Marka felt her hands clenching into fists as if she could pummel his madness into silence. When Ebañy looked into Zandros eyes, the boy stared steadily back.
Not one of the Wildfolk, Ebañy said at last. But some spirit whose time has come to be born. Youve a lot to learn, my darling, but now the world is yours and all its marvels too.
Carrying Zandro, Ebañy walked back toward their tent. Marka lingered, fighting back tears, until Keeta laid an enormous hand on her shoulder.
Im so sorry, she murmured. Its so sad.
Yes. Marka wiped her eyes on her sleeve. It came on so slowly, didnt it? I wonder now how long hes been this way, and I never would let myself notice.
None of us wanted to notice. Dont berate yourself.
Thank you. When hes not well, when hes not saying peculiar things, I can pretend that we still have our wonderful life. But then hell come out with something, like just now, and I dont know what to say.
There probably isnt anything to say. Ah well, well see what Myleton brings us.
* * *
Wherever Ebañy walked, the Wildfolk went with him, sylph, sprite, and gnome, and in the water undines, rising up to beckon him into the waves. In the fires the salamanders played, rubbing their backs on the logs like cats, leaping up with the flames. At one time in his life hed called himself Salamander, back in the land of his birth. That he did remember, though a great many other memories escaped him. The world teemed with visions that drove out the ordinary details, such as the names of the cities they visited and at times even the names of his wife and children. That they were his wife and children he never forgot.
At night when he slept, his dreams took him to strange worlds filled with stranger spirits. On purple seas he travelled in a barge while a sun of poison green hung at zenith. Enormous undines followed and held out long grey hands while they asked him questions in a language hed never heard. Other nights he climbed mountains of crystal where the rivers ran with blood, or he would ride six-legged beasts like emerald insects across sand dunes to the ruins of cities.
Every dream ended the same way. He would reach his destination, whether a city of gold by a harbour or a cavern glittering with sapphires and emeralds, and walk into a building a temple, perhaps, to unknown gods or a tavern filled with incense smoke and plangent music. The room would annoy him, and he would leave it, going from chamber to chamber or down long halls until at last he would see the door. It was always the same, this door, a solid thing of dark wood bound with iron. He would remember that in the room behind this door lay a magical book. If he could read that book, he would once again know who he was.
When he pushed on it, the door opened easily, but instead of a room, he would find himself in a large canvas tent, lying on a sleeping mat. Usually sunlight would glow through the walls, and he would see wealth around him: brightly-coloured tent bags and carpets, rolled mats, wooden stools, big pottery jars. Sometimes people with dark skins and black hair would be sitting nearby. He would find his clothes lying beside him on the floor cloth, and he would dress, looking round at the objects in the tent and trying to remember their names while the Wildfolk flocked around him or chased each other back and forth.
Some while later, he would realize that he was awake.
A city of trees and broad avenues, Myleton lay on the northern seacoast of Bardektinna, the biggest island in the vast and complex archipelago that Deverry men call Bardek, lumping all the islands together with a fine disregard for their inhabitants politics and geography both. It was a rich city, too, where the public buildings gleamed with pale marble and the homes of the prosperous aped them with white stucco walls. Just to the south stood a public caravanserai with good deep wells and shade trees. After Keeta bargained with the archons men public servants in charge of the campground the troupe pulled in and got itself settled. Since the rainy season had begun, they had the caravanserai to themselves.
At least there wont be strangers, Marka said. Sometimes when Ebañys babbling, and there are strangers listening, I just want to die.
Now, now, little one, Keeta said. Its no fault of yours, and who cares what strangers think? Im more worried about the children, myself. Their fathers madness it cant be good for them to see him like this.
Its not, no. I try to talk with Kwinto, but he just shrugs me off. After all, hes almost a man now, he keeps things to himself. But Tillya shes truly upset. She loves her father so much, and shes old enough to understand.
Marka and Keeta were walking through the public bazaar, which, here in winter, stayed open through the midday. In the centre of the white plaza, public fountains gushed and glittered in the cool sunlight. Around them a sea of brightly-coloured sunshades rippled in the wind over the hundreds of booths. Close to the fountains lay luxury goods such as silver work and brass ware, oil lamps, silks, perfumes, jewellery, strangely shaped knives, and decorative leather work, while the practical vegetable and fish stands stood at the downwind edge of the market. Here and there a few performers struggled to get the crowds attention inept tumblers, a clumsy juggler, a pair of musicians who showed talent but needed practice.
Theres nothing here to compete with us, Marka said. Good. And Myleton knows us. Everyone will come running to see us. Particularly Ebañys act.
And so they should, Keeta said. Its spectacular. Im not prying into his trade secrets, mind, but you cant help wondering how he gets those effects. Ive never seen him mixing chemicals or anything like that.
Do you want to know whats really strange? I dont know how he does it, either.
Really? Keeta stared for a moment. Well, by the Wave Father! Your mans a tight-lipped fellow, thats for sure. I hope hes at least teaching Kwinto.
No, hes not. He keeps saying its all real magic, just like they have in Deverry. Theres a funny name for it. Dwimmer or something. But Ebañy said Kwinto doesnt have the talent for it. Thats why we have him juggling instead.
They walked a ways in silence, then paused by the fountains, where clean water bubbled up into white marble basins.
I know it sounds like Ive gone mad myself, Marka said at last. Talking of magic, real magic I mean.
Well, yes, but what if it isnt mad? What if your husbands telling the plain and simple truth? They always say that studying sorcery drives men insane, dont they?
But it cant be true!
Why not? The sun rises and sets again on many a strange thing. If Ebañy says he calls fire out of the sky with magic well, do we have a better explanation?
Marka merely shook her head.
I keep thinking about Jill, Keeta went on. You remember her she was travelling with Ebañy when we first met him, all those years ago now, but I can still see her in my mind quite clearly. A wandering scholar, she called herself. Huh. She was a lot more impressive than that.
Well, thats true, Marka said. And Ebañy was always trying to get her approval for things, but he was afraid of her, too. I never knew why. Ye gods, I was so young then! I dont suppose I really cared.
Well yes, it was a long time ago, all right. My memory could be playing tricks on me, but you know, looking back, I really do wonder if Jill was a sorcerer, and if your husband knew a great deal more about such things than we would ever have believed.
Well, thats true, Marka said. And Ebañy was always trying to get her approval for things, but he was afraid of her, too. I never knew why. Ye gods, I was so young then! I dont suppose I really cared.
Well yes, it was a long time ago, all right. My memory could be playing tricks on me, but you know, looking back, I really do wonder if Jill was a sorcerer, and if your husband knew a great deal more about such things than we would ever have believed.
Marka could think of nothing to say. The idea made a certain bitter sense.
Ah well, Keeta went on. After the show tonight, when we know how much coin we have to spend, Ill come back into town and start asking about the priests. If one of them can drive out demons, everyone will know about it, and maybe its only a demon thats troubling Ebañy so.
Since in winter the Bardekian days ended early and lacked a proper twilight, the troupe of performers went into Myleton well before sunset. At nightfall the western sea swallowed the sun in one gulp to leave only a faint greenish glow at the horizon. As oil lamps began to flicker into life in the bazaar, the troupe set up for a show. Although they carried a portable stage of planks in their caravan, Myleton supplied for a suitable bribe to the archons men a better stage than that, the long marble terrace running alongside the Customs House at the edge of the bazaar. While some of the acrobats set up brass poles for the standing torches, the musicians, led by Kwinto and Tillya, paraded through the crowd and cried the show with a loud banging of drums. Below an audience gathered, small at first, then suddenly swelling as the word went round the bazaar: the Great Krysello is here! Hes going to perform! By the time the parade returned, there were too many spectators to count.
The Great Krysello, or Salamander, as Ebañy thought of himself, because on that particular night Salamander was the only name he could remember, waited in the darkness at the far side of the stage while the dancers performed, swirling with scarves to a flute and drum accompaniment. While he watched, he sang along to the music and laughed. Once he stepped onto the stage, he felt in command of himself again, sure of where he was and what exactly he should do there.
Many years ago hed been a juggler, and juggler only, and to warm up the crowd he still tossed scarves and juggled eggs and such, talking and singing all the while. But somewhere along the years hed discovered he could do much more to entertain. Or had he perhaps always known he could summon the Wildfolk of Fire and Aethyr to fill the sky with fire in lurid colours? Dimly he could remember being warned against such things. An old man had spoken to him harshly about it, once a long time ago. Somewhere in his mind, however, he also remembered that this fellow was no one. Since nothing was left of the memory but those words, hes no one, Salamander could assume the memory image of a tall old man with ice-blue eyes and white hair was just another dream come to walk the day.
And on nights like this one, when he walked onto the stage and looked out at the dark swelling shape of the audience, a single animal it seemed, lying just beyond the glare of oil lamps and the torchlight, he forgot any strictures he might have once heard. When the crowd roared and clapped, he felt its love pour over him, and he laughed, throwing his arms into the air.
Greetings! he called out. The Great Krysello gives you his humble thanks!
From his sleeves he flicked scarves and began to circle them from hand to hand, but always he was aware of the Wildfolk, sylphs and sprites, gnomes and salamanders, gathering on the stage, forming above the incense braziers, flocking around him and flitting this way and that, grinning and pointing at the crowd. In a flood of Elvish words he called out orders, and for the sheer love of play they obeyed him. Suddenly, far above the crowd, red and blue lightning crackled. With each boom of false thunder, sheets of colour fell and twisted in every rainbow the Wildfolk knew. The crowd roared its approval as the sheets broke into glowing drops and vanished just above their heads.
A green and purple mist burst into being around the stage, and deep within it voices sang alien songs. Once the crowd fell silent to listen, Salamander added explosions and bursts of gold and silver. Then back to the colours sheeting the sky on and on he went until sweat soaked his costume and plastered his hair to his head. He let the colours fade and the music die away, then bowed deeply to the crowd.
The Great Krysello is weary! But lo! we have other wonders to show you.
At the signal Vintos acrobats, all dressed in gaudy silks, rushed onto the stage. The crowd roared and threw coins in a copper and silver rain. As they tumbled around the stage, the acrobats scooped them up. Salamander stepped back to the shadows at the rear. While he mopped the sweat from his face and hair with a scarf, he looked out over the crowd.
One man caught his attention immediately, a tall fellow, standing right in front. His body seemed to waver like a reflection on moving water, and his clothes looked more like wisps of fog or smoke hung around him, or maybe just placed in his general vicinity, than solid cloth. Yet no one standing near him seemed to notice the least thing unusual. When the acrobats arranged themselves into a human pyramid, he clapped and smiled like anyone else. The flute and drums began their music; applause rippled, then died. The flickering stranger crossed his arms over his chest and stood reasonably still.
But always his eyes searched through the shadows. Salamander knew at once that the man no, the being, some strange non-human thing was looking for him. He could feel a gaze probing, feel alien sight run down his body like clammy hands. With a shriek lost in the music, he turned and leapt down from the stage, then took out running through the night. Down long streets he raced, panting for breath; in alleyways he stopped and looked around him. The door. He had to find the dark wood door bound in iron.
Past taverns, past craftsmens shops he jogged, looking at each door, peering into shadows while cold sweat ran down his back and his chest ached nowhere did he find it. He ran again, then slowed to a stumbling walk. Around him the city lay dark and silent. The night hung over the river, an oily rush of dark water against a darker sky. Salamander stopped, listening. Water slapped against wooden docks. Footsteps rustled on stone. With a roar to the Lords of Fire, he spun around and flung up both hands. A gust of silver flame towered up and lit the alley in a cold glare. Black shadow outlined every stone on wall and street and seemed to carve some incomprehensible meaning into them. Thieves shrieked and ran, dashing away down the alley two small men, carrying knives. In the dying light from the silver flare he watched them till they skittered around a corner and disappeared. Salamander laughed, then headed to the river bank. He could follow it upstream to the caravanserai.
He arrived to find the troupe clustering around a fire and talking. Marka paced back and forth at the edge of the pool of light, and every now and then she raised her hands to her face as if she wept.
Here! Salamander called out. Whats so wrong?
The troupe froze, then burst out laughing and cheering all at once. Marka ran to him and flung her arms around him.
My thanks to every god! Her voice quavered on the edge of sobs. I was so worried.
Salamander slipped his arms around her waist and held her while he murmured small soothing noises. At last her trembling quieted.