Wolf Hunting (21 page)

There was an ordered disorder to this city of towers. One needed to study for many years to understand the reason for that fitting of shapes and heights. It was said that many who did come to this treasured comprehension put aside rod, staff, or wand and became instead simple masons, stonecutters, bricklayers, dedicated to the glory that was the city.

And it was also said that those who came to this understanding and did not retire from the practice of magic became the most powerful sorcerers not only of the place of blue stone, but of all the world. So it was that many strove to understand the shaping of the city, desiring to obtain that power for themselves.

See now. A youth comes to this city. He is past the gangly growth of first adulthood, not yet into the strength and maturity of second. His hair is dark and silken. His eyes are long and appraising beneath lashes merely long. Those eyes are the same color as his hair. There is nothing remarkable about this youth in this place of marvels, and the crowd does not part around him. Rather it jostles him, moving him to the shoulder of the road, and there he makes his way, his eyes never leaving the sparkling blue stone and variety of rooftops.

Why is there a crowd? At first glance it appears to be the usual market vendors, driving livestock, hauling produce or handicrafts. At second glance this seems less sure. They pass into a gate, but that gate does not admit them to a market square. No booths are set up, no ropes strung to indicate where goats are being held, where sheep, where cattle. The herds and carts and wagons pass through one wide gate. Those who drove or hauled or pulled come out another.

Enough time does not seem to have passed to permit a sale to have been made, yet those departing do not look dissatisfied. Indeed, all look cheerful, or at least content. All of those but those who weep, and there are not over many of these.

The youth is swept up to the gate. He walks alongside a herd of odoriferous goats, and initially is thought to be among their keepers.

“I am not,” he says, and the goatherd is vociferous in seconding this denial. “I am here to enroll with a teacher.”

The youth’s boots are dirty, the hem of his traveling cloak soiled to the knee, but the pair guarding the gate, one each a man and a woman, do not mock him. Instead they indicate a smaller door, one made all of crystal, cut and faceted with such intricacy that although this portal should be clear it is opaque with rainbows.

“There,” the man says.

“Pull the bell-rope,” the woman adds.

Then they return to assessing the goods passing through the gate. The youth steps dextrously around a young white and tan kid with short curling horns and evil yellow eyes, and advances on the door of crystal. He never once looks back. As he moves forward, the sounds of the mobile marketplace fade away to a silence broken only by the sound of his own boots on stone.

When he pulls the bell-rope there chimes a cadence so beautiful that some say that those who hear it remember it ever after with the bittersweet joy with which one recalls a beloved one never quite found the courage to address.

The youth stands and listens with pleasure, but perhaps with a certain degree of apprehension as well. A shadow darkens the crystal, dimming the rainbows so they frame the shape of a large man.

A deep voice rumbles, “State your business.”

“I am here to enroll with a teacher.”

“Know first the terms. If you cross this threshold, you will be bound into service. Even if no teacher will take you, you will still be bound. If your teacher finds you lacking, still you will owe. Only if you find a teacher and pass that teacher’s training will you be free to depart, and even then you will be bound by the codes and regulations of this place.”

“I still wish to enroll.”

“Then push open the door and enter. None does so but under his own power so it cannot be said he has been coerced into this choice.”

The youth raises both hands and presses them against the center of the crystal door where there is a smooth place that seems made for the purpose. A sensation of perfect cold embraces him, but he presses forward. Cold sweeps him from hands to wrists to arms, into his torso, down to the earth and up to the top of his head. This happens so quickly that the youth has hardly taken three steps. By the time he has taken five and the door has opened, the youth feels himself to be himself again, and could have imagined that entire winter cold wash a dream—except that he is far too clever to do so.

When he has stepped into the room, he looks about, but no deep-voiced man awaits him, only what he would have taken for a little girl of no more than eight, but that her wide, cornflower blue eyes are overfilled with almost terrifying wisdom.

“You are here,” she says, and her voice holds in it something of the music of the bells. “Go. Walk in the city.”

“Where should I go to be interviewed by a teacher?”

“Go,” she says again, and her flower-bud mouth smiles with neither warmth nor pity. “Teachers do not interview students. Students must interview teachers.”

“And where do I find the teachers who are willing to take students?”

The round blue eyes sparkle with tiny lights like stars. “Walk in the city. Find your way—or not.”

The youth loses himself in the sparkling glamour of her eyes, and when he draws himself out of their depths, he finds himself standing on a street, glittering blue towers rising around him. The crystal door is gone. So is the girl child with the comflower blue eyes. He never sees either of them again.

For day upon day upon day, the youth walks the city streets. As far as he can tell, there is no way of marking time. The sun does not pass overhead, nor does the sky darken with nightfall. All is lit in a perpetual golden glow that comes from no direction except that it comes from above.

He sees no one at all, not even an alley cat or foraging sparrow.

When the youth grows tired he covers himself with his dirty cloak and sleeps in a doorway. Sleep comes with exhaustion, but without dreams. He awakens in the morning feeling ravenous and alert, but not rested.

His stomach has guided him to where he can find food. After several meals, he can see some people. After more meals, it is made clear to him that he must labor to eat. He does so, though he understands little of the purpose of the labors he performs.

The youth is in danger of forgetting his purpose when one day, polishing dust from a seemingly endless stack of newly fired roof tiles, he remembers that he had a purpose when he came here. He takes to wandering the streets again, this time forgoing food and even sleep. When he reaches the point that starvation and exhaustion have driven him into what might well be hallucination, he sees a man watching him.

The man is of his own height, but with burnished copper hair and eyes that focus on the youth as nothing has done since he passed the man and the woman at the gates of the city.

“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” the man says. “If you want a teacher, you can start with me, but I can’t promise you’ll finish with me. I’m not one of the great teachers, but a middling fair lesser one.”

“What do I call you?” the youth asks.

“Master will do.”

“Master,” the youth repeats, and with that word he passes from hallucination into the city of towers.

TRUTH AWAKENED FROM HER VISION, pulling herself into the reality of the treetops with such ease that she felt considerable pride. Shifting her weight, she scratched heartily behind one ear, then the other.

Meddler,
she thought.
Was that you? Was that some moment in your life?

There was no answer, though Truth listened very carefully. She lashed her tail back and forth in annoyance. Really! When she wanted the Voice, he wouldn’t speak to her. When she didn’t, she couldn’t get him to keep quiet. Of one thing she was certain now. Allowing for changes in age, one voice and the same had been employed by the youth in her vision and the Voice that had led her out of madness.

She thought she knew what that meant. The maimalodalum had been right in their identification. What the rest of her vision might mean—if anything—she couldn’t know.

For now.

Purring with contentment, Truth resettled herself, this time to sleep rather than to dream.

DERIAN WOULD HAVE LIKED TO HEAR more about just what the maimalodalum had found at the ruins of the house that was not a house, but soon after they had finished discussing what the Meddler might be, and why he was not exactly favored by the disdum of the Liglimom, a woman riding a handsome grey with darker mane and tail came cantering up the road toward them.

From the horse’s condition, she had been riding long, but not too hard. Quite probably she had left her point of origin when they had their own, but she had traveled with a bit more purpose.

She hailed them when she was a polite distance away, reining in the grey as she did so.

“Greetings,” she said. “Others on the road brought word that the aridisdu Harjeedian, honored representatives of the yarimaimalom, and some foreign companions traveled this way. I come from the Temple of the Wounded Bear to ask you to stay your journey there and accept our hospitality.”

Harjeedian recited their agreed-upon excuse about their being on pilgrimage, but this woman had been given omens of her own. It soon became clear that while the majority of the group would be permitted their privacy, nothing would stop the disdum of the temple from giving their hospitality to the junjaldisdu’s brother.

Harjeedian consulted with the others and they agreed, especially when it became clear that the woman had changed mounts along the way, and that the temple in question was near where they would have halted in any case.

At the temple, Harjeedian was dragged off for a discussion of politics and religion—though Derian doubted the two could be separated where the Liglimom were concerned. The rest were housed comfortably, but Plik refused to continue his tale until all who needed to hear it were present.

Come morning, Harjeedian returned, rested, sleek, and bearing maps and mail.

Derian was pleased to find a thick letter from his family. After skimming it to make certain no one was ill or had died, he tucked it away for more leisurely enjoyment.

Once they were well away from the Temple of the Wounded Bear, Firekeeper loped alongside Plik’s pony. He was riding his second-string mount, an adorable brown-and-white-spotted gelding called, incongruously, Formidable.

“Truth say,” Firekeeper began, then she glanced over at the jaguar who was running alongside Eshinarvash, “Truth
ask
if you have more stories about this Meddler and if you could tell us more.”

“I know a little more,” Plik said. “I had opportunity to look through the manuscripts we brought from the house that was not a house before my departure. I had hoped to bring the books with me but …” He shrugged. “The paper was old and probably wouldn’t have held up long under the abuses of travel.”

“But you have something you can tell,” Firekeeper asked.

“I do,” Plik promised.

They were riding through a stretch of countryside that the ravens had assured them was largely uninhabited, so Plik had put aside his enveloping cloak, though he kept his slouch hat on, just in case.

“Now,” he began, speaking in Pellish, “as I said yesterday, the tales of the Meddler come to us originally from the Old Country. Here’s a short one that demonstrates a great deal about his personality.”

“The Meddler and the Thwarted Lovers”

One day as the Meddler was out walking, going about, just seeing the world as he liked to do, he came to a prosperous farm. The pastures were all fenced in white, the fields were lush with crops. He walked wide stretches where fat cattle contentedly grazed, and saw ponds where duck swam, and fish glided beneath the clear waters.

When the Meddler came to the main wagon road leading into this fine farm, he paused, wondering whether or not he should turn in and perhaps ask for a meal and a bed for the night. While he was paused there, he heard the sound of a choked off sob.

“Who is there?” the Meddler said, casting around, looking beneath the hedges and in the ditches. “Speak up! Are you hurt?”

A young man emerged from a copse of apple trees, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He was as comely as the sun at noon, his skin smooth and without blemish, his dark hair glossy, his carriage erect. However, his eyes were red from weeping.

The young man made a great effort and hid his grief, then he said to the Meddler, “Hello, traveler. Have you walked far today?”

“Far enough,” the Meddler said. “I was in those distant hills when the day began.”

“Will you stop and take the evening meal here?” the young man asked. “I am Letu, son of this house, and my parents would speak sharply to me if I did not make you welcome.”

The Meddler’s feet were aching, and when he thought of the abundant fields and the fat cattle he had seen, his stomach rumbled loudly enough for the young man to hear.

Letu’s handsome face shed its sorrow for a moment, and he laughed. “Your belly answers for you. Come and dine with us.”

The road up to the house was a long one. Before they had gone many paces, the Meddler pried from Letu what sorrow had brought him to tears. As Letu told him, his eyes brightened once more with unshed tears, but manfully he held back his grief.

“Traveler, I will tell you. I love a young woman with all my heart, but never, never will I have her for my own. My heart breaks as I contemplate an eternity of separation. My despair is so great that my food tastes of sawdust and my drink of brine.”

“She must be an extraordinary young woman,” the Meddler said.

“She is,” Letu replied, his eyes shining with joy as before they had shone with tears. “You can see her in the kitchens. Her name is Vitzi.”

(PLIK INTERRUPTED HIMSELF TO SAY, “That’s a word meaning ‘meadowsweet,’ the name of a pretty wildflower.”)