A Wizard and a Warlord

5

It was huge, easily her own height standing, which she discovered she was doing, staff raised to guard, words of alarm filling her mouth ready to be shouted. It might have been a cat, if a cat had had very short legs under a round body that swelled into a great ball of a head, making the whole creature seem to be only a vast face on top of furry feet, and a grinning mouth half that face, filled with nasty-looking triangular teeth that glinted in the firelight, very white, very sharp. The nose seemed only a nubbin and the eyes small, though each was at least the size of her hand, and they crinkled at the corners as if with amusement, making the toothy grin seem on the verge of laughing. But the ears atop the body were halves of a sphere, almost perfectly round.

Alea would have cried out, if the words hadn’t purred in her mind:

Don’t fear, woman. I shan’t eat you.

What—what are you? Alea thought.

One of those who filled this planet before your kind came, the creature answered. Foolish folk, they think they slew us along with all the other animals that lived in this land before they came. We hide now, and they never see us—unless we want them to. Of course, no one ever believes those who do.

Then why show yourself to me? Curiosity, the creature answered. You’re not like the others, you and your mate.

He’s not my mate!

You mean you don’t know that yet? the creature asked. How foolish your kind are! Tell me, though, what was that great golden pie that dropped you like kittens from a mother’s mouth?

The lie Gar had taught her sprang to her mind unbidden—but she looked in the creature’s eyes, and the words stuck in her throat.

We know truth from falsehood, the creature told her, even if you do not. What was that thing—the wagon that brought you from the stars?

How—how did you know? Alea asked. Then anger came to her rescue. If you knew, why did you ask? Because we have never seen one like it, the monster replied. The wagons that brought the ancestors of the people who live here, they were all ungainly, bumpy things that looked like very fat birds with very short wings. Its grin widened, and a drop of saliva dripped from a tooth. We eat birds.

Why don’t you eat people? Alea demanded, fear gripping her vitals as her hands gripped her staff.

Because you have minds, the creature answered, minds complex enough to be aware of your own existence. In that, you are enough like us so that we could not think of you as food.

Even though these people took your land and chased you away?

There is surely enough land for us over the sea, if we wish it, the alien answered, unperturbed.

No, not alien, Alea realized—native. It was she who was the alien on this planet.

Even so, the monster agreed, but you are fascinating, and all the more so because you are alien. Those of us who grow weary of the daily round of hunting and eating and begetting and kit-rearing find diversion in the strange and foolish doings of your kind.

So you are glad to have them? Alea asked cautiously. Quite pleased, the creature assured her, and you and your mate are even more diverting, because you are stranger than the strangers! You are new, you are novel, you are …

Not mates! Alea thought fiercely.

All kits must learn as they grow, the creature thought in a consoling tone. Be patient and you shall learn, too.

Alea stifled an angry comeback—it wouldn’t do to antagonize a telepathic creature with so many sharp teeth. Do you often show yourselves to the people? That must change the way they behave.

It would indeed, the creature agreed, so we never let them see us—and if they should do so by accident, we make sure they forget. Still, there seem to be tales about us in the land.

Alea could believe that easily. Why, then, do you show yourself now to me?

To learn what you are, and what you mean to do, the creature said. Thus we showed ourselves to the first of your kind to come here, and would not let them settle until we were satisfied of their good intentions. Alea frowned. How did they convince you?

By deciding to leave the planet as soon as they knew we were intelligent and self-aware, the creature replied. They trooped back aboard their bird-ships, and would have left, robbing us of a fascinating diversion.

So you told them they could stay?

We erased all memory of us from their mind, the creature told her. Then they had no reason to leave.

But they took your land!

We let them settle, the creature said. Those who did not find them amusing swam away to other lands. Those of us who loved to watch their antics retreated to the wild places, the barrens and the depths of the forests, the mountains and the fens, to listen to their thoughts and watch their mad caperings.

So now you come to see if I too shall be amusing, Alea thought, anger growing again.

More importantly, we wish to know your intentions toward our little friends, the monster thought. They have good hearts, most of them, and we would not like to see their lives disturbed.

We mean this land no harm, Alea said, only good.

I can see that in you, the creature replied. Moreover, I can see that you are very courageous—frightened, but able to overcome your fear. That is a brightness within you that we respect.

So—you do not object to our coming?

Be welcome, the monster thought. Help whom you can. If you need help yourself, remember and call upon me.

I-I thank you, Alea thought, astounded. How—how shall I call?

Call me “Evanescent,” the creature replied. I shall come, or one much like me.

A sudden distant squalling off to her left made Alea turn to face it, staff coming up, heart pounding—but she recognized it even as it stopped: two cats disputing territory, or perhaps a coupling that one of them did not desire. She turned back to the fire, trying to make herself relax, wondering why she was gripping her staff so tightly. Really, a catfight was nothing to fear, and there hadn’t been anything else to attract her attention, except that owl flying over the road—a very dull watch, in fact.

Sudden pain throbbed in her head, but was gone as quickly as the catfight. She pressed a hand to her temple, frowning. Something seemed to be missing there, some thought that she’d wanted to remember but that had slipped away. Well, she had much to learn yet, about meditation.

She scanned the woods again, then the fields, seeing nothing unusual—but she did notice that the gloom had lessened. She stood and stretched, amazed at how quickly the night had passed, amazed that dawn was coming and it was time to start cooking breakfast. That would teach Gar to let her sleep longer than she deserved!

Still, she would have liked to remember that fleeting thought. Well, if it was important, it would come back to her.

The next day, Gar stripped down to his breechcloth and folded his clothes carefully, then smeared himself liberally with dirt, mixing dead grass and leaves into his hair while Alea packed his clothes under her trade goods.

“How’s this?” Gar hunched over, even bending his legs, and stumbled toward her, whimpering, “Poor Gar’s a-cold! Poor Gar’s a-cold!”

“I should say you are.” Alea stared, unnerved by the change in his appearance; surely she would never have recognized him through all that dirt. He was right—bent over like that, he actually seemed shorter than she was. Which isn’t saying much, she thought with irony. She was well over six feet herself, after all, and had long ago resigned herself to never finding a husband—and still didn’t think to, but here she was traveling with a man who actually made her feel small! “How are you going to keep from freezing?”

“I’ll grow used to it,” Gar, assured her. “If worse comes to worst, we can trade for a blanket at the next village.”

So off they went at sunrise, Gar slouching along at her side; which took a foot off his height. “If we hear a patrol,” he assured her, “I’ll cringe low again.”

“Let’s hope they don’t throw water on you,” Alea said.

Gar stopped and frowned up at her. “I don’t have the right to pull you into danger with me—and you’re right, there’s far too much chance of our being discovered. Perhaps we should abort the mission after all—I have no right to put you in danger just to satisfy my insatiable curiosity.”

Privately, Alea agreed, but aloud she only said, “Don’t be ridiculous!”

They found a village late in the afternoon and came out onto the road so that they would seem to be normal travelers. Gar started cringing well before they came in sight of the houses.

It was a tidy place, prosperous though not rich—a circle of wattle-and-daub cottages with thatched roofs and plain shuttered openings for windows. Flowers made the patches of lawn colorful; chickens scratched behind the houses between fences that separated them from the family pigs.

They had arrived at a good time; people were coming in from the fields. They turned to the travelers with cries of welcome.

“Hail, strangers!”

“Peddlers! Have you ribbons?”

“Good evening to you! What news of the wide world?”

Thus they came into town in the center of an overgrowing crowd, none of whom seemed put off in the slightest by Gar’s disguise. Alea was a little dazed by all the fuss, especially since she hadn’t worked much at screening out others’ thoughts yet—on a ship between stars, there hadn’t been the need. Now, though, she was finding that having learned to open her mind to hear others’ thoughts didn’t necessarily mean she could close it again at will.

Gar could, though. With the ease of long experience he looked up at the people with a loose-lipped grin, waving and chirping, “Lo! Hi! Goo’ morn!”

“Hey, it’s an idiot!” one teenage boy called to his friends. “This could be fun! ”They started toward Gar. Alea stiffened with alarm—but a middle-aged man interposed himself smoothly between Gar and the boys and said, “Now, lads, that’s not kind. Would you want someone to make a mock of you?”

The boys glowered at the rebuke. One said, “I’d like to see them try!”

“I wouldn’t,” the man said and nodded at Gar.

“Look at the size of those shoulders, the thickness of those arms! Feeble his mind may be, but not his body. He seems gentle enough, mind you, but I wouldn’t want him angry with me.”

The boys turned thoughtful at that and held back, letting others move near the couple first and when they did speak to Gar later, Alea noticed they were almost kind in their talk.

She pulled herself together and imitated Gar’s greetings, though with rather better speech, calling replies to as many as she could. The welcomes died down as they came into the common, the circle of grass between the cottages, and one woman thrust her way to the fore, calling, “What have you in your packs, goodfolk?”

“Aye!” cried a middle-aged man. “What have you to trade?”

Gar swung his pack off his back, and his voice spoke in Alea’s mind. “ ‘Trade,’ not ‘sell.’ Interesting. We’d better not use coins. Alea was unnerved by the contrast between his half-witted grin and his analytical thoughts.

Perhaps one, just to see if they know what coins are. Alea didn’t answer, only swung her pack down, then loosened the buckles and opened the flap. The people crowded round with cries of delight.

Not much to do in this town, Gar thought wryly. Alea’s lips pressed tight to hold back laughter, and he knew she had “heard.” It also seemed to relax her, as he’d hoped it would. After all, if they were the most exciting thing to happen all week, life must be very … placid.

“The poor lad!” said one kindly-looking grandmotherly woman. “Well, we’ve seen enough of his kind to know he’s no danger.”

Inbreeding! Gar thought, then chirped, “Poor Gar’s a-cold! Poor Gar’s a-cold! ”

“As surely he must be,” a younger woman said sympathetically. “Have you no clothes for him, lass?”

“I have, though sometimes he can’t stand the feel of them and tears them off,” Alea ad-libbed, and was amazed at her own glibness. “Have you a blanket? I could trade you, say…” She let the sentence trail off, and the younger woman picked up the hint, eyes gleaming. “A small pot, perhaps?”

Alea reached into her pack. “Iron or copper?”

“What would you take a blanket for a copper pot?” the woman asked, her eyes round.

Alea realized she’d named too low a price. “It’s very thin copper,” she said apologetically, “easily dented.”

“Oh! Well, a blanket of my thickest weave would be worth an iron pot.” The woman eyed her warily, though.

Still too high a price. “Throw in dinner and a night’s lodging, and you shall have it.”

“Done!” the woman cried. “I’ll fetch the blanket.” She turned and hurried off to her cottage.

“I’ll have a pot, too!” The middle-aged woman held out a necklace.

It seemed only a string of polished quartz pebbles to Alea, but Gar caught his breath and Alea heard his thought: Diamonds!

The kindly woman mistook his fascination and smiled, twisting the string this way and that so that the light twinkled off the surfaces. “Aye, ‘tis a pretty thing, is it not? Buy it, my dear, if only to please your friend.”

“Not only my friend, but my brother, too,” Alea corrected.

“Brother? Aye, you’re both quite tall, aren’t you? Well, it’s a good woman you are to take care of a sib so afflicted.” The woman held out the necklace. “Here, take it and a blessing on you both. I can find many more.”

“No, no!” Alea protested, and pulled a copper pot out of her pack. “Here, take it! If the metal’s not too thin for you, that is.”

The woman handed her the necklace and took the pot. She pursed her lips, weighing it in her hand and rubbing the metal between her fingers. “Not so thin as all that. I doubt not it will make a good kettle for boiling water.”

“Oh, well, if you want a real kettle, I’ve that too.” Alea pulled a small copper teakettle from Gar’s pack. Several people gasped at the brightness of it, then started bidding.

Alea did brisk business, exchanging trade goods for rough gems and exquisite pottery that would sell well in the next village. In some cases, she had nothing that the people wanted, but there were little wedges of copper and silver in her pack, and the villagers were quite happy to take those for their porcelains.

In the middle of it, a teenage girl pushed through to her, holding out a wide and beautifully embroidered belt. “What will you give me for this? I want sweet-smelling perfume and pretty things to wear!”

Alea stared at the belt. “I’ve nothing as pretty as that.”

“Aye, Renga, that took me weeks to fashion for you.” The older woman who came up beside her looked troubled.

“You gave it to me!” Renga snapped. “It’s mine to do with as I wish!”

“It is,” her mother said, “but it has my love and care stitched into it with the pattern. The day will come when you’ll treasure that.”

“You can’t make me keep it!”

“No, I can’t and I won’t.” Her mother sighed. “But it does hurt me that you could think of trading it for a bit of shiny brass. Precious things should be saved, or you’ll have nothing when you’re old.”

Renga hesitated, startled at the thought of the future, and Alea took the chance to reinforce what her mother had said. “A girdle like that takes a great deal of time and skill in the making, lass. My mother made me several such ornaments, and I treasured them even then—but much, much more when they were taken from me.” The memory brought tears to her eyes, but she blinked them away angrily. “She’s gone now, and I dearly wish I had something of hers to make me feel close to her still.”

Renga stared, shocked, then held out her girdle in sympathy. “Oh, take mine, then! I still have a mother, thank the Goddess! If this will help your heart, take it!”

Her mother looked startled, then slowly smiled and gazed at her with pride.

“I thank you, lass, and it’s good of you to offer,” Alea said gently, “and a treasure it is—but it was made by your mother, not mine, and would only remind me of my loss, not be a part of my mother to comfort me.” She smiled and pressed the girl’s hand. “But your care cheers me more than you can know. Here, take this of me for thanks.” She pressed a small ring into the girl’s hand.

Renga looked down at it and gasped with delight, then forced herself to hold it out. “I thank you deeply, mum, but it would be wrong to take it and give nothing in return.”

“Why, then, give me a gift,” Alea said, smiling, “whatever you choose—but I will say that my brother and I grow hungry on the road.”

“Bread of my own baking, and cheese then!” Renga turned to hurry back to her family’s cottage. “You have every reason to be proud,” Alea told her mother.

The woman turned back from beaming fondly after the girl. “I am that, lass, and I thank you.” She shook herself, becoming businesslike again. “But a daughter like that deserves a pretty or two. I’ve opals and garnets to trade; have you a necklace to match that ring?”

Alea dug in her pack, back to business again. When the customers were done with her, they went to listen to Gar, who had taken out a wooden flute and was drawing a mournful tune from it. When he was finished, a man said, “Witless or not, you’ve some talent, lad.”

Gar nodded wisely and said, “Talent is governance.” Several people smothered laughter, but the man only smiled with sympathy and asked, “Governance? What’s that, lad?”

“Order,” Gar said, and blew a scale, then looked up, grinning. “Order.”

“Setting the notes one after another, eh?” The man nodded, considering.

“Order chickens,” Gar suggested. “Order houses.”

“Housework, you mean? No, that’s economics,” said a middle-aged woman.

So it was, Alea remembered—the Greek word had originally meant wise and thrifty household management.

“Many houses! ” Gar spread his hands wide to embrace the whole village. “Who orders you?”

Now they all laughed. Gar stared, startled and frightened. Seeing that, the villagers choked off their laughter and the man explained, “It’s a comical notion, lad, one person ordering the whole village.”

“Why, we can make all the order we need by ourselves,” the woman said, “each tending to her own house and garden.”

“And all of us tending the crops in the fields,” another man agreed, “children to watch the sheep crop the lawn, and us to watch the children. What more order does anyone need?”

Gar looked up at them wide-eyed, then glanced over each shoulder apprehensively and beckoned the man closer. With a gentle smile, the man complied, and Gar whispered into his ear, “Bandits!” No one laughed this time and the man said gravely, “Ah, bandits there are—for those who want what others have, and who won’t care for their own house and garden, can’t stay in the town. Then they band together and come to try to take what we have. But if they become too big a nuisance, the Scarlet Company stops them, of course.”

By this time, everyone was done trading and had gathered around Gar. Alea buckled their packs and came into the circle, saying, “You mustn’t mind his silly questions, good people. He can’t remember the answers, so he asks them again in every village.”

“It’s good of you to say so, lass,” said a grandmotherly woman, “but such questioning is as much to be expected of an idiot as of a little child. We must be kind to all.”

Alea sighed. “Sometimes I am amazed and delighted at the goodness of people.”

Gar exchanged a quick and piercing glance with her; he too was amazed at the gentleness and understanding of these villagers. Then he turned back to the people with a gaze once more vacant and tried again. “Who gives orders?”

“Why, everyone will order what they want from your sister, lad,” the grandmother told him, “and if she has it, we will bargain with what we have.”

Gar surrendered and only gave them his loose-lipped grin while he pulled the coarse, brightly patterned blanket closely around him. “Gar’s not a-cold anymore! ”

The people laughed again, more with pleasure at seeing him warm than in ridicule.

At last they apologized for lack of hospitality but said they had a day’s work to do and drifted away to evening chores and back into houses—but the woman who had traded a night’s hospitality brought them hot porridge, saying, “I don’t know when you ate last or how much, but I’ll warrant it was hours past. Eat of this; it should go well with Renga’s fresh bread and cheese.”

Surprised and gratified, Alea said, “Thank you kindly, good woman—very kindly indeed!”

“Thank kindly!” Gar agreed.

“It’s my pleasure,” the woman said, smiling at the thanks, “and part of my bargain, after all. My name is Llyena, by the way. If you feel like telling tales or singing songs to keep the little ones busy, that would be kind. We’ll all hope to hear news from you after supper.” Her eyes turned almost avaricious, but when Alea didn’t offer any sudden disclosures, she smiled, nodded at them, and went back to her garden.

“We had better think up some news quickly,” Gar muttered.

“Long-distance listening is your job.” Alea gave him a slab of bread and cheese. “I’m too new at telepathy. I can tell them about General Malachi, though.”

“That should do for a start,” Gar agreed. “Still, the telepathy might yield some results.”

“You mean you haven’t tried it yet?”

“Well, yes, while I was keeping watch last night,” Gar confessed, “though people’s dreams aren’t exactly sound journalistic sources.” He frowned. “Frustrating, too—no one was dreaming anything about the government.”

“Would you expect them to?” Alea demanded. “Well, there’s usually someone having nightmares about taxes,” Gar replied, “and someone dreaming about being a king or a queen—but there was none of that here.”

Alea shrugged. “Maybe they don’t have kings and queens. My people didn’t.”

“Yes, but you did have squires, and they had a council. No one here was dreaming about anything of the sort—except the bandits.”

“They don’t have to have a government,” Alea pointed out.

“Ridiculous!” Gar scoffed. “Every society has to have a government of some sort. Without it, a nation falls apart. That’s what happened to the cultures who did try it, and that’s why they’re not around anymore.”

“People can always discuss their problems over a campfire or a banquet table,” Alea protested.

“Yes, but that’s called a village council, and it’s a government of a sort,” Gar said. “Admittedly, it’s pretty minimal, and it won’t work for anything larger than a village. Have a city or even a dozen villages, and you have to have a formal council that meets regularly. Then some people will emerge as leaders in that council, and you’ll start having officials of one sort or another.”

“Perhaps that’s all they have here,” Alea offered. “I’d settle for it,” Gar said, “but I haven’t seen any sign of it, either in people’s dreams last night or among our customers today.”

“You were studying them,” Alea accused.

“Of course,” Gar said. “I wasn’t about to ignore them, after all—but I didn’t see any sign of a power structure at all!” He sounded very frustrated.

Alea hid a smile and said, “Well, I did notice that the adults deferred to their elders. The youngsters were pretty good about that, too, but they had lapses.”

“Teenagers always do.” Gar shuddered at a flash of memory from his own adolescence. “Respectful and defiant by turns.”

“It’s part of growing up,” Alea agreed, “but these adults are very gentle about restraining their young people.”

“Very,” Gar agreed; “and the kids seem to respond to it.” He looked up with his loose-lipped grin as a woman passed by carrying a basket. She paused at a post set at the edge of the common and dropped something into a box fixed to its top, then went her way.

“What did she drop in there?” Gar’s gaze was glued to the box.

“I saw the flash of metal,” Alea said.

“So did I.” Gar frowned. “You don’t suppose it was one of Herkimer’s little copper trade wedges, do you?”

“It seems likely,” Alea said. “I suppose these people even have a way of collecting to help their poor.”

“A good thought,” Gar said, “but I don’t see any poor—unless you want to count them all, but if they’re poor, they certainly don’t realize it.”

“A religious offering?” Alea guessed.

“That makes sense.” Gar nodded, brooding. “Drat it! That’s going to plague me until I know the answer for certain now!”

“Maybe we can ask over dinner,” Alea suggested. “I’ll see if I can work it into the conversation.”

“Good luck,” Gar said dryly. Then he let his face relax into the very picture of good-natured idiocy. “Here come customers.”

Alea looked up and saw half a dozen children running toward her. She smiled and sat, spreading her skirts, and gesturing to them to do likewise. Beside her, Gar started playing his flute.

The children came to a halt, wide-eyed and curious. The biggest girl said, “Could you tell us a story?”

“I’d be glad to,” Alea said, and gestured at the grass. “Sit down, then, and listen.”

The children sat. Two women and a man looked up and saw, and came strolling over to listen, too. “Long ago and far away,” Alea began, as tradition dictated, “there was a land watched over by gods who lived in a magical kingdom in the sky, called Asgard. The king of those gods was called Odin, and … yes?” One of the children had raised a hand. Now she asked, “What’s a king?”