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Valentine felt like an intruder in this place. He wanted to apologize to the Metamorphs for having come among them at their holiest time. Yet no one but the children seemed to be paying the slightest attention to them, and the children evidently regarded them as curiosities brought here for their amusement. Young shy Metamorphs lurked everywhere, flashing jumbled imitations of Deliamber and Sleet and Zalzan Kavol and the rest, but never allowing anyone to get close to them.
Zalzan Kavol had called a rehearsal for late afternoon, back of the wagon. Valentine was one of the first to arrive, glad of an excuse to remove himself from the crowded streets. He found only Sleet and two of the Skandars.
It seemed to him that Zalzan Kavol was eyeing him in an odd way. There was something new and disturbing about the quality of the Skandar’s attentiveness. After a few minutes Valentine was so troubled by it that he said, "Is something wrong?"
"What would be wrong?"
"You seem out of countenance."
"I? I? Nothing’s the matter. A dream, is all. I was thinking on a dream I had last night."
"You dreamed of the blue-ski
Zalzan Kavol looked baffled. "Why do you think that?"
"I did, and Sleet."
"My dream had nothing at all to do with the blue-ski
Valentine shrugged. It had not even occurred to him that Skandars had dreams, let alone that they might have troublesome ones. But of course: they were citizens of Majipoor, they shared in all the attributes of people here, and so they must live full and rich dream-lives like everyone else, with sendings from King and Lady, and stray intrusions from the minds of lesser beings, and upwellings of self from their own deeper reaches, even as humans did, or, Valentine supposed, Hjorts and Vroons and Liimen. Still, it was curious. Zalzan Kavol was so guarded of emotion, so unwilling to let anything of himself be seen by others save greed and impatience and irritation, that Valentine found it strange that he would admit something so personal as that he was pondering a dream.
He wondered if Metamorphs had meaningful dreams, and sendings, and all of that.
The rehearsal went well. Afterward the jugglers made a light and not very satisfying di
"I went to the plaza," he said in a low voice. "The cages are still piled up. But most of the guards must be off at the dancing. I was able to exchange a few words with the prisoner before I was chased."
"And?"
"He said he’s to be sacrificed at midnight in the Fountain, exactly as in my sending. And tomorrow night the same will happen to us."
"What?"
"I swear it by the Lady," said Sleet. His eyes were like augers. "It was under pledge to you, my lord, that I came into this place. You assured me no harm would befall me."
"Your fears seemed irrational."
"And now?"
"I begin to revise my opinion," Valentine said. "But we’ll set out of Ilirivoyne in good health. I pledge you that. I’ll speak with Zalzan Kavol after the performance, and after I’ve had a chance to confer with Deliamber."
"It would please me more to get on the road sooner."
"The Metamorphs are feasting and drinking this evening. They’ll be less likely to notice our departure later," said Valentine, "and less apt to pursue us, if pursuit is their aim. Besides, do you think Zalzan Kavol would agree to cancel a performance merely on the rumor of danger? We’ll do our act, and then we’ll begin to extricate ourselves. What do you say?"
"I am yours, my lord," Sleet replied.
—14—
IT WAS A SPLENDID PERFORMANCE, and no one was in better form than Sleet, who did his blind-juggling routine and carried it off flawlessly. The Skandars flung torches at one another with giddy abandon, Carabella cavorted on the rolling globe, Valentine juggled while dancing, skipping, kneeling, and ru
Working to such an audience was hard. It was worse than working in rehearsal, for no one expects an audience then, but now there were thousands of spectators and they were giving nothing to the performers; they were statue-still, as the children had been, an austere audience that offered neither approval nor disapproval but only something that had to be interpreted as indifference. In the face of that, the jugglers presented ever more taxing and marvelous numbers, but for more than an hour they could get no response.
And then, astoundingly, the Metamorphs began a juggling act of their own, an eerie dreamlike counterfeit of what the troupe had been doing.
By twos and threes they came forward from the darkness, taking up positions in the center of the ring only a few yards from the jugglers. As they did so they swiftly shifted forms, so that six of them now wore the look of bulky shaggy Skandars, and one was small and lithe and much like Carabella, and one had Sleet’s compact form, and one, yellow-haired and tall, wore the image of Valentine. There was nothing playful about this do
Zalzan Kavol looked disconcerted also by this development.
"Continue," he said in a ragged tone. "We are here to perform for them."
"I think," said Valentine, "we are here to amuse them, but not necessarily as performers."
"Nevertheless, we are performers, and we will perform."
He gave a signal and launched, with his brothers, into a dazzling interchange of multitudinous sharp and dangerous objects. Sleet, after a moment’s hesitation, scooped up a handful of clubs and began to throw them in cascades, as did Carabella. Valentine’s hands were chilled; he felt no willingness in them to juggle.
The nine Metamorphs alongside them were begi
It was only counterfeit juggling, dream-juggling, with no true art or skill to it. It was mockery and nothing more. They held in their hands rough-ski