The Chronicles of Mavin Manyshaped (45 page)

“Poor Mercald,” sighed the old man. “I remember his father. No practical sense at all. Still, Mavin, there is a certain temptation there.”

Mavin rose slowly, looked the old man in the eye, thought carefully before she spoke. “Old Sir, I will not presume to guide you. But before I would consider any such thing, I should have myself carried to the Bottom, and there I would speak with that which was Mercald. He is a confusion now, some Mercald, some Mirtylon, and some Sticky One. Still, he has gained ... insight.”

Beedie and Roges both looked horrified when they finally realized that the old man meant that he felt a temptation to do what Mercald had done, but Rootweaver considered the idea calmly.

“Did he say anything to you? Mercald, I mean. Before you left?”

“He said he could find very little guilt or expiation in Mirtylon. And he said Mavin had been right. And he sounded very disappointed,” said Beedie. “I felt so sorry for him I forgot and almost patted him on the shoulder.”

“He also said,” Mavin spoke for the old man’s ears alone, almost in a whisper, “that it didn’t hurt. It surprised him, of course, since he wasn’t expecting it. But it didn’t hurt.”

The old man gave Mavin a fragile, tremulous smile. “If one were to do such a thing, one would have to do it fairly soon. While there is still time.”

Mavin did not answer. She had found a great poignancy in Mercald’s disappointment. His voice had puffed out of the sticky shape as all sticky voices did, windy and full of huffs, but the intonation had been very much his own. She recalled he had told her she had too little kindness in her, and this made her sad. Perhaps he was right. She had power, and had used it, and had made her own judgments. She did not regret them. But still ...

She remembered the weeping children of Landizot.

The frightened hunter of Mip.

The slim, silver-horned beast she had loved in the pool-laced forest.

“What are you thinking about, Mavin?” Beedie whispered to her.

“I am thinking, sausage girl, that I wish Handbright would hurry with what she is about so that I may take the baby and go. Being among you has made me doubt myself, and that makes me fractious.”

“Oh, pooh. You mean Mercald. That was his job, Mavin. Birders are supposed to make us doubt ourselves so we don’t get too proud. Do you think you are too proud?”

Mavin shook her head, seeing Rootweaver’s eyes on them from across the table. “Perhaps I was.”

The older woman nodded. “Sometimes each of us is. Now, I think from the smell that food is cooked. Will you share it around, Roges?” And she rose to seat them all at the table.

They were only half through the meal when a Maintainer woman entered, beckoning Rootweaver into the hall. She returned with a sad face. “Your sister is not young, Mavin. Among our people, we would not want to bear children at her age.”

“She’s almost forty,” said Mavin “Is there trouble?”

“The birther women are concerned, worried. She has been in labour for a very long time now. She does not seem concerned. She sings, and does not concentrate. She seems to feel nothing. We have medicines, but they are dangerous ...”

“Well,” Mavin rose. “I will come. No—alone. Beedie, you stay here. I’ll see if I can help her, but I must do it with as few as people around as possible.”

Handbright was lying on a white bed, her legs drawn up, the muscles in her belly writhing, but her face was as calm as a corpse as she sang a little, wordless song. Mavin motioned the women out of the room, asking only the head birther to stay. The place smelled of the sea, salt and wet.

“Tell me what she must do,” she directed the birther, taking Handbright’s head between her hands to make the blind eyes stare into her own. She began to speak. It was the voice she had used in Landizot and in Mip; the voice she had used on the Banders mobs, utterly confident and compelling.

“Handbright. White bird. Shifter. Sister. You have seen birthing before. This is a good child. Like Mertyn, Handbright. Mertyn. Mertyn. A good child. You must save this good child, you must birth it, Handbright. Think.” The birther woman gestured, thrusting down. “Push. Birth the good child.”

Something fled behind Handbright’s eyes, the singing stopped. Mavin went on, demandingly. “Save this good child, Handbright. Concentrate. Push. Think. This is a good baby. Handbright always wanted a baby. Think. The birther says now, Handbright. Push. See. That makes it easier. Now again, push.”

Handbright cried out, a sound completely human rather than the strange birdsongs she had made before. The birther nodded, e ncouraged, and felt the swollen belly. Mavin spoke on, and on, and on.

There was a thin cry, and she looked down to see a wriggling form, all blood and wetness, in the birther’s hands. Sighing, exhausted, she released her sister’s hands and sat back. There was a scurrying. Others came in from the hallway. Handbright cried out once more and the birthers moved even faster around the bed, lifting another child in their hands. Mavin looked on only, bewildered.

“Twins,” cried one. “Twin boys.”

“Ah, now, now,” thought Mavin, tears in her eyes. “One would have been quite enough. More than enough.” She rose unsteadily and went out into the hall, breathing deeply. She had seen death in Handbright’s eyes. If not now, soon. Soon. Well, she could have come more quickly. She could have interfered less in the world’s business and paid more attention to her own. She leaned against the wall, weeping, not knowing Beedie was there until she felt the strong young arms tight around her.

The birther came into the hall, her face strained and tight.

“Never mind,” said Mavin. “I know.”

“She’s asking for you,” the birther said. “She’s come to herself. She’s asked for the babies, too.”

“Well then,” Mavin responded. “Well then.”

She sat in that quiet room for the rest of the day, and most of the day following. The birthers put Handbright’s children on her breasts, though she had no milk for them yet and none of them expected that she would have. Still, she asked to have them. And Mavin. She talked of Mertyn and their mother. And died, lying quietly there with the babies in her arms.

The Birders came the next day, expecting to send Handbright’s body to the Boundless. Mavin told them it had already gone.

“What are their names?” asked Beedie, poking one of the babies with her strong, Bridger fingers to make it smile.

“Swolwys and Dolwys,” said Mavin. “Dolwys has hair that is a little darker, I think.”

“Will you let me have them?” asked Beedie, all in a rush. “Me and Roges. We decided together we’d like to have them. We’ll have some of our own, too, of course, but we’d like very much to raise Handbright’s sons.”

“No, sausage girl. You’ll have enough of your own to keep you busy. These are my own kin, my own Shifty kin, and they will need to be reared by those who understand our ways. I’ll take them with me, as soon as they are a tiny bit older and able to travel.”

“How will you carry them, Mavin? How can you manage with two?”

“I’ll manage,” she said. “I’ll figure out a way.”

It was in the summer season that the people of Battlefox the Bright Day, a Shifter demesne on the high downs of the shadowmarches, looked out across the p’natti to see a great beast. The beast would not have been considered extraordinary by any Shifters’ demesne. Shape and size and aspect are all infinitely variable in Shifters’ lives, and they are not surprised by fur or wing or feather. Still, there was something surprising about this beast: the red-haired twin boys who rode upon its back.

The beast opened its mouth and bellowed, “Plandybast!” at which one of the inhabitants of Battlefox Demesne trembled with mixed apprehension and delight.

By the time he had threaded his way through the p’natti, Mavin stood there in her own shape, holding her toddlers by their hands. “Plandybast,” she said. “Thalan. My mother’s brother. You told me once Handbright would have been welcome at Battlefox Demesne. Tell me now that her sons are equally welcome!”

After which was a time of general rejoicing, story-telling, lying, and welcoming home. Plandybast’s half sister, Itter, had left the Demesne long before and was believed dead. Mavin sighed with relief and offered polite consolation. Itter had been the one thing she had doubted about Battlefox Demesne. Now there was nothing to doubt, and even Mavin herself felt at home.

Still, in a few seasons, after the babies were accustomed to the place and had found dozens of kin to care for them, she took quiet leave of the demesne.

“Can you tell me why you’re leaving us?” begged Plandybast, who had grown fond of Mavin.

“Oh, thalan, you will think it a silly thing.”

“I would rather be told and think it a silly thing than think myself not worthy of being told.”

“Well then, hear a tale. Some almost twenty years ago, I came w ith Mertyn to Pfarb Durim. He was a child, and so was I, scared as two bunwits in a bush when the fustigars howl. So, we made it up between us I would say I was a servant of a Wizard. Himaggery. Mertyn made up the name.”

Plandybast nodded. “Not a bad stratagem. Wise men don’t fool with Wizards, or the servants of Wizards.”

“That’s what Mertyn thought. So, I told my tale, but during the next few days I came into danger and told my tale to unbelieving ears. Then came one who said, ‘This is my servant, and I am the Wizard Himaggery.’”

“Ah,” said Plandybast.

“And the end of the tale was I sworn him an oath, thalan, that in twenty years time I would come once more to the city of Pfarb Durim, to find him there.”

After a thoughtful silence, “Will you be back for Assembly?”

“Perhaps not then. But I will be back. I’ll be back for the boys when they’re old enough. I want to take them to Schlaizy Noithn myself, if they turn out to be Shifter. If they turn out to be something else—or nothing else—well, I want to decide what should be done in that event.”

“Not the Forgetter?”

“No. Not the Forgetter. We have tried to convince the world we are ... limited, thalan. So they would not fear us, or hate us. We have woven mystifications around us, and the world does not believe them. Shifters are not well liked in the wide world. That being so, why should we commit evil deeds to protect that which can’t be protected?

“Ah, well. I don’t intend to get the demesne in an uproar raising the question now. It’ll be ten years or more before we know what Handbright’s sons will be. It may be best to take them back oversea to their father’s people.”

“Who is their father?” asked Plandybast, curious about this matter for the first time.

Mavin thought briefly she would tell him, “A glue blob in the bottommost lands of a chasm, over the sea.” Instead she contented herself with a larger truth. “A priest,” she said. “A good and kindly if imperfect man.”

She turned when she arrived at the bend in the road beyond which the demesne dissappeared behind the hill. He was waving to her, s miling, weeping a little. Beedie had wept a little, too, and Roges, when she had left them. It was pleasant to be wept over in such kindly fashion.

And the better part of twenty years was gone since she had promised she would keep tryst in Pfarb Durim, twenty years from then.

And the better part of twenty years was gone.

“I am the servant of the Wizard Himaggery,” she hummed, remembering that refrain. “Perhaps. Almost. But not quite yet.”

THE SEARCH OF MAVIN MANYSHAPED

CHAPTER ONE

The season of storms had begun in earnest when Mavis Manyshaped rode down the Ancient Road, beneath the strange arches, toward the city of Pfarb Durim. It was almost twenty years since she had been there last; twenty years since she had promised to come there again. “The Blue Star hangs upon the horns of Zanbee,” she sang to herself, not sure she was remembering it, correctly. It was something Himaggery had said, was it? Something; Wizardry, a specific time which had to do with the season and the arches? The tall horse she rode tiptoed into the shadow of each arch with shivering skin, dancing as he came out again, and she adjusted to this fidgety movement with calm distraction. Twenty years ago they had promised to meet upon the terrace of the hotel Mudgeif Mont in the city. Looking down from this height upon the labyrinth of walls and roofs, she was not sure she could find her way to the hotel. Ah. Yes, there it was. Upon the highest part of the city, almost overlooking the cliff wall. She chirruped to the horse, urging him to stop fidgeting and move along.

Just beyond the last of the Monuments was a small inn, a dozen empty wagons scattered around it, as though parked there until the weather cleared, and a fork in the road with one branch leading down to the town. A distant rumble of thunder drew her attention to the clouds, boiling up into mountainous ramparts over the city, black as obsidian, lit from within by a rage of lightning and from the east by the morning sun. This was the weather during which the Monuments were said to dance. While it was never alleged that they had any malevolent intent, it was true that certain travelers caught on the Ancient Road during storms arrived at Pfarb Durim in no condition to pursue their business. If they had the voice for it, and unfortunately sometimes when they did not, they tended to lie about with unfocused eyes singing long, linear melodies which expressed a voice of disturbing wind. Mavin shivered as the horse had done, encouraging him to make better speed toward the distant gates.

A few she knew of had actually seen the Monuments dance. Blourbast the Ghoul had seen, only to die moments later with Huld’s dagger in his throat. Huld the Demon and Huldra, his sister-wife had seen, as had their mother, Pantiquod the Harpy. Mavin spat to get the memory of them out of her mouth. She had heard they had gone away from Hell’s Maw, left that warren beneath the walls of Pfarb Durim to inhabit another demesne: Bannerwell, beside the flowing river. It was, so her informant had said, a cleaner and more acceptable site for a Gamesman of power. Kings and Sorcerers who could not be enticed to Hell’s Maw for any consideration would plot freely with Huld in Bannerwell. She spat again. The memory of him fouled her mind.