The Black Raven. Katharine Kerr
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he called out. ‘The Great Krysello gives you his humble thanks!’
From his sleeves he flicked scarves and began to circle them from hand to hand, but always he was aware of the Wildfolk, sylphs and sprites, gnomes and salamanders, gathering on the stage, forming above the incense braziers, flocking around him and flitting this way and that, grinning and pointing at the crowd. In a flood of Elvish words he called out orders, and for the sheer love of play they obeyed him. Suddenly, far above the crowd, red and blue lightning crackled. With each boom of false thunder, sheets of colour fell and twisted in every rainbow the Wildfolk knew. The crowd roared its approval as the sheets broke into glowing drops and vanished just above their heads.
A green and purple mist burst into being around the stage, and deep within it voices sang alien songs. Once the crowd fell silent to listen, Salamander added explosions and bursts of gold and silver. Then back to the colours sheeting the sky – on and on he went until sweat soaked his costume and plastered his hair to his head. He let the colours fade and the music die away, then bowed deeply to the crowd.
‘The Great Krysello is weary! But lo! we have other wonders to show you.’
At the signal Vinto’s acrobats, all dressed in gaudy silks, rushed onto the stage. The crowd roared and threw coins in a copper and silver rain. As they tumbled around the stage, the acrobats scooped them up. Salamander stepped back to the shadows at the rear. While he mopped the sweat from his face and hair with a scarf, he looked out over the crowd.
One man caught his attention immediately, a tall fellow, standing right in front. His body seemed to waver like a reflection on moving water, and his clothes looked more like wisps of fog or smoke hung around him, or maybe just placed in his general vicinity, than solid cloth. Yet no one standing near him seemed to notice the least thing unusual. When the acrobats arranged themselves into a human pyramid, he clapped and smiled like anyone else. The flute and drums began their music; applause rippled, then died. The flickering stranger crossed his arms over his chest and stood reasonably still.
But always his eyes searched through the shadows. Salamander knew at once that the man – no, the being, some strange non-human thing – was looking for him. He could feel a gaze probing, feel alien sight run down his body like clammy hands. With a shriek lost in the music, he turned and leapt down from the stage, then took out running through the night. Down long streets he raced, panting for breath; in alleyways he stopped and looked around him. The door. He had to find the dark wood door bound in iron.
Past taverns, past craftsmen’s shops he jogged, looking at each door, peering into shadows while cold sweat ran down his back and his chest ached – nowhere did he find it. He ran again, then slowed to a stumbling walk. Around him the city lay dark and silent. The night hung over the river, an oily rush of dark water against a darker sky. Salamander stopped, listening. Water slapped against wooden docks. Footsteps rustled on stone. With a roar to the Lords of Fire, he spun around and flung up both hands. A gust of silver flame towered up and lit the alley in a cold glare. Black shadow outlined every stone on wall and street and seemed to carve some incomprehensible meaning into them. Thieves shrieked and ran, dashing away down the alley – two small men, carrying knives. In the dying light from the silver flare he watched them till they skittered around a corner and disappeared. Salamander laughed, then headed to the river bank. He could follow it upstream to the caravanserai.
He arrived to find the troupe clustering around a fire and talking. Marka paced back and forth at the edge of the pool of light, and every now and then she raised her hands to her face as if she wept.
‘Here!’ Salamander called out. ‘What’s so wrong?’
The troupe froze, then burst out laughing and cheering all at once. Marka ran to him and flung her arms around him.
‘My thanks to every god!’ Her voice quavered on the edge of sobs. ‘I was so worried.’
Salamander slipped his arms around her waist and held her while he murmured small soothing noises. At last her trembling quieted.
‘Have I been gone so long?’ he said.
‘Well past the midnight bells, yes.’ She looked up at him. ‘Why did you run like that?’
‘I don’t remember.’ He felt himself yawn and shook his head. ‘I’m exhausted, my love. I’ve got to go lie down.’
That morning Marka gave up on sleep early. When the sun was rising in a pink blaze of distant fog, and the sea wind was making the tents flap and rustle, she put on a short dress and went outside, yawning and stretching in the cool air. As she glanced around, she saw a stranger, dressed in Bardekian tunic and sandals, leading his horse through the camp. He saw her, waved, and strolled over. His skin was as pale as Ebañy’s, and his eyes a strange turquoise colour, as vivid as the stones, but since he wore a leather riding hat pulled down over his ears, she could see nothing of his hair.
‘Good morning,’ Marka said. ‘Are you looking for someone?’
‘Yes, actually. The magician who performed in the market place last night.’
‘Indeed? Well, I happen to be his wife.’
‘Ah. How do you do?’ The stranger swept off his hat and bowed to her. ‘I’m a friend of his father’s.’
Marka stared like a rude child, then pulled her gaze away. His ears were impossibly long, impossibly furled, and pointed.
‘Well, then, good sir.’ She found her voice with a little gulp. You’re certainly welcome in our humble camp.’
‘Thank you. My name is Evandar.’
‘My husband’s still asleep.’ Marka glanced back at the tent and saw the flap moving. ‘Or no, here he is.’
Salamander stepped outside, saw Evandar, and screamed aloud.
‘No, no, no!’ Evandar said. ‘I’m here to help you, truly I am. What’s so wrong?’
‘There’s nothing to you,’ Salamander said, and he was shaking so badly his hands knocked together. ‘You’re not really here.’
‘Well, I’m here as much I can be anywhere.’ Evandar looked down at himself and frowned. ‘Everyone else always thinks I look solid enough. Your charming wife, for instance, didn’t shriek at the sight of me.’
‘Indeed?’ Ebañy turned to her. ‘What do you see, when you look at him?’
‘Just a man like any other, as pale as you are, and so I guess he must be from your homeland. But I don’t understand what you’re saying. His ears are – well, forgive me, sir – but they’re awfully strange, but otherwise, he looks ordinary enough.’
For a long moment Ebañy stood unspeaking, glancing back and forth between the two of them. Behind him Kivva, their second daughter, flung open the tent flap and stared out, a tall girl, dark like her mother, with tight black curls cut close to her head. Zandro wiggled out between his sister’s legs, saw Evandar, and squealed one high-pitched note. He laughed, stuck out his tongue, then threw his head back and pranced around in a tight circle whilst waggling his fingers in Evandar’s general direction. Everyone stared, speechless, until Marka found her voice.
‘Zan! What are you doing? Stop that!’ Marka stepped forward and grabbed. ‘This man is our guest, and taunting him is very rude.’
Giggling, Zandro raced back into the tent. When Marka pointed, Kivva obligingly went in after him. Marka turned back to find Evandar considering her with a smile as sly as any merchant closing a deal.
‘Please, let me apologize for my son,’ Marka said.
‘Oh, no apologies needed,’ Evandar said. ‘He must be an unusual child, yes? Difficult to handle, perhaps?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘I’m not surprised. He’s not really human, you see.’
‘That’s what my husband says!’ Marka turned to Ebañy. ‘I don’t understand any of this!’