The storm blows by us, dog and me, as we run, back toward the bad country where Mildasis live. Mist thins, thunder mumbles itself away over the rooftops, last lightning is lost in noonday sun. I remember a stone culvert, small, small culvert, drains slops from the marketplace, too narrow for a great ugly dog like this dog—howl for me there all day and night, he can. Best speed now, no chance for him to head me away. Sweet me, best speed now.
But the culvert is running like a river, rainwater surging high up the sides. I see dark dead things spinning past— rats, birds, me if I jump down there. No time to think, yes, no, time only for one lovely sailing leap, so pretty, a fox-fish, swimming in the air. Down and gone then, and one bark later his clumsy feet booming behind me again. Nothing for it but the market—nothing but a basket, a heap of cabbages, a turned-over barrow, any earth for such a tired little fox with his muddy tail dragging on the ground.
Empty market, everyone still hiding from the storm. Dirty canvas over all the barrows, awnings sagging with rain. I look left, right, a fruitstall, ten strides and a scramble to a hamper half full of squashy green things. Almost through the scramble, and a hand clenches the back of my neck—hard, hard, hurting, nobody touches me like that, even Nyateneri. I turn in my skin, jaws snapping on nothing. Another hand clamps across my hips, both hands lift me high, holding me stretched out like a dead rabbit. But my teeth are alive, and this time they take a mouthful of wet sleeve and a bony wrist between them, my beautiful teeth. A voice without words speaks my name, and I am so still, nice teeth not closing, not even loosening a thread. I know this voice. I know this voice.
The hands turn me, one lets go. I hang in the air before his face, and I do not move. Nyateneri would not know him. Lal would not know him. He is gray, gray everywhere, all the way through—bones, blood, heart, all gray. Gray as rain, thin as rain, too, clothes so ragged and wet he might as well be wearing rain. They would never know him. But he is who he is all the same, somewhere in one place that is not yet gray, and I wait for him to tell me that I can move.
After a long time, he says my name again, in a human voice now. Nyateneri knows my name, but never speaks it, never. He says, “You put me to much trouble. You always did.”
Dog. No dog anywhere—no feet thumping forever after me, no cold empty breath. I say, very small, “The dog with no smell. You.”
He laughs then, tries to laugh, that way of his, but it comes out like blood. “No, no, no, you were always a flatterer, too. The storm, yes, I can still manage a bit of a storm for a bit, but no more shape-shifting, never again. No, the dog was just part of the storm, like the illusion of the inn, and all that was only to drive you here to me. A troublesome business, too, as I said. You have grown strong and clever, while I have been busy growing old.”
Long ago, long ago, longer than Nyateneri knows, he never needed hands to hold me, phantoms to call me to his will. I say, “Flattery yourself. What do you want of me?”
I feel the trembling as he sets me down gently. He looks around, still no market folk returning, crouches before me. “Lal,” he says. “Nyateneri. A few miles only, but I am too sick, too weary to go to them. Help me, take me there.”
No command, a request only, a kindness to an old— what? friend? colleague? companion? I have none. “Why do you bother with me? You are a magician, you can call storms and storm-dogs to hound a poor fox to your feet. Call one now to carry you where you want to go. Call a sheknath.”
Rags already steaming in the sunlight, he is still shaking, holding himself. “That was the last of my strength, that show, and well you know it. Take your human form, little one, just for a while. I need an arm, a shoulder, nothing more.”
“Walk,” I say. “Fly. If I were a magician, I would fly everywhere.” I sit back on my haunches, smile at him. Nothing nice like this for days, not since the pigeons.
Two children run through the market, stop to splash in the puddles. He sinks back behind a pile of boxes, lets his gray breath out. I think he could not get up if he had to. He says, “Please. What hounds me is real and near. It must not find me in this place. Only take me to Nyateneri, to my Lal. You know who is asking you.”
Better and better. “And who am I to make an enemy of your enemy? A simple fox, corn in the mill between two great wizards? Not for me, thank you, my master.” And I turn away, a fox in the sunlight, looking for a place to curl up sweetly and nibble the mud-clumps out of his tail.
O, never take your eyes off them, not while they breathe, never do that. No hand on me this time, but the terrible bite of a magician’s wilclass="underline" snap, my poor neck again, shake almost to break my back, and bang, down among the boxes beside him, whining for breath. He leans over me, says in my head, “Make one sound, one miserable whimper. You know who is asking you.” Voices now, wheels on stone, rattle of awnings as people begin opening their stalls. He huddles even lower, nothing but gray rags to look at him. “Take the form,” he says. “As you are wise.”
Who thinks of me? No one thinks of me. Save their manners, their honesty for others, strangers, never for me. I say to him, “You said your strength was gone. Liar. Ask a favor, then kill me for saying no. Old, hunted, alone, no wonder.”
Again the red ghost of that laugh, making my fur rise and my ears flatten back. “And no wonder you are still a fox, still, after so long and long a time, so much subtle knowing. Don’t you ever ponder on it, why you should still be a fox?” Footsteps, heavy, this is my fruitstall, same stamping as fat innkeeper’s feet. “Now—take the form!” and man-shape stands up among the broken boxes, lifting a gray beggar in its arms. Just so he held me, a few moments before, but I am more gentle. As I must be.
Fruitstall man gapes, scratches his head. Wants to roar, but at what? Nice old blue-eyed uncle helping nice old smelly unfortunate? Stands there making funny small sounds as man-shape bears its helpless burden past. Man-shape smiles, nods, human to understanding human. Burden snatches a handful of dried apricots from a jar as we go by.
He makes man-shape carry him all the way through the marketplace, eyes closed, face hidden in rags. Much sympathy, ever so much fluttering, so many anxious questions for man-shape. “No, no, he will recover, only a little care and patience, as we all need. No, no, thank you, righteousness is never heavy. Gracious concern, decency, very kind, thank you, thank you.” A few coins, even, pushed nobly into man-shape’s fingers, coat pockets. Small coins.
On the road out of town now, and he says, “I can walk, perhaps a little. Help me walk.” An arm around man-shape’s neck, full weight on the shoulder, easier carrying him. “You marvel at what has become of me. How I could have come to such a state.” Sees me more interested in track of a starik at last on the damp ground, more curious about frogs in the ditches—same ditch, two frogs, one green and delicious, one red-brown, nasty taste, why is this? His smile, as torn as his clothing. “Well, you are a wise fox, and no mistake. I have ill-used and insulted you—forgive me if you can.” I do not forgive, I do not speak to him, all the miles to the inn, but he has fainted by then, so he never knows.