The Chronicles of Mavin Manyshaped (16 page)

“Hear the song of Proom, Voice of the Songmakers. ‘No more shall go to Hell’s Maw. All who went shall come again to us if yet they live. Holy Ganver will forgive us this.’ Hear the song of Proom, ‘I will go in.’ “

“Daroo, roo, roo,” sang the multitude. “Daroo, roo, roo, pandillio lallo lie, daroo.”

“So he went, wandered, wandered, wandered, i n the dark, the smell, the pain, Lost, he wandered into the very hands of her Mavin who takes many forms. Now of her we sing. Now we sing the song of Mavin.”

“I suggest you make yourself comfortable,” said the Agirul. “They are about to begin singing.”

“Gamelords,” whispered Mavin. “What do you call what they have been doing?”

“Oh, that was just getting warmed up,” it replied. “They have sung their song. Now they will sing the song of Mavin who ...”

“Mavin Manyshaped,” she said to the beast. “Mavin Manyshaped.” He did not hear her. The chorus was already in full cry. Afterwards, Mavin supposed it had been a kind of enchantment. Certainly while it was going on there was nothing she could do about it or herself. She was the center of a whirlpool of song, drawn down into it, drowned in it, surfacing at last with a feeling that some heavy, nonessential part of her had been washed away leaving her as light and agile as the shadowpeople themselves. When they had finished their song, they went away into the forest, leaving only a few behind.

“I could translate for you the words of the song they have just sung, Mavin Manyshaped, but the words do not matter.” The Agirul nodded to itself. “They have, made a song of you, and that is what matters, for they do not make songs of every little happening or every chance encounter. Quite frankly, I do not know why they have honored you in this way. You were at little risk of your life in that place, so far as I can tell. Whatever their reason, you are now brought into their history, and your song will be sung at the great convocations on the high places until you are known to all the tribes wherever they may be. You may call upon the people for help, and they will be with you in your times of need.

“I trust that now I may be allowed to go back to sleep.” And with that, the Agirul turned to begin climbing back up the tree.

Mavin cried out, “No. Don’t go. I came for a reason, Agirul. I have need now. I must talk to them.”

Proom had heard the tone of her voice, and he came to her with brow furrowed. Mavin reached out to him even as she began speaking, hastily, words tumbling over one another. “Mertyn,” she said. “Brother ... sick ... woman said shadowpeople ... cure ... graywoman ... Pantiquod ...”

“Hush,” said Agirul. “Start again. Slowly. What is the trouble?”

So she began again, telling it more slowly, giving Agirul time between thoughts to translate her meaning. Proom’s face changed, gave way to horror, then despair. When Mavin said that Mertyn lay ill with ghoul-plague, he cried out, tearing at his fur with both hands. Others ran toward him, questions trilling on their tongues, only to begin keening when he explained.

“What is it?” cried Mavin. “What’s the matter?”

Agirul shook its narrow head. “Mavin Manyshaped, you have come on a fruitless quest. The disease you speak of is one which long ago took great toll of their lives. Then came Ganver, Ganver the Great, Ganver of the Eesties, to tell the people he would give them a gift in return for a song. So they made a song for Ganver, and he gave them his Bone. It is only by using the Bone they may cure the illness, and the Bone is gone—gone down there, in Blourbast’s hands, where you may have seen it yourself.”

“Is that the thing Blourbast took? The thing he wears around his neck? The thing he was holding for ransom?”

“It is. And Proom believes that when Blourbast found the shadowpeople had escaped, he probably destroyed the Bone as he threatened to do. Proom says he could not leave his people, his own child, to be eaten, not even for Ganver’s Bone, but now he is unable to repay his debt to Mavin Manyshaped. He says he will kill himself at once.”

“No!” she shrieked. “Tell him no. Mavin forbids it. Ganver forbids it. Tell him whoever forbids it so that he won’t do it. That’s terrible. Oh, Gamelords, what a mess.”

She set herself to think. It did not come easily. There was too much in her head, too many squirming thoughts, Blourbast and Pantiquod, the caverns below, the flickering lights and horrible smells, Pfarb Durim high on the cliff surrounded by the host, the song of the little people, the face of Agirul. Too much. “I want the Fon,” she said, not even knowing she had said it.

“The Fon?” asked Agirul.

“A Wizard. But he’s shut up in Pfarb Durim, so even if I sent the message we agreed upon, it would do no good.”

“A Wizard? I would not be too sure about that. If I were you, I would send the message and leave it to the Wizard to decide whether it will do any good or not. Is there not a saying among your people? ‘Strange are the Talents of Wizards?’ What was the message?”

“The letter M, in any form, set so he could see it.”

“Well then. Dark comes soon. We will send him a message he cannot fail to see.”

Though she fumed at the delay, she could think of nothing else to do. She had not slept since leaving Pfarb Durim, and when the Agirul suggested she do so, and when Proom’s people made her a leafy nest cradled in the roots of a great tree, she told herself that she would need to sleep sooner or later, so it might as well be done now. Though she was sure worry would keep her awake, the shadowpeople were singing a slow, calm song which reminded her of wind, or water running over stones, and she sank into sleep to the sound of it as though she had been drugged. She went down and down into dreamless black, and did not come up until the stars shone on her through windwoven trees.

“Be still,” said the Agirul from a branch above her. “Look through the trees to your right.” She sat up, stretching, seeing through the branches a long slope of meadow on which dozens of tiny fires burned in long lines.

“You cannot see it from where you are,” the lazy voice from above her mused, “but the fires make your name letter on a slope which faces the city. They have been burning since dusk, half a night’s length. The shadowpeople have been bustling about dragging branches out of the forest for hours. They will keep the fires alight until dawn.”

“No need,” said a firm voice from the trees. “They may let the fires die.”

“Twizzledale!” cried Mavin. “How did you get out? How did you find me? How ...”

“Ah,” as he came silently across the grass, a moving blackness across the burning stars, “it took much longer than it should have done. However, when I went to one of the watchtowers, I found that the watchmen had gone—for tea, perhaps, or to quell some disturbance in the city. They had left a rope ladder there, useful for climbing down walls.”

“But the armies? The besiegers?”

“Evidently there had been some attempt to leave the city by some half-score merchants, and a group of the besiegers had gone to drive them back, leaving the road unguarded. Quite coincidental, of course, but fortuitous ...”

“Fortuitous,” murmured the Agirul. “Coincidental.”

“Whom have I the honor of addressing?” asked the Fon in measured tones, as though he were a Herald preparing to announce Game.

“The Agirul hangs in the trees above you,” said Mavin. “It is a translator of languages. The shadowpeople wakened it so that they might talk with me.”

“And kept me awake,” said Agirul in an aggrieved tone. “I will not catch up on my sleep for a season or more.”

“I have great honor in speaking with you,” said the Fon, “though I would not have wished your discomfort for any purpose of my own convenience ...”

The Agirul tittered. “Wizards. They all talk like that. Unless they are involved in some Game or other.” The titter turned into a gurgle, then into a half snore.

“Well, Mavin,” said the Fon, seating himself close beside her in the nest. “What have you been up to?” As she spoke, the fires died. Proom returned to sit beside them, ashy and disconsolate. The Agirul was roused from time to time to ask a question or translate a response. Night wore on and the stars wheeled above them, in and out of the leaves like lantern bugs. At last the Fon had asked every question which could be asked and had set to brewing tea over a handful of coals, humming to himself as he did so. Proom crouched by the fire, humming a descant, and soon a full dozen of the shadowpeople were gathered at the fire in full contrapuntal hum, which seemed to disturb the Fon not at all. When he had the tea brewed to his satisfaction, he shared a cup round with them then brought a full one to share with Mavin.

“Blourbast has not destroyed the Bone,” he said.

Over his head, Agirul murmured, and a sigh went round the fire.

“He would not. He would think that a thing held in such reverence by the shadowpeople must be a thing of power or value. Blourbast would not destroy anything which might be a source of power. He is vicious, wantonly cruel, irredeemably depraved, but he is not stupid. He would not discard a thing of value merely to avenge himself upon those he despises. He would keep it, study it, perhaps even seek out those who might know of such things. Now I have heard of Eesties, as have we all. Myths, I thought. Legends. Stories out of olden time. This thing, whatever it may be, whether Eesty bone or artifact or some natural thing, must be obtained if we are to work a cure upon your brother and the others who lie ill and dying in Pfarb Durim. There are some hundred of them in the city. Mertyn is no worse than he was, but he is no better either. So a cure is needed, and if not for him then for the others. The Healers will not relent. Heralds have been sent to them—even Ambassadors, with promises of magnificent gifts—but they stand adamant. Until Blourbast is dead they will bring no healing to Pfarb Durim.”

“Why?” cried Mavin. “Pfarb Durim is not Hell’s Maw. Why hold the city ransom for what Blourbast has done?”

“Because the city profits from what Blourbast does,” replied Twizzledale. “It stands aloof, pretends it does not share in Blourbast’s depravity, murmurs repudiation of his horrors, but sells to Hell’s Maw what Hell’s Maw buys and takes in return the coin Blourbast has stolen or extorted or melted out of the bones of those he eats. The Healers lay guilt where guilt is due. No. Pfarb Durim is not innocent, nor are those who trade there innocent.”

“And we,” mumbled Mavin, white-lipped, “we who came there unknowing, but still spent our coin on lodging, on food? Are we guilty?”

The Fon shook his head, smiling, reached out to touch her face—then thought better of it, for she was close to tears. “Mavin, did you know of all this before entering the city? Well, neither did I, nor Windlow either. I do not hold us guilty of anything but ignorance, though we will be guilty indeed if we come this way again or buy anything which comes from Pfarb Durim. Enough of this conscience searching. We must find this thing, this Bone.”

“Blourbast had a thing around his neck, something long and white, which he stroked. He spoke of it to that woman, his sister, stroking it with his awful-looking hand, covered with sores. She wore a kind of cap with birds wings at the side, and there were feathers on her shoulders. I don’t know what Talent she has ...”

“Harpy,” he replied. “His sister, a Harpy, mother of that Huld whom we so much enjoyed meeting. Not only Blourbast’s sister, seemingly, but his emissary as well. She who arranged for the plague to be spread in the city. Did she assume herself immune?”

“Probably she was simply careful not to touch anything, not to become infected. But Blourbast thought himself immune. Even now he thinks he will recover.”

“Perhaps,” mused the Fon while the Agirul translated what they said to the shadowpeople amid much twittering and warbling. “And perhaps he only blusters. If what you say is true, however, if he wears it upon him, touches it, then we may not think of your going to fetch it. You would become ill and we would be no better off. No, we must get him to bring it out, find a way to use it without touching it ...”

The Wizard got up to stride to and fro, rooting his hair up into spiky locks with both hands, as though he dug in his brain for answers he could not find. “He sought to compel healing from the shadowpeople, what would happen if it were offered to him? Can Proom tell us in what way the Bone is used in preparing the cure?” He waited for the usual twittering exchange before the beast replied in a sleepy voice.

“It is a matter of music, Wizard. One note of which is summoned from Ganver’s Bone.”

“Need the Bone be in Proom’s hands? Could any person holding it summon the note as needed?”

This time there was a lengthy colloquy, argument, expostulation, before the beast said, “Proom acknowledges that the note could be struck by any. He denies that any has that right except himself, but it is hot a matter of impossibility.”

“Ah,” said the Fon with satisfaction, “Then, then ...” And his hands waved as he sketched a plan, improvising, leaping from one point to the next as the Agirul muttered along and Mavin watched in fascination.

When he had finished, Mavin said, “But ... but, your plans call for several shifters. Three, four, more perhaps.”

“That is true,” he murmured. “No help for it. We must have them. Well, shifter girl? Have you no kin to call upon?”

“Danderbat keep, from which I came, is not within a day’s travel,” she replied. “I was traveling to Battlefox keep, somewhere in the Shadowmarches to the north. My thalan is there, and my kindred and Mertyn’s. Is it within hours of travel? I do not know. Shall I run there seeking help which may arrive too late?”

The Agirul began its murmuring and twittering while the little people chattered and trilled. “Battlefox is within a few hours, Mavin,” it said at last. “One or more of the people will go with you as your guide.”

The Fon was staring at the ground where his busy hands made drawings in the dust. At the edge of the world dawn crept into the sky. “When must it be done?” he asked of Proom. “What time of day or night?”

“In the deep of night,” replied the beast. “When the blue star burns in the horns of Zanbee. Do I say that right?”

“You do.” The Fon smiled. “Were you translating, or did you think of that yourself? It is an odd bit of esoterica for you to know. Well then, Mavin, you must return to that road south of Pfarb Durim which we have traveled once before. Beneath the Strange Monuments there, at midnight, we will find a cure. Come with whatever help you can muster. You do understand the plan?”