Up the bank and away then, straight through brambles, tickberries, handshake thorns, places where dogs will not go. This dog will. Bushes crash and crackle behind me—a whine for a thorn, another long bell for a poor little fox that never harmed him, and here he comes, here he comes with the first thunder baying on his heels. But I am already among the plowed fields, flying over cart-ruts, jinking this way, that way across terraces, grape arbors—hoho, I run like what I eat, how not, only better. Nobody runs like me.
More thunder, closer than he is, but not loud enough. Under all the rattling and groaning, always his breath, wind in hard lost places. And now the rain. Thunder is nothing, but this rain smashes me down, rolls me in muddy smashed cornstalks—and always, heavier, colder than the rain, his gray breath over me, inside me. On my feet in one breath of my own, never fear, and gone for the deep trees off to the right. Never look back, what for? Rabbits never look back at me. Down beyond those trees an orchard, and beyond orchard the inn, where nice old twinkly grandsirs find shelter from storms under Ma-rinesha’s skirts. Catch me there, wicked dog with no smell, catch me there.
But something happens. Nothing happens. In and out of wild trees, orchard flashes past, inn is no closer. How is this? I can see it, even through wind and rain and mist—see chimneys, courtyard, bathhouse, stable, even my nice tree, branches blowing against women’s window. I run and I run, should be there three times over now, but no running to the moon, no reaching the inn. Dog bays on my left—I swing away toward the town, double back in a little. But each time I try, the inn is further away, dog a bit nearer, and my fur wetter, dragging at my legs. Nobody runs like me, but nobody runs forever.
Rabbits don’t look back. People look back. Under a tall tree, I turn and take the man-shape at last—what dog would ever hunt man-shape like a poor fox? This dog. Out of the mist and rain, now I see him, all howling jaws, wet teeth, stupid long ears, coming through the storm like a fire on four feet. Yes, yes, and so much for human mastery. Two bounds, welcome back my own four feet, off again where he wants me to go, straight for the town. No catching me, no escaping him.
The storm blows by us, dog and me, as we run, back toward the bad country where Mildasis live. Mist thins, thunder mumbles itself away over the rooftops, last lightning is lost in noonday sun. I remember a stone culvert, small, small culvert, drains slops from the marketplace, too narrow for a great ugly dog like this dog—howl for me there all day and night, he can. Best speed now, no chance for him to head me away. Sweet me, best speed now.
But the culvert is running like a river, rainwater surging high up the sides. I see dark dead things spinning past— rats, birds, me if I jump down there. No time to think, yes, no, time only for one lovely sailing leap, so pretty, a fox-fish, swimming in the air. Down and gone then, and one bark later his clumsy feet booming behind me again. Nothing for it but the market—nothing but a basket, a heap of cabbages, a turned-over barrow, any earth for such a tired little fox with his muddy tail dragging on the ground.
Empty market, everyone still hiding from the storm. Dirty canvas over all the barrows, awnings sagging with rain. I look left, right, a fruitstall, ten strides and a scramble to a hamper half full of squashy green things. Almost through the scramble, and a hand clenches the back of my neck—hard, hard, hurting, nobody touches me like that, even Nyateneri. I turn in my skin, jaws snapping on nothing. Another hand clamps across my hips, both hands lift me high, holding me stretched out like a dead rabbit. But my teeth are alive, and this time they take a mouthful of wet sleeve and a bony wrist between them, my beautiful teeth. A voice without words speaks my name, and I am so still, nice teeth not closing, not even loosening a thread. I know this voice. I know this voice.
The hands turn me, one lets go. I hang in the air before his face, and I do not move. Nyateneri would not know him. Lal would not know him. He is gray, gray everywhere, all the way through—bones, blood, heart, all gray. Gray as rain, thin as rain, too, clothes so ragged and wet he might as well be wearing rain. They would never know him. But he is who he is all the same, somewhere in one place that is not yet gray, and I wait for him to tell me that I can move.
After a long time, he says my name again, in a human voice now. Nyateneri knows my name, but never speaks it, never. He says, “You put me to much trouble. You always did.”
Dog. No dog anywhere—no feet thumping forever after me, no cold empty breath. I say, very small, “The dog with no smell. You.”
He laughs then, tries to laugh, that way of his, but it comes out like blood. “No, no, no, you were always a flatterer, too. The storm, yes, I can still manage a bit of a storm for a bit, but no more shape-shifting, never again. No, the dog was just part of the storm, like the illusion of the inn, and all that was only to drive you here to me. A troublesome business, too, as I said. You have grown strong and clever, while I have been busy growing old.”
Long ago, long ago, longer than Nyateneri knows, he never needed hands to hold me, phantoms to call me to his will. I say, “Flattery yourself. What do you want of me?”
I feel the trembling as he sets me down gently. He looks around, still no market folk returning, crouches before me. “Lal,” he says. “Nyateneri. A few miles only, but I am too sick, too weary to go to them. Help me, take me there.”
No command, a request only, a kindness to an old— what? friend? colleague? companion? I have none. “Why do you bother with me? You are a magician, you can call storms and storm-dogs to hound a poor fox to your feet. Call one now to carry you where you want to go. Call a sheknath.”
Rags already steaming in the sunlight, he is still shaking, holding himself. “That was the last of my strength, that show, and well you know it. Take your human form, little one, just for a while. I need an arm, a shoulder, nothing more.”
“Walk,” I say. “Fly. If I were a magician, I would fly everywhere.” I sit back on my haunches, smile at him. Nothing nice like this for days, not since the pigeons.
Two children run through the market, stop to splash in the puddles. He sinks back behind a pile of boxes, lets his gray breath out. I think he could not get up if he had to. He says, “Please. What hounds me is real and near. It must not find me in this place. Only take me to Nyateneri, to my Lal. You know who is asking you.”
Better and better. “And who am I to make an enemy of your enemy? A simple fox, corn in the mill between two great wizards? Not for me, thank you, my master.” And I turn away, a fox in the sunlight, looking for a place to curl up sweetly and nibble the mud-clumps out of his tail.
O, never take your eyes off them, not while they breathe, never do that. No hand on me this time, but the terrible bite of a magician’s will: snap, my poor neck again, shake almost to break my back, and bang, down among the boxes beside him, whining for breath. He leans over me, says in my head, “Make one sound, one miserable whimper. You know who is asking you.” Voices now, wheels on stone, rattle of awnings as people begin opening their stalls. He huddles even lower, nothing but gray rags to look at him. “Take the form,” he says. “As you are wise.”
Who thinks of me? No one thinks of me. Save their manners, their honesty for others, strangers, never for me. I say to him, “You said your strength was gone. Liar. Ask a favor, then kill me for saying no. Old, hunted, alone, no wonder.”
Again the red ghost of that laugh, making my fur rise and my ears flatten back. “And no wonder you are still a fox, still, after so long and long a time, so much subtle knowing. Don’t you ever ponder on it, why you should still be a fox?” Footsteps, heavy, this is my fruitstall, same stamping as fat innkeeper’s feet. “Now—take the form!” and man-shape stands up among the broken boxes, lifting a gray beggar in its arms. Just so he held me, a few moments before, but I am more gentle. As I must be.
Fruitstall man gapes, scratches his head. Wants to roar, but at what? Nice old blue-eyed uncle helping nice old smelly unfortunate? Stands there making funny small sounds as man-shape bears its helpless burden past. Man-shape smiles, nods, human to understanding human. Burden snatches a handful of dried apricots from a jar as we go by.
He makes man-shape carry him all the way through the marketplace, eyes closed, face hidden in rags. Much sympathy, ever so much fluttering, so many anxious questions for man-shape. “No, no, he will recover, only a little care and patience, as we all need. No, no, thank you, righteousness is never heavy. Gracious concern, decency, very kind, thank you, thank you.” A few coins, even, pushed nobly into man-shape’s fingers, coat pockets. Small coins.
On the road out of town now, and he says, “I can walk, perhaps a little. Help me walk.” An arm around man-shape’s neck, full weight on the shoulder, easier carrying him. “You marvel at what has become of me. How I could have come to such a state.” Sees me more interested in track of a starik at last on the damp ground, more curious about frogs in the ditches—same ditch, two frogs, one green and delicious, one red-brown, nasty taste, why is this? His smile, as torn as his clothing. “Well, you are a wise fox, and no mistake. I have ill-used and insulted you—forgive me if you can.” I do not forgive, I do not speak to him, all the miles to the inn, but he has fainted by then, so he never knows.
TIKAT
Of course I knew him. With that red soldier’s coat of his and that way he had of walking—two steps forward, the third just a bit to the side—the distance didn’t matter, nor that his face was half-hidden by the ragged man in his arms. I dropped my basket at Rosseth’s feet (we were gathering windfalls and acorns for the hogs) and set off running.
I met him in the courtyard. The dogs were all barking madly, swirling around his ankles, and Gatti Jinni was shouting at them from a window. As I drew near, he set the ragged man on his feet, holding him up with an arm around his waist. The man sagged over his arm, coughing. He was very old, far older than my redcoated friend, and the sound of those coughs told me that there was no strength left in him, none at all. I thought he was dying. Redcoat looked at me over his head and said in the quick, shrill bark I knew, “My horse-thieving colleague. How pleasant to see you again.”
“The Mildasis didn’t get you,” I said. Lame, if you like, but what would you have said to a person who had last brought you your breakfast in his teeth? He showed them now, white as I remembered. “Would you be feeding and currying a little gray horse if they had? Look sharp, boy, here’s a friend for the ladies.” I went slowly to him, and he let the old man fall against me. When I lifted him the heaviness of him amazed me, and even frightened me somewhat, for he should have weighed nothing at all, as little flesh as covered his fragile bones. But my knees bent under those bones all the same, and I staggered a step forward, which made Redcoat laugh mightily. I would have fallen—I’ll tell you straight—but he gripped my shoulders and set me upright again.
“More to him than there seems, aye? Well, the old surprise us betimes, fellow thief. This one, now, his bones are full of darkness and his blood’s thick and cold with ancient wisdom, mysteries. Weighs a deal, that sort of thing—wears a man out just taking himself from place to place.” So he buzzed and chuckled while I strained to carry the old man as far as the inn door, where Gatti Jinni stood blinking slack-mouthed. I was grateful when Rosseth came up and helped me, never saying a word.
Karsh came out then. He pushed Gatti Jinni aside and stood scowling as we danced the poor creature along like a cumbersome piece of furniture. Behind me, Redcoat was still laughing: the sound of it prickled in my palms. Karsh looked at Rosseth, not at me. He never looked straight at me.
“Another one,” he said. As sad for myself as I woke and worked and slept each day then, for that moment I pitied Rosseth with my whole heart, to be hearing that slow, offended voice every day of his life. Yet one thing I also realized was that in his own heart Rosseth did not hear Karsh at all. He heard the voice, the orders; he was always respectful, always responsible, quick and keen to jump to any task—but there was a way in which he always eluded his master, just as the words to say how it was escape me. Karsh knew it, too—you could see that he knew, and that he didn’t like it. I do not believe that Rosseth knew that.
Now he only shook his head and answered cheerfully, “Not one of mine this time, sir, but a visitor to see Mistress Lal and Mistress Nyateneri. We’ll take him to their room and let him rest there till they return.” He nodded to me, and we began dragging and pushing the half-conscious old man toward the inn once again.
Karsh grunted and spat. He made no move to interfere, but stared hard at us with his pale eyes as we struggled by him. We had reached the threshold when he said, not loudly but very clearly, “A visitor, is it? More likely another body for the tickberry patch.” I did not understand what he meant, but the color came up in Rosseth’s neck. He called for Gatti Jinni to come and help us, but Gatti Jinni had faded away into one of the musty places he knew. So we got the old man up the stairs by ourselves.
I had thought I could go in. I knew that the room would smell of her, and that it might be hard to look at the bed where she slept and wonder if someone who had been dead could ever dream of someone living. But I had no more than lifted the latch and pushed the door an arm’s-length open when I saw the velvet sash hanging across the back of a chair. It was the sash I had traded my first real woven cloth for at Limsatty Fair; it was the sash she was wearing when she drowned. I shut the door and turned away.
Rosseth meant to be gentle. He said, “Tikat, they left by moonlight, they’ll be gone all day. She—Lukassa—she isn’t in there.” I remember that he flushed again when he said her name. Trying so hard to spare others’ feelings must be very embarrassing, I suppose.
“I’ll send Marinesha up,” I said. “I am sorry.” Then I ran back down the stairs as though all the beasts out of my walking nightmares in the Northern Barrens were after me together, so fast that I stumbled and fell to my knees in the courtyard. If Karsh had been there still, he would have split his fat belly with laughing, and well enough I would have deserved it. But I had suddenly come to the end of my tracking at that door. I had followed Lukassa through deserts, forests, across rivers and mountains, tracing out every least shadow of a memory of her passage that all these had kept for me—but into that room I would not follow, not if my one love stood beckoning in the doorway, no more, no. “Let her come to me if she will,” I said to the dusty chickens clucking and scattering all around. “She must come to me.”
And a foolish vow that was, as you will see—aye, and unkind as well, for all the while I yet believed her to be under a spell that kept her from knowing me. But I was very weary—I’ll say that much for myself—and very angry, and full of despair; and just then, there on my knees, I did not love anyone, and I never had.
MARINESHA
If it hadn’t been for Tikat, I would have gotten through that entire week without breaking a single plate. Oh, that may sound very silly to you, but you might not feel like that if Karsh were always after you about accidents and clumsiness and all kinds of things you couldn’t possibly help. And I’d managed, in spite of his nagging and his sneaking up on me and shouting—I mean, if that wouldn’t make you drop something—I’d managed not even to chip so much as a teacup or a panikin all week, even with all the hullabaloo that was going on about those stupid pigeons; and then here comes Tikat calling for me when I’m not in the least expecting it, in that nice rough country voice of his that never got my name quite right, and of course I dropped the porringer, who wouldn’t? And of course I turned right around and slapped him—he understood that. Tikat was a gentleman, I don’t care where he came from.
“I’m sorry, Marinesha,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just came to say Rosseth wants you upstairs.”
