Magic Casement (28 page)

And
Rap had evidently concealed his momentary horror, because Little Chicken had
not noticed it. “Clover Scent!” he added, and sighed with pleasure.

Any
Change of subject was welcome. “Clover Scent?” Rap asked shakily.

“Also
today I marry Clover Scent! I give her bits of you for wedding present. “

Rap
did not ask which bits, and the prospect put his companion back on his grisly
litany again. Rap scanned with farsight and detected a very young girl being
groomed in the single women’s hut.

But
now the contestants were almost ready. The old hags produced thick fur mitts
for them; then fur shoes of a type Rap had not seen before. They seemed
impractical garments, cut low on the ankle, useless in snow, but they were
enough to tell him what the testing would involve and why he, a nongoblin, was
preferred to the smaller Cheep-Cheep and Fledgling Down.

Little
Chicken watched him work it out and grinned.

The
mitts and shoes would be worn to prevent fingers and toes falling off, and soon
earmuffs appeared as well. But there would be no other garments except the
usual loincloths.

A
strong stud makes a strong foal-Rap had heard that at least once a day from old
Honinin for years. Darad had said the goblins weeded out their weaklings, and
obviously they bred their men to be resistant to cold.

“Very
cold day, Flat Nose. Bad wind.”

The
feasting ended; the villagers and their guests came streaming out into the
fading twilight and the bad wind. It was a very bad wind, swirling the snow
around the compound and streaming the smoke from the chimneys. The cold was so
intense that the snow creaked underfoot. Even the goblins did not like it, and
the children had been wrapped in furs as well as their usual buckskins. The
spectators huddled together, more in bunches than in an even circle, waiting to
view the contest. They stamped their feet and grumbled, and their breath was
whipped away in quick white clouds.

In
the center of the circle lay a tree trunk, and the sight of it gave Rap the
last clue he needed as he was led forward, swathed in a thick fur cape. Even
with that, he was shivering. The wind stung his bare ankles with gritty snow
and bit his face. It was hard to breathe in such cold; his eyes watered, his
nose streamed, and the mucus froze on his stubble. He cringed at the knowledge
that he was surely going to be stripped of the cape very shortly and he
wondered whether the resulting torture of the wind could be very much less than
what Little Chicken would do to him afterward.

Yes,
it could. His best strategy was to hang on as long as possible and hope to
freeze to death.

“Just
hold your end up,” Darad had said.

Little
Chicken marched to one end of the tree trunk; Rap was directed to the other-the
thicker, heavier end, of course. Four men advanced to lift the log, and Rap
wondered whether he would be able to support the load at all, even without the
cold to worry about. He looked down the horrible length of it-rough bark and
nasty stubs of branches sticking out at intervals. The men stooped and heaved,
and up it came, caked still with snow on its underside.

Then
his cape was snatched away and the sudden impact of the air on his skin was
worse than being plunged into ice water. He gasped with the pain of it and saw
Little Chicken enjoying his reaction. At once he was pushed forward, under the
end of the tree trunk, and the men lowered it. Sharp, hard bark bit into his
shoulder, the weight almost buckled his knees, and he scrabbled for a grip with
his fur mitts.

Little
Chicken took hold of a convenient stub of branch. There was no such handhold at
Rap’s end, so he had less leverage to work with-High Raven had missed no
bets at all. The goblin gripped firmly and stepped back, pulling.

Rap
had not been prepared to do anything but take the weight. The sudden jerk
almost pulled the log off his shoulder. He stumbled forward and started to fold
under that monstrous load, then straightened up with a huge effort, ripping
skin from his shoulder in the process. Little Chicken grinned happily and
pushed; Rap staggered backward, and again almost fell. The spectators cheered
and shouted ribald comments.

Obviously
anything went in this game, but after those two playful attempts Little Chicken
gave up his efforts to dislodge Rap’s grip-he would spoil the fun if he
succeeded. He spread his feet, steadied the log with one hand, and put the
other on his hip in a show of bravado. Then he just stood and smiled, waiting
for the cold to do its work.

The
spectators were silent now, hunching their shoulders against the wind, stamping
their feet in the snow, waiting also. Small children fretted. Dogs sniffed
curiously around the visitors’ ankles. Wraiths of snow circled across the
compound and the chimney smoke hurried away.

They
would not have to wait long. Rap could feel the life draining out of him. It
could only be a few minutes before his body temperature fell to the point at
which he would faint. Or else he would simply drop the log, for his muscles
were leaping in uncontrollable spasms, his legs trembling violently; he could
hardly stop his knees from buckling. His teeth were rattling, his skin turning
white. Soon he would be as pale as a jotunn. He tried a quick heave on the log
and it was immovable. Little Chicken did not even have to raise his spare hand
to steady it, nor move his feet. His grin was growing wider and wider as he
watched Rap weaken. Another couple of minutes ought to do it.

Rap
recalled his vision of the old woman warning him not to harm Little Chicken,
and thought that ought to be funny, somehow.

What
use was a word of power here? What use stubbornness?

What
use was Rap going to be to Inos, who would be robbed of her throne because he
had failed in his attempt to warn her? Why did his talent have to be farsight,
instead of physical strength or stamina, or Andor’s irresistible guile?
Only farsight and a knack for horses...

Or
dogs! Rap uttered a silent scream. He felt Fleabag’s equally silent
bristle of alarm from somewhere in the crowd. Either the light was fading much
faster than usual or Rap was on the point of fainting, for dark waves were
surging across the compound.

Little
Chicken had raised his free hand back to the log, so he was probably about to
try another push, or a pull, and that would be the end-Rap was barely able to
keep upright standing still. The slightest jerk would fell him.

Fleabag!
Help!

Just
for devilment, Little Chicken gave the trunk a quick twist. The bark scraped on
Rap’s shoulder. He was too numb to feel much pain, but also too numb to react
properly, and the log almost rolled off. He recovered and sent a desperate
appeal to Fleabag, a picture, directions...

The
waves of blackness were coming faster, making rushing sounds like water on the
shingle at Krasnegar. The compound rose and fell, flickering now. The end was
very close. Little Chicken could tell. He began rocking the log to and fro
gently, amusing both himself and the audience by watching how Rap tilted to and
fro beneath it, his legs locked, his eyes barely open, his breath coming in
short gasps. The swings began to grow larger, to and fro... Which way would Rap
fall?

Fleabag!

A
dog as large as a full-grown timber wolf came racing across the compound at
full wolf speed, heading for Rap. As it passed Little Chicken it veered unexpectedly,
careering into the backs of his knees. Dog and boy and log collapsed in a heap.
Rap staggered wildly, but he had managed to hold up his end of the tree for an
instant longer than Little Chicken had. The other . end had fallen first. Then
he toppled into the fur robe that was thrown around him. Waiting hands snatched
him up and rushed him to the lodge for treatment. Fleabag slunk away, looking
confused. The spectators burst into noisy debate as they streamed off in search
of warmth.

Little
Chicken was left where he was, prostrate on the snow, beating one fist against
the log in fury and weeping bitter tears that froze before they reached his
chin.

Barely
conscious, Rap was carried into the communal cabin, and there blacked out
completely from the shock of sudden warmth. But the women were experienced in
dealing with cases of severe exposure and they had their remedies ready. In a
few minutes he became aware of their attentions, and of a large audience, also.

Not
all the torture of the goblins’ testing was reserved for the loser.
Repeatedly he recovered consciousness and fainted again from the agonies as his
limbs and body thawed, as he was compelled to move when he wanted to die, as
hot fluids were forced down a tube into his stomach. He was massaged and rubbed
and pummeled. Yet he hung on stubbornly to the thought that he was enduring
this in public, and goblins admired courage. More important, he thought that
Little Chicken would be watching. So he choked back the screams, to sweat and
shudder through his ordeal in jaw-clenched silence.

The
faintness passed in time, but he was left dazed and confused by shock and by
the potions that had been forced into him. He was vaguely aware of voices
asking what man-name he would take and he heard his own sniggering reply that
Flat Nose was fine. He barely registered that they spent a long time working on
his face.

Finally
the mists inside his head began to clear and he found himself sitting on the
men’s platform around the central hearth in the big house. He was the
only one on it, as if he were a king on his throne. The building was packed
with residents and guests--men and boys in their usual shameless state of
undress, women and girls swathed like tents-all standing or sitting six or
eight deep around the walls, leaving a vacant space in the center of the room,
between the two hearths. The great fire was blistering his back and the smoke
billowed low overhead like a ceiling.

He
squirmed as he realized that he was thus on display while wearing nothing but a
loincloth. Then he saw that the empty floor in front of him was not quite
empty. His long shadow jiggled and danced on it, while sitting cross-legged in
the center and deliberately placed in that shadow was Little Chicken, face
expressionless, stoically awaiting his fate. His long queue, of which he had
been so proud, had been hacked off at the roots, and he was wearing nothing at
all. In mixed company? The shock of that discovery was enough to jerk Rap out
of his confused lethargy. He looked around.

That
was the signal. High Raven came strutting forward, his bears’-tooth
collar clicking, his rope of gray hair hanging down over his paunch. He also
wore a ceremonial cap of black feathers with a high-curved raven’s beak,
sticking out above eyes that glittered in the firelight, full of hate and fury.

He
raised his arms and bowed low. “Hail to Flat Nose of the Raven Totem! “

The
audience echoed him. “Hail to Flat Nose of the Raven Totem!”

Rap
had no idea what was expected of him, so he staggered to his feet. He was at
once embraced by High Raven in a hug made slippery and smelly by their mutual
coatings of bear grease.

“High
Raven honors his son, Flat Nose!” High Raven embraced him again.

Two
younger men came forward, looking no happier, and also embraced Rap-Dark Wing
and Raven Claw. These were Little Chicken’s brothers and now apparently
Rap’s, also, but the words and gestures of welcome stopped short of their
eyes.

Then
the new member of the family was presented with gifts--a ceremonial stone
dagger and a complete set of buckskins, from boots to hood. Obviously these had
been prepared in advance for Little Chicken. Equally obviously, some words were
then expected from Rap, so he stammered that he was honored to be admitted to
Raven Totem and the beadwork on the clothes was the finest he had ever seen.
Then he ran out of ideas.

But
apparently he was performing satisfactorily, for now the visiting chiefs were
brought forward to be introduced-Death Hug of the Bear Totem, Many Needles of
the Porcupines, and a couple of others. None of them was bothering to conceal
his amusement at the way High Raven had outsmarted himself and lost a promising
son. They were laughing at their host, and that humiliation was likely hurting
him more than any regrets he had for Little Chicken.

Each
chief said a few words, and Rap soon gathered that the inexplicable assistance
he received from Fleabag was being regarded as divine intervention, which
explained why Little Chicken was not howling for a rematch. Rap thought of the
strange old woman he had seen. Chosen one... he is precious? Her prophecies had
not come true. Obviously she had been nothing but a delusion.

The
last of the honored visitors returned to his seat. So far, so good! Rap was
beginning to feel more like himself, his head was clearing, and now he was
apparently a goblin in good standing. He wondered if he could obtain assistance
for his journey south. He could dream again of reaching Kinvale! And after he
had given Inos her warning, he might even manage to track down Darad and gain
revenge.

His
pleasant speculations were shattered when the next stage of the program turned
out to be a wedding. He had forgotten young Clover Scent, but now she was led
forward, swathed from crown to toes. She stood in expectant silence, eyes
downcast, only her rather dull and plain face visible in her wimple. Her name
was inappropriate. She looked much too young to be a bride, but under the gown
she had a very promising figure, soft and rounded, yet youthfully firm. Rap had
now accepted that he knew what people looked like inside their clothes. He just
couldn’t help knowing.

But
he did not want a goblin wife.

How
should he address High Raven? “Honored Father,” he stammered “I
must soon go away. The way of my people is to have but one wife...”