The Feast of the Trickster

  TWO

  The Star Sower had done her work with a prodigal hand, Vihena thought as she sat in the cold starlight of the desert night. She had volunteered for the night watch because it was one of the few duties within Clan Khesst that permitted solitude. Not that the Clan wouldn't understand if she said she needed to be by herself—but to have to suffer their curious glances was more than she could bear.

  Why were things so complicated? Before she came to the desert, she had pined for the freedom of the sands, for a world where she could pursue her Weapons Discipline, hone her skill and speed in the hiss and clash of swordplay. She had longed to wear anonymous desert robes when she slunk around the City dressed as a boy: the notorious hoyden of House Moirre, of whom rumors whispered that even her vast dowry could not buy her a husband. It was true that life with Clan Khesst had freed her from the City's contempt, but the desert was not the paradise of which she had dreamed. And now, with Tedevarr courting her, life was awkward at best.

  Tedevarr was a good man, kind to his hound and his horses; he liked children; he was almost her match at the sword. But she didn't love him. When Vihena had told this to her foster mother, Emirri had laughed.

  "Love? I didn't think you had any soft City-notions left in you, foster daughter," Emirri had said. "When you have his child at your breast, you will understand. Marry him, Vihena, and bear many strong sons. You have my blessing."

  Vihena had responded with what was in her heart. "I don't want your blessing, foster mother. I don't want to marry him."

  Emirri had gestured in disgust. "What is wrong with you? He would make you a fine husband. He is good to look at, strong and kind, rich—not the richest in the Clan, but no pauper. He has no vices—he doesn't even gamble!—and he is fond of you. Vihena, what do you want in a man?"

  "I don't know—but not Tedevarr."

  "The Trickster's hand is in this," Emirri said.

  That had angered Vihena. "It is not! It's my own perversity—not hers!" In a gentler voice she added, "Emirri. Foster mother, can't you let me be young and confused?"

  The older woman had taken Vihena's face in her hands. "Be young and confused if you must, Vihena, but don't be a fool. Don't refuse him until you've really, really thought." Then she had turned away. Vihena was still no closer to an answer. Am I mad, she thought, not to want him?

  Not mad. Contrary—indeed yes—but not mad.

  The answering thought catapulted Vihena into memories. Ychass, the shapeshifter—one of 'Tsan's impossible companions—had communicated thus, with the voice of her thoughts. Vihena and the shapeshifter had not begun the journey as friends, but 'Tsan's gift had knit them closer than kin. It had been harder than Vihena had anticipated to stay with her adopted clan when she realized it meant leaving at least two of her companions behind. The Khedathi were enemies of the shapeshifters, whom they viewed with deep contempt, and Remarr would not remain among the desert clan that had cast him out.

  'Tsan. Vihena smiled sadly at the memory. What a time that had been; the world hung in the balance, and the six of them—'Tsan, Vihena, Ychass, Remarr, and the Orathi twins Iobeh and Karivet—had tipped the scales. It had been the first time anyone had made her feel important, unique in a good way. It had been heady indeed to have friends who relied on her. Oh, she belonged in the Clan, despite the gray eyes and dark hair that set her apart from them in looks; but as one of 'Tsan's companions, her every action had been heavy with destiny.

  Vihena sighed. Once, she had thought that loyalty and love were straightforward; that good and evil were clearly delineated; that victory was always cause for celebration. How simple the world of childhood had been, before she encountered ambiguity—and confusion. She smiled sardonically as she noticed her thoughts' circle: from Tedevarr through 'Tsan and back to Tedevarr. But what was she going to do about him? Even if she told him she wouldn't marry him, he wouldn't believe her: none of them would. Emirri clearly thought her foster daughter would come to her senses in time. Without a reason Tedevarr would understand and accept, the whole Clan would simply assume she was being young and foolish and that she would marry him in the end. The awful thing was Vihena knew they were right. Eventually she would give in; her resolve would crumble; she would marry the man, bear his children, and end up either wondering what the fuss had been about, or discontented for reasons she would never be able to name. So how do I get out of this? she asked herself.

  Flee.

  That was more than memory. The desert was still; only the stars trembled. Ychass? she thought. YCHASS!

  Softly. I'm nearby, the shapeshifter's thought-voice answered. You know the standing stone a mile to the west of here? I'll meet you there in two hours. Bring extra water—but no horse. There are some advantages to shapeshifting, even in the dry lands.

  Leave tonight? Without saying goodbye?

  I gave you two hours; that ought to be time to say your farewells—if you think they'll let you go.

  Ychass, wait. Why are you here? I'd have thought the desert was the last place you'd choose to visit—especially now. The Khedathi and the shapeshifters had begun raiding across one another's borders for the first time in living memory. The dry lands were not the place for the lone Outcast Ychass.

  No. The familiar dry humor tinged the shapeshifter's thought-voice. I'm not visiting: I'm on an errand. I've been living in the forest. Do you remember Ohmiden?

  The Dreamweaver's helper? Of course. She had met the old man only once, but he had made quite an impression on her; and the Dreamweaver had maintained that she could never have woven that Fate which aided them in their quests without his vision and support. He sent you?

  He had a dream—about us, and 'Tsan, and the Trickster.

  If 'Tsan was in this—though the gods alone knew how!—so was Vihena. She had been tangled in the gods' weaving once before; her Clan would understand and wish her well. She trotted down into the camp, with a sense of purpose and a curious feeling of peace.

  ***

  The Weaver sighed in relief. The old man's dream had been a gift indeed. Now that three of the Five were moving, he could breathe more easily. He rose. The Loom could mind itself for the moment. Something made him look back at the pattern. A splinter of purple had begun working itself into his carefully crafted pattern. His fists knotted. "No. Not now!" But the Loom did not respond to his voice, and the Trickster paid him no heed.

  THREE

  Being raised in the desert had one clear advantage, Remarr thought as he shifted his weight in the saddle: he had an eye for a good horse. The mare he had selected was fast, with tolerably comfortable gaits; the rider, on the other hand, was lacking a few crucial muscles. He would be stiffer than cold pitch by morning. He knew better than to try to hole up somewhere in the farmlands bordering the forest. The sort of harmless vagabond who would sleep in someone's hayloft was unlikely to be mounted; the farmer would assume the horse was stolen.

  An unwelcome sound caught his attention: horses approaching at a rapid pace. A patrol from the City? He looked for a hiding place, but the fields provided no cover. He cursed. Were they already looking for him? If not, he would certainly arouse interest by galloping off at their approach.

  He decided to run for it, anyway. As he cantered up the rise that shielded the City from the forest, he heard shouts and the quickening thunder of pursuit. Standing in his stirrups, he urged his mare on. She charged forward. The sounds of pursuit faded. The looming forest promised safety. Remarr made for the Gate Oaks, two huge trees that marked the beginning of the Forest Road. The old roadway would serve a lone rider even if it were too neglected for heavier traffic.

  He eased his horse to a trot as they passed into the shadow of the Gate Oaks. The moon chose this moment to shake herself free of the clouds. As they moved into the last stretch of meadow before the forest began, the moon lit the dew-silvered grass like a stage. At the edge of the trees Remarr saw movement. An enormous cat, half the size of his mare, slunk toward them. The mare halted, her eyes rol
ling white. The cat growled, a low rumble that made Remarr's shoulders tense; then it sprang.

  The horse reared, thrashing at the cat; then, with a scream of terror, she spun away, galloping back the way she had come. Remarr's muscles failed him; he was shaken loose. Winded in the damp grass, he waited for the cat to make an end of him, and hoped that it would be reasonably quick about it.

  Nothing happened. Then he heard a sound. Not a growl: a laugh. The cat was gone. A woman stood in the moonlight, wrapped in a voluminous cloak.

  He looked up at her; she was very tall. "You find this amusing?"

  "Indeed. You realize that you'd have gotten away if your horse hadn't shied. I find such—quirks of fate very amusing indeed, Minstrel Remarr."

  "You know my name."

  "Of course. Your situation wouldn't be so diverting if I didn't. And you know mine—though I don't think you've ever seen my face." She pushed back her hood and shook wild hair out of her eyes. The moonlight muted her coloring, but Remarr knew her. "Trickster," he said quietly. It wasn't a question. Then the sound of hoofbeats recalled him to his plight. He leaped up, heading for the trees. Before he had taken even three strides, he found his feet frozen to the ground.

  "I regret, Remarr, that I can't let you run. You might yet elude them; they are stupid. And I mustn't disappoint Edevvi."

  "I should think you might find Edevvi's disappointment entertaining," he said.

  "Perhaps. But not useful." The Trickster put her hand under his chin and forced him to meet her eyes. "Such a nice head. Perhaps you can persuade Edevvi to let you keep it."

  Remarr regarded her for several heartbeats. Then, with great deliberation, he spat in the Trickster's face.

  Her eyebrows rose; Remarr saw a glimmer of respect. "A new experience. Even the Weaver hasn't dared to spit at me. What a world of wonders." She touched his forehead. "Sleep," she commanded; he crumpled. She bent and wiped her face on his tunic. As the first of Edevvi's riders crested the rise, she vanished.

  ***

  The Weaver watched in helpless fury as the Trickster muddled his subtle pattern with her vivid purple. He wondered whether she had learned—somehow—that he, the Dreamer, and the Namegiver were allied to thwart her, or whether her interference this night was no more than random troublemaking. On that hope, he made no effort to counter her directly. He waited for her influence in the Loom to subside before he tried to salvage his careful plans.

  It took great effort. The shapeshifter and the swordswoman were even now thundering toward Orathi territory. The City was not a sensible destination for either of them, but they were the only hope the minstrel had. Unless—a thread of inspiration wound into his thoughts… He had allies. Decisively, he cast the Dreamer's color into the pattern.

  "Irenden," he said as the Dreamer's vibrant blue grew on the Loom. "I need your help."

  "What is it, Elgonar?" Moonlight clung to the Dreamer, for this was the time of his greatest power.

  The Weaver showed him Remarr's plight. "I thought you might influence his captors."

  The Dreamer frowned. "I can try, El, but it is difficult to guess how a mind not open to me will respond to my touch."

  The Weaver sighed. "I can weave hesitation for them, and haste for the shapeshifter and the swordswoman; perhaps they will be able to free the minstrel before irrevocable harm is done to him." He gnawed his lower lip. "I don't like it. There is fire in the new Voice's hatred, and the Trickster is in it already; but perhaps it is the best we can do."

  "Wait! See!" The Dreamer pointed. "Here, and here: those two I can influence, and they in turn may be able to curb the new Voice. You weave the dream, El, and I'll cast it; and then we shall see what they draw into their minds' nets!"

  ***

  Pifadeh Moirre woke. Tears clung to her lashes; she scrubbed them away, but the dream would not be so easily torn loose. She had thought herself beyond such nonsense. Her husband treasured her calm; Efiran admired the serenity with which she faced every calamity. But this dream would not leave her. She went to her window. In the garden, the fountains glittered with moonlight. Then, as scudding clouds snuffed the moon, the diamonds faded into shadow. She struggled to hold back tears. The sparkling life she loved was passing into darkness, into war. A tear scalded the back of her thin hand. A flood followed it. Pifadeh found herself weeping as she had not wept since she was a girl.

  "Pifadeh!" Efiran's gentle hands turned her to face him. "The world must be ending if my Pifadeh weeps."

  "Don't make light of me," she pleaded. "Efiran, I dreamed a bitter dream indeed."

  "These bitter times leave us prey to bitter dreams and mad urges," he said. "Do you know what I did this afternoon? I went to the Street of the Artisans and gave a coin and a warning to a minstrel there."

  His words struck her like the waves of destiny. "Remarr." His name was half a sob. "It was he of whom I dreamed." The words spilled rapidly from her lips, as though there were not time to give the message in her usual unhurried manner. "The horse he bought wasn't fast enough. They have taken him, and they will use him—our soul son!—as bait to lure Vihena. When Edevvi has them both, she will kill them. Their cries will shake the world loose from its foundation, and their blood will blot out the stars, and the world will end in terror and darkness."

  Efiran drew Pifadeh away from the window. He jerked the bell pull. A moment later, Pifadeh's sleepy maid looked in.

  "Wake Monegal," he said. "I want the household moved to Moirresharre by morning. He knows where the boats are and what to do. Then fetch Anfeh and her maid and help my lady wife make herself ready. Do you understand?"

  The maid nodded, wide-eyed, then fled to the servants' quarters to wake the butler. As soon as she was gone, Efiran went to the secret panel that hid House Moirre's valuables.

  "What are you going to do, Efiran?" Pifadeh asked.

  Without slowing in his removal of jewel boxes and coffers, he replied, "I will try to ransom him."

  "And meanwhile I must wait for you, or word of your fate?"

  He closed the plundered coffers and faced her. "I will work better for knowing that you and Anfeh are safe at Moirresharre."

  She nodded. The traces of her tears and weakness were gone. "Then I will wait," she told him tenderly. "Waiting is women's work; and I have been well trained."

  He tucked the two heavy purses he had filled into his shirt and went to her. As he kissed her brow, she murmured, "May the Dreamer and the Weaver guard you, my husband."

  He held her close. "And the Namegiver," he whispered. "Don't forget the Namegiver."

  FOUR

  Efiran Moirre hesitated outside the door to Edevvi's quarters. He could hear arguing voices, muffled by the ironbound doors. He touched the reassuring weight of the purses in his shirt, then smiled wryly at himself. He knew he shouldn't rely upon gold for peace of mind, but it was gold and a soft life that had tamed the City Khedathi in the past. He pounded on the door. The arguing ceased.

  The door was opened by one of Edevvi's lieutenants, a Khedatheh Efiran knew only by sight. She stared at him in surprise.

  "I would like to speak with the new Voice," he said. "I realize it is late, but the matter is of some urgency."

  "I shall return with an answer in a moment." When she reappeared, she ushered the Head of House Moirre inside.

  Edevvi sat at a long trestle table before the hearth. Her wounded arm rested in a sling. A tankard of mulled cider sat by her elbow; with her good hand, she toyed with the silver medallion on a chain round her neck. She eyed Efiran with the look of one interrupted untimely. There were four other Khedathi in the room: two in the shadows beside the hearth, the woman who had brought him, and the fourth seated beside Edevvi. Bodyguards, Efiran judged. He wondered why she feared a lone old man.

  "What urgent matter could drive you from your comfortable bed at this hour, Moirre?"

  "My errand concerns a minstrel."

  "Then you want the Musicians' Guild, Moirre."

  "A blond m
instrel. You have him, Edevvi, and I want him."

  A muscle jumped in the warrior's jaw; her gaze sharpened on Efiran's face. Before Edevvi could speak, the Khedatheh who had let him in demanded, "Why do you want him, Moirre?"

  ''Rakhela, stay out of it," Edevvi growled.

  "It's important, Edevvi," she persisted. "Moirre, why do you want him?"

  "My wife dreamed of him: not only where he is, but of terrible consequences should he come to harm."

  The hiss of caught breath was loud in the room. Rakhela cried, "So! Didn't I tell you? Edevvi, we've been dreamwarned."

  ''I told you to stay out of it!" Edevvi snapped. "You can't have him, Moirre. He's mine; and I intend to make him suffer."

  One of the men by the fire stirred uneasily. "You should give him up, Edevvi. He's god-touched."

  "Dream-warned? God-touched?" Her contempt scalded them. "Am I surrounded by fools?"

  Efiran removed a purse and upended it. The coins chimed and gleamed—more gold than most Khedathi mercenaries saw in a lifetime. "I do not come as a beggar," he said. "House Moirre does not ask for charity. I want the minstrel; name a price."

  "Oh gods," the Khedatheh at the table whispered. "That would buy my mother's farm twice over."

  "Shut up," Edevvi snarled. "I'm not selling, Moirre."

  "Don't be a fool, 'Dev," Rakhela pleaded. "You've a king's ransom on the table. What are you playing at?" She turned to the man who had called Remarr god-touched. "Merivatt, fetch him."

  "Yes, do," Edevvi agreed. "Maybe I can show Moirre there are things that—even with all his money—he can't do."

  Merivatt returned with the minstrel. He was bound, already showing signs of rough treatment. Surprise flickered in his eyes when he saw Efiran.

  "So, Singer," Edevvi taunted. "Moirre here wants to buy you. What do you think you're worth?"