A glittering platform that looked one
instant like crystal and the next like metal hung unsupported in
mid-air, about three meters off the ground. Bredon estimated it at
perhaps a meter wide and twice that in length. Upon it stood a
small, brown-haired, spade—bearded man clad in gleaming violet
plush, laughing uncontrollably. His laugh seemed far too big for
his stature.
Mardon cowered, trying to compose a good
final prayer, certain he was doomed. There could be no question
that he was facing a Power. The stories he had heard since
childhood rarely made the Powers out to be unthinkingly hostile,
but always emphasized incredible supernatural abilities, short
tempers, and a ferocious disregard for the sanctity of human life.
Mardon could not imagine surviving an encounter with a Power. He
was certain he would make some little error in protocol, or trip
over his own feet again, or otherwise bungle, and that this Power
would take offense and destroy him.
Bredon simply stared, unable to cope with
what was happening. He had never entirely believed in the Powers.
Despite the assurances of the tellers, he had secretly assumed the
stories to be myths, or at least exaggerations. His view of the
world was a pragmatic and logical one, and there was no place in it
for whimsical demi-gods.
The man on the platform laughed heartily for
several seconds, revelling in the youths’ confusion, before
allowing his mirth to trail off into a smile and the relative
silence of the wind in the grass.
“My apologies, gentlemen,” the little man
said when he had finished his laugh. “I’m afraid I’ve been having
my fun at your expense.”
Bredon stared up at him, then as some of his
scattered wits returned, and his priorities reasserted themselves,
he threw a quick look at the mare. She was standing calmly
motionless in the mud.
“You made the mare talk?” Bredon asked.
“Yes, I’m afraid I did,” the violet-garbed
stranger replied, grinning.
“Is she yours?” Bredon demanded.
“No,” the stranger said, his smile growing
broader in response to Bredon’s single-mindedness, “but I brought
her here, and I’m afraid you can’t have her. She belongs to a
friend of mine by the name of Grey; I merely borrowed her.”
“Oh.” Bredon’s disappointment was so obvious
that the man on the platform laughed again, somewhat more quietly
this time.
Mardon, still lying in the mud, cringed at
the mention of Lord Grey the Horseman. The stories about him were
few, but they all described him as one of the least tolerant
Powers. He favored his horses over all else, especially mortal
men—and they had trapped one of his mares!
Bredon was still confused. He had been so
intent on the mare, had her so firmly fixed as the most important
fact of his existence, that his mind was still refusing to function
properly regarding anything else. He realized that he was facing a
stranger, however, and as childhood training leaked to the surface
he remembered his manners. “I’m Bredon the Hunter, son of Aredon
the Hunter,” he said. A glance showed him that Mardon was still
speechless, and he added, “That’s Mardon the Cornfarmer, son of
Maldor the Cornfarmer.”
The man on the platform burlesqued a bow.
“Honor to both your families, Bredon the Hunter. I am known as
Geste.”
A dozen childhood tales came back, even to
Bredon, at the mention of that famous—or infamous—name. Mardon’s
terror abated slightly—or at any rate changed its form. Geste the
Trickster was not reputed to kill on a whim, but he was dangerous
in other ways.
Still, Mardon did not dare speak aloud to a
Power.
Bredon was less reticent. “Geste the
Trickster?” he asked. “The one who tamed the giants, and tricked
Arn of the Ice into melting his own house?”
Geste smiled. “I see you’ve heard of me, but
the tales seem to have grown in the telling. I don’t recall that
I’ve ever tamed any giants. And Arn only melted a part of the Ice
House.”
“And now you’ve tricked
us
?” Bredon
was recovering himself, finally, and found himself filling with
rage.
“Yes, I believe I have.” The little man
grinned infuriatingly.
“You led us on for three wakes for a stupid
joke? And
we can’t even keep the horse?
”
Geste stared for a moment, then burst out
laughing again. Bredon stared back at him coldly, and when the
hilarity showed signs of subsiding he said, with intense dignity,
“I had always heard that you were one of the more compassionate
Powers, that you weren’t vicious or petty or vindictive, but I
think that this trick of yours was... was...” Words failed him, and
he simply stared accusingly.
“Oh, calm down, Bredon,” Geste said, still
smiling down from his platform. “Don’t take it so seriously. I like
you; you say what you think, don’t you? There aren’t many mortals
who would dare talk to me like that any more. But really, Bredon,
what’s three wakes? Besides, you enjoyed every minute of the hunt.
Don’t claim you didn’t!”
“But that was because I knew I’d catch her!”
Bredon insisted.
Geste’s smile faded. Struck by the young
man’s persistence and sincerity, he sobered. “Maybe you’re right,”
he said, looking at Bredon thoughtfully. The smile was gone, or at
least buried, as he said, “Listen, Bredon, I’m sorry. I didn’t
realize it would upset you so greatly. We sometimes forget how
important these things can be to you mortals. Let me give you a
gift to make it up to you. I can’t give you this horse because,
quite sincerely, she isn’t mine to give, and we Powers don’t break
our promises, to mortals or to each other. I gave my word that I
would return her unharmed, and so I must return her unharmed. I’m
sure you understand that. However, instead, I will do you any other
favor within my power—which is considerable, as I’m sure you know.”
He waved a hand and drew a glowing rainbow through the air, which
burst into a thousand golden sparkles and then vanished. “Ask, and
it’s yours.” His smile returned, bright as ever.
“I want the mare,” Bredon said.
“You can’t have her,” Geste replied
immediately.
“I don’t want anything else,” Bredon
insisted.
“I could fetch another horse, perhaps,”
Geste suggested.
“No.” Bredon’s answer was prompt and
definite, his mouth set in a scowl.
Geste repressed a smile at Bredon’s
petulance. “All right, Bredon, have it your way. You can’t have the
horse, and if you won’t take anything else, you won’t. I won’t
argue about it. I like you, and I’ll respect your decision. That’s
for now, though, and you may reconsider eventually. I owe you
something, and if you won’t take it now, maybe you will later. Take
this.” He plucked something from the air and tossed it to Bredon,
who caught it automatically. “Break that when you’ve decided what
you’ll take instead of the horse.”
Bredon looked down at what he held. It was a
shiny, bright red disk perhaps five centimeters across, made of
some completely unfamiliar material that seemed as hard as metal,
but with an odd slick texture like nothing he had ever felt before.
“What is it?” Bredon asked, turning it over in his hands.
Mardon, who had been huddled silently
throughout the conversation, suddenly sat up in the mud at the
sight of this gift and demanded, “What about me?”
No one answered either question. Bredon
looked up, and discovered that Geste and his platform had vanished
as suddenly as they had appeared.
What’s more, the horse was gone, leaving
only a gentle rippling on the surface of the muddy pool.
“
...the stranger said, ‘What? You haven’t found
it? Well, that’s no surprise, for the truth is that I had it all
the time, in my back pocket, and had only forgotten it.’ Then he
looked about at the ruins, at the broken cupboards and tumbled
walls, and he burst out laughing.
“
The farmer and his wife were shocked that the
traveler could laugh so at another’s misfortune, and the wife began
to berate him soundly, whereupon he laughed all the more, until he
was gasping for breath, his hands clutching at his belly.
“
This enraged the wife so that she forgot herself
and snatched up a spoon and went to beat upon the stranger, but she
found that the spoon itself refused to strike him, no matter how
hard she tried. This is hardly in the nature of a spoon, of course,
and that was when her husband realized that this stranger was no
mortal man at all. But he could not stop his wife, for so great was
her fury that she would neither listen to reason nor consider the
spoon’s actions for herself, but only tried the harder to bring it
down upon the stranger’s head.
“
The stranger lifted a hand, and caught his
breath enough to say, ‘Halt, enough!’ Then he waved a hand, and
behold, the walls rose up from the ground and rebuilt themselves,
as sound and whole as ever. The cupboards jumped back into their
accustomed places, and the furniture flew back together and
arranged itself as it had been before the traveler ever set foot
within the door.
“
The wife dropped the spoon in astonishment and
watched as the miracle took place, allowing the stranger to recover
himself. He stooped and picked up the spoon, and handed it to her,
saying, ‘Here, my good woman, you may find this of use.’
“
She took it, and saw that the ordinary wood had
been transformed into solid gold.
‘“
My apologies,’ the stranger said. ‘I’m sorry
for any inconvenience. I must go now, but you have the thanks of
Geste the Trickster for your most enjoyable hospitality.’ And then
he was gone, vanished as if he had never been.
“
And the farmer and his wife looked around at
their home and saw all that they had, that they had not
appreciated—four sound walls and a warm roof, well-stocked
cupboards and a comfortable home, and they saw how foolish they had
been. And they did not sell the golden spoon, or melt it down, but
hung it above the fireplace as a reminder of their encounter with
the Trickster.”
—
from the tales of Atheron the
Storyteller
“It’s not fair,” Mardon insisted, as he sat poking
at the dying cookfire with a broken turnspit.
Bredon sighed. He had heard this a good many
times in the forty-odd wakes since he and his companion had arrived
safely back in their home village. “Life is rarely fair,” he
pointed out, without moving from where he lay sprawled on his
blankets. “You could have spoken up, just as I did, instead of
hiding your face in the mud.”
“I thought he was going to kill you!” Mardon
said, giving the coals a particularly vicious jab. Sparks sailed
upward.
“According to the stories,” Bredon repeated
wearily, “the Trickster never kills anyone.” He rolled over and
looked at his comrade, toward whom he was feeling distinctly less
comradely of late. “Look, Mardon, you wouldn’t have gotten to keep
the horse if we’d caught it, we agreed on that, so why do you care
about this stupid trinket we got instead?” He sat up and pulled the
disk from his pocket. “It’s not worth anything. I don’t think it
will really work, if I ever decide to use it. That was
the
Trickster
, remember? If the stories are true, he lies all the
time! He just gave me this to shut me up. If I break it I’ll
probably just get a faceful of stinkweed or something.” He flipped
the disk into the air with his right hand and caught it neatly with
his left.
Mardon was not to be talked out of his
sulkiness as easily as that. Abandoning the fire, he turned, still
seated cross-legged, to face Bredon and asked, “Why do you keep it,
then? Why not give it to me?”
“Mardon, he gave it to me, not you! Why
should I give it to you? You’re my friend, but that doesn’t mean I
need to give you everything I have. Look, you met Geste the
Trickster, saw a Power face to face. You’ve got something to brag
about to every girl in the village, a tale for your grandchildren
if you ever have any you care to acknowledge. You can pretty up the
story all you like and no matter what you say I won’t contradict
you, you know that. I haven’t told anyone that you didn’t dare talk
to him, and I’m not going to, so no one knows what you did or
didn’t do. The trinket proves we met him, so no one can doubt that
we did. Atheron said so, and everybody accepts that. It doesn’t
matter which of us has it, for that, and Geste gave it to
me
. He might not like it if I gave it away. You don’t need
it, and you wouldn’t dare use it if you had it, so why do you care
about this thing so much? Isn’t the tale enough?”
“No. Maybe. Oh, I don’t know. It’s just not
fair.” Mardon picked up the turnspit again.
Abruptly, Bredon felt he had had enough. His
strained good humor fled completely. He rose suddenly, almost
jumping to his feet, and shouted down at Mardon, “Then go call Rawl
the Adjuster about it, but stop whining to me!
I
didn’t make
you a coward, and I’ll be damned and my soul eaten by demons before
I’ll give you the stupid thing!” He strode out of the tent, leaving
the flap hanging open and Mardon staring after him in dumb
astonishment.
The sun was on the eastern horizon and the
midwake darkness was fading rapidly; full daylight would arrive in
minutes, and the population of the village was already out and
about, abandoning the quiet conversation and indoor work of the
midwake dark for the outdoor work that could only be done while the
sun was up. The long lights of midsummer were past, and sunlight
was not to be wasted.
Several of his fellow villagers saw Bredon
emerge from his bachelor’s tent. His brother Kredon smiled and
waved from the steps of their parents’ house, and Bredon waved back
perfunctorily. Kittisha the Weaver, on her way home from the
village well, also waved, and changed direction, heading across the
street toward him.