Winds of Fury

by Mercedes Lackey

  It appeared that the rotten weather was plaguing Hardorn just as badly as Valdemar, and Ancar had not even bothered to try to do anything about it. The town was between storms at the moment, but the streets were deeply rutted, as muddy as a river, and the skies were overcast.

  But Firesong would make certain the bad weather held off so that the troupe could hold its entertainments as soon as they set up. They traveled under cloudy but rainless skies, thanks to him, Darkwind, and Elspeth.

  The traveling Faire needed that break in the local weather, if they were going to make any money; that had been part of the bargain Kero and Talia had made for the protection of the wagon-folk. Wherever the carnival went, the weather would be as close to clear as they could manage, so the tents would go up without hindrance, and the performers’ shows could go on without a downpour. And, as usual, Nyara would be one of the most popular acts in the carnival.

  He thrust down his surge of jealousy and anxiety at that thought, his hands tightening on Cymry’s reins. And he vowed, once again, that he would not take that jealousy out on her. She was doing her part—she didn’t like what she was doing any better than he did. She had told him it made her feel greasy, as if the men watching her had been running their hands on her and leaving oily marks behind. It frightened her although she would never admit it to anyone but him. And he was afraid it called up old, bad memories as well.

  That didn’t make the jealousy go away, but it made it a little easier to live with and control. Perhaps simply thinking about it was giving him more control over it. He hoped so, because Nyara’s exotic beauty was likely to bring the attraction of men wherever she went, even if she wore the robes of a cloistered sister.

  There had been some muttering about Nyara’s popularity as an act among the rest of the troupe after their first stop and her first performances. That muttering had ended when he and Nyara distributed the “take” among the rest of the entertainers. That had been Nyara’s idea, and he was glad she had suggested it, for it had turned what might have become an ugly situation into a pleasant one. Now everyone watched cheerfully as their tent filled for Nyara’s show, for the bigger the audience, the more there would be for all to share. Their cover story, of searching for lost relatives with a view to extracting them from Hardorn, was holding water, given more credence by the fact that among the troupers, they were making no attempt to conceal the fact that they had no interest in making a profit.

  As Talia had warned, there were no families with this troupe; only single men and a very few women. Most of those women were actually as hardened and tough as Elspeth looked to be. Only people willing to risk everything for a fast profit would make such a journey. There were no real Faires in Hardorn anymore, and no single peddlers providing the country folk with goods. This might be the only entertainment these people would see for the next year—and it would certainly be the only chance they’d have to spend a coin or two on something besides day-to-day necessities. Ancar might be grinding his people into poverty, but there were still youngsters falling in love and wanting love-tokens; still pretty girls wishing for something bright to attract someone’s eye; still loving husbands wanting a special little gift for a new mother. Ordinary life went on, even while war raged over the border, and Ancar despoiled his own land. . . .

  The houses ended, and the road came out on the village common—high ground, thank goodness, and not as sodden as the last place they’d played. Ahead of him, the other members of the troupe had begun to form the rows of wagons that became the carnival. Every wagon had its particular place; closest to the village, the food sellers and the trained beasts. Next, the folk with fairings and other goods to sell. Farthest away, entertainment tents. There were reasons for the placement, based on how people spent their money; Skif didn’t pretend to understand any of it, but he followed the wagon-master’s waved direction, and led the way for Darkwind to bring the wagon up beside the one with the contortionist and jugglers. They were, as always, the last in the row, since Nyara was the most popular of acts. Anyone who wanted to see her had to make his way past the temptation of every other peddler, vendor, and entertainer in the carnival.

  Firesong didn’t even pretend to be an “act” anymore; his show was strictly to attract people to the tent between Nyara’s shows, so that Skif and Darkwind could try and sell them bottles of cure-all. He was having the time of his life. He combined sleight-of-hand with genuine illusions, ending with bird tricks, which Aya suffered through and Vree positively bounced through. There was one trick, however, that all of them enjoyed—

  —the one where Aya would sail out into the audience, and pick out particularly impoverished-looking children, bringing one back to his bondmate. Then Firesong would pluck gilded “coins” from the child’s ears, hair, pockets—any place he could think of—until the child’s hands were overflowing with the bounty of what appeared to be gold-painted mock-coins. Then he would send the little one back out to his or her parents, who were always indulgently pleased with the little one’s “treasure,” assuming it to be as tawdry as Firesong’s jewelry.

  Of course, the next day, when the illusion wore off and the coins proved to be real copper and silver, their reaction would probably be something else entirely. Every member of the assassination team wished they could see that moment. There was something redeeming about doing small acts of kindness while they faced their necessary task with varying measures of reluctance.

  The wagon slowed and was parked. Elspeth and Skif left their Companions to join Darkwind in readying their show.

  Elspeth unhitched the mules and picketed them. Skif went to the back of the wagon and jumped up onto the little porch there, reached up to release a latch at the top, just under the roof, while Darkwind did the same at the front.

  Skif watched Darkwind, reflexively analyzing his weak points and noting his handyness. Skif had been going over parts of his past during this trip, and remembered the knife-edges of resentment he had suppressed while Elspeth and Darkwind grew closer. He remembered analyzing Darkwind for the quickest elimination many times, in case he became a threat to Valdemar or Elspeth. Now, though, there was no animosity toward him—it was simply habit.

  Darkwind stepped back and signaled Carefully, they brought what had appeared to be the side of the wagon down on its hinges; this was the stage. This would be where Firesong would work his magic; behind the stage-platform was the real side of the wagon, and there were racks of “Magic Pandemonium Cure-All” in scarlet bottles, built into the recess the stage had covered. The stage itself was hinged its entire length, and he and Darkwind dropped it down onto four stout legs they pulled from under the wagon to support its weight.

  While he and Darkwind set up the stage, Elspeth and Nyara crawled under the wagon to take the tent and tent poles from the rack beneath. By the time the stage was set up, they had the tent spread out on the other side, ready to erect. He and Darkwind pounded stakes into the soft earth at each corner, ready to take the guy ropes.

  Another stage dropped down from this side of the wagon, but this one had a curtain behind it and was the actual wagon wall. Nyara would appear and retreat into the wagon itself, which doubled as their living-quarters. The wagon formed the back wall of the tent, with the canvas forming the other three walls and roof. It only held about ten people crowded in together, but the stage was high enough that no one could reach Nyara without encountering either him or Elspeth. Lanterns on either side of the curtain gave enough light to see most of Nyara’s performance.

  Ten was as many people as they wanted to have to handle, just in case anyone decided to try to get more out of Nyara than a dance. Darkwind provided the “music” she danced to—a drum—and Skif and Elspeth stood guard over the stage while Firesong guarded the outside. If the men ever got to the point where swords weren’t deterrent enough, Darkwind or Elspeth would hit them with true magic to get rid of them.

  The canvas was heavy and unwieldy; he and Firesong—who had shed the hat and most of the robes
to help with the work—took one side, while Darkwind and Elspeth wrestled with the other, and Nyara crawled inside to set up the tent poles. He sneaked a look at her receding—anatomy.

  The first few times they’d done this, it had taken so long that the other wagon-folk had given them a hand so that the carnival could open before dark. Now they were only a little slower than the rest, which was fine, since they were at the end of the line anyway. They would be set up by the time people actually got here.

  He sniffed; there was hot oil and spice from the foodvendors, who sold grease-fried bits of salty dough and other things, cups of sweetened water with vegetable dyes in them, and very cheap beer. He knew better than to eat anything from the vendors; one of the reasons that “Pandemonium Cure-All” made money was that it had stomach-soothers in it, and the Great Mage Pandemonium could usually effect a cure or two right on the spot. The vendors shrugged and said philosophically that Faire-food was always pretty awful; if you wanted a good meal, you ate at home. But given the hungry stares some of the people of Hardorn had, Skif had to wonder if this was good food now, to them. Gods, that was a frightening thought.

  The center of the tent rose to a peak; Nyara had gotten the middle pole up. She always had a knack for that. A moment later, the two corner poles went in. Skif and Darkwind pulled the corner ropes as tight as they could, then tied them to the stakes they’d pounded into the ground. The canvas by the wagon bobbed as Nyara tied it to the top of the wagon from inside. He dusted off his muddy hands on his breeches and went around to the front to join the others.

  Darkwind and Elspeth were already at the edge of the outer stage, and a moment later, Firesong emerged from the back of the wagon, his dubious finery back in place and a grin on his face. His firebird stretched its wings by flying to the front of the carnival and back, causing cries of excitement from the gathering townsfolk as it flew overhead, streaming ribbons. Vree did the same, indulging in some aerobatics to make up in showmanship what he lacked in appearance.

  “We’ve got everything well in hand,” Darkwind said, as he looked around for something to do. “Why don’t you go into the wagon and spend a little time with Nyara before the first show? You two have little enough time with each other.”

  It was a suggestion Darkwind didn’t have to make twice. Skif ran up the set of stairs at the tail of the wagon and joined Nyara.

  She was putting on little bits of makeup and rabbit fur to make her look as if she was wearing a costume. They included a preposterous pair of artificial ears that she could have used as sails, if they’d had a boat.

  She was holding them with an expression of distaste. “I do not like these,” she sighed. “They do not fit well, and they are very itchy!”

  He chuckled and took one for her, carefully fitting it over her own, delicately pointed ear. “If you wouldn’t be so impatient, and wait for me to come and help you, they wouldn’t itch as badly,” he told her, carefully gluing it in place along her cheek.

  She smiled wryly, and handed him the other one to put on for her, then began to add cat-stripes to her forehead and cheekbones. “I wish we did not have to do this,” she said pensively. But behind the pensive expression, he sensed real strain and fear. Was there more strain there tonight than last night?

  “I do, too,” he told her, his voice husky with the effort of holding back emotions. She turned, then, and quickly laid the palm of her hand against his cheek, staring up into his eyes.

  “If you dislike it so greatly that it hurts you—I will stop—” she faltered, searching his face for his true feelings. “We could—I could be displayed in a cage, perhaps—”

  But that notion clearly made her more afraid than the dancing did. He shook his head, his stomach in turmoil, and captured her hand in his own. “No,” he told her. “No, this is the best and fastest way to get Him to hear about you. We need that. But—I worry about you,” he continued, his throat feeling choked and thick. “I know that this could be hurting you, all these men, staring at you, and thinking the way your father did. I worry if you think I’m thinking that, too, if you wonder if that’s the only way I see you, as something to use—to own—”

  She licked her lips and swallowed. “Yes,” she admitted after a long moment. “Yes, sometimes I do wonder that. And sometimes I wonder if that is the only real worth I have—”

  He started to blurt something, but she laid her finger against his lips, and smiled, a thin, sad smile but a real one. “But then,” she continued, “you say something like you just did—or Need tells me to stop being a stupid little kitten and get on with my job, and I know it is not true.”

  She took her finger away, pulled him close, and locked him in another of her impossible, indescribable embraces.

  When she released him again, she said only, “I love you, Herald-man.”

  He kissed her gently, but with no less passion. “I love you, too, cat-lady.”

  She laughed at the grease-makeup that smeared his face and delicately touched a clawed finger to the tip of his nose.

  And then Darkwind began to beat the drum for Firesong’s first turn, and there was no time. . . .

  Treyvan narrowed his eyes, and regarded a scarlet-clad Sun-priestess with what he hoped was a predatory expression. “I agrrree with you that Rassshi isss a young idiot,” he said carefully, “and he isss likely mossst difficult to worrrk with. He isss ssscatterrrbrrrained.”

  The priestess nodded, her mouth forming a tight, angry line.

  “But,” he continued, “you will worrrk with him. He knowsss the ssspellsss that you do not, and you need to know them. Morrre, you need to learrrn how to worrrk with thossse you do not carrre forrr.”

  The priestess tossed her head; he had been warned about her. She was formerly from a noble Karsite family, and she was very conscious of her birth-rank. She had made trouble before this, during her training as a Priestess. Rashi, besides being scatterbrained, was the son of a pigkeeper. But he was kindhearted as well, and he knew a series of protective spells that no one else here had mastered—and whether she liked it or not, Treyvan was determined that Gisell would learn them, and would learn to work with him.

  Treyvan rose to his full height, and towered over her. “You will worrrk with him,” he repeated. “A mage who will not cooperrrate isss a dangerrr to all of usss. And I am not of Valdemarrr, Karrrse, orrr Rrrethwellan. I do not carrre about you orrr yourrrr alliancesss. I will be gone when thisss warrr isss overrr. I do thisss asss a perrsssonal favorrr to Darrrkwind. And I will sssnap the sssspine of anyone who makesss thisss tasssk morrrre difficult!”

  Her face went blank, as she picked his words out of the tangle of trills and hisses, and then she paled. He snapped his beak once, loudly, by way of emphasis, a sound like two dry skulls crunching against each other.

  “I have younglingssss to feed,” Hydona added suggestively, looking over Treyvan’s shoulder. “Meat-eaterrrsss. They do ssso love meat of good brrreeding.”

  The priestess swallowed once, audibly, then tried to smile. “Perhaps Rashi simply needs some patience?” she suggested meekly.

  “Patiencssse isss a good thing,” Treyvan agreed, lying back down again. “Patiencssse isss a jewel in the crrrown of any prrriessstesss.”

  The priestess bowed with newly-born meekness, then turned to go back to poor young Rashi, her assigned partner, who probably had no idea the young woman had come storming up to Treyvan to demand someone else. The trouble was, there was no one else. The priestess had alienated every Herald and most of the Rethwellan mages except dim but good-natured Rashi.

  Gisell was only half-trained, but would certainly be Master rank when she finally completed her schooling. Rashi was only a bottom-rank Journeyman, a plain and simple earth-wizard, and never would be any more powerful than that—but his training had been the best. His instincts were sharp, and his skills were sound.

  This was the essence of all the pairs, triads, and quartets that Treyvan and Hydona were setting up. Powerful but half-trained m
ages were partnered with educated but less powerful mages, with the former working through the latter, as Elspeth had worked in partnership with Need. To the knowledge of any of the fully-schooled mages, no one had ever tried this before. All the better. What had never been tried, Ancar could not anticipate.

  Some of these teams were already out with the Guard or the Skybolts—and there had been, not one, but two Adept-class potential Heralds among the two dozen or so that had come riding in, responding to the urgent need sent out on the Web. Both of them had been paired immediately, one with the single White Winds teacher young enough to endure the physical hardships of this war, and one with the Son of the Sun’s right-hand wizard, a surprisingly young man with a head full of good sense and a dry sense of humor that struck chords with Treyvan’s own. They were doing a very fine job of holding Ancar’s progress to a crawl, simply by forcing Ancar’s mages to layer protections on the coercive spells controlling his fighters. Ancar had, in fact, been forced to send in the Elite Guard, putting them immediately behind the coerced troops to supply a different kind of motivation to advance.

  Treyvan and Hydona were in complete charge of Valdemar’s few mages and mage-allies, simply because they were the most foreign. Their ongoing story, at least so far as anyone other than Selenay and her Council were concerned, was just what Treyvan had told that young priestess. They were doing this as a favor to Darkwind; they were completely indifferent to Valdemaran politics, external or internal. Add to that their size and formidable appearance . . . thus far, no one had cared to challenge any of their edicts. When they needed to coordinate with Valdemar’s forces, they went through subcommanders Selenay had assigned.