Innkeeper's Song

Boy Rosseth never notices. Says, “Lal is nicest. Moves like water, smells like sea and spice together.” Laugh. Drink. Say nothing.

Porter Gatti—little man, one white eye in angry little face—he says, “Nyateneri. Nyateneri. All woman, that one, no swagger, no swordcane, nothing but grace, modesty. She invades my dreams.”

Not laugh, but ale runs down. Man-shape says, “Stay awake, stay awake, lucky Milk-Eye. Women from that country, they love short, strong men like you. Stay awake, one night she carry you off into woods, same way you carry strangers’ chests upstairs.” Gatti stare then, stare all the time at Nyateneri now. Waiting.

Makes Nyateneri nervous. Asks fat i

Twelve days now, gone every day, Lal and Nyateneri, not a thought for poor fox, never a thought for Lukassa alone. She sits, waits, walks outside, talks to players, talks to Marinesha, talks to me. Cries once. Twelfth night, those two come back so late Rosseth already asleep, they stable horses themselves. In the room, I drowse on pillow like kitten, very decorative. Lukassa lies by me, not sleeping.

They come in, walk tired, smell angry. Lal says, “You said you knew.”

Nyateneri says, “He is here.”

Lal sits hard on the bed, pulls off her boots. “He is not in the town. We know this. So what is here?”

Nyateneri only says, “Tomorrow. Every farm. Every hut. Every cave, every byre, every blanket stretched across a ditch. He is here.”

Lal says, “If he could speak to us. If he could come to us in one more dream, one more.” Throws boots into corner.

“Too weak,” says Nyateneri. “When there is too much pain, too much struggle, what strength is left for dreams, messages?” Open one eye through Lukassa’s fingers, see Nyateneri trimming feathers on arrow. Stops. I close eye. Nyateneri’s voice, all different. “Magicians die.”

Bed bounces. Lal is up, turning back and forth, to door, to window where tree branches go crick-sish. “Not this one. Not this way. Magicians die sometimes because they grow greedy, because they become frightened, but this one wants nothing, fears nothing, laughs at everything. No power has any hold on him.”

Nyateneri, sharp now. “You don’t know that. You know nothing about him, and no more do I. Tell me how old he is, tell me where he came from, tell me about his family, his own teacher, his real home.” Arrow breaks, goes after Lal’s boots. Nyateneri says, “Tell me whom he loves.”

Lal draws breath, lets out again. Lukassa sits up, watches, smooths my fur. Nyateneri. “No. Not us. He was kind, he protected us—saved us, yes—he taught us much, and we love him, we two. We are here, as we should be, because we love him. But he does not love us.” Smiles then, teeth white, lips tight. “That you know.”

No sound, just me breathing, so sleepy, so good. Lal looks out window, watches pretty chickens roosting in bush. Lal says, “He loves somebody. Somebody knows his name.”

Nyateneri starts on another arrow. Lal’s voice so quiet. “You saw him. No one could have done from a distance what has been done to him. Whoever has broken his magic was deeply trusted, greatly loved. It must be so.”

They say names. Men, women, even something that is neither, lives in fire, in mud, who cares? But always Lal shakes head, Nyateneri says, “No, I suppose.” One time, they laugh even, and Lukassa looking one to the other, forgetting to scratch my ears. But at last, no more names. Lal says, “It is no one I ever knew.”

Knock on door. Nyateneri curling around and up like smoke, no sound, big bow ready. Voice. “Me, Rosseth, please.” Bow comes down, Lal goes to door. Boy stands there, looks all unlicked, holding wooden platter. I smell cold meat, nice cheese, bad wine. He says, “I woke up, I heard your voices, you came back late, I thought you might not have had any di

Lal makes in-between sound, almost sigh, almost laugh. Lal says, “Thank you, Rosseth. You are very thoughtful.”

Pushes platter into her hands. Says, “The wine is a little sour, Karsh keeps the best locked away. But the meat is fresh yesterday, I promise.”

Nyateneri comes up, says, “Thank you, Rosseth. Go back to your bed now.” Smiles at him. Boy can’t breathe. Legs take one step to go away, rest of him takes two steps into room. Sees me on Lukassa’s pillow, tail over nose, little, little sweet snores. Eyes get big as plums, he says, “Karsh,” like ghost of a sneeze.

Lukassa swifts me up, backs away. Nyateneri. “Karsh wants not to see a fox. He has not.”

Lal. “Neither have you.” She touches boy’s cheek, pushes him out with her fingertips, closes the door. He stands there, I smell him, a long time. Lal turns, sets platter down. “A good child. He is full of wonder, and he really does work very hard.” Stops then and laughs, shakes her head. Says, “I suppose my—I suppose our friend has said exactly the same thing about us, many times. To whomever he loved.” Nyateneri goes back to arrows.

All this time Lukassa is silent. Watches, holds me, not a word, but something down her arms, hands, into me, fur jumps with it, bones too. Now she says, “Today.”

They look at her. Nyateneri. “Today. What?”

Lukassa. “Not tomorrow. You found him today.” Stands there, looking right back, stubborn, certain. In her arms I turn, yawn, stretch out legs. Lal, gentle, careful. “Lukassa, no, we have not found him. The trail he left us ended in this country, but we have been hunting everywhere for twelve days, and we are good hunters, Nyateneri and I. No one even remembers having seen him—there is no sign, no slightest trace—”

Lukassa interrupts her. “You’ve been where he was, then—you’ve been where something happened, something bad.” Now they look at each other. Nyateneri raises eyebrow just a little, Lal not. Lukassa sees, voice gets louder. “It’s on you, I can smell it. Somewhere today, a place of death, you were there, it’s all over you.” Trembling harder, might drop me. Says, “Death.”

Nyateneri turns a little to Lal. “In that room, the day we came. Now again. Doesn’t she know any other tricks?”

Lal. “It is no trick.” Very soft, golden eyes darken to shadowy bronze. Lal is angry. Says, “She knows death as we do not, she can tell where it has passed. And you will have to take my word for this.”

Slow, Nyateneri. “So I shall.” Quiet then, everybody quiet. Lal tastes wine, makes a face, keeps drinking. Lukassa takes slices of cold meat, one for me, one for her, one for me. Nyateneri says, “The tower.”

Lal blinks. “Tower.” Then, “Oh, that. A pile of red rocks, we saw nothing but spiders, owls, centuries of dust. Why there?”

Nyateneri. “Why centuries? Nothing else in this country is old enough to be that ruinous. Why only one tower, and everything else—everything—squat as a horse-pile?” Shrugs. “We have to start somewhere.” Looks at Lukassa. “She comes with us. Our very own little deathstalker.”

Lukassa tosses me on the bed, me, just like that, like a pillow. Walks straight up to Nyateneri, stands almost on tiptoe to meet her eyes. Says, “I belong to no one. Lal told me. I am not a hat, not a pet fox, not somebody who does a trick. I am your companion, and Lal’s, or I am not, and if I am, then from tomorrow I go where you go, and there’s an end to that.” Mouths open, even I. Lukassa. “For I have come a longer journey than you have.”

Lal is smiling, turns away. Nyateneri. Years, years, not friends, not not-friends, each one other’s secret, coming, going, saying nothing, knowing what we know. Hoho, Nyateneri. Only one time before so still, so amazed, long ago, both of us nearly die that time. Shakes head slowly, sits down, picks up the big bow. Says, “Well, companions. I am now going to put a new string on my bow. If this doesn’t bite me too, it should take me about five minutes. Then I am going to sleep, as we should all do, because tomorrow will be a hard day.” No more than that.