The Chronicles of Mavin Manyshaped (62 page)

The Harpy answered in a toneless voice without pause, “I have questioned Rose-love of Betand.”

“Very well,” said Chamferton. “When you next hear the words ‘Rose-love of Betand,’ your servitude is over and you have my leave to die. Do you understand?”

The Harpy nodded, its pale, pendulous breasts heaving. “When I hear the words ‘Rose-love of Betand,’ I have your leave to die.”

“And you will die then,” said Chamferton. “Quickly and without pain.”

“And I will die then,” agreed the Harpy. “Quickly and without pain.”

Chamferton turned away from the empty-faced creature. “The first thing I must do is obtain my own Face.” Turning to the Harpy, “Go to my Face, Foulitter. Pull the silver spike which holds it to the pole, gently, with your teeth. Bring the Face to me here.”

Without a sound the Harpy walked away to the cliff’s edge and dropped from there on quiet wings to the regiment of pale poles on which the Faces hung. To Mavin, accustomed to the constant cluck and keraw of the Harpies, this quiet evoked more foreboding than sound might have done.

“Is she completely at your command?” Somehow she still doubted this.

“Completely. Though nothing would have put her completely at my command unless she had attempted to injure me first—or had succeeded. There is a rule of Wizardry called the Exception of Innocence. We are not allowed to bind the will of one who has never done us ill or attempted it. It is somewhat inconvenient at times.”

“I can imagine it would be,” she rasped, glad she had done the High Wizard Chamferton only good. “And what of those who have actually helped you, aided you?”

“No true Wizard would be so unmannerly as to enchant one such,” he replied with a smile. It was an ominous smile, for all his appearance of grave, childlike stubbornness. Still, she took it as sufficient encouragement to ask a further question.

“You said something earlier about Dourso having learned only thaumaturgy, gramarye—children’s things. Does that mean such things are not the Talent of Wizards?”

“Such things are not. Such things are mere tricks, like the Faces. They are dependent upon a particular place, perhaps a particular time. Did Dourso tell you about the lake? About the nexus here? Blame my stupidity that I bragged to him about it, crowing at my discovery. The crux of the thaumaturgy lies with the lake, with the forces around it. I chose my demesne because of the forces which are here, not the other way around. Away from this place I am no more or less Wizardly than any of my colleagues. Only this place—and that arrogant aerie built halfway to the clouds—gives me the name ‘High Wizard’.”

“How did you ever learn to ... to do things. Make the faces. Or bind Harpies. Or whatever?” It was hard to think through the pain in her arm, but she doubted that Chamferton would often be so patient with questions.

“I have speculated about that,” he mused. “It is my theory that the forces of the place desire expression. That they, themselves, are my tutors, suggesting to my dream-mind what I should try or do.” He gave her another of those quick, ominous looks. “You have said you are no chatterbird, Mavin, and I rely upon that. I do not want half the world of the True Game camped upon my steps, attempting to learn what I have learned, or—worse—finding out and using it to make more pain and tragedy in this world.”

She returned him an enigmatic smile. She had already given him her word; it was not necessary to give it again. Besides, the sound of wings returning drew their eyes to the cliff edge where Foulitter now perched, her teeth broken and bloody around the silver spike and limp Face she carried. Arkhur took it without a word, carrying it to the stream where he pressed it deep into the chill water to let it dissolve, shuddering slightly as he did so.

“I think the shadowpeople intend to remove more of them,” Mavin remarked, more to break the silence than for any other reason.

“It won’t be necessary,” he growled with sudden determination, shuddering again at the feel of the slimy tissue under his fingers. “There will not be any left after today. I have decided that because a thing can be done is not always reason enough to do it.” He rose from the stream, face pale, a small muscle at the corner of his eye twitching again and again. “Do you have any idea whose Faces he has taken down there? Dare I hope they are mostly villains? Gamesmen Ghouls, perhaps? What of that one the Harpy named? Rose-love of Betand?”

Mavin shook her head, almost sorry to tell him the truth. “I think it unlikely they are Ghouls and villains, Wizard. Rose-love is one of the old women Himaggery brought from Betand, a story-teller. I overhead Dourso say he had taken her Face and killed her doing it. Her sister still lives at the aerie—or did when I was there half a season ago. She, too, is full of old tales. Neither of them were Gameswomen. They were merely ... people.”

“So Dourso has taken Faces from peaceful folk, pawns, perhaps even goodly Gamesmen, Healers and the like?”

“I would not doubt it,” she agreed.

“And some of them have lost life, perhaps much life. Some, like old Rose-love, may have lost all life. Whatever is done must seek to set that right. Certainly whatever is done must not put them at further risk. Ah well. I have my wand. I can do what must be done. However, there is a counter spell, and it may be that Dourso has learned it. His understanding is not great, but his sense of power and treachery are unfailing. If he has learned it, then the Faces would be caught between my power and his, possibly injured or destroyed, and their owners would suffer even more.”

“But you have the wand!”

“The counter spell would not require a wand though perhaps he does not know it. Would you risk that?”

Mavin thought of the Faces as she had seen them first in moonlight, unconscious, taken from who knew what persons abroad in the world. “No,” she admitted. “I wouldn’t risk hurting them any more. Not if there were some other way.”

“We will think of some other way. Perhaps we can lure Dourso away from here, back to the aerie, leaving me here alone for a short time ... Yes. Back to the aerie with Valdon. Hmmm. Let me think on that.”

He strode away toward the cliff top, ignoring the Harpy half crouched there, her nipples almost brushing the ground. The Harpy’s face was not unlike those on the poles, blind and unaware, yet full of some enormous potential which was almost palpable. In this case, the potential was for evil, thought Mavin, turning her back on the creature, trying not to vomit at the sight of her. Her arm throbbed and she was full of pain and hunger and annoyance. Waiting on another to take action was foreign to her nature, and she fought down her irritation. She should be away from here, searching for Himaggery.

“Searching for Himaggery,” she snarled. “I have done nothing else since first arriving at Pfarb Durim.”

A tug at her leg made her look down into Proom’s face, wrinkled with concern. Was she sick, unhappy, miserable? Poor Mavin. What would Mavin do now?

“I’m hungry,” she announced, rubbing her stomach and miming eating motions. “Let’s have breakfast.”

He was immediately ready for a feast, slipping away full of song to summon the others. It was not long before they had a fire going, hidden behind piled stones, with chunks of mushroom broiling. Someone had brought in a dozen large, speckled eggs. Surprisingly they were fresh, probably purloined from some farmyard. When the High Wizard finished his solitary walk and sought them out, they were fully engaged in breakfast with little enough left for him.

“I have a plan,” he said.

Mavin nodded, her mouth full. She would listen, the nod said, but she didn’t feel it necessary to stop chewing.

“You will go to the aerie,” he said, ticking this point off on one palm with a bony finger. “Seek the Healer. Tell the ones there you have been Harpy bit, need Healing, and have a message for the High Wizard Chamferton—his demesne is threatened from the north. That should get their attention. Someone there will know where the supposed High Wizard is. Insist that a message be sent immediately. Can you ride horseback?” 

The question seemed a meaningless interpolation, and it took her a moment to respond. “After a fashion. Why?”

“There is a farm a little east of here where you can borrow an animal in my name. Ride hard as you can to get to the aerie by early afternoon. They will send a messenger back here—to my loving brother, Dourso—that messenger arriving by evening. If the message is properly portentous, Dourso will leave here at once for the aerie, arriving there about midnight. It may be Valdon will go as well, but in any case Dourso will go. That will be enough for my purposes.”

“What am I to do there? Merely wait? Or depart again?”

“Well, you are to find the Healer, as I said. You must not let that Harpy bite go untended. The mouths of the creatures are poisonous as serpents’. It is not precisely venom which they hold, but some other foulness which comes from the filth they eat when they are in Harpy shape.

“So, you find the Healer, in private, and tell her I sent you. Say ‘Arkhur’ so she will know which Wizard you speak of. After she has healed you, secret yourself somewhere within sight of the aerie. It may be you will want to see the end of this matter.”

“How will I know when that is?”

“You’ll know,” he said in a flat, emotionless voice. “You will know.” He pulled her to her feet and pointed the direction to the farm he had mentioned. She wiped one hand upon her trousers, cradling the other in her shirt, and awkwardly tied back her hair. Proom had his head cocked in question, and she nodded to him. Yes. She wanted the shadowpeople to come with her. No further word or action was needed. They were packed and ready to go within moments.

She found the farm without trouble. The farm wife heard her out, then went to the paddock and whistled to a sleek brown horse which came to her hand, nuzzling her and her pockets.

“Prettyfoot,” cooed the wife. “Will she carry the nice lady and her pet? Hmmm? High Wizard wants us to help the nice lady. Will Prettyfoot do that? Oh, wuzzums, she will, won’t she?”

Mavin stared in astonishment at this, but Proom—the only one of the shadowpeople to have accompanied her into the yard—stood nose to nose with Prettyfoot and seemed to sort the matter out. The farm wife went so far as to try to pet him. Proom growled deep in his throat, and her gesture became a quick pat of Prettyfoot instead.

“She’ll go best for you at an easy jog,” she said, suddenly all business. “Not fast, but steady. When you’re arrived where you’re going, turn her loose and she’ll find her way back to me. I trust you not to abuse her, woman, you and your pet. The High Wizard has not often asked a favor before, though we owe him much at this farmstead.”

Mavin promised, helped with the saddle and bridle, and got herself and Proom astride, Proom bounding up and down behind her, making her dizzy by tugging at her sides. Then they were away, and Mavin merely sat still while Prettyfoot jogged off toward the north, tirelessly, and happily for all Mavin could tell. They stopped briefly only once, to drink from a streamlet they crossed, and it was still early afternoon when she saw an aerie towering above a low hill. If she were to talk of threats from the north, she would have to arrive from the north, so she circled widely to the east before dismounting, tying the reins loosely to the saddle and patting Prettyfoot on her glossy flanks. The little horse shook her head and cantered back the way she had come, seemingly still untired. Mavin memorized the animal’s shape. It was one she thought she might have use for in the future.

She left Proom in the trees with a stern injunction to stay where he was. Previous experience had taught her to verify this, and she walked part of the distance to the tower backwards, making sure he was not following her. She had no doubt the rest of his family would be with him by the time she returned. If she were able to return. She was staggering rather badly, and her arm felt like a stone weight.

The fortress was as she had seen it last, brooding upon its high plinth, the sun flashing from the narrow windows, the stairway making a pit of darkness into the stone. She approached it as she had before, hammering upon the heavy door with her good hand, hearing the blammm, blammm, blammm echo up the stony corridors within. It was some time before there were other sounds, pattering, creaking, and then the squeak of a peephole opening like an eyelid in the massive wood.

“I come with an important warning for the High Wizard Chamferton,” she intoned in her most officious voice, somewhat handicapped by the fact that the world was whirling around her. “Tell him Mavin is here.”

“Babble babble, Wizard not at home, babble, grumph, go away.”

“When he learns you have disregarded my warning, he will want to know the name of the person who told me to go away. I have no doubt he will repay you properly.” She saw two faces at the peek hole but knew there was only one person there. She held up one finger and saw two. “Healer,” she begged silently. “Please be at home.”

Scuttle from inside, a whiny voice trailing away into distant silence, then the approach of heavier feet. “What do you want?”

“I bring a warning for the High Wizard. First, however, I must make use of his Healer.”

The door creaked reluctantly open. “High Wizard isn’t here.”

“The High Wizard is somewhere,” Mavin snarled. “I have no doubt you know where to find him. Best you do so very quickly. Before giving the message, however, I need to see the Healer. Now!”

Orders were shouted in a surly voice. A search took place. There was running to and fro and disorderly complaints. “Is she in the orchard? Beggle says look in the melon patch. Get Wazzle to come up here.”

Mavin sat herself wearily. The world kept fading and returning. At last they found her. Mavin retreated with her into the privacy of a side room, pulling the door firmly shut behind her.

“Harpy bit?” the Healer questioned. “Nasty. Here, give me your hand.”

“Arkhur sent me,” whispered Mavin, dizzy, distracted, sure there were ears pressed to the door.

“Ahhh,” murmured the Healer, gratified and moist about the eyes. “Is he well?”

“Now he is. Now that his Face is taken down from its pole.”