by Andre Norton
Eirthe took another bite of her pie and forced herself to chew and swallow it. Idly, with no real hope of receiving an answer, she broadcast another call to Alnath. To her astonishment, she caught an answering flicker, accompanied by a picture of Alnath flaming in a large glass sphere. Eirthe hastily shoved the remaining portion of the meat pie into her mouth and practically swallowed it whole as she went to follow the picture to its source. Alnath felt unhurt, but why was she surrounded by glass instead of being in a fire? Had Garak somehow managed to imprison her?
She hurried away from the food and clothing booths and had almost reached the eastern boundary—her section—when a small ball of flame came flying through the air and settled on her wrist.
“Alnath.” Eirthe smiled tremulously and stroked her head. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’ve found a nice place. Warm.” Alnath flitted away, and Eirthe followed her to a nearby booth where she settled back into the glass sphere that Eirthe had seen a few minutes before. Now she realized that it was part of the wares of the glassblower’s booth, though it was an unusual design for a bowl.
What is that, Alnath? she asked silently.
Alnath shrugged. “Warm.” She subsided into the bottom of the strange bowl and flickered contentedly.
“Ah, a fair maiden.” A drunken voice issued forth from the shadows cast by Alnath’s fire, followed by a young man clutching a wineskin. His brown tunic stretched over a paunch that would have done credit to a priest, and his large chest and callused hands—even worse than Eirthe’s—showed the effects of years of glassblowing. All in all, he looked like a short, and not unfriendly, bear. “Have you come to laugh at my misery, too?”
“I have quite enough misery of my own, thank you. I don’t need to go looking for any more—even to laugh at.” She looked around at his wares, neatly arranged on shelves around them. There were dozens of goblets, all exquisitely shaped, a good variety of animal figures, and the odd bowl in which Alnath was resting. “Why are you miserable? Your work is beautiful.” She ran a finger over the smooth glass of Alnath’s bowl. “Not so much as an air bubble in it.”
“It’s absolutely perfect,” the glassblower agreed. “My finest work to date. And—until that accursed Garak passed by this evening—it was destined as a gift from the high priestess to her sister. It was to be a home for her ornamental fish—and now look at it!” He gestured dramatically with the hand holding the wineskin, then took another healthy gulp of wine.
“Garak certainly seems to have been busy today,” Eirthe remarked bitterly. “What did he do to you?”
The glassblower froze, wineskin just touching his mouth, and looked at her over it. “He do something to you, too?”
Eirthe nodded, fighting a sudden desire to burst into tears. She blinked rapidly and felt the wineskin thrust into her grasp as surprisingly gentle hands guided her to a bench.
“Here, sit down. Have some wine, you look like you need it.”
Eirthe took a large mouthful of wine and choked it down, feeling it warm her. The second mouthful felt even better. “Thank you, sir.”
The man laughed. “No need to be so formal. I’m Cadmon, glassblower.”
“Eirthe, candlemaker.” She passed the wineskin back to him, and he took another swig and passed it back.
“So. Eirthe, what makes you wander about alone after dark?” Cadmon leaned back, obviously ready to listen to a long story.
“I was looking for my salamander,” Eirthe began, indicating Alnath, who was still curled up in the bowl. Cadmon sat up abruptly.
“Is that a salamander?” he asked in amazement.
“Of course,” Eirthe replied, puzzled. “What did you think it was?”
“I thought it was just part of the curse.” She looked questioningly at him, and he continued to explain. “You see, Garak doesn’t like me, and hasn’t for a long time. I don’t show sufficient respect for his robe—decrepit piece of fabric that it is.” Eirthe giggled and he grinned at her. “And I certainly wasn’t about to give away my beautiful goblets for what he wanted to pay for them. Besides, he wouldn’t appreciate them. No soul.
“Anyway, he came by late this afternoon, in a truly foul mood, and demanded the fishbowl to use in his scrying. Now I rather doubt that he could scry with the whole ocean to work with, but I was polite. I didn’t tell him that. I quietly explained that the bowl was a special commission for the high priestess. I expected him to drop the matter right there, but he got really funny. He said that she, and all the priesthood, were children playing with toys they didn’t understand, but that he understood true power and soon they would all serve him.
“I must have smiled or something, because he got mad and started cursing me. He said that anything put into my vessels would burn and be instantly consumed. And then he stalked off—and it was true! Look.” He picked up a goblet and poured a small amount of wine into it. The wine flamed briefly and the goblet was empty. “I can’t even make mulled wine! I—the finest glassmaker south of the steppes—reduced to drinking from a common wineskin.” He suited the action to the words. “It’s disgusting.” He lowered the skin and looked owlishly at Eirthe. “And what did he do to you?”
Eirthe sighed and slumped back against the wall, trying to think of where to begin. “Well, he and my father were friends of a sort, and my father used to make candles for him.”
“Oh, you’re Beam the candlemaker’s daughter? What happened to him?”
“He died last winter,” she replied quietly, and Cadmon made sympathetic noises. “Anyway,” she continued, “I came back by myself this year. I worked the last ten fairs with my father, and I’m a good candlemaker, possibly even a bit better than he was. But Garak showed up, and for some reason—only the Three know why—he seems to expect me to be friendly to him and do whatever he wants!”
“Really?” Cadmon looked appraisingly at her. “You’re pretty enough, but I wouldn’t have figured you for his type.”
Eirthe looked blankly at him for a few seconds before she realized what he meant. “No, not that kind of friendly. He was talking about a sort of partnership—you know, ‘do as I say and you’ll be rich.’ He wants me to make wax figures for him.”
Cadmon drew in a sharp breath. “So he’s trying that again!”
“It would seem so, but he’s doing it without me. I told him to go play his stupid games someplace else.”
“In those words? How brave of you.”
“Or maybe stupid.” Eirthe shrugged. “I really didn’t think there was much he could do about it, but somehow he managed to cast a cold spell on me. My fire won’t light and my candles won’t burn, and I don’t know how I’m going to make a living.”
Cadmon patted her hand awkwardly and started to pass her the wineskin. “Oops, it’s empty. Let’s go get some more; I’m not drunk enough yet. Are you?”
“I don’t think so. What does drunk enough feel like?”
“You don’t feel anything. Come on.” He started toward the wineseller’s, and Eirthe picked up Alnath, bowl and all, and followed. After the trouble she’d gone to to find her, she wasn’t going to let her out of her sight.
* * *
They got two more skins of wine and then decided to go by Eirthe’s stall to get some goblets that wouldn’t incinerate the stuff. But as Eirthe stepped past the spot were Garak had stood that afternoon, Alnath screamed and her fire nearly went out. Eirthe, with the inside of her skull still ringing, hastily stepped back, and the salamander quieted and burned brightly again. “Don’t try to take me in there again!” she scolded.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Eirthe assured her fervently, setting the bowl carefully on the ground and rubbing her aching head.
Cadmon stepped carefully beyond the point and then back. “It really is cold there. Let’s go back to my place.” He grinned sardonically at her reaction. “Don’t worry. Your virtue is perfectly safe. I’m too drunk to do anything and I intend to be a good deal drunker before I go to bed. And
if you try to sleep here, you will literally be an ice maiden by morning.”
“I’m afraid you’re right.” Eirthe sighed. “Wait a minute while I get the goblets.” She went into her wagon, shivering under her heavy cloak, and hastily filled a sack with some clothes, her hairbrush, and other assorted miscellany, and added the goblets. A couple of her candles were swept in with the other junk, but she didn’t stop to worry about them. They certainly weren’t a fire hazard! She hurried out to join Cadmon and Alnath in the comparative warmth of the cold night.
She woke in the morning feeling surprisingly good for someone who’d had the type of night before she had. And most important, she was warm, largely because Cadmon was curled up snoring beside her. She slid out of the bed, being careful not to wake him, and went from the wagon into the stall. The leather hides that protected k at night were tied down, but it was far from dark inside. Alnath, still flaming away in the bowl, greeted her with the suggestion that she rebraid her hair and do something about her clothes. “You look as though you had slept in them,” she added.
“I did,” Eirthe told her calmly. “It was warm.” She retrieved her bag from the bench where she had dropped it the previous night and began to root about in it for her hairbrush and clean shift. She shoved the candles on a shelf above Cadmon’s display table so she could reach the bottom of the bag, which, of course, was where her shift was. The steady snores coming from the wagon made it seem unlikely that Cadmon would appear in the next few minutes, so she hastily began to change into clean clothes. As she pulled the voluminous shift over her head, she vaguely noticed that the light seemed brighter. Surely the sun wasn’t rising that fast? She bent to pick up her skirt and froze in astonishment.
Right next to her face sat one of Cadmon’s exquisite wine goblets, and inside it, burning slowly and brightly, was one of her molded candles. Eirthe sat slowly on the bench, skirt forgotten in her hand, and stared at it, sure that it was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. She didn’t hear the snores stop briefly, then turn to groans, as Cadmon dragged his aching body out of bed and into the stall.
He dropped on the bench beside her, trying to shield his eyes from all sources of light, and inquired in a pained whisper if any wine was left.
“Cadmon, look!” Eirthe pointed to the candle.
Cadmon took an unwary look, then winced and covered his eyes again. “Eirthe, that’s cruelty to hungover glassblowers! Blow that thing out.”
Alnath made the hissing sound that was her form of laughter. “Try some more wine, Cadmon. There’s a bit left in the skin by your left foot.”
“Thank you, whatever you are.” Cadmon grabbed the wineskin. A couple of quick swigs restored him enough to enable him to notice the world around him. “I didn’t know you could talk,” he told Alnath, then added to Eirthe, “Are you getting dressed, or do you plan to stay like that all day?”
Eirthe, engrossed by the candle, hardly heard him. “It won’t blow out.”
“Nonsense. Candles always blow out—usually at the worst possible moment.” Cadmon went to hang over it from the other side of the table. “Let me try.” He blew directly at the flame, but it only burned brighter—a result, Eirthe thought, of the alcohol content of his breath. He frowned at it. “That’s odd.” He picked up the goblet and shook it. The candle flew out, and Eirthe, grabbing for it before it could set the stall on fire, found when she caught it that it was not only out, but cold to the touch.
“How strange,” she muttered. She picked up another wineglass and carefully dropped the candle in it. It lit, all by itself, as the wick passed the rim of the glass. She upended the goblet, and the candle dropped, cool and unlit, into her waiting hand.
“Cadmon,” she said excitedly to the man standing open-mouthed before her, “do you realize what we’ve got? We’ve got a lamp that can’t be blown out but won’t set things on fire if it’s knocked over. I bet we could sell lots of these.”
Cadmon’s face lit up as he looked at his stock. “You’re right. Your candles won’t burn, but anything put in my glass bums instantly—so the curses cancel each other out and your candles burn slowly in my glasses. I’ll design glassware that will set off your candles, and you can make candles to fit in my glassware—it’ll be a great partnership! Deal?”
Eirthe nodded. “Deal. Let’s go see what can be salvaged from my place, and then we’ll have to go to the fair-court for permission to move my wagon and set up a partnership.”
“We may have a little trouble explaining all this to the court and the fair-wards,” Cadmon remarked thoughtfully.
Eirthe smiled sweetly. “Not as much trouble as Garak is likely to have when they catch up with him—which will probably be immediately after the court session.”
“You’re absolutely right.” Cadmon looked cheered by the thought. “But there is one thing you should do first.”
“What?” Eirthe said absently, admiring the effect of the taper she had just fixed in a tall thin glass.
“Put some clothes on.” He chuckled as she blushed and hastily threw on her skirt.
While she laced her bodice, Cadmon wandered over to study Alnath, who had decided to take up residence in the fishbowl. “Maybe we should make you our trademark.” He gave a violent sneeze. “Drat! I hope I’m not getting a cold. That’s a miserable thing for a glassblower—correction. Lampmaker.” He smiled at Eirthe as they went out together into the morning sunshine.
Biographical Notes
André Norton
1)The name Lin Carter has been associated with the fantasy field for a number of years. Not only has he been responsible for editing collections of little known or near forgotten works of an older day, in the volumes Dragons, Elves, and Heroes and Golden Cities Far, but he has also written such critical studies as The Young Magicians. He has created a hero of his own, Thonger of Lemuria, and has collaborated with Sprague de Camp on Conan tales. It is fitting that this master of fantasy be represented at Ithkar Fair; who has a better right to attend?
2) Winner of two Hugo novel awards, the Balrog, and other honors, C. J. Cherryh has the firm foundation of a classical education, something few Americans can claim in this day and age. From her home in Edmond, Oklahoma, streams a steady flow of tales, both fantasy and straight science fiction. In her own words she “tries out things”—like fencing, horsemanship, and firearms. She is well acquainted with wildlife from lizards to hawks, with more conventional fur and feathers in between. From the first appearance of Gates of Ivrel in 1976, her stories have added luster to the whole field.
3) From schoolteaching to writing is a path several writers have followed. However, Jo Clayton has in addition had the experience of belonging to a homesteading family of the West. Who, then, is better fitted to record the adventures of a farmer’s daughter at Ithkar Fair and produce so realistic an account of matters natural and magical?
4) Some writers seem able to evoke other times and places with such a sure touch as makes one ready to believe in time travel and personal exploration of the past. Morgan Llywelyn, of mixed Irish and Welsh parentage, may have been city born and bred, but her heritage drew her from those high walls wherein she was a model, a dancer, and followed other modern roles, to become an expert horsewoman and, at length, a writer able to draw different people of different times and cultures with infinite skill. Her primitive fletcher is as alive as the heroine in her recently very well received novel, The Horse Goddess.
5) Patricia Mathews started her spell-weaving by writing for fanzines (a method that has been an excellent stepping-stone for many an author). She has been represented by Darkover tales in several anthologies. If her story herein is a bit grim, still, it holds the reader. Her Ithkarian tale carries a germ of what she hopes in the future to make into a novel—and it is as polished as any piece of her jeweler heroine’s labors.
6) Out of the wide plains of Texas to misty forelands of her own devising, Ardath Mayhar makes a remarkable transition. Her words sing, which is not remarkable
in an author who was first a poet. She is able to recreate skillfully other writers’ dreams, also, as in her justly acclaimed addition to H. Beam Piper’s legends of the Fuzzies—Golden Dream. Then there are the worlds of her own in which one can lose oneself from the first sentence onward—Soul Singer of Tyros, How the Gods Wove in Kyrannon, and all the rest. Now she shows how, in Ithkar, one may point a needle and bring evil to justice.
7) Since it fell to my lot to write these “minute biographies,” I find it difficult to write this one. I was won to fantasy in childhood by a cherished love of the Oz stories, and I have never looked back. Animals mean a great deal to me—thus my fairgoer is an animal trainer. Ithkar itself was born of an idea conceived in the reading of books about the great medieval fairs—an idea I have cherished for a number of years. I am pleased and proud that it has inspired such fertile response from others.
8) Judith Sampson’s creative bent showed early. In spite of physical handicaps she proved there were no bonds on her imagination. In turn, she credits many of her plots to fantasy role playing. Her fiction mixes fantasy and science fiction, weaving new patterns from old threads. But with it all she has a light touch. Who would want to miss that night at Qazia’s fairside tavern when that forceful landlady confronts the ferret-fetch?
9) Dr. Roger C. Schlobin approached Ithkar by a scholar’s road. A professor of English, he is also the author of a number of noted analytical studies on the subject of fantasy— its use in both literature and art—as well as book reviewer for Fantasy Newsletter. A frequent speaker at conferences and on campuses, his grasp of his subject is well known. “For Lovers Only” is his first venture into fiction and we are honored to welcome him to Ithkar.