in the clearing. All this time she had been trying to keep the face before her. Now, as she reached the far side of the crowd, her fingers suddenly flew to her chin.
Flarrin halted at once. She was breathing heavily and her heart was pounding. Here? she wondered. In front of her, a gaily checkered harlequin collecting offerings from the throng. The harlequin approached, and Flarrin’s itch grew fiercer. The masked woman stepped right up to the basket-weaver, and yet Flarrin could not say by sight if this was the woman she sought. Hurriedly, she found another bit of copper in her hem and dropped it in the offered hat.