Rogue's Pawn (16 page)

Eureka!

I strode over to the tent flaps, stepping outside for the first time that day. The camp whirled in the same merry activity, birdsong and music intertwining. I clutched my glowing pillow triumphantly.

“Dragonfly!” I called. “Come see the light I made.”
Darling—come see!
I sent him a picture of glowing pillows piled on the floor and heard his lazy response. He sounded unimpressed.

“I’ll fetch her, Lady Sorceress.” A little guy, one of the hip-high gnomey-looking ones in a ripe blueberry color, sat perched on a tree stump at the corner of my tent.

“Who are you?”

“I’m your page, Lady Sorceress.”

“Since when?”

He pulled off his little peaked red cap. That and a red tunic seemed to be all he wore. “Begging your pardon, Lady Sorceress, but I hoped you might take me on. We all heard how you tried to save poor Loden. I’d like to return the service as he was my friend, you see.”

“I didn’t do anything to save him,” I said.

“Not every sorcerer is as powerful as Lord Rogue.”

Oh. Eep. “Well, I’m sorry for your loss.”

The blue guy looked sorrowful. He didn’t say anything about glory.

“So do I pay you?”
Do I pay Dragonfly?
I’d forgotten to ask.

“As my lady sorceress wishes.”

Puck would know what I should be paying them and how. Maybe Blackbird as my seneschal should be doing it. I was acquiring quite the household. I didn’t really need another servant, but I hated to turn him away.

“You’re on. Please tell me you have a name already.”

“I’m Larch, lady. If it pleases you.”

“I’m Gwynn, Larch.”

“Yes, Lady Sorceress.”

“Have you just been sitting out here all day, waiting for me to come out?”

“Dragonfly set me to guarding the tent. She told me to make certain no one interrupted your amazing magical feats.”

His face was completely deadpan, but I was pretty sure that had been sarcasm under there.

“Look at this, Larch.” I smacked the pillow and it went dark. Then smacked it again and it lit up, though it was hard to see in the bright sunlight. Larch looked at me quizzically.

“You try it.” I held out the pillow to him. He poked it with a pudgy finger. “No, no. Smack it. With the flat of your hand.” I demonstrated. He slapped the silk and the pillow went dark. “See? No more fires in the tents.”

He looked at me solemnly, blinking his catlike eyes, the same shade as his skin. Not exactly the enthusiasm I had been looking for.

“Maybe we could name them Loden Pillows?”

He nodded gravely.

“Now, if you would, find Dragonfly and tell her I need needle and thread. I don’t suppose you can sew?”

“Yes, all my people can. It’s one of our main industries, besides serving nobles such as yourself.”

“I’m no noble, Larch. Oh, never mind,” I added when a worried look crossed his face. “Is there a name for your people?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, proudly. “We are The People.”

Of course. Just like everyone. “Say it again, slowly.” I concentrated on hearing the sounds, not the sense. “Brooh-nayz?” I tried.

He frowned. Silly me. It wouldn’t work for me to ape the sound without the intention behind it and if I put the intention in, he would hear only that and not the sound I made.

Then it hit me— “Wait. Brownies? Are your people Brownies?”

He cocked his head in that appearance of listening for distant music. Then nodded slowly. “That could be right. In another place and time, we’ve been that. Shall I bring others to sew, Lady Sorceress?”

“Yes—great idea. Tell them to bring pillows from their tents. Lots of pillows.”

Chapter
Seventeen

In Which I Prepare for War

Evening found my tent converted to my own third-world sweatshop full of busy Brownies, all in various colors like the pillows. Dragonfly had also fetched several look-alike friends—none with wings, however. Clearly she was a little queen amongst them. Complete with preening.

They all gaily sewed and sang. It could have been a scene from the animated Christmas specials that had populated my childhood. Now I wondered how much of those stories pulled from this world. I asked Larch if any of his people lived in a place that was always ice and snow. He just gave me the standard puzzled look and bent back to his work. At least I had the sense not to ask him about the jolly fat guy in a red outfit.

I’d tweaked the spell a little, so that the stuffing-floss would transfer its properties to like material. Larch assured me it was standard stuffing, made from a shrub that was good for little else. To make a new Loden Pillow, the Brownies took a strand of floss from the mother-pillow—their term, not mine—opened a seam in a daughter-pillow, and tucked the strand deep inside. Once the pillow was resewed, they smacked it hard and said “Loden” three times. The small spark spread from within, replicating outward until the whole pillow glowed. The Dragonfly girlies were allowed to sew seams but not touch the stuffing. Seemed sexist to me, but since the girls didn’t protest Larch’s arrangement, I stayed out of it.

I hoped the Brownies’ belief in the spell might help to sustain the magic in the pillows so it wouldn’t wear off when I wasn’t around. The philodendron and the pedestal had faded away at some point. Had they become pillows again or just kind of dissolved when I wasn’t looking? During my training, whatever I converted or created was usually gone the next day—I never knew exactly what became of it.

Something else to chase down if I was to understand the limits of my own abilities and up my chances of defeating Rogue. And finding a way out of this freakish world. I really needed to start keeping notes.

It seemed to please the Brownies to be making magic. In the stories, their ability to accomplish work like this was magical in and of itself, as I recalled, so in theory they ought to be able to make Loden Pillows forever, without my adding anything more. Then they’d have a business enterprise beside sacrificing pages to fire. I’d also modified the spell so that the light glowed in three levels of brightness—might as well have flexibility in our lighting design.

As the Loden Pillows piled up, Larch called in runners to distribute the light-up cushions back to the camp. Darling, as self-appointed quality tester, pounced repeatedly on the pillows, bouncing them from soft to bright to brightest and off again, which, together with the light flashes from the pillow-creators, created an almost disco effect that oddly complemented the brisk harmonies of the faerie song.

And faerie singing it was. Just as the stories had it. Luminous, with nearly inaudible harmonies. Birdsong, the roaring of bears and the insistent buzz of cicadas wound through in complex counterpoints. It was beautiful, compelling and profoundly disturbing. I found myself falling into a trancelike state, compulsively repeating the melodies and rhythms in my mind.

Until I came back to myself with an abrupt shake. Like when you were falling asleep, just sliding into dream images and your foot went off the step and
boom!
you startled awake. Common thinking was that it was probably a kind of brainstem reboot. That your brain was in danger of shutting down completely, rather than just into sleep mode.

Interesting that the faerie song had that hypnotic effect on the human brain.

When this happened, revulsion would seize and sicken me, taking me back to the state of my early training days. Post-traumatic stress, no doubt. Too bad I’d never learned any clinical psychology. With great effort, I concentrated on hearing their songs only as uncanny music. Though, as with Rogue’s haunting offers, the potential to slide under its influence continued to nibble at my less-than-firm state of mind. Really I needed to get away from it. A problem, since I had nowhere to go.

The revelry outside the tent rose as the sun set, though the general feel of the camp seemed more sedate than last night. Our runners reported favorable reactions to the Loden Pillows, with orders placed for specific colors and shapes. After the first few Brownie-delivery-boys returned, I spotted Larch and Dragonfly in deep conference. When I wondered about it, one of Dragonfly’s wingless cohorts chirped that they were setting up a supply tent.

“What for?” I asked.

“Why, to house all the stuff.”

Curious—and seizing the impetus to leave the tent, I ventured outside for the second time that day. This time I’d move farther than the grassy space in front. My breast twinged and I tamped down the fear.
Get a grip. You are stronger than this
.

Soft evening filled the sky, in dusky hues that reminded me of Rogue’s lily. Diabolical lily, I reminded myself. The air carried a bit of moisture from the waterfall, mixing with the scent of flowers and fruit. No cooking smells. Where did Dragonfly get her endless supply of the snack trays that sustained me? Who had cooked the dinner last night?

It felt good to be out of the crowded tent. I probably shouldn’t be hiding. Yes, I had been working, doing productive things, but it was also an excuse to brood, holed up like a frightened cat under the bed. No one had said I couldn’t walk around outside.

I did, however, keep a wary eye out for Falcon as I circled my tent. The dappled glow of pillow-illumination colored nearby tents, some flashing rhythmically to the eerie faerie chants. All we needed was John Travolta in a white suit to complete the look. Maybe the three-light level concept wasn’t such a great one. Who knew the Bee Gees’ nasal falsetto harmonies were evocative of faerie song?

Dragonfly and Larch stood in the open area behind my kaleidoscope tent, supervising the erection of another cream-colored tent. She snapped out orders, a mini-Napoleon, and he watched gravely as poles were sunk into the ground. Their apparent minions worked with meek and ferocious speed.

“Be quick there,” Dragonfly squealed, rapping one of the knee-high guys with a stick, “or Her Lady Majesty Sorceress will turn you into a toad!”

“Oh?” I said behind her.

Which was a bad idea, since she wheeled around, managing to slap Larch in the face with one wing and nearly overbalancing herself. I stopped her spluttering with a raised hand.

“Be careful what you threaten in my name, Dragonfly.” Crystal tears welled up in her eyes, but I drew on the coldness Scourge had instilled in me to steady my resolve. “So, Larch—why do I need a supply tent?”

“Tributes, my lady.” He indicated a pile of wooden boxes, cloth, even a basket of fruit. “And we’ll need to create more pillows to keep up with demand. Already we’ve converted nearly a third of the extant pillows in the camp. I’ve arranged to import silk and stuffing from a nearby tribe.”

“Tribe?”

“Of The People.”

Interesting that the word translated in my head as
tribe,
not
group
or
town
or
city.
“Okay, so this stuff—” I indicated the pile, “—is in return for our Loden Pillows?”

“Just so.”

Right, because otherwise they’d be gifts and would create obligation. I was getting the hang of this.

“I don’t suppose anyone sent one of those magic chamber pots?” I asked. To blank response. Ah well, a girl could hope. “Maybe we could just move the pillow-factory into this tent?”

“We should have several tents, my lady sorceress,” Dragonfly piped up again. “Lord Falcon has five and you’re at least as important as he is, if not more.”

“Okay, really, do not repeat that one ever again.” I could just imagine Falcon’s response to that. I doubt he’d be interested in my excuse that I didn’t know how to control Dragonfly’s mouth. “But, fine, however many tents you two can arrange is fine—with no threats. If you all could move Santa’s workshop into the annex, I can have my own space again?”

My word, their command. Dragonfly and Larch moved the pillow works immediately, returning my tent to blissful emptiness, punctuated by a select few softly glowing pillows in jewel tones of emerald, sapphire and ruby. I could even see the carpet laid over the grass, woven in similar tapestry hues, velvety plush squishing between my toes. Dragonfly was hanging about, a sullen set to her piquant lips. I was about to put her to work on setting me up with a bath of some sort when we heard from Falcon.

Larch escorted the messenger in. The page—not of the Brownie variety, but rather taller and less colorful—bowed deeply. I tried to look regal. However that looked.

“Lord Falcon thanks Lady Sorceress Gwynn for the excellent lights and offers this tribute in return.” He held out a small wooden box.

Probably had a viper in it. I took it judiciously, holding it with the very tips of my fingers.

“Further, Lord Falcon, General of the Most High Command, informs Lady Sorceress Gwynn to be ready to ride at first light—” wow, an actual external demarcation of time. For my benefit only? I didn’t think so, “—to engage in a most glorious Battle with the Enemy!”

Dragonfly began clapping hands while jumping up and down like a squealing pogo stick. I thanked the messenger and glanced at Larch, who then escorted the page back out, pressing some token into his hand. Finally—someone to handle the tipping. If I hadn’t just hired Larch, I’d give him a raise. Though since I had no idea what I was paying him, I might already have done so.

I turned to Dragonfly to ask if a bath could be arranged when Darling sank one claw delicately into my ankle.

“Ouch!” I yelped. “Bad kitty!”

Darling lashed his tail, then firmly sent an image of himself in battle armor.

“Oh, right. I forgot you. Sorry. Bad me.” I set down the box from Falcon and picked up Darling, holding him cradled in my arms, nuzzling his belly fur with my nose. He licked my forehead. Then sent me the picture again. “Yes, yes—okay. Dragonfly, can I take a bath somehow?”

“In a tub of water?”

“That’s how it’s generally done, yes. Unless you can offer me a shower.”

“All of the girls have been bathing in the pond, my lady sorceress.”

I sighed. “And probably no big, brass tub in the tribute pile, I suppose?”

She shook her head gravely.

“Ah, well, sponge bath it is. Off with you then.” At least the magic kept my hair from looking grimy, but my scalp was starting to itch something fierce. I squelched the image of lice.

Darling wriggled impatiently in my arms, so I set him down on my workbench, the drying lily drifting upside down over his head. I thought he might bat at it and was ready to stop him, but he only gazed at it. Then he showed me a picture of Rogue looking disappointed and sad, gazing out a window at a misty landscape.

“Don’t give me that,” I answered. “I don’t like being manipulated. I’ve had my fill of it just lately. Now—show me exactly what you want. Something practical, please, that might actually protect you in battle.”

He licked the side of one paw, considering. I waited. The image he gave me finally showed him in a metal collar with spikes and an attached breastplate. A helmet covered his kitty head, graced with a giant purple ostrich feather.

“No plume—it’ll make you a target. How about this?”

I imagined the helmet with a short bristle of mottled brown feathers.

He replaced them with vivid yellow.

“No, yellow is even more visible.”

I replaced the yellow with his original purple, in a zebra pattern. “The broken pattern should help camouflage you—harder for the eye to see. At least, I assume whoever we’re fighting has eyes that work like ours.”

We agreed on the image—now I just needed some raw material. My teachers said I ought to be able to conjure things from nothing, but I couldn’t get the laws of thermodynamics out of my head. Conservation of mass. I just couldn’t believe in mass created from nothing. And unfortunately, this magic business came down to what I believed was possible. Too bad I’d dispatched Dragonfly. And eliminated all extraneous pillows. I’d have to go to the tribute pile for material myself. Not a big deal. Or it shouldn’t be. Still, it was full dark out there and I…dammit, I felt too frightened.

My new life, where I was now really afraid of the dark and what it held.

While I dithered and Darling washed a paw, my eyes fell on the supposed tribute from Falcon. I laid a finger on it but felt nothing unusual. No tingle that living things seem to give off; no feral sexual buzz that marked Rogue’s work; no light shock, like from a faulty outlet that I was beginning to associate with other enchanted objects.

“What do you think—is it safe to open?” I asked Darling, who was engaged in full ear-washing now and ignored me. “A lot of help you are. I should call you Unfamiliar.”

Without pausing in his washing, he sent me another picture of him in the armor.

“Yes, yes, yes—patience is a virtue, you know.”

I turned the little box so it would open away from me and Darling, and not toward anything important. I lifted the hinged lid with the tips of my fingers still, much as I would open a container in the lab that could potentially spew toxic substances.

Nothing came out, so I walked out a few paces and circled to see from a distance what lay inside. My hand had crept up to my throat. I made myself lower it.

In the box, jewels shimmered in the soft pillow light, maybe a topaz-y color. The problem with colored light was you didn’t get good color resolution on other objects. The gems seemed inert, so I walked up slowly, watching them with close attention, mental feelers out for anything untoward. It was a necklace of stones. Small, like a choker. No, wait—a collar.

What was
with
these people and their collars?

“Oh, ha-ha,” I said, and reached out to snap the lid shut. Darling stopped me with a curious chirrup. “No, we can’t use that—it might be a bad idea.”

Darling pictured me twirling around, wearing the jeweled collar, fluttering and flirting, petting it with my fingertips.