After a long time, he says my name again, in a human voice now. Nyateneri knows my name, but never speaks it, never. He says, “You put me to much trouble. You always did.”
Dog. No dog anywhere—no feet thumping forever after me, no cold empty breath. I say, very small, “The dog with no smell. You.”
He laughs then, tries to laugh, that way of his, but it comes out like blood. “No, no, no, you were always a flatterer, too. The storm, yes, I can still manage a bit of a storm for a bit, but no more shape-shifting, never again. No, the dog was just part of the storm, like the illusion of the inn, and all that was only to drive you here to me. A troublesome business, too, as I said. You have grown strong and clever, while I have been busy growing old.”
Long ago, long ago, longer than Nyateneri knows, he never needed hands to hold me, phantoms to call me to his will. I say, “Flattery yourself. What do you want of me?”
I feel the trembling as he sets me down gently. He looks around, still no market folk returning, crouches before me. “Lal,” he says. “Nyateneri. A few miles only, but I am too sick, too weary to go to them. Help me, take me there.”
No command, a request only, a kindness to an old— what? friend? colleague? companion? I have none. “Why do you bother with me? You are a magician, you can call storms and storm-dogs to hound a poor fox to your feet. Call one now to carry you where you want to go. Call a sheknath.”
Rags already steaming in the sunlight, he is still shaking, holding himself. “That was the last of my strength, that show, and well you know it. Take your human form, little one, just for a while. I need an arm, a shoulder, nothing more.”
“Walk,” I say. “Fly. If I were a magician, I would fly everywhere.” I sit back on my haunches, smile at him. Nothing nice like this for days, not since the pigeons.
Two children run through the market, stop to splash in the puddles. He sinks back behind a pile of boxes, lets his gray breath out. I think he could not get up if he had to. He says, “Please. What hounds me is real and near. It must not find me in this place. Only take me to Nyateneri, to my Lal. You know who is asking you.”
Better and better. “And who am I to make an enemy of your enemy? A simple fox, corn in the mill between two great wizards? Not for me, thank you, my master.” And I turn away, a fox in the sunlight, looking for a place to curl up sweetly and nibble the mud-clumps out of his tail.
O, never take your eyes off them, not while they breathe, never do that. No hand on me this time, but the terrible bite of a magician’s will: snap, my poor neck again, shake almost to break my back, and bang, down among the boxes beside him, whining for breath. He leans over me, says in my head, “Make one sound, one miserable whimper. You know who is asking you.” Voices now, wheels on stone, rattle of awnings as people begin opening their stalls. He huddles even lower, nothing but gray rags to look at him. “Take the form,” he says. “As you are wise.”
Who thinks of me? No one thinks of me. Save their manners, their honesty for others, strangers, never for me. I say to him, “You said your strength was gone. Liar. Ask a favor, then kill me for saying no. Old, hunted, alone, no wonder.”
Again the red ghost of that laugh, making my fur rise and my ears flatten back. “And no wonder you are still a fox, still, after so long and long a time, so much subtle knowing. Don’t you ever ponder on it, why you should still be a fox?” Footsteps, heavy, this is my fruitstall, same stamping as fat innkeeper’s feet. “Now—take the form!” and man-shape stands up among the broken boxes, lifting a gray beggar in its arms. Just so he held me, a few moments before, but I am more gentle. As I must be.
Fruitstall man gapes, scratches his head. Wants to roar, but at what? Nice old blue-eyed uncle helping nice old smelly unfortunate? Stands there making funny small sounds as man-shape bears its helpless burden past. Man-shape smiles, nods, human to understanding human. Burden snatches a handful of dried apricots from a jar as we go by.
He makes man-shape carry him all the way through the marketplace, eyes closed, face hidden in rags. Much sympathy, ever so much fluttering, so many anxious questions for man-shape. “No, no, he will recover, only a little care and patience, as we all need. No, no, thank you, righteousness is never heavy. Gracious concern, decency, very kind, thank you, thank you.” A few coins, even, pushed nobly into man-shape’s fingers, coat pockets. Small coins.
On the road out of town now, and he says, “I can walk, perhaps a little. Help me walk.” An arm around man-shape’s neck, full weight on the shoulder, easier carrying him. “You marvel at what has become of me. How I could have come to such a state.” Sees me more interested in track of a starik at last on the damp ground, more curious about frogs in the ditches—same ditch, two frogs, one green and delicious, one red-brown, nasty taste, why is this? His smile, as torn as his clothing. “Well, you are a wise fox, and no mistake. I have ill-used and insulted you—forgive me if you can.” I do not forgive, I do not speak to him, all the miles to the inn, but he has fainted by then, so he never knows.
TIKAT
Of course I knew him. With that red soldier’s coat of his and that way he had of walking—two steps forward, the third just a bit to the side—the distance didn’t matter, nor that his face was half-hidden by the ragged man in his arms. I dropped my basket at Rosseth’s feet (we were gathering windfalls and acorns for the hogs) and set off running.
I met him in the courtyard. The dogs were all barking madly, swirling around his ankles, and Gatti Jinni was shouting at them from a window. As I drew near, he set the ragged man on his feet, holding him up with an arm around his waist. The man sagged over his arm, coughing. He was very old, far older than my redcoated friend, and the sound of those coughs told me that there was no strength left in him, none at all. I thought he was dying. Redcoat looked at me over his head and said in the quick, shrill bark I knew, “My horse-thieving colleague. How pleasant to see you again.”
“The Mildasis didn’t get you,” I said. Lame, if you like, but what would you have said to a person who had last brought you your breakfast in his teeth? He showed them now, white as I remembered. “Would you be feeding and currying a little gray horse if they had? Look sharp, boy, here’s a friend for the ladies.” I went slowly to him, and he let the old man fall against me. When I lifted him the heaviness of him amazed me, and even frightened me somewhat, for he should have weighed nothing at all, as little flesh as covered his fragile bones. But my knees bent under those bones all the same, and I staggered a step forward, which made Redcoat laugh mightily. I would have fallen—I’ll tell you straight—but he gripped my shoulders and set me upright again.
“More to him than there seems, aye? Well, the old surprise us betimes, fellow thief. This one, now, his bones are full of darkness and his blood’s thick and cold with ancient wisdom, mysteries. Weighs a deal, that sort of thing—wears a man out just taking himself from place to place.” So he buzzed and chuckled while I strained to carry the old man as far as the inn door, where Gatti Jinni stood blinking slack-mouthed. I was grateful when Rosseth came up and helped me, never saying a word.
Karsh came out then. He pushed Gatti Jinni aside and stood scowling as we danced the poor creature along like a cumbersome piece of furniture. Behind me, Redcoat was still laughing: the sound of it prickled in my palms. Karsh looked at Rosseth, not at me. He never looked straight at me.
“Another one,” he said. As sad for myself as I woke and worked and slept each day then, for that moment I pitied Rosseth with my whole heart, to be hearing that slow, offended voice every day of his life. Yet one thing I also realized was that in his own heart Rosseth did not hear Karsh at all. He heard the voice, the orders; he was always respectful, always responsible, quick and keen to jump to any task—but there was a way in which he always eluded his master, just as the words to say how it was escape me. Karsh knew it, too—you could see that he knew, and that he didn’t like it. I do not believe that Rosseth knew that.