Innkeeper's Song

But then this magician turns, still on his knees, eyes wide, blazing green as the sky just after sunset. He throws out one hand, says three words, dry grass rattling—and gone, all of them, all at once, gone, blown-out candles, slamming doors, dew-bugs in a starik’s mouth. Nothing remains—not an echo, not a twist of smoke, only a cold narrow room left huge by its emptiness. This magician stands up, slowly, smiles very slowly.

“Thank you,” he says, as Grandfather man-shape blinks and shrivels into a red fox sitting on the bed. “That was becoming quite exhausting.”

“No thanks wanted,” I tell him. I am puzzled, hate that, hate puzzled. I say, “It was not to help you.”

Smile widens and widens, teeth or no teeth. “I know that, but I am still just as grateful. It was most clever of you to realize that their own names hurt their ears as much as they do ours. There will be others here, very soon, but at least I will rest a little and perhaps think of a new song to keep them at bay. The captain and the corporal are begi

Brushes me off the bed like dust, lies down sighing. My nice teeth grind together, but too many stories about foxes who bite magicians. “Snap your fingers, mumble words, send them off,” I say. “Why bother with songs?”

Half-asleep already, he looks smaller with every breath. “Too tired,” he whispers. “Have to face them, hear them, too tired, they’d have me. Too tired for anything but singing. Thank you, old friend.”

Last word is a snore. I stand looking at him for a long time, not wanting to. Friend of his, this fox, friend of any magician? He knows better, wicked old tired man. Yet I have gone to him, not wanting to—helped him, not meaning to, meaning only to help this fox. Just as Lukassa begs, kissing nose. I hate this. Magician snores on, ends of mustache fluttering in the wind. Some other is here, watching with me—not old nothing, but a deadness, a dead place, window-high, just beyond bed, no bigger than my front paws together. Where it is, no air. Not for foxes, this room. Good Grandfather man-shape, to leave the door a little open.

So back down the hall, clickclick, clickclick, past more snoring, past sighs, whimpers, a fox indoors, swimming through currents of human noises, human smells. I hear magician muttering in his sleep, same as always:

My feet pick up the rhythm, not wanting to.

TIKAT

Of course I knew that he was ill. I was usually the first to see him in the mornings—before the women, even—and I know the air of a sickroom as well as any. But sickness to me is the plague-wind, is childbed fever, is colic, black blood, bone-rot, and all the village complaints that we treat exactly as we do the ailments of farm animals. My tafiya slept poorly, plain enough; he lost weight by the day, his color grew steadily worse, and his voice was most often a rasping whisper, as painful to me, listening, as it must have been to him. Yet when I would have slept in his room, he forbade it at the top of that tattered voice, as he forbade me ever to visit him again after dark. How should I have realized that he was being galloped to madness and halfway back between every sundown and every cockcrow? That is no air I know.

Tending him drew Lukassa and me together in a strange way, as though I were again slipping up on the Rabbit, my Mildasi horse, step by step, praying not to alarm him by any smallest thought of capture. We spoke rarely; what mattered was that she did not seem to fear being in the same room with me, although how it would have been without him there I ca

For my part, I brought his meals, swept the floor, took away yesterday’s platters, and listened when the mood to talk was on him. It never happened when Lukassa was in the room—or the other two either, when I think about it. They loved him, you see, and I did not. You don’t have to love a tafiya; you can even hate him, as you might anyone else. I thought he was the wisest person I had ever met, except for my teacher at home, but it was a wisdom too playful for my comfort, and the play was too quickly apt to turn edged and pointed. Yet he had a liking for me, I knew that—perhaps because I owed him nothing and did not care so much for his good opinion. It may have been just so, contrary as he was.

Sometimes he spoke of his life, which had been a very long one. I never knew how old he was; but if even half of what he told me is true—half the journeys in quest of hidden learning, half the tests and terrors and magical encounters—it would surely have taken two ordinary mortal lifetimes to crowd them all in. Wizards must lie like other people—only better—but in fact he mumbled quickly over the adventurous parts and kept returning again and again to the plainest human sorrows and defeats. “There was a woman,” he said once. “We traveled together, many, many years. Then she died.” I saw no tears in his pale greenish eyes, but I don’t think you can tell with a wizard.

“I am sorry,” I said. The eyes had turned away from me; now they swung back with an impact I could feel in my flesh. “Why? Imagining that moping and pining for Lukassa fits you for understanding someone else’s loss? There is no comparison. You understand nothing.” And he spoke no further for the rest of that day.

Yet another time he asked me, very suddenly, in the middle of a complaint about Shadry’s bread, “Is there anything you fear, Tikat?” The words came lightly, but his voice was like thatch tearing in the wind. “Tell me what you fear.”

I had no need to think longer than it took me to draw breath. “Nothing. Before… before, I was afraid of everything in the world, everything that had the least chance of parting Lukassa and me. Now the worst that could have happened has happened, and there is nothing left for me to fear.” I stopped for a moment, as he began to smile, and then I added, “I truly wish there were. I don’t think it can be right, to fear nothing at all.”

The smile widened, exposing his withered gums and stumpy teeth. I thought that I would never let myself fall to ruin like that, not if I could mend such things with a snap of my fingers. He said softly, almost dreamily, “No, it is not, but I envy you all the same. You see, the thing you are most afraid of is always the thing that happens— always.” The last word seared the air between us. “We make it happen, we all do, wizard and weaver alike, though I could never tell you how. Yet here you are—here you sit by me, and your worst fear has come true, it’s done with, and you did not die. Indeed I do envy you, Tikat.”

I thought he was mocking me. I said, “I survived. I do not know if that is the same as not dying.”

“A dainty distinction for a village boy,” and this time there was no missing the ravaged amusement in that voice. “Now I recall that I have feared many, many things myself, in different times, but I seem to have outlived them all, just as I have outlived loving and hating as well. The irony of it is that in all these years I have never feared death, being what I am and knowing what I know. Now I do. As much as you dreaded living without Lukassa, so I live in absolute horror of dying. It is a great humiliation for a magician.”