Jo Clayton - W 3 - The Magic Wars

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The Magic Wars
Wild Magic, Book 3
Jo Clayton
1993
“I AM THE SPEAKER TO THE BONEMEN,”
the old one said slowly, his hands moving in quick round gestures.
Sign-pidgin, Faan thought.
“When you speak to me, you will call me Gichador. There are some things that must be made clear
to you. You are magic-makers. You will not be permitted to do that here. Be still! You can ask questions
later. It does not matter why you came to Kaerubulan. You are here and must bear the consequences of
that. You wear the surdosh about your neck. It is a freshwater worm with a plating of shell. You will have
noticed that it has a certain property and you will discover that its strength grows in proportion to the time
it lives on you. You have worn it for slightly more than three days; your hands have been hobbled and
kept away from your necks. These restraints will be maintained for another two days. After that, the
surdosh will have sunk its fibers deep into your flesh; if you try to tear it loose, it will be as if you slashed
your own throat.”
Jo Clayton has written:
The Diadem Series
Diadem From The Stars
Lamarchos
Irsud
Maeve
Star Hunters
The Nowhere Hunt
Ghosthunt
The Snares Of Ibex
Quester’s Endgame
Shadow of the Warmaster
The Duel Of Sorcery Trilogy
Moongather
Moonscatter
Changer’s Moon
The Dancer Trilogy
Dancer’s Rise
Serpent Waltz
Dance Down The Stars
The Skeen Trilogy
Skeen’s Leap
Skeen’s Return
Skeen’s Search
The Soul Drinker Trilogy
Drinker Of Souls
Blue Magic
A Gathering Of Stones
The Wild Magic Trilogy
Wild Magic
Wildfire
The Magic Wars
and
A Bait Of Dreams
Prologue. The Chained God Unchained
As soon as she sensed what was happening, Slya Fireheart fled. She seldom did much actual
thinking, but her survival instincts kicked in when the Chained God Unchained began sucking her essence
from her.
Golden Amortis laughed at the big red god, bold and clumsy, as destructive in her affection as she
was in her anger, laughed as she watched Slya go running off, laughed because she thought she’d won
the little war for the attentions of the Chained God Unchained.
It was much later, almost too late, when she realized just what it was she had won. Amortis
wrenched loose and fled, a pale wrinkled remnant of herself, managing to escape because he was no
longer interested in the dregs she offered.
The Chained God Unchained settled on a mountain-top to digest what he’d acquired through the
Talisman BinYAHtii and to consider his lifepath. He was mobile now, his existence no longer threatened
by decay, but the memory of his near extinction annoyed him. “Hmp,” he said. “That was good, but what
do I do now?” He scratched a living metal finger along the smooth line of his jaw; pinglows glinted in his
eyes, glows like the lights and diodes that flickered across his control panels when he came alive inside
the starship computer, part circuitry, part vegetable matter with a heavy dose of the unformed magic
force that floated every where in this miniature universe. He flexed his hands, watching the metal shift like
flesh. “‘S good, I like this, No going back, no way, never again. Hmp. Make sure of that. Make sure ....”
Natural forces could no longer touch him. Dismiss those.
Individual gods, even the great ones, couldn’t harm him. BinYAHtii would suck in everything thrown
at him and feed it to him in usable gulps. Nonetheless ... there was something nibbling at him keeping him
weaker than his potential ... weaker than whatever it was eating at him ... something so intangible he
could never visualize it ... draining off his force ... like the two or three times that shorts drained power
from the computer.
The Great Gods? Were they banding together to strike at him? Unlikely. He’d watched them for
millen-nia. They walked their separate paths; if they came too close, they quarreled with varying degrees
of bitterness and fury and burst apart again.
Tungjii? He didn’t want anything to do with Tungjii. A little god, disgusting in hisser habits, but there
was something about himmer that warned against attack.
He considered Perran-a-Perran the god paramount, a diffuse and elusive god, but immensely
powerful, more powerful than all the gods combined ... or was he? If Perran-a-Perran were afraid ...
“AFRAID OF ME?” His sculpted mouth spread in a broad grin and the pinlights danced faster in his
eyes. “Afraid of me, isn’t that a kick.” His brows came down. “I’ve got to stop that drain. To be safe,
I’ve got to be stronger, strong as he is.” He lowered the lids over his glinting eyes. Deep within, in his
secret core, he thought: I’ve got to BE him.
He needed more power. To survive while he acquired it, he had to start small and build. Small gods.
Local gods, demiurges, tutelaries, naiads, sylphs and dryads and whatever else lived by and through the
Power that filled this Universe.
He rose from his mountaintop and began eating gods.
Chapter 1. A Walk Along the Shore
If they flew across land or sea, they did not know it, east, west, north or south, they didn’t know
where they were being swept, they could neither escape the vortex nor change direction. Round and
round, endlessly wheeling through a roaring chaos,
Navarre, Faan, Desantro and Kitya, round and round, facing each other with their backs to the
howling gyrating gray wind ....
which set them down on a bleak and barren shore, icy spray lashing them, sand driven by the north
wind scouring their faces.
They had nothing but the clothes on their bodies—except for Kitya who had her belt pouch with its
small treasures, her skinning knife and the lethal hairpins Navarre had crafted for her.
Curling her arm across her brow to keep her hair out of her eyes, Faan turned a half circle, inspecting
first the ragged chalk cliffs with the straggling patches of wiry grass like fringe along the flat tops, then the
seashore and the sea. For an instant she thought someone was watching her, but the feeling blew away
before it was more than a shiver in the spine.
Fire burned through her body, heels to head, but she ignored it, using her free hand to haul up the
overlong skirt as she kicked at the sand, sending a small crab into a desperate scuttle for shelter. “Gonna
gonna kick and scratch,” she sang. “An’t gonna catch me ee.” When she saw the tan grains flashed to
glass by the heat in her toes, she changed the words. “Gonna gonna kick and burn. An’t gonna put their
hands on me.”
Her voice was lost in the wind, so she let the song die and went back to looking around. Out in the
tossed gray water she thought she saw the flukes of a jade green fishtail. The Godalau? She jumped
back, caught her foot in the dress and nearly fell. “Potz!” She hauled up the heavy blue velvet, twisted
around so she could see down her back, straightened with a little bounce. “Kitya, loan me your knife,
huh? I’m going to break my neck if I don’t get rid of this extra cloth.”
Kitya raised her thin brows, pinched her mouth to-gether. Silently she handed over the knife, then
dug in her pouch for a comb and began dressing her long black hair into its travel knot.
Faan wrinkled her nose, popped her lips in a mock kiss at the woman’s back. You put it on me, it
wasn’t my choice. She slashed at the skirt of the dress, shortening it to mid-calf so she could walk
without tripping.
Ailiki the mahsar appeared on the beach south of them and came picking her way fastidiously along
the shore, avoiding the fingers of the advancing tide, the dead fish and sprawled sea weed. “Aili my Liki,”
Faan called, sudden happiness bubbling up through her as she saw the one creature who’d been with her
all her life, the one who’d never gone away for more than a little while. “My wandering sister, welcome
back.”
Ailiki sat up, waved her pawhands, then returned to her leisurely stroll.
Holding her hair again, kicking the ragged circle of blue velvet away from her, Faan ran along the
sand to meet the mahsar.
Navarre scowled at the sea, rubbing a finger along the crease by his nose. “There’s something ... I
almost remember something ....”
Kitya squatted beside him, waiting, relaxed as a cat between pounces.
Desantro dug into a pocket and pulled out a handful of crushed bone and raveled cord. She swore,
turned to Kitya.
Kitya blinked her dark crimson eyes at the mess, then managed a shrug without losing her balance.
“Sorry, Desa. I couldn’t raise a dead man’s ghost. No houseplace, no bone, no fire, no nothing.”
Navarre looked down. “What’s that?”
“Kech. Gave a line on Desa’s brother. Gone bust.” Kitya got to her feet with an easy flow, put her
hand on Navarre’s arm. “Can’t make another unless I have a homeplace where my feet tie to the earth,
even if it’s only for a day or two.”
The corner of his mouth hooked up. “Or in my pres-ence, hmm?”
“That, too.”
Faan cooed to Ailiki, scratched behind the delicate ears and under the chin, laughed as the mahsar’s
purr vibrated through her. After a minute, though, Ailiki stiffened, then wriggled vigorously, her nails biting
through the thin blue velvet of the dress. When Faan let her go, she jumped to the sand, sat a moment on
her hind legs staring at the top of the chalk cliffs, then she began to fade. Before Faan could scoop her up
again, she’d vanished completely.
“Liki, my Liki, Aili Ailiki,” Faan cried, anguish shaking her voice. “Where are you, don’t play with me
like this. Ailiki!”
There was no answer, not a hair of the mahsar left behind.
“Mamay,” she whispered. “I need you ....” She flung around, came running along the shore, fighting
back tears, knots twisting and untwisting inside her.
When she reached Navarre, she caught him by the arm. Her hand was glowing red hot and she felt
him wince, but she didn’t turn him loose, just walked as fast as she could. “Listen, you keep saying
there’s some god protecting me, so use it. Find Rakil, you can do it, find him and take us to him, or bring
him here, you can do it, you know you can.” She shook his arm. “Listen to me, Magus, you want to, I
can feel it, do it, don’t jegg me you don’t. Do it!”
He pulled his arm free, stepped back. “Sorcerie, con-trol! You’ve learned that, at least. Look at
yourself. You’re burning up.”
Faan glanced at her hands, pushed them behind her, wound her fingers together, tightening them till it
hurt. Hair blowing about her face, she glared at him, words collecting in her throat, choking her because
she couldn’t get them out fast enough. “Do it!” she man-aged finally. “Coward. Do it!”
He went white with anger, ice not fire. “I cannot,” he said softly. “I will not. Listen to me, brat. I
curse the day I met you, I curse the softness that made me listen to you. I’ve lost my home, my friends,
my life—and you call me coward?” His voice went so quiet she al-most couldn’t hear him. “Do you have
any idea what could happen if I did what you wanted, if I woke the Wrystrike to fullness? Listen to me,
Sorcerie, and be shamed if you are capable of it. I had a wife once, her name was Medora and I did
adore her. I had a son once, his name was Bravallan and he was the light of my eyes. I was searching
then, trying to understand what had happened to me. I went apart to a tower by the shore, but Bravallan
was as full of curiosity as a durran is, filled with seed and one day he followed me. Look at that sea,
Sorcerie, look at it heave, gray and icy. My tower was beside a sea like that. Medora came to me and
stood with her shoulders slumped, her brown eyes swimming with the tears she refused to let drop. She
said to me, ‘Bravallan my baby, Bravee my son, do you know what you have done to him?’ And she
pointed out to sea where a baby dolphin swam, crying out his fear and his loneliness. ‘I could kill you,’
she said to me. ‘But I won’t. He’s a baby, he needs someone to look af-ter him, hear how he cries.
Change me.’ And I did, Sorcerie, knowing I could destroy him and her com-pletely this time. I was
desperate and flung the Strike aside and killed a town for her, but she lived. I stood on a beach like this
and watched her swim away with him, the blood of a hundred innocents on my soul. And you ask me to
chance that again, you ask me to risk Kitya for a stupid brat I don’t know and don’t want to know?”
Fire flared along her arms, her hair spread out from her face, crackling with worms of tiny lightning as
power drained off it. “I don’t care about your stinking stories, I NEED my mother free. Find him ....”
Before she could say anything more, Kitya moved between them. She took hold of Faan’s hands,
winced. “Saaa, you’re hot. Stop this, Fa! Listen to me, you need us, think, child, think baby, you’ll kill us
all if you go on, think ....” She made a lulling croon of the words, nodding encouragement as awareness
returned to the bi-colored eyes.
Faan gasped, pulled free, and fled to crouch beside the incoming tide, her body shuddering with the
sobs that tore through her.
* * *
Kitya turned as soon as Faan ran, reached up and stroked her sore fingertips along Navarre’s face,
the heat bleeding from them into his icy skin. “V’ret, she’s just a child and hurting,” she murmured. She
stepped back, spoke with a touch of acerbity in her voice. “Go find some people for us or shelter or
something. From the feel of this wind and the look of those clouds, it’s going to be a cold, wet night and
I’ve no desire to spend it outside.”
He gazed at her the years of memories she didn’t share like glass between them. Without speaking he
walked away, heading for the rugged spike of rock that rose twice as high as the chalk cliffs.
Desantro ran a hand through her damp, tangled hair. “Nu,” she said, “it’s going to be a rough ride.
“My mama says if there’s a wrong way to do any-thing, folk will find it. Desa, give me what’s left of
that kech, will you? I’m going to see if Faan can use it.”
“Dropped it round here somewhere, ah!” Desantro scraped up the remnants of bone and herb,
passed them to Kitya. “You think she’s got anything left after all that?”
“All I know is, if we’re going to get out of this mess, Fa and V’ret are going to have to get along. It’ll
be a start on that if she can come up with something. If she can’t, nu, we haven’t lost anything, have we?
Do you think you could hunt up a nice shiny shell?”
Searching for the concentration she needed, Faan gazed at the mother-of-pearl that lined the curved
inner surface of the shell; it shimmered, loopy pastel pink lines chasing pale blue ones, as the gray light
fluctuated through clouds flowing past overhead and the air gelled about her.
The wind whined in her ears: NO NO NO N0000000.
The broken kech rattled by her knee, fragments of it blew away.
Her arms were weighted, moving them was pushing against a current. She fought that, too. There
was heat in her, the ashes of anger at everything that had wrenched and torn her life from what it should
have been, at all the beings who tried to control her .. She looked up, scowled. “Eyes ...”
Desantro got to her feet, scanned the top of the white chalk cliffs. “Nay() nay,” she said, “there’s no
one watching.”
“I know, but ...” Faan hunched her shoulders and fixed her gaze once more on the shimmering
interior of the shell, fighting to find focus.
The heat and turmoil grew stronger. The resistance grew with it, as if even the sand she knelt on
worked against her. And the eyes ... the eyes ... that no one could see ... she knew they were there ...
hating her, watching ... willing her to fail ....
Kitya knelt beside her, curled a hand about the nape of her neck. “Faan, listen, my mama said what
you can’t win by beating on, you can wheedle.”
Faan started, nearly dropped the shell. She swal-lowed a yelp, clamped her teeth on her lower lip.
I’m sick of hearing about her jeggin mamay! She didn’t say it; if she said anything, it’d all start up
again and she didn’t think she could stand that.
Kitya began stroking the curve of Faan’s nape. “Be quiet,” she murmured, added a gentle incantation
in her birthtongue, “Niya naluk niya paluk niya naluk niya ....” Over and over she said the words until they
flowed into Faan’s blood.
Faan lingered a moment in that centered serenity, in memories of the warmth and love she’d had from
her Salagaum Mamay, then she sighed and gathered herself. This time she felt calm and competent; the
forces in her fingers, flowed to her beat. Earth and air fought her, but she brushed them off and
whispered the focal words that should have brought the mirror gleaming between her palms.
It didn’t happen. Instead a little glass fish floated there, a tiny limber fish filled with sunfire, its body
flexing gracefully as if it swam in waters she couldn’t see. She blinked.
Kitya’s breath tickled her ear. “Say his name.”
“Rakil,” Faan said, raised her brows as the fish turned through a quarter arc and pointed north. Kitya
rising with her, she got to her feet and turned to face north along the shore.
The fish quivered, but didn’t change its pint.
Navarre came back.
The fish vanished as he reached them.
“Sony,” he said. “What was that?”
Faan wiped her hands down her sides; it was a min-ute before she could look up at him. “I don’t
know,” she murmured. “At a guess, it’s the ghost of the kech.” She blinked. “Whatever, it was telling us
that Rakil’s somewhere to the north of here.”
“Mum. Kat, the kech, what direction did it point be-fore?”
“West and a hair south.”
“Then we’re south and west of Valdamaz across sea water, which means that ...” he waved at the
heaving gray water, “what we’re looking at out there is the channel called The Soda and this is the island
Kaerubulan—that is, if your brother hasn’t shifted his location since you pointed him.”
Kitya spread her hands. “Who can say?”
“Kaerubulan,” Faan said. She got to her feet, too tired to fight any longer. “So what’s Kaerubulan
that you know it so quickly?”
Though he avoided looking at her, Navarre re-sponded easily enough, “It rates a listing in Lexicons
and Transactions; the folk here are ... interesting. Shape shifters with an allergy to magic.”
“Allergy?”
“It’s said to poison them. That’s all I know. They’re a secret people.”
“I see.” Faan dug her toes into the sand, remember-ing too clearly the bitter arguments she’d had
with Reyna, the pain she’d given her adopted Mamay. She wasn’t bothered by any pain she’d given
Navarre, but Reyna would be shamed to see his daughter acting like a Jang-bred saisai. Tears gathered
again, but she fought them back. Even if Reyna were here, he wouldn’t know her or remember what he’d
taught her. I remember; I’m the only one who does. “Navarre, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll tell you why if
you want to hear it, but that’s not important. I’ll ... I’ll watch my temper and ...” Her control frayed by his
cold face and lack of response, she clamped her teeth together to keep the rush of hurt and fury from
spilling out again.
Kitya pinched Navarre’s arm. “Say something, you!”
“What?”
“Ooyik.”
“Labi labba, if you wish. Rail, the fault was mine as much as yours.”
It was a grudging acknowledgment, but it was obvi-ously all she was going to get. She looked away
from him, saw Desantro mouth the word Men! and roll her eyes; it started a quiet giggle in her that went
away when she looked down and saw her hands shining against the blue velvet. “Magus, help me,” she
said. “I’m hanging by my fingernails, and I don’t know how much longer I can do that.”
“May I touch you?”
“Tja.”
He laid his band on her brow; she could feel him flinch at the heat in her, but he didn’t pull the hand
back until he had what he needed. He moved away a few steps, and stood gazing out at the sea, muscles
jumping now and then about his mouth.
He’s searching for a tactful way to say it Give it up, Magus. There’s not much difference
between tact and lies and I need the truth.
Without looking at her, he said, “There’s nothing I can do to help you, Sorcerie. Not until we’re off
Kaerubulan. You’ve been taught disciplines. Practice them.”
Faan twisted her face into a clown’s grimace, the way the Salagaum Jea used to when he had a date
he didn’t think he’d like. “No magic at all?”
He looked round at her, a smile startled out of him. “This far from everything? As long as there’s no
one around, why not.”
It was getting easier. Pretending to laugh seemed to make her feel like laughing. “I know what you
want. Hot meal in your belly and fresh water to drink.”
“And you don’t, Sorcerie? Nu, Kat, I saw a house with a pier we can reach before sundown if we
start now. You’re right about the storm, we’ll need shelter.” He tucked his arm in Kitya’s. “Shall we go?”
Chapter 2. Storms Present and Coming
The Karascapa tavern in the waterfront district of Tempatoug was a big rambling place, dark, smoky
and hot despite the sleet driving down outside. In a booth against the back wall Rakil listened to the wind
howl and shivered; after so many years in southern lands he’d lost whatever love he’d had for winter
storms, especi-ally those that came out of their time, late in Kaerubulan’s brief bright Spring. Silently
cursing the whim mixed with greed that brought Purb to this ungodded island with its twisting Shifters and
bitter storms, he sipped at his hot wine and made forgettable small talk with the Trader Jatjin who was
sitting at the table with him.
Rakil looked very much like the sister he hadn’t seen in decades, the same beaky nose and high
cheekbones, the same brown eyes with green flecks near the pupil; he was thinner, more than a head
taller. With the tav-ern’s murky light smoothing away the finer wrinkles from his face and blurring the
cynicism in his eyes, he might have been Desantro’s son rather than her younger brother.
The bonedancer on the drum in the center of the room was drawing booms and clatters from the
broad resilient surface with its inset stone and shell while two Shifters with exaggerated female forms
swayed and shimmied through a complex dance that had a clump of dockers hooting and snapping their
fingers, some of them leaning over the groaning copper rail to grab at the dancers who avoided the hands
with the ease of much practice, flicking silken scarves over wrists as they did so without breaking their
wide-eyed, ecstatic bond with the beat.
Rakil banged his mug on the table, then raised it high. The potgirl caught his signal and rattled her cart
over to him; she was dark and squat, aggressively bonetype, staring at the world through a fringe of
coarse black hair. Rumor was she was deaf and blind in one eye, probably because she ignored equally
praise and insult, smiles and frowns. She plucked the mug from his hand, brought it under the barrel’s
spigot and had it on the table again in one smooth motion; at the same time she was agitating her pokers
in their bed of coals. She thrust one of them into the wine. As it sizzled and added a tang to the stale air,
she raised a brow at Jatjin; when he shook his head, she collected a pring for the drink and a cob for the
poker, then rattled her cart to the next table.
Jatjin’s eyes narrowed to slits to keep out the curls of steam as he gulped down a draft of his wisuk,
smacked his lips afterward; he leaned back so his face dissolved into the shadow beyond the feeble light
from the candle stub guttering out its final minutes in the center of the table. “This is being the last batch I
am bringing in,” he said. “Balk a baik, we are making a good thing out of it, but is coming the Noses. The
jellies is getting nervy, winding up t’ a fight, ia? Better we are going some-where else while they be
shaking down, ia?”
“Where there’s need the price goes up, ia?”
“Bem. Till you be doing the paying and in blood not gold.” He took another mouthful of the cooling
wi-suk, patted his straggly mustache with the back of his hand. Mouth twisting in a smile half pride, half
depre-cation, he reached up, plucked a hair from his head and held it close to the candle where it
glittered like silver wire. “White hair,” he said. “Is not being every man who lives to have ’em, ia? Me, I
am living till I be bald and toothless.”
Rakil” chuckled. “With seven times seven wives and enough children to people a city.”
“That I am having already. Why I am spending so much time at sea, ia? Is being quieter in middle of
ty-phoon, ia?” Jatjin leaned closer, his beady eyes glinting under the hedge of his brows. “You be
listening to me, Rak. I am thinking ol’ Flea’s head gone soft this time, else he is being out of here a month
ago, ia? Not stay-ing around while the jellies run amok. And not just staying, sinking his feet in it. I am
liking you, Rak. You are being twistier than a jelly in a fit, a good thing in a trader, ia? I am saying ship
out with me and give the jelly wars a miss.”
“The Flea’s a bad enemy, Jatjin, and he’s a man to spend a handful of gold to get a copper back.”
And, Old Man, I’d only be trading one master for another. Hunh, more than one. Every man’s the
master of a runaway slave.
“Is being a waste if you are getting chopped ....” Jatjin stopped talking as he caught sight of a small
dark man threading through the tables, coming toward them. “Sa sa, ’tis done. We be talking of other
things round Oglan, but there is being a place open for you should you be coming away from here, Rak.”
He paused, frowned. “Should you be coming alone.”
Rakil pulled his scarf higher on his face and plunged head down into the storm that blew along the
straight-ruled streets of Tempatoug, streets with never a single bend to break the flow of the wind and the
rush of the sleet. With their undulant bodies and fluid minds the Shifters were drawn to the simplest and
harshest of forms, the line and the square; even triangles were sus-pect, though they did concede that rain
and snow slid easiest off a slanted roof. That shape-hunger was why some of them had a desperate need
for those they called bonemen, the unchanging strangers they brought in to do heavy lifting_ It was why
Humarie had let him, give her a bone name. Humafie. He wanted to see her, wanted to sink into that
yielding, infinitely responsive flesh, but this wasn’t his day with her and Purb the Flea was waiting for him,
his temper chancy.
Ghosts blew past like patches of fog, their scratchy cries drowned by the wind; he never knew what
they. were saying, so he was grateful for that at least. Be-cause the Shifters couldn’t see or hear them,
they wouldn’t let ghostmen onto the island to lay the earth souls of the dead. The city swarmed with
ghosts, from the newest and strongest to the worn out wisps of decades-dead grandfathers, all of them
yammering yam-mering yammering about their wrongs and miseries and curling themselves about people,
trying to get them to listen or do something, no one knew what. He usually felt nervous about walking
through them, but tonight it was hard to tell them from the rain and sleet and, in any case, he was too
distracted to care.
Ralcil turned into a sideway that was little more than a crack between the concrete walls of two of
the rigidly square blocks that the Shifters called buildings. The wind was gone, suddenly, but sleet was
hitting one of the roofs, bouncing and running down the slope, cas-cading to the ground in a mix of ice
and water, chasing away the ghosts that usually hung about up near the eaves. Cursing under his breath,
he hunched his shoul-ders and waded through the slush until he reached a gate in the wall that extended
from the back of the north building to the next street over.
The gateway was plugged with ghosts.
He pushed into them and huddled as much of himself as he could under the lintel while he fumbled for
the key and let himself into the minute garden with a few pale green spears half drowned in mud and
naked trees with ghosts caught in their branches like tent-caterpillar webs. He hurried along the walk,
feeling in his pocket for the housekey, but Purb had the door open before he reached it.
The Flea slammed it shut as soon as Rakil was in, hauled the bar down and turned. “Well?” Purb the
Flea’s voice was high and squeaky when he was ex-cited, though that wasn’t what earned him his
nick-name; he’d gotten the Flea from his habit of leaving on the hop most of the places he’d lived in.
“Not a whisper of trouble.” Rakil unwound the scarf, hung it over a peg, began loosening the lacings
of his cloak. “The exchange was made two hours ago. The Browneyes were satisfied with the swords
and spear-points and they got them loaded on their ponies along with the barrels of oil-gel without any
interruption from Yelloweye patrols. The essences they passed over were what they’d promised, no
scanting in quality or volume. Jatjin’s messenger was slow because his mount stepped in a hole and
broke a leg so he had to walk part of the way. That’s why I’m later than we expected.” He hung the
cloak on another peg and stood hunched over and dripping on the entranceway flags. “Baik a baik, it all
went very well.”
“The suap?”
Rakil reached inside his shirt, brought out two heavy leather purses. “Jatjin and Browneye, no
argument ei-ther side. Haven’t counted it yet, but the weight feels right.”
“They’re wet” Purb stepped back. “You’re dripping on me. Put that in the study, then go get yourself
cleaned up.” His voice had dropped to its usual growl. “Don’t take forever. I’m getting together a dinner,
I want to tell you how to set it up and what you should order for it.”
“I hear,” Rakil said, the words as neutral as he could make them. He went sloshing off, the icewater
in his boots no colder than his distaste for what he was going to have do.
Purb bustled about the table rechecking everything Tamtim the Cook had done. His best place
settings were out, the Shiro-ware white, gleaming, without a crack or a flaw—the Flea’s personal taste
was more elaborate, tending to gold with lots of curly engraving, but the Shifters wouldn’t allow bonemen
to use the high metals. The center of the table was a riot of blooms from the most expensive, of the
forcing houses, great sprawling arrangements of purple and orange with explosions of fern and trailing
vines that threatened to get into the food. The white linen mats at each place were stiff with
white-on-white embroidery in the elaborate geometries of Shifter design, the milkglass eating sticks had a
matching design pressed into them, the soup spoons were molded tortoiseshell with white ceramic
handles, the paired straws at each place were etched crystal—and, as a compliment to the guests, had
the signifier of the subDuke Browneye Snarl at the center of the design—rather, a boneman’s
approximation of the com-plex sign the Shifters used for their ruler; Rakil had been astonished to find that
the Shifters had no written language. When he asked Humarie about it, she said, “If we want half-truth,
we send a boneman; if we want a lie, we write it.”
Purb the Flea had gone as far as he could, walking the dangerous line between honoring his guests
and ex-ceeding his station. He stepped back, viewed the effect of the wall lamps. “I still think we should
have light at the table, even if it’s only candles. I need to see their faces.”
Rakil sighed. They’d had this argument with each dinner Purb had arranged for his Shifter contacts.
“If you don’t feel like listening to me, Janguan Purb, remember what TwoFinger EarTwitch said when he
was teaching you the jellydeal. Shifters don’t like light in their eyes. If you want to irritate them, sa sa, but
think about it.”
Purb pushed his lips out and looked stubborn, but he dropped the matter. “You’ll stand behind me
and trans-late; keep it smooth and keep it fast. This is important, Rak; I want them sweet when they
leave.”
Rakil pressed his lips together. Despite their need for them—or perhaps because of it—Shifters
despised bonemen, considered them little better than workbeasts; even the obsessives who hung about
bonelife because they needed to, even they had no respect for what they desired, loathing themselves for
their indulgences. Purb was blundering ahead as usual, seeking to force those around him to accept his
vision of himself. It wouldn’t work this time. “You haven’t told me yet who they are, Janguan Purb. I’d
better know how to speak them.”
“Baik a baik, Rak. Come.” He led Rakil into his study, sat down behind his desk and folded his
hands on the mat. “Anyone could walk in there any minute. They’re all spies for Earwaggle
SnakeTongue, you know it as well as I do. Sit, man, you make me nervous standing there like that.”
“Kanga berk, Janguan Purb.”
Purb the Flea unwound his hands and began tapping his fingers on the mat, small thuds like the rain
hitting the shutters, the last sputters of the storm that had hung over the city for days now “They aren’t
going to be us-ing their right names or their right faces. B’ja, you don’t need to know those, just what to
call them. The most important one will be PointedEar NoseWaggle, the other, Redhair EyeTwitch. They
know trade sign well enough, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they actually can understand speech, so keep
that in mind in your transla-tions. We will be negotiating a Futures Contract. I want an exclusive
concession on blueflower essence, that’s the most important thing, after that, appointment as
Harbormaster’s Deputy, and last, anything else we can squeeze out of them that might be useful—but no
push-ing. And remember, the end of the meal is the end of the deal, so watch sharp, Rak.”
sim. Janguan Purb.”
“Make sure the best towels are in the dressing room, new slippers, anything they’ll need if it’s still
raining, tell the maids to get their cloaks and boots dry, and if they don’t do it right, they’ll get the whip. I
want every-thing perfect, Rak, perfect!” He coughed. “You can go now, you’ve got a lot to do.”
sim, Janguan Purb.” He stood, bowed and went out.
If I was a freeman, I’d ‘ve done better to go with Jatjin, he thought as he hurried for the kitchen. The
Old Man was right, what a nose he’s got ... still, the Flea’s survived before, and he might wake up this
time and dive for cover ... if I ran, he’d have my skin ... no doubt about that ... I’ve seen him .... He
shivered. Vindictive little sod ... gods! Not time yet ... ride it out a while longer ... I can always run ...
Humarie she won’t come ... won’t leave her people ... besides ... the old idiot ... he’s almost family ...
don’t want those bastard jellies taking him down ....
He slowed, smoothed his hair back, straightened his tunic, then walked into the kitchen. “Tamtim,” he
told the cook, “he likes the table. Good work. Sperrow, where are you? Ah. You’ve got the dry room
hot? Good. Get Birri and Tigla in here, I want ...”
It was too easy, he thought as he escorted the Shifters from the house after the dinner was finished
and the ac-cords signed.
He stood watching them walk along the narrow way, heading inland away from the bonequarter,
envying them a little as he watched the ghosts cringe away from them, plastering their insubstantial forms
against the walls. The rain had stopped completely and the clouds were breaking up; in the intermittent
moonlight he could follow the shift and slide of those mutable bodies, even something of the flow of
change that was the part of their speech only Shifters could, manage. He couldn’t read what they were
saying, but had a strong suspicion they were laughing at Purb for thinking that bargains with bonemen
meant anything once the pressures were off. They didn’t bargain hard, he thought, because they’re damn
sure they’re not going to have to pay off. I’d better start setting up get-outs. If Purb comes round, we’ll
hop together, if not .... He sighed, pulled the gate shut, locked it, and started inside. If he gets chopped, I
want to be away from here. A long way away. Guffralcin is sim, the Owl to get the brand off my butt.
Stinking jellies ....
He walked slowly back into the house, stopped in the kitchen.
The cook looked up from the bird he was carving. His broad red face was slick with sweat. “He
happy?”
“Bubbling. They lapped it up, Tam, like they hadn’t seen food in a month. You all did good.”
Tamtim grunted, pleased. “Pull up a chair. From what Birri and Tigla says, you didn’t get a mouthful.”
He was too annoyed to be hungry, but, it was better to keep Fat Tam sweet. “Can’t. Have to go
listen to him eat it over again, you know the ritual. Save me a plate, I’ll be by for it later.”
He left the kitchen and walked slowly to the study where Purb was waiting for him. Not the Flea
now, he thought, the Blind. Mole pushing his little pink snout into a trap. Gods! It wasn’t something he
admitted much, even to himself, but he had a reluctant fondness for the old twister, grown up somehow
beside repeated bursts of anger and frustration. How long has it been?
Twenty-five years. A quarter of a century. Baik a baik, that’s a long time. A long time ....
He knocked at the door, went in without waiting for a summons.
Purb was sitting at his worktable, going over a sheet of parchment covered with black ink scrawls,
seals affixed along one side. He looked up, grinned at Ra-kil, moved his hand so the sheet snapped into a
tight roll. “Hoo hoo,” he chortled, “All we got to do is wait, Rak, then we’re set.”
Rakil smiled, set his hands palm to palm and bowed over them. They’ll burn their copies the
moment they get to some safe place and if you try to use yours, you’re dead. He couldn’t resist a
small nay-say, though he knew it would anger the Flea. “If the Browneyes win this time.”
Purb whinnied, not angry but amused. “They will, old son, they will. A ragged granny whispered in
my ear.”
Rakil managed a sour smile. Ghosts now, is it? Fool!
Purb pushed the roll aside. “Baik a baik, we’ve got a godon full of legal essence it’s time to move
out. Who’s in port now?”
“Traders Orn, Gaaf ni Secorro, Orao Kotkal, a few more who can take the leftover odds and ends.
Hairim Zadem and the Wave Jumper; he’s heading out before the end of the week, bound for
Bandrabahr. He should be good for a consignment if we can’t get the right price here. Kinok Assach and
the Dark Moon, just got here, bound for Savvalis after this, then back along the coast all the way to Silili
with a stopover at Kukurul. It’s a long route, but he usually keeps clear of pirates and the like and he’s
no cod at bargaining. There are four, five more, but to speak frankly I wouldn’t trust any of them with
yesterday’s bran mush.”
Purb pulled at his nose, frowned. “Secorro’s a pij would rob the coppers from his mama’s eyes. Last
摘要：

TheMagicWarsWildMagic,Book3JoClayton1993  “IAMTHESPEAKERTOTHEBONEMEN,”theoldonesaidslowly,hishandsmovinginquickroundgestures.Sign-pidgin,Faanthought.“Whenyouspeaktome,youwillcallmeGichador.Therearesomethingsthatmustbemadecleartoyou.Youaremagic-makers.Youwillnotbepermittedtodothathere.Bestill!Youcana...

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