by Andre Norton
As the last notes faded, Hoel’s fingers stroked a marching air; he sang again:
“Chond is a powerful wizard
But his spell-strength will not last.
Ryddeg’s son defies him,
Despite enchantments vast.
One day a simple charm
Faded from Chond’s brain.
This forgetting of one spell
Released the young knight’s chains.
With his hands he freed himself,
And squeezed out of his cell.
Of all those in the wizard’s gripe,
He alone escaped to tell.”
A mournful theme shimmered from the song-loom, and a great sigh arose from Hoel’s audience as he continued:
“One does not escape Chond
Without paying baneful price.
Behind in Grimkeep dungeons,
Ryddeg’s son left his eyes.
How can he fight the wizard
Without eyes to see?
But he has vowed to avenge his sire
Faithfully.
Ryddeg’s son is friendless
And faces a masterful foe.
In that young knight’s place,
What would you do?”
Hoel stilled the last unresolved thread-tone with a quick muffling press of his right palm. In a weighted silence he seated himself by Qazia; then, pent-up crowd noise burst like a shattering melasvino jar.
“A fine song,” Qazia told Hoel. “Now will you guzzle?”
Although he refused a second time, Qazia did not leave him. To her he looked drained and off guard. She bristled at the way the omen-rovers extended their hands in the antihex sign of the bull’s homed fingers each time they neared Hoel. At last she could no longer refrain from asking, in a casual voice, “Song-weaver, how do you know so much about Chond of Grimkeep?”
A joyless smile flickered across his blind face. “I was his guest for five years.”
At his words the omen-rovers and caravanners began to mutter and look about with uneasy eyes. Some of the goblet-wenches whimpered.
Qella, Qazia’s senior goblet-wench, hurried over to whisper, “Tavern-mistress, I can’t handle the girls much longer. They’re too frightened to serve and won’t wrestle a single customer!”
“Pour everyone a stiff dose of comawine. Yes, the customers, too. Say it’s on the house. Then have the girls start a veil-shedding dance. Between the wine and the bare bodies it won’t take long to calm them all. Go on now, start serving!”
“My apologies,” said Hoel. “I did not mean to ruin tonight’s business. Let me absorb a small part of your losses by ordering a double ration of oblivabsinth.”
“You can have it free if you’ll enlighten me on certain points,” Qazia replied. “What’s the name of Ryddeg’s son? How does one escape a place like Grimkeep?”
“Ryddeg’s son must go unnamed, lest Chond hear he escaped. It is as my song says: when Chond forgets a spell, which happens once in five years, that is the time to escape from his clutch.” His head cocked to one side, Hoel paused, then smiled. “Do I hear a jug of oblivabsinth being opened?”
“Yes. Before Qella brings it, answer one last question. How do you know my tavern so well when I’m sure you’ve never come here?”
Hoel responded. “Who does not know the Joyous Goblet and its famous tavern-mistress? Boy and man, I’ve come here often.”
Qazia cast him a sharp look. “You’re Ryddeg’s son!”
Nodding assent, Hoel slipped the song-loom to the floor behind his legs and accepted his two goblets of oblivabsinth. Draining his double order in two long gulps, he pulled his cloak about him and leaned back to sleep. Though his blind face was slack with fatigue, he spoke distinctly. “If Chond sends one of his wights after me, cooperate.”
Qazia made a soothing noise. But as Hoel slumped into heavy slumber, she saw how he resembled a gaunt, maimed lixus, weary of running from pursuit by hunting volvers. She knew she had to save his life.
A few deft signals, and Qazia had ordered Qella and the lesser goblet-wenches to conceal Hoel inside the huge aging-barrel for Jerezian wine which was stored in the cask-shed. Her women obeyed with only a few scared looks at the sleeping song-weaver.
“Hearmo, get your carcass over here!” roared Chond, wizard-thane of Grimkeep.
His half-man, half-weasel ferret-fetch bounded to dungeon cell 974 where the wizard stood scowling at an open door.
“Rabbit-brain! Hoel’s slipped your soul-chains!” Chond scolded. “Breakbone knows where he is now! And you let him out!”
Belly-up in submission, Hearmo peered at his glowering master. “Master mine, it’s you who loses a spell every five years.”
“Doesn’t mean for you to be careless, too,” grumbled Chond, but he did not hit the ferret-fetch. Only his red eyes, irritated sparks in the expanse of his black, coarse-furred face, surged with power.
“Shall I hunt for Hoel, master?”
Chond nodded, growling deep-throated as an urso.
On his feet at once, Hearmo raced to the end of the dungeon corridor and vaulted his sleek, nimble black-silver-haired body out a window slit.
From her position by the half-open door cut into the barrel, Qazia watched Hoel stir in his sleep. A look of pain crossed his face; he stiffened awake, his blind eyes blinking rapidly despite no use for such an action. As he sat up, his blanket slid down, and she had to stifle her gasp at the slave-fetter marks that scarred his throat, wrists, and ankles.
Hoel held one arm across himself and asked, “Who’s there?”
When he heard her identify herself, he relaxed, muttering, “Thank wound-healer! I thought I was back in Grimkeep.”
“None of Chond’s wights showed,” Qazia assured him.
“Then I’d best leave before they do,” answered Hoel, groping for his bundled garments.
A little later she led him back to the tavern, handed him a chunk of carradbread and his song-loom, and steered him toward the main door to the road.
As Hoel put out his free hand to touch the doorframe, Chond’s supple, black-silver-furred ferret-fetch materialized on the threshold, purring, “Ah, here you are, dear soul-prisoner! I’ve spent all night tracing your path. Chond didn’t know you were gone for a year.”
Hoel’s face went gray; he let go Qazia’s arm and tried to break past Hearmo, who caught the song-weaver’s ankles in a whisk of firmly looped tail. Hoel dropped to the floor with a choked cry. Tightening his tail-grip of the man’s ankles, Hearmo addressed Qazia. “My thanks, tavern-mistress. You hid my master’s property well indeed.”
Even as the ferret-fetch spoke, Qazia snatched a stool and brought it down hard on the creature’s head.
Both Hoel and the Chond wight crumpled, but Qazia did not stop to ponder. She freed Hoel and tied the ferret-fetch up in its own tail, then called Qella in from the kitchen and ordered, “Force a jugful of oblivabsinth into the Chond wight and watch him like a lixus stalking prey. I’m going for Virmith. His forge should have what we need to foil Chond.”
When Qazia returned with Virmith the blacksmith, bearing a set of silver fetters, a distraught Qella greeted them, wailing, “I gave the oblivabsinth to the Chond wight, just as you told me, but the song-weaver keeled over, too!”
Hoel and Hearmo both shifted groggily on the floor. Virmith rushed over, snapped the silver fetters on the ferret-fetch, and stood back, grinning.
But the song-weaver and the Chond wight cried out and writhed in unison, their bodies shuddering equally in the silver’s grasp.
“See?” sobbed Qella. “Why’re they both reacting?”
Virmith gaped and scratched his head, but Qazia squatted by Hoel to ask, “Is this weasel-piss of Chond hexing you?”
Between slow rasps of breath the song-weaver groaned, “Soul-fettered to Hearmo, one of Chond’s banes. Harm Hearmo, hurts me.” Face drained of color, body shaking, he broke into low screams, such as a trapped lixus makes.
Grabbing the ferret
-fetch by the scruff of its neck, Qazia demanded, “Stop making Hoel hurt!”
“Can’t help it,” whimpered Hearmo. “Silver takes away my control.”
“I’ll make him stop!” bellowed Virmith. “See this hammer, Chond wight? It’s twenty vekils’ weight, enough to dent your skull good!”
“Don’t try it,” Hearmo shot back, “Chond knows I’m here.”
“Does he?” retorted Qazia. “Well, this time he’s outsmarted himself. If he tries to get either you or Hoel back, we’ll kill you both.”
In the silence that was broken only by Hoel’s weakening screams, Qella fled to the kitchen, hands over her ears.
“What now?” said Virmith. “We can’t stay stalemate forever. Sooner or later someone’ll have to back down.”
Qazia’s eyes flashed. “I won’t turn Hoel over to that wizard-fiend!”
“Please,” gasped Hoel, “bargain with Chond! He’ll accept Hearmo for me.”
“Both of them will just seize you somewhere else!” she snapped. “No! I can’t let that happen, either!”
“Decide fast,” put in Hearmo. “Silver can’t kill me, but Hoel’s not immortal.”
Suddenly Qella burst toward them from the kitchen. “Help! Help! An urso’s coming down the chimney!”
Hearmo grinned. “My master’s come to make up your minds for you.”
Chond’s black-robed, bearish form, with its spark-red eyes and black-bristled snout, stalked into the tavern’s main room.
Qazia and Virmith did not recoil; the smith flourished his hammer in a protective swipe.
With a snarl, Chond reached for his ferret-fetch, then drew off at the sight of the silver fetters. When the wizard grabbed for Hoel, Virmith’s hammer blocked him.
Chond’s eyes flared. He ran his blue urso tongue in and out between his red tusks, then spat a spell. Morning day shine winked out as an electric green haze infiltrated the Joyous Goblet.
Virmith stood solid, but Qella sighed and collapsed, lying too still for Qazia’s peace of mind.
Steel in my thigh-dagger ought to combat Chond’s bane, thought the tavern-mistress. She whipped her blade from under her skirt.
In the acid green glare her dagger began to throb a brilliant wine red. Blade held before her as a shield, Qazia confronted Chond and forced him to retreat a few more steps. He barked a second incantation; the tavern heaved like a storm-driven sail.
Hard put to keep her footing, Qazia hung on to her dagger and shook it in Chond’s hairy face. Reflected in the wizard’s fiery eyes, she saw Virmith, untroubled by the buck-leaping tavern, still guarding Hoel and Hearmo. She had barely registered this glimpse when she stumbled against Hoel’s song-loom.
A dissonant roar bounced from the loom-strings. All the tavern crockery shattered, benches and tables split. As Chond took breath for a third bane, the song-loom’s discord smashed into him, knocked his wind from him, and threw him on his knees.
Day shine burned away the green-lightning fog, and the Joyous Goblet settled on its foundations again. Qella snapped awake and scrambled behind Qazia, who still thrust her wine-shimmering dagger protectively out.
“Master,” shouted Hearmo, “we’re neutralized!”
“So I have learned,” Chond agreed, rising to his feet. “Mouse-brain! Why didn’t you warn me this place was shielded?”
“It isn’t!” protested the ferret-fetch. “Qazia knows by instinct which metals to use against us.”
Qazia began to laugh. A few minutes later Qella and Virmith joined in. But Hoel remained a feebly breathing huddle on the floor.
Hearmo’s weasel-whiskers twitched in a grimace, and the ferret-fetch tried in vain to lift one link of silver chain in a paw. “Master, you’ll have to bargain. These people won’t release me, and they’ll kill Hoel rather than give him to you.”
After a long glare at Qazia’s wine-flashing blade, Chond gruffed, “Well, vomit-mopper, what do you want?”
“I’ll trade your wight for Hoel!”
“Urrr!” muttered the wizard. “Give up Ryddeg’s brat, he’ll have more chance to kill me. But if give up Hearmo, lose half my powers. Either way bad choice. Urrr!”
His mumbles were indecipherable, but all awaited his decision. Qazia and Virmith maintained their guard; Qella relaxed enough to emerge from the shelter of Qazia’s skirts. But Hoel’s breathing grew more shallow, and he began to resemble a freshly dead corpse. Hearmo strained forward as far as the silver fetters allowed, trying to follow Chond’s thoughts.
At last the wizard nodded sharply. “Done. But only on condition that you free my ferret-fetch yourself.”
“Oh, no!” retorted Qazia. “I don’t intend to be jumped! Virmith, you unlock Chond’s wight.”
Scowling, and in slow motion, the smith unshackled Hearmo.
Scampering at once to Chond’s side, the ferret-fetch shrilled, “Thank you, most gracious master!”
Hoel moaned at the sudden restoration of movement and air to his stifled lungs, flexed his cramped arms and legs, and felt for an object to orient himself. His fingers blundered against the frame of his song-loom. By the time he started tuning the warp and weft, he was on his feet.
“Play a war song, quick,” whispered Qazia.
Under the cover of a loud rendition of “Gyrech’s March,” Hoel asked, “Why’d you want a song?”
“Song-loom sound seems to nullify Chond’s spell-casting.”
“If I’d known that, I’d have avenged my father long ago.”
“I discovered it by accident just now. Chond didn’t know it, either.”
Neither wizard nor ferret-fetch paid attention to the other persons in the room. Hearmo kept trying to perch on Chond’s shoulder, and the wizard brushed his creature off every time. Finally, Chond growled, “Stop clutching me, ant-brain! I saved your hide because you’re more valuable than you know. Now get off, and let me think!”
“That’s it!” Qazia hissed in Hoel’s ear. “Chond can’t attack us because the silver chains weakened his wight, and because Virmith and I carry naked steel. The ferrety wight probably contains a good part of Chond’s powers.”
Qella whimpered, “Chond’s scheming!”
“Just let him try!” reassured Virmith, with a threatening feint of hammer.
“Only one way to stop Chond permanently,” Qazia whispered to Hoel. “Make his wight desert him. We must convince the wight Chond doesn’t really love it. Can you improvise a taunt?”
Hoel’s hands poised over the song-loom and a snickering trill of thread-chords launched his jeer:
“Chond made a ferret wight
And Hearmo was its name.
Chond gave to Hearmo
Half his black spells’ bane.
Yah!
Hearmo thought Chond loved it.
Chond cared only for Hearmo’s power to witch.
If Hearmo ever finds that out,
Chond’s magic strength will be in doubt.
Yah!”
As the mocking melody dimmed, Hearmo tugged at Chond’s robe, arguing in an urgent yammer.
Hoel listened, his song-loom tight in the curve of his arm, while Qazia, Qella, and Virmith watched the wight quarrel with Chond.
The wizard snatched the ferret-fetch by its neck scruff, shook it a few times, and thundered, “Yes, you have half of my powers inside your weasel-shape! But if you don’t stop pestering me, I’ll turn you back to burnt ermine fur, and create a more docile fetch!”
Hearmo screeched, squirmed around in Chond’s grasp, and bit Chond’s right thumb at the root, almost severing it. Chond jerked his bitten hand and lost his hold on Hearmo’s neck.
Hearmo slashed at Chond with all four sets of claws, jumped clear, and landed on Qazia’s shoulder, chittering, “You thinged me, Chond, like you tried to thing Hoel! I’ll never give you back your powers, never! I renounce you! You’re a ratling! I shred you and eat you!”
Even as the bane tumbled from the ferret-fetch’s mouth, Chond of Grimkeep shrank from u
rso wizard-thane to a corpulent black rat that struggled to get its legs under itself to run. Hearmo swooped down from Qazia’s shoulder, broke the rat’s spine with a single crunch of jaws, and swallowed the former wizard whole.
“Bravo, ferret wight, that’s the best deed you’ve done since Chond made you!” cried Virmith, setting his hammer at ease on the floor.
Hearmo ran his tongue around his mouth, brushed whiskers, and asked, “Tavern-mistress, may I have a goblet of your strongest Jerezian? Chond’s aftertaste is very bad.”
“You ate Chond of Grimkeep?” Hoel exclaimed. “How my father must be laughing, wherever his soul is!” He struck up his ballad again:
“The wizard-thane of Grimkeep
Is bested now at last.
His ferret-fetch turned on him,
Devoured him with powers vast.”
“A round of Jerezian for all, Qella!” cried Qazia. “Aye, tavern-mistress. May I fetch the ferret wight a double ration, since he saved the Joyous Goblet?” Qazia nodded.
With a shrug, the ferret-fetch protested, “I just got mad at Chond. He wouldn’t thank me for serving him like a good fetch. I’m glad I ate him; it’s the first real meal I’ve had since I was made.”
Hoel stilled his song-loom and chuckled.
Virmith the smith held out his goblet of Jerezian and declared, “May evil always lose its tongue!”
Clinking her goblet to his, Qazia responded to his toast, “May bad ends always be well sung!”
For Lovers Only
Roger C. Schlobin
The sweat ran down from his armpit in a chilling tickle. When he rose from his knees later, it would mix with his hair shirt and be this chilly morning’s reminder of his sacrilege and crimes. Thotharn and lust! Did those stupid priests really believe he wore the horrible scourge next to his skin because he was penitent? False bastards—they’d wear one only to appear saintly when they were run over by a cart or assassinated by a lord in the Shrine of the Three Lordly Ones. Fools! They would lie beneath the wheels below everyone’s notice, and what mighty lord could be bothered with a priest?