The Bitterbynde Trilogy (37 page)

“‘Here be a lad which has brought grievous trouble and sorrow upon the goodmen of the shire,' proclaims the sheriff. ‘It is held he is in league with unseelie wights.'

“‘How has he done this?' asks the judge.

“‘My lord, he has got himself some pipes that will make you hop and dance until you are well-nigh spent.'

“The judge looks at Jack, who smiles up at him wide-eyed, like some injured innocent child. The judge, mayhap seeing some echo of his mischievous boyhood self before him, gives a chuckle. He allows no credit to the sheriff's story, so he wants to see the pipes, and then he wants to hear them played.”

At this point, Sianadh aptly mimicked the voices of the characters.

“‘Marry,' says the stepmother in a fright, ‘prithee say not so until I am out of hearing!'

“Play on, Jack,' says the old judge indulgently, ‘and let me see what you can do.”

As the Ertishman warmed to the tale, his smile grew broader and he began to shake with mirth.

“Jack sets the pipes to his lips,” he enthused, “and the whole room is instantly in motion. All begin to dance and jump, faster and higher, as though they be out of their wits. Some leap over the tables, some tumble against the chairs, some fall into the fire. The judge springs over the desk and bruises both his shins, and he shouts to the lad to cease for the love of peace and charity. In the uproar he is not heard, and next thing Jack is out the door and on to the streets, and they all follow him, capering wildly as they go. The neighbors start at the sound and come out of their houses, springing over the fences, and some that had been still in their beds jump out and hurry into the streets, naked as they are, to join the throng at Jack's heels. A frenzy is upon them all, and they bound into the air and look not whither they plunge. Some that could no longer keep their feet for lameness dance on all fours!

“‘Give over, Jack!' yells the judge, and this time Jack hearkens.

“‘Well,' he says, ‘I will, if the citizens of Gilvaris Tarv will promise me that they shall never do me trespass so long as I live.'

“Then as many as were there swore before the judge that they would keep peace toward the lad and help him to their power at all seasons against his enemies. And when they had done so, Jack bade the judge farewell and proceeded merrily home. From that time forth he prospered and kept everyone in the city in his fear. He rose to a prominent position and gathered much wealth, which, when he died in old age, was passed on to his son, Korguth.”

The Ertishman scratched his beard. His brow knitted.

“What did they call those
doch
pipes? Ah, I have it—the
Pipes Leantainn
—the Follow Pipes. Anyhow, they've not been seen for years.”

The instrument's name struck a chill through his listener. Unaware of her dismay, he continued.

“So there ye have it,
chehrna
. Now, for the sake of peace, say nothing to my sister about wizards—she cannot abide the caste! Now hearken well, for I have not been idle. As soon as Tavron Caiden gave me the good word, off went I to Korguth's palace—for a palace it be, mark ye—but his retainers said the great man is so busy that it was not possible to see him for months. When I slipped them an encouragement they said he could see us in another two days. They also mentioned his price, which was so high that I nearly fell over backward, but no matter, that be chickenfeed to us now.

“If this Korguth can cure ye, ye need not travel across the countryside but can remain here with Ethlinn until the return of our expedition. Then I will set ye up in a palace of your own—new face, new palace—the lads will be flocking around ye! What more could a lass wish for? So what say ye,
chehrna
? Be ye willing to give it a try?” He grinned.

In the light of her friend's enthusiasm, the shadow of fear fled. Infected by his joy, Imrhien felt her mood lift. <> She could have kissed him, hedgehog of a prickly red beard and all.

Yet with the visage she wore, she would not insult him so.

In anticipation of this venture, Sianadh brought in a tailor to make new clothes for Imrhien. By then he had purchased new clothes and presents for the whole family.

“So, what exactly are you after, dear?” inquired the tailor, eyeing Muirne (who was the model for the eavesdropping guest) with a disparaging air and tapping his teeth with a tape measure. “Something for evenings? A ball-gown, perhaps? I assume the style would be Finvarnan?”

“Something … er, simple but nice,” ventured Muirne.

“Two gowns for the goodwife, four for the lass, and two of those to be worn with high heels, so make them longer,” interjected Sianadh, who had vowed not to interfere in women's matters. “Day wear. Plain cut but rich fabrics—aye, Finvarnan, of course, what d'ye think,
sgorrama?
Measure them, and make it quick and accurate. There be plenty of others who'd like the job.”

He and Liam had appeared that morning in full traditional Finvarnan regalia: sheepskin boots laced crisscross from ankle to knee, calfhide surcoats sewn with copper scales, leather kilts, heavy gold torcs and bearskin cloaks, somewhat impractical at the time of year. Sianadh sported an open-faced bear-helmet, Liam a helm like a snarling hound.

Word having escaped that the carlin had recently made generous donations to several destitute families, a steadily increasing trickle of beggars began to accumulate at the door.

With all this activity, the neighbors in Bergamot Street were starting to talk. Sianadh put it about that their reclusive visitor was merely a cousin of considerable means, who was grateful for their hospitality.

Ethlinn signed, <>

For such a long time, her facial deformities had invoked nothing but censure, revulsion, and ridicule. The possibility of being healed breathed life into Imrhien, stirred the dull embers of hope to a flame. Impatient to receive the cure, she could not rest, simmering with perturbation, pacing fitfully. She yearned anew for the human companionship that seemed to come so readily to those whose looks were deemed acceptable. Her eyes studied the faces around her with a desolate hunger. When the swellings were removed, would she be fair, plain, or ugly? How much of the damage was permanent, unable to be erased? In this ferment of excitement she soldiered through the remaining hours. It seemed two years, not two days, until at last it came time for her appointment with the wizard and her first venture into the city in daylight.

Sianadh had hired a carriage and driver, which contraption was ogled by the neighbors when it stopped at the door, carriages being a rarity in Bergamot Street. Pedestrians were forced to sidle past it, the street being so narrow, and many of them flung imprecations. Flinging them back, the Ertishman ushered his elegantly clad and deep-hooded charge on board and took his seat beside her. Shortly they were off, rattling jarringly along the cobbled streets.

“Lords and ladies!” chortled Sianadh. “Lords and ladies!”

Do I dream at last? In truth, do I ride in a coach, clad in a satin gown like the petal of a violet and a mantle of brocade like a flower garden
—
or shall I waken and find myself in the Floor Five soap room in Isse Tower? And if all is as it seems, will the wizard have a cure
?

With her richly embroidered taltry pulled forward, Imrhien peered out of the window. A knot of apprehension twisted inside her belly. Between the hemming roofs the sky was strung like a canopy, pearled with an early Autumn haze. A flapping speck crossed it—a Relayer bound for the Tower of the Tenth House.

This city was such a motley medley of sights that it was hard to know which way to look. People passed hither and thither, dressed in ways she had never seen before. Among the peasants and craftsmen in their drab doublets and leather aprons strode merchants with their signatory broad-brimmed hats, and sun-freckled Ertishmen in leather-paned kilts, with auburn manes and mustaches. Sailors in rolled-up breeches, striped kerchiefs tied across their heads, traded rivalrous gibes with the “lemonleg” aeronauts of Merchant Lines. Most striking of all, hard-faced men with clawed gauntlets and wide sunray collars of linked metal strips stalked the streets in heavy jewelry and weapons. Bright tattoos swirled over their bodies. Some wore striped head-cloths hanging to their shoulders, others were crowned with tall helmets like winged birds.

“Namarrans,” commented Sianadh. “Outlaws, like as not.”

One went past leading a bear on a chain.

The city's architecture metamorphosed as the horses pulled the carriage from the poorer quarter to the rich. Blacksmiths, saddlers, coppersmiths, weavers, tanners, cobblers, and carpenters gave way to fishmongers, fruit vendors, and inns, then jewelers, spice-sellers, and cloth-merchants. Blowing silks and rainbow satins shone like bubbles in the breeze as it tossed hot sunlight from hand to hand.

In the better quarter, pedestrians were less numerous, vehicles more common. Like rows of gnarled old graybeards, eucalyptus trees lined the streets, richly encrusted with red velvet flowers. A wizard rode by in his whites and tall, pointed hat; a peripatetic minstrel strolled with his lute across his back and a capuchin crouching on his shoulder. With a jingle of spurs and weaponry, several mounted knights of some nobleman's retinue clattered over the cobbles. Erect and disdainful they sat clad in chain mail overlaid with ornate tabards, accompanied by their squires. A group of fashionable gentlemen hastily retreated as they passed, lest their garb be besmirched by filth kicked up from the horses' hooves. They wore pied, knee-length cotehardies and mantles whose hems were dagged to fully eight inches deep. On their heads, loud-colored taltries tapered to ludicrously long liripipes, which they draped about their shoulders like quiescent vipers.

Ladies stepped from carriages, in long cotehardies fitted tightly to the waist, the sleeves furnished with rows of small buttons reaching from the elbows to the wrists, and tippets dangling from the upper sleeves. Wide bands of embroidery bordered the ladies' otherwise plain surcoats, and instead of wimples or peplums, the heads of older ladies were adorned with nebules: cylindrical cases of woven wire passing across the forehead and down each side of the face, allowing the hair to flow down from each opening, until the ends were confined in small mesh bags. The visible hair was usually black, sometimes brown. Glimpsed through the window of a carriage pulled by a matching team, a noble widow in her black silk mourning-mask, only her eyes showing. Tottering by on the arm of a gentleman, a simpering young lady sniffing a silver pomander, apple-shaped …

A bolt of lightning slammed Imrhien in the chest. She fumbled with the door-latch, shaking it violently when it refused to unclose.

“Ho there, driver—halt! Why,
chehrna
—tell me!” Sianadh's large hand held the latch firmly shut. She grasped great handfuls of her hair, shook it in his face.

<>

The Ertishman peered out at the maiden who had passed by, her heavy curls like ropes of marigolds down her back.

“Aye, gold. But not Talith gold,
chehrna
, if 'tis what ye be thinking. If ye looked closelike at that hair, ye would spy that it grows out a different color. Many of the nobility dye their hair—it be the fashion. They dye it yellow or black, so as not to look like common Feorhkind. Never red—they consider themselves above us Erts, the
sgorramas
. Diarmid now, he has his locks dyed brown to fit in with his Free Company mates. 'Tis all false. Ye will not see a true Talith in Gilvaris Tarv, that I swear, for I have put about questions on your behalf. But ye will see many straw-heads, whether wigged or dyed.”

Deflated, the girl fell back in her seat. The carriage jerked into motion. It bowled on until, reaching the wealthiest quarter of the wealthy quarter, it stopped before a pair of bronze gates in a high wall. Stone jackals crouched on the gateposts. After some exchange between Sianadh and a couple of guards, one of the gates swung open.

Slim cypresses and columns lined the driveway. Jasper dragons coiled around the columns, and obsidian jackals snarled atop them. This broad, paved road swept around to the front steps of a magnificent stack of masonry: the wizard's palace.

A steward conducted the visitors through high, echoing halls, across mirror-surfaced marble floors. More sentries, in Korguth's black-and-white livery, were stationed at frequent intervals.

“There be a good deal of heavy security,” scowled Sianadh, who instinctively disliked enforcers of authority.

Bent over a blackwood escritoire, an elderly scribe or scholar took the full payment from them in advance and wrote something in a ledger. His quill pen scratched away, a tiny scratch like an insistent mouse eating out the hollow drum of the palace. The scribe shook powdered resin over the paper from a brass pounce-box with a domed and pierced cap.

Sianadh's boot tapped on the polished floor.

“Wait here, you.” Without looking up, the scribe used the quill to indicate a chair, thus dripping ink over his sleeve and the escritoire. “The Ineffable One administers to his clients alone.”

Sianadh started to say something.

“Alone,” repeated the scribe, turning his gaze on the Ertishman. His hooded eyelids blinked, once.

Cursing and fuming, Sianadh sat down.

<> he signed to Imrhien with flamboyant gestures, to the utmost perturbation of the nonhandspeaking scribe.

<> Imrhien signed in return, being led away down the hall.

A servant bade her be seated on another chair, outside a door.

“Aren't you the fortunate girl, having a rich uncle to pay for your visit,” she said primly, disapprovingly. “My master is the most charming man and the cleverest wizard in Aia.”

Imrhien lifted her face. The servant flinched. Her eyes scurried away like two cockroaches.