At the next village, Merrigan climbed out of the wagon with the assistance of Gilda and her father, Master Gilbrick, who both treated her as if she were quite fragile. A very nice change in circumstances. She barely heard them as they made plans for her to stay in the inn with them. Her attention caught firmly on the sight of three of the six bandits, on display on the village green. One sat in the stocks, the second stood in the pillory, and the third wore her donkey's magic harness, which attached him firmly to the shattered remains of her cart.
A fourth member of the band, she found out from the innkeeper, was in bad shape, having been kicked brutally in the face and ribs by her donkey. The big, friendly man brought them their dinner himself and delighted in telling the merchant and Gilda and Merrigan all the details of the ruckus just the night before. The six young men, known in the surrounding five villages as troublemakers, had arrived just after moonrise, arguing loudly. As far as anyone could tell, four of them were mocking the other two over how a little old woman had bested them, bloodying their knuckles and breaking their cudgels. The two were angry enough about the teasing that they turned on their partners. Then the donkey got into the fight. The noise of the brawl brought the constable running, along with a troop of guardsmen on their way to report to King Fredric. The sergeant of the troop recognized two of the bandits as deserters, and immediately took them into custody. When their friends tried to help them, they were easily subdued. The judge for the five villages was due to come to town in four more days, and the foursome were being held until then.
"What about the cloth and other items they stole?" Merrigan asked. "Were they lost?"
"How do you know the cart was full of cloth?" The innkeeper took a step back and looked her up and down. Before she could respond, his face lit up and he let out a bellow of laughter that gained the attention of nearly everyone in the main room of the inn. "Bless me if you aren't the little old woman who fought them off. Please tell me you are?"
"Excuse me, Mistress Mara," Merchant Gilbrick said, "but proving the contents of the cart are yours could be difficult. I don't want to cause trouble, but I've run afoul of local authorities while trying to take back my rightful property that was stolen."
"Hmm, true," the innkeeper said. "Constable Fitz is a decent enough man, but he's got a dozen women of reputable families clamoring for him to declare that cloth abandoned property, so they can claim it. They'll fight you all the way."
"Where is my donkey? She'll know me," Merrigan said.
The donkey had fled into the night as soon as she kicked the one man in the ribs for the third time. No one was sure where she had gone. Merrigan and Gilda went up to the room they were to share, while Gilbrick and the innkeeper went to speak with Constable Fitz. Merrigan wanted to confront the four remaining bandits. She hadn't exactly gotten a good look at four of them, but the faces of the two who had attacked her would stay strong in her memory for a good long time to come. She just hoped they weren't the two who had been hauled away as deserters, to face King Fredric's justice.
"What's more important is if they recognize you," Bib offered, when he and Merrigan were alone together for a few moments.
To her delight, the man in the stocks and the man in the harness did recognize her when she stalked up to them the next morning. The one in the harness shrieked and tried to flee while still on his hands and knees, while his friend in the stocks went stark white, then bright red, then let out a stream of curses. Constable Fitz, a rugged yet pious man, slapped the curser across the mouth with his meaty fist, knocking him backward off the log he was sitting on.
"Good enough identification for me, Mistress," he said, tipping his floppy cap to Merrigan.
The women of the village, who had hoped to get their hands on the cloth from her cart, were not happy. Merrigan listened to the advice of Merchant Gilbrick and Bib and offered to sell the cloth to them, with a sizeable discount if they commissioned her to design the clothes to be made from it. The local seamstress was happy, as she would have the sewing income. That seemed to please everyone. Merrigan let Gilbrick handle the sales, and he negotiated for one-third again as much as she would have charged. Gilda and her father insisted on taking Merrigan under their wing and making her part of their traveling party.
They made their home in Williburton, a decent-sized country north of Carlion, east of Avylyn. It was also west of Sylvanglade, though why Bib had to point it out to her, Merrigan didn't know. She was delighted to travel with them and get that much closer to home. Gilda treated every word that fell from her lips as if they were gold. At least, everything Merrigan had to say about fashion, which colors were best for Gilda's complexion, and what countries produced the best cloth.
After only a few days, Merrigan learned Gilbrick was even more a slave to fashion than his daughter. He nearly swooned over fine quality material and subtle designs in the weaving. Some merchants lived for the thrill of the bargain, while others hoarded gold with the ferocity of dragons. Gilbrick lived in the pursuit of the finest cloth and most exquisite dyes.
"Someone so single-minded," Bib remarked, "is setting himself up for trouble. He needs to find some other passions in life. He's giving off the magical equivalent of a beacon fire, just begging for someone to come cast a spell on him. Or worse, swindle him."
THE JOURNEY TO ALLIBURTON, the capitol of Williburton, Gilbrick and Gilda's home, should have taken a little more than a moon. The journey took three moons, because Gilbrick stopped at every city and town and tiny village along the road. He left Gilda to oversee his apprentices, who did the actual work of setting up the portable stalls, setting out their merchandise to display, and haggling with the customers. Gilbrick wandered through other sections of the market district, or in the rural areas, walked beyond the village. After the fifth such stop, Merrigan asked Gilda why.
"It's obvious your father is looking for something," she said, as the two of them settled down for the night in the opulent main wagon. Gilbrick's ventures into the last village had taken so long that they didn't leave until the first hint of sunset. The merchant caravan had traveled until dark and set up camp.
Quite frankly, Merrigan couldn't understand why they didn't camp along the road every night and save the coins that an innkeeper would charge. The wagons were sturdy and snug, the long couches served quite well as beds, they had plenty of food, and Gilbrick's cook was a sight better than many of the cooks in the inns they had frequented so far.
"What is he looking for? He never comes back with anything, though sometimes he seems quite pleased. Perhaps whoever he was talking to gave him clues in his quest?"
"Papa is seeking magical cloth," Gilda said in a whisper, her eyes shining. "Cloth too beautiful to behold. Fine enough that an entire bolt will pass through the eye of a needle, yet strong enough it can withstand arrows and swords."
"I should think clothes made from such cloth would be very uncomfortable. If it acts like armor, I imagine it would ventilate like armor, too." Merrigan's nose wrinkled up just at the thought of the stink. "Besides, how would you cut that kind of cloth to make clothes? All it would be good for is to use as a tent, and even then you couldn't stake it down against high winds because you couldn't pierce it to attach the stakes."
Gilda stared at her for several seconds. Then she burst into tears. Merrigan couldn't quite muffle her sigh as she put an arm around the girl and patted her back. Gilda was ordinarily a cheerful creature, yet when she did cry, she could go on for hours. It was best to comfort and distract her as soon as possible.
One of these days, she's either going to flood us out with her copious tears, Bib observed, or her howls will attract wolves or orcs or something much nastier.
Merrigan couldn't muffle her chuckle, but Gilda didn't hear over her sobs. Soon enough, though, she got the girl to wipe her eyes. There was something almost amusing about Gilda in tears. Her explanation for why she was crying usually turned out to be silly enough to make even Gilbrick laugh, and he took her far more serious
ly than anyone else.
"What did I say to hurt you?" Merrigan had learned early that taking some blame on herself made Gilda calm down more quickly, because the sweet, silly girl wouldn't let anyone say anything against Merrigan. Even herself.
"Oh, you didn't—I mean, you did—oh—"
She sniffled and rubbed at her eyes and dug through a low box tucked under the couch until she found an enormous handkerchief, which she used to blow her nose. Merrigan found some comfort that while Gilda's face didn't get swollen and red when she cried, she blew her nose loud enough to call dragons out of the sky.
"It's the cloth. If my father ever succeeds in finding the cloth of his dreams, well ... I know he'll spend everything he has to obtain it, and then what good will it do him if he can't use it for anything? Oh, Mistress Mara, you're so incredibly wise. You must help me protect my father. I adore him so, but sometimes he just lacks for common sense. It frightens me."
Now that's saying something, Bib said.
You—hush! Merrigan muffled her laughter into a cough, and set about comforting Gilda. She promised to try to think of something to help her keep Gilbrick out of trouble.
Unfortunately, she proved to be very little influence on Gilbrick on the long, wandering journey back to Williburton. She tried to convince him that if the cloth in the local market wasn't remarkable, then someone weaving in a tumbledown shack out in the forest likely couldn't produce anything worthwhile. The argument never seemed to work. Gilbrick insisted that obscure, remote locations were more likely to have the magical cloth of his quest. Sometimes he found cloth that changed color to reflect the mood of the wearer, but it wasn't durable or waterproof or didn't go through the eye of a needle. Once he found cloth fine enough to go through the needle, but when daylight touched it, it faded into mist, along with the hunchbacked man who wove it. Twice, Gilbrick learned of someone who was reported to spin thread to be woven into the hoped-for cloth. Each time he got there, a prince had arrived ahead of him, freed the spinner from an enchantment, and carried her away.
Merrigan wondered sometimes why she had agreed to help Gilda, other than to prevent more weeping. Perhaps she was falling ill, because no sensible person could actually be fond of such a silly girl, could they? Merrigan did find some satisfaction in convincing Gilda that less was more when it came to the ribbons, bows and flounces on her clothes. The simpler her gowns became, the more elegant and mature Gilda appeared and acted. By the time they came within sight of Williburton, Merrigan suspected a silliness spell had been put on the girl by some business rival of her father.
The caravan stopped for the noon meal in the high mountain pass looking down on Williburton. Merrigan, Gilbrick and Gilda were discussing arrangements to set up Merrigan in her own shop, when a messenger caught up with them. His horse was in a lather and he wore the emblem of Gilbrick's merchant network—a golden wagon wheel with a coin for the hub. The young man looked pale, yet ecstatic, and he trembled. Gilbrick shot him one question after another, never letting him get a word in for at least five minutes. Gilda finally resorted to hopping onto her father's back and slapping both hands over his mouth to make him shut up.
Maybe she's right, Bib said. She is the sensible one in the family.
Merrigan had to agree.
"Master, there's nothing wrong," the messenger finally said, after Gilbrick mumbled and struggled for a few moments but couldn't shake Gilda free. "I was sent to tell you some weavers have come to town—"
Gilda let out a squeak and released her father, who was struck silent. They held onto each other as the messenger went on. For a moon now, the weavers had been setting up shop at the far end of the merchant's district where Gilbrick had his warehouse. They set up their looms, but didn't buy any thread. No one thought anything odd about it, because the well-dressed couple kept busy selling dozens of bolts of cloth. Fine cloth of amazing colors.
The day the outriders from Gilbrick's merchant caravan returned to the warehouse, to say their master was returning, the two weavers made an announcement. They had been preparing for years for their crowning achievement. They had spent five years alone obtaining the wool from sheep that grazed in the famed Meadows of the Sun, then three years befriending mermaids, who gave them the shells of ancient oysters to create a magical dye that would change color to suit the temperament of whoever it touched. They had spent half their fortune obtaining a spinning wheel from the castle of a princess who still slept under a curse.
Merrigan flinched at that bit of news, immediately thinking of the creeping, growing curse on Sylvanglade.
Bib, you don't think that's the same spinning wheel?
No. Impossible. How could they have gotten into the palace without being overtaken by the spell? Taking away the spinning wheel should have violated the rules of the spell, and as far as I know, the curse is still on Sylvanglade and still growing.
Merrigan thought it highly amusing that princes down through the ages hadn't figured out that all they needed to do was move or destroy the spinning wheel to free the princess. She imagined quite a few royal marriages weren't as happy as they wanted people to believe, simply because once the boy kissed the girl, they had to get married. How much simpler things would be if the king could offer a wagon full of gold or a magic sword to the hero if he didn't care to marry the princess. And what if the princess had an older brother? Was the heir to the throne summarily disinherited so a stranger who kissed his sister could take over?
Focus, Mi'Lady, Bib said. This sounds like trouble.
Merrigan flinched, and mentally slapped herself for getting distracted. Fortunately, Gilbrick and Gilda were full of questions that let her piece together what she hadn't heard.
The two weavers claimed they had come to Alliburton on the advice of a seer. The magical currents in air and ground were favorable for creating thread produced on the spinning wheel, and then weaving the thread into the most beautiful, magical cloth the world had ever seen. Since they arrived, the weavers had been spinning the thread by moonlight. The day the messenger left, the two weavers had closed up their shop and shuttered the windows so no one could see them at work. They would weave for three days, then display the magical cloth for one day only before packing up and returning to their home far over the ocean.
Of course, the steward and the warehouse managers had sent Bigsley, the messenger, to find Gilbrick and bring him home immediately. They were in a panic at the thought that their master might not arrive home in time to see the magical cloth and persuade the weavers to sell it to him.
"All but for Aubrey." Bigsley's mouth pursed with distaste.
"Why not Aubrey?" Gilbrick blurted. He looked stunned.
"Who's Aubrey?" Merrigan wanted to know.
"One of Papa's apprentices. He's worked his way up from sweeper to messenger to clerk to inventory keeper in just five years," Gilda said, her lower lip trembling and her eyes glistening with impending tears. "He's brilliant—he's so talented—he's witty and—he's absolutely wonderful!" she ended on a wail.
I believe she's in love with this Aubrey, but he's committed the unpardonable error of doubting Gilbrick's quest for his amazing cloth, Bib observed.
Merrigan had to wait until the caravan returned to the highway, heading for Alliburton at all speed, before she could find out. Bib had got it on the first guess. The only thing more copious than Gilda's tears were her gushes of admiration and adoration for Aubrey. After the first half hour of listening to all the amazing, clever, kind things Aubrey had done, Merrigan stopped listening. She pondered what she had learned about the magical cloth.
Such cloth is feasibly possible, Bib said, after they conferred over the details together. Gilda had finally fallen asleep and the merchant caravan continued down the highway. What I can't understand is why someone would go to so much trouble to make cloth with so much inherent magic woven into it. The magic elements should conflict with each other. The dye alone would imbue ordinary thread with amazing abilities. I've never heard of anyo
ne coming back from the Meadows of the Sun with a single blade of grass, much less enough fleece to spin thread. The sheep who graze there are meat-eaters and stand twenty feet tall. They don't sleep because it's never night in the Meadows of the Sun. Which explains why they're always in such foul moods.
That's understandable. Merrigan shuddered at the memory of several times she had been forced to go just two days without sleep, and how her vision and hearing seemed to warp. Living like that constantly most likely drove the sheep mad. Still, if someone did manage to get the fleece from just one sheep, would the thread be magical?
I expect it would be used to create light, or even start fires, rather than cloth. Something is very wrong with the weavers' story. I will have to see the cloth to analyze it before I can give you any answers.
MERRIGAN FELT AS IF she hadn't slept in several days, by the time Gilbrick's merchant caravan arrived in Alliburton. She had managed to doze throughout the night, but the swaying of the wagon as it turned corners and the jolts as it bumped over holes in the road made for uneasy sleeping. Then there was Gilbrick's increasingly louder fretting every time they had to stop to clear fallen trees out of the back roads that he insisted were a faster route to the capitol.
The caravan approached the city gates, just after the moon had set. A watchman on the wall let out a shout, soon taken up by other shouts, then trumpets. There were far too many people awake at that time of the morning. Why did momentous events always occur in that dim, cold period of the morning before night gave up and dawn sent its first silver splinters over the horizon? Gilbrick nattered to himself as the caravan neared the gates, never slowing. Merrigan opened up the sliding panel between the wagon and the driver's seat, positive that Gilbrick was talking in his sleep and didn't see the gates ahead of them. What else could explain why he didn't slow?
The Kindness Curse Page 20