Shapers dueled for no purpose save their own pride, urged on by Kings and would-be Kings, and others who wished for no Kings at all. Scholars who disavowed shaping asserted the primacy of a world view based only on logic and in this region, they had prevailed. For one brief moment, the House relived those horrible days. It heard again the clamor of arms in its hallways, felt again the inexpressible agony wrought when shapers wrenched from its life force wonders sometimes splendid, sometimes terrifying, but always excruciatingly painful. Then the memories passed…
Ligne still stood upon the battlements, gazing out at the night.
Bronwynn still rooted through the straw for a crust of bread. And the castle was alone.
Are there no more shapers? it asked the entire population that lived within its walls. Though a few hesitated in their tasks with puzzled expressions, the vast majority of the citizens of this city within a city simply ignored the castle’s question. No one deigned to answer.
The castle’s temper flared to rage.
These questions shall be answered! it roared, and for the remainder of the night, the palace servants waged war with stopped-up plumbing, curious drafts, and pictures that seemed to leap from the walls.
This House, said the Imperial House of Chaomonous, not be ignored.
So completely did the House turn in upon itself that it missed what might have been a welcome visitation. For outside, at the very foot of one of its massive battlements, stood a lone figure draped in dark garments. And at various times, in various places, the man had proved something of a wizard.
The wind whipped his shoulder-length brown hair up on end as he peered up the facing of the cliff like wall. The Sting of the cold watered his blue eyes, but he would not leave off his gazing. His lips moved.
Was he speaking to himself? Or to some unseen listener? Then, as silently as he’d come, he disappeared into the winter night, heading south.
CHAPTER TWO
To Win a Way Within
“…You MEAN that was your daughter, sir I said. “But I thought it was your pet tree-monk!” Ah-ha-ha-ha!” Gerrig bent double, slapping his thighs as he pushed the sound of his mellow laughter out over the heads of his audience. As he straightened back up, a ripe tomato splattered across his face, spilling a juicy trail of seeds onto the red curls of his beard. Gerrig’s laugh died, but a grim smile remained fixed on his lips.
“Why do you laugh at your own jokes?” taunted the peasant who had scored this latest hit.
“Because you are too dense to understand them, good fellow. I don’t wish to show your neighbors how dull you are, so I laugh so that you may know when to join in.” The peasant flushed, and his friends cackled at his discomfort. His only retort was another direct hit.
The laughing crowd took no notice of the dirty child who dashed out from behind the makeshift curtain to scoop up what was left of the two tomatoes. Nor did they hear her mutter, “Carrots,” to Gerrig. The player nodded as the little girl scrambled down off the stage, and he looked out into the faces of his audience again.
“You, sir,” he said, as he pointed at the peasant, “have DO Imagination. Tomatoes! Why, any man can throw a tomato, or a turnip. They’re round. But try throwing something oblong a banana gourd, perhaps, or better yet a carrot. Now it takes a keen eye to ”
Gerrig cut his words short and ducked. Two carrots whizzed over his head. A third bounced off his balding pate and rolled to the back-drop. The audience screamed with glee.
Gerrig stood slowly, rubbing his noggin and muttering, If I hadn’t ducked, you wouldn’t have come close. You must try harder
“A barrage of vegetables filled the air, and Gerrig stooped, covering his head with his hands. The little girl scrambled onto the stage again, and began shoving the bouncing foodstuffs toward her mother, who waited in the wings. The audience had at last caught the fever, and now everyone was merrily participating with one exception. Gerrig noticed the fellow as he knelt to roll a couple of turnips offstage. He straightened again and pointed at the man.
“You, sir! Don’t you wish to join your neighbors in pelting the defenseless player? Wouldn’t you like to show your own cultural appreciation? Join in. Lend a hand in this gracious reception your townsfolk have prepared for us.”
The man raised both hands, palms up. An easily interpreted gesture he had nothing to throw. But Gerrig looked again as the fellow pulled his ragged brown robe tightly around him, shielding his face. Gerrig thought he’d seen that gesture before.
“Potatoes,” Sherina called quietly from the wings, and Gerrig launched into a new tirade of insults and abuse. Soon the villagers had exhausted their supply of rotting vegetables and rank fruit, and began drifting away, but he continued his monologue until the last peasant shuffled onto the road for home. Then he hopped off the stage of his wagon and started walking the twenty yards to where the brown-clad stranger still stood, watching.
“Show’s over, friend,” Gerrig called as he walked. “You can go home now.” Gerrig was a big man, with thick,
meaty shoulders and hands as big as shovel blades. His teeth were very white, and when the curtain of his bearded lips parted in a smile, it was impossible not to notice his gleaming canines. There was an implied threat both in i.) Gerrig’s gait and his appearance, and the stranger should have been frightened at the very least, a little startled. Yet the brown-clad figure stood his ground and waited for Gerrig to reach bun, his posture alert but relaxed. Gerrig slowed to a menacing saunter, and spoke more quietly: “I said, you can go now.” The threat was no longer implied. Gerrig’s tone of voice made it quite clear.
“You mean, that’s all?” the stranger asked. “No performance?”
“You’ve seen the performance, and you’ve seen the reaction it got. Now be off with you!”
“But what of of Shadows of a Night at Sea or Tales of the Six and OneT
Gerrig raised an eyebrow. “You know those plays? How?”
“Why, I’ve watched them, seen them performed.”
“Oh?” Gerrig said.
“Any particular ah roles come to mind?”
A low chuckle issued from the depths of the stranger’s plain garment.
“The captain, of course, in Shadows. Who could forget his final speech?”
“Yes, who could?” Gerrig nodded, pleased. The captain’s role had always been his own. But his icy manner swiftly returned. “That was long ago. We don’t play those tales anymore.” He jerked away, calling back to the line of wagons. “Sherina! Danyilyn! Is it cooking?”
“It’s cooking,” came some woman’s yelled reply, and Gerrig nodded. Then he turned back to the stranger.
“I cannot tell by your accent where you’re from, but I know you’re no Southlander. Are you by chance a spy from the court of the Queen?”
Gerrig smiled as he asked this question. There was, however, no humor there.
Again the stranger chuckled. “In a way, I do come from the Queen. But not Queen Ligne, I assure you nor do I own any favor in her court.”
Gerrig folded his arms, bringing one hand up to his face. He tapped his teeth with his thumbnail for a moment, thinking. Then he pointed at the stranger. “Nevertheless, you have been there. Those were court plays you mentioned, rarely performed outside of Chaomonous proper. You are from the capital.”
“Perhaps.”
“Not perhaps, you arel” Gerrig growled. “Now who are
you?” The actor reached out to jerk the stranger’s brown cloak aside.
Then he made a face. It reflected his consternation at not recognizing the brown stranger sooner.
“I must say, Gerrig, you do the soup scenario very well. Had I brought any vegetables with me, I surely would have thrown them at you.”