Raika rose from her haunches when she spied the bounty hunter. “First blood to Rakell,” she said. “They got Hume.”
“We got two of them today,” Robien replied. He described the killing of the two bandits.
News that the Kagonesti had encountered Rakell’s scouts so near the village sent a spasm of terror through the assembled farmers. Howland summoned Amergin and Robien, asking for every detail of their fight.
The laconic Amergin had little to say, so Robien, no big talker himself, had to supply most of the details.
“It was a small band, eleven men on horses, armed with sword and lance. Only nine rode away.”
“We slew four at the ford but lost Hume.” Howland’s grim face looked gray by firelight. “Young Malek saw his bride among the slaves fetching water. Seeing her unhinged him. Hume went to his aid, and that’s when he fell.”
The Knight looked over his downcast troops and the dispirited villagers. Something had to be done to stop this slide into despair. If it went on unchecked, Rakell could win without striking another blow.
A speech praising Hume’s humility and courage might help, but Howland never got the chance to deliver it. The somber air around the bonfire was invaded by the weird, unnatural keen of Ezu’s whistle. Heads turned.
Into the ring of firelight strolled the traveler. He looked even more bizarre than usual. Over his baggy trousers and loose tunic Ezu had pinned scores of flowering plants, all different. There was thistle, dandelion, red and white clover, tiny climbing roses, tufts of corn silk, bean flowers, violets-all the common blossoms found on the northern plain. By firelight, the paler blooms took on a rosy glow, like cat’s eyes by a blazing hearth. In addition, Ezu wore a pair of deer antlers, cast off long ago and whitened by the elements, fastened to a thick leather strap he wore tied around his forehead. He cut an eerie figure, part-human, part-animal, part flowering field.
Coming into view with his whistle at his lips, Ezu had his eyes shut. A few feet from Howland and the mercenaries, he halted.
“Good people!” he said, taking the brass stem away and opening his eyes. “I compliment you on the richness of your domain.”
Somehow the whistle disappeared from his hand. Ezu cupped his hands together and blew lightly into the hollow they made. When he flung his hands apart, a pearl-gray dove fluttered into the air.
Chuckles all around.
“He’s a petty conjurer!” Raika said with an amused grunt.
The villager children-and Carver-rushed forward, surrounding Ezu. While they clamored for more tricks, he extended a finger, almost touching the tip of the kender’s sharp nose. Carver stared at it, going cross-eyed in the process. The children giggled.
Ezu suddenly inverted his hand, and there under Carver’s nose appeared a small golden sphere, about the size of an acorn.
“Take it,” said Ezu pleasantly. “It is yours.”
The kender took the small ball. He sniffed it, brow furrowed, and hastily peeled off the outer wrapping of gold foil. Inside was a stark white pellet. Impulsively, Carver popped the white pill in his mouth. He gasped a little then grinned.
“Spice candy, just like Auntie Fastswitcher used to make!”
The children pleaded for treats of their own. Ezu stood back a half step and spread his hands wide. Golden globes rained from his fingertips-or were they really coming from his voluminous sleeves?
Boys and girls scrambled in the dirt, retrieving every last morsel. While this happy chaos continued, Howland, Raika, and Khorr came forward.
“You didn’t tell us you were a juggler,” growled Howland, folding his arms.
“I have many talents,” Ezu replied. “Lady, would you assist me?”
Raika looked doubtful. “I don’t hold with this sleight-of-hand rubbish.”
“It’s magic, not sleight-of-hand. Please.”
Khorr gave the Saifhumi woman a playful nudge, which was enough to send her staggering into Ezu’s arms. He steadied her as she slapped his helpful hands away. Those watching laughed, even Howland.
“I heard magic had gone away,” Ezu said. “In my own small way, I’ve tried to bring a little back.”
He passed one hand over another. “I once visited your homeland, the island of Saifhum,” Ezu said softly, keeping Raika’s eyes on his darting hands. “What from there do you miss the most?”
Her answer was quick and firm: “My lover, Enjollah!”
The village women behind Raika cheered her sentiment.
Ezu stroked his beardless chin. “Sadly I cannot produce Enjollah for you, so what else? A favorite trinket perhaps, food, or drink?”
“Thornapple,” she said, smirking. “I haven’t seen Saifhumi fruit since coming to the mainland.”
Undaunted, Ezu began making distracting hand gestures again.
“No, wait! I’ve changed my mind. Thornapple wine.” She grinned.
Ezu looked perplexed but only for a instant. “Very well, though it may take longer … for what is wine, but fruit grown old and gone awry?”
He thrust his right hand high into the air, fingers spread. Everyone followed his broad, dramatic motion, paying no heed to his left hand, which went behind his head. When it returned, he held a small pot-bellied bottle.
The crowd gasped. Ezu presented the bottle to Raika.
Her mouth worked, but no barbs issued forth. She looked helplessly at Howland.
“What is it?” he asked, amused.
“I know these bottles,” she said. “They’re only made in Saifhum!”
“Open it!” Khorr urged.
She pulled the cork with her knife tip. A strong, sweet aroma overcame the smoky smell of the bonfire. Raika took a fast swig. Coughing, she said, “Thornapple wine! And strong!”
Howland took the bottle and sniffed the neck. “Thornapple brandy,” he suggested.
Raika grabbed the little jug back and gulped a second mouthful.
More of the crowd surged around Ezu, some laughing, some clapping, and not a few demanding he produce some long-ago delicacy they remembered. Ezu silenced them with a whirl of his hand. The brass whistle appeared. He didn’t need to blow it. The mere sight of the piercing instrument calmed the excited farmers.
He looked up at the minotaur. “My robust friend,” he said, “inside that spreading torso beats the heart of an artist. What gift may I give you?”
The great horned head shook slowly from side to side. “There is nothing you can do for me. The understanding of my clan cannot be accomplished with a wave of your hand.”
Ezu rolled the whistle across the back of his hand. It vanished once more. He sighed. “I fear you are right. If I could make your people revere you as a poet, I would, but an artist must earn acceptance. He cannot demand it.” He tugged one of his fat earlobes. “Still, even poets need inspiration.”
He tucked his hands into his sleeves, rolling them around his arms a few times. When Ezu took them out again, they were empty. The audience murmured with disappointment.
“Give Khorr a treat!” cried Carver, cheek bulging with candy.
Several people in the crowd, including Caeta, echoed the kender’s cry.
Ezu said, “But he already has his treat!”
Khorr looked down at his callused and blistered hands. Nestled in the palm of his left hand was what looked like a painted block of wood five or six inches long. Brown eyes wide, the minotaur held up the strange object.
“Is this-?”
Ezu nodded sagely.
Raika, slightly tipsy from her thornapple brandy, thrust her face close to Khorr’s prize. “Whatsit?” she said loudly.
“A ronto,” the minotaur said. The reverence in his voice was obvious. He held the block out for all to see. Pushing on one edge, the block fanned open, becoming a collection of thin wooden slats held together by a pin driven vertically through the end of each piece. The slats were covered with elaborate, colorful pictures, painted in neat lines.