Jo Clayton - Wild Magic

Faan hunched her shoulders. “I’m tired, I’m tired of everything, tired of being jerked around every time the god gets a notion, I’m tired of having to cross the Bridge every time I want to see Rey, I’m tired of worrying about him, I’m tired of thugs looking to jump me, I’m tired of potzheads on this side trying to use me for everything they think they want. I’m tired of not having any fun any more.” And I’m tired of listening to you, godwoman, she thought, but she didn’t say it, there was no point in making an enemy where she didn’t have one already. She brushed at her hair, plished it behind her ears. “It just keeps going on and on and on, doesn’t it.”

Tai set her hands on her hips, inspected Faan. “Monthlies, Fa?”

“Huh! Don’t talk to me.”

“Bah!” She crossed to the rail, took up the fimbo she’d leaned against it. “Here comes the Herald. On your feet, Fa. Dignity, child. Never let them see you squirm.” She hugged Faan against her when she came down off the rail, then arranged her face in its sternest lines and started for the Northbank.

The Amrapake’s Herald was a Mal in bi-colored clothing riding a tall pinto. The left side of his face was painted green, his right glove was green, his left glove .black, his right boot was green, his left black, his tunic and trousers were divided down the middle, the right side green, the left black. Two masked boys ran at his stirrups, the right was black from head to toe, the left green. They carried bi-colored pennons that flapped limply in the hot still air of the High City.

The pinto reared when the Herald tried to force him onto the Bridge; if the Mal hadn’t been a superb rider, he’d have been on his back in the dust. He calmed the beast, then sat scowling as the Kassian Tai WanameCi and the Honeychild came walking slowly down the slope of the Bridge and stopped on the Riverside of the Approach Pillars.

Faan nudged the Kassian with her elbow. “Clown,” she whispered.

“Shh. Dignity, that’s the word.” The Kassian Tai Wanameh stood tall and commanding, one hand on Faan’s shoulder, the other clasped around her fimbo.

The pinto snorted, his hooves scraped on the dirt as he shifted nervously.

The heat was melting the Herald’s facepaint; it was dripping onto his tunic. His scowl deepened. “Send forth the Falmaree,” he brayed suddenly. “Renounce this blasphemy and come humbly before God and Amrapake. The magnanimity and compassion of Chumavayal are beyond your understanding. Trust in it and abase yourselves before Him. Refuse and be declared anathema. Nothing will come into that place, neither flesh nor fowl. Your children will starve, you will eat each other until only bones are left.”

Before the Kassian Tai Wanameh could say anything, Abeyhamal enveloped Faan and nudged the Kassian aside. The translucent image of the god grew quickly immense, straddling the Bridge, feet in the River, head in the clouds, fimbo like a rod of light, bright wings buzzing; in a voice that hummed out over both lobes of the city, the god cried, “Corrupt son of a feeble Father, behold how your threats trouble me.”

In all the Groves, the Honey Dancers rose as one.

OW ooo OUM OWWW ooo AHHH UMM

Their mouths gaped wide, their eyes glazed over.

OW ooo OUM OWWW ooo AHHH UMM

In convoluted double loops they danced, stomping and swaying in time with the HUM, hundreds of girls danced in the Groves, ecstatic and terrible, weaving through the great trees, sucking strength from the earth. Dancing up Earthfire for Abeyhamal.

Above the Low City black clouds swirled and boomed, more clouds came sweeping in from the sea, great spiraling curls of black.

Thunder crashed, lightning walked across and across the city.

Then it rained. Hard and copiously. And not just water.

Flapping and vigorous, thousands of great meaty fish fell into the streets and onto the roofs of the Low City and the SouthEdge.

Laughing and shouting, the people ran into the rain and scooped them up, dumped them in barrels and crocks and whatever was handy, went back for more.

Herds of boys and girls capered inside the Barrier, waggling fish at the lancers, jeering at the men, taunting them.

The rain stopped, the fish-fall stopped. The Honey Dancers fell exhausted to the ground. Men and women of the Low City cleaned up the last of the fish and went to figure ways of curing and storing the bounty.

The Kassian Tai Wanameh took Faan’s arm and began walking back toward the Southbank.

Faan was exhausted, aching, and sad. Her family was scattered, her friends distracted and not really friends any more; she was too powerful and too strange now, it was as if another Barrier stood between her and them. Yet the power was useless, she couldn’t get the things she wanted most. All she could do was ruin everything she touched. It wasn’t fair, it just wasn’t fair.

Then the Wild Magic came flowing up from the River in a stream of silver that coiled around her, caressing her, singing their fizzing songs to her, blessing her. They didn’t mind her weirdness; they liked it. They liked her. That was comforting and it gave her the energy to move her feet and follow Tai back to the Low City.

Chapter 25. Gods And Rulers Share The Same Tunnel Vision

Ignoring the scandalized Anaxoa novices and the mutterings of the crowd of suppliants waiting on the kneeling stools, Famtoche Banddah stalked down the Aisle Major of the Public Audience Room, three hostas of Royal Guards behind him. He reached the stairs to the dais, clasped his hands behind him, and inspected the Primes seated in the middle three chairs of the seven. “Down,” he said.

Manasso Prime Fuaz Yoyote leaned forward. “Your authority stops at the Blessing Gate, O Amrapake.”

Famtoche nodded, a short sharp jerk of his head. “I. see.” He stepped to one side, waved his hand to his chief guard. “Do it,” he said.

Seated in the center chair, Famtoche Banddah clicked his painted nails on the wood and smiled down at the three groaning forms stretched out on the floor, their backs bloody from a guard’s flagellum, their faces in the dust where the suppliant’s mat had been. “My authority stops where I say it does. Fulaak.”

The chief guard stepped over the legs of the Adjo Prime, bowed stiffly. “Amrap. -

“Boot up one of those robes out there, send it for the High Kasso; tell it if I have to go looking for that dhun, they’ll regret it more than this lot.” He waved a hand at the Primes.

Famtoche Banddah ran his thumb along his jaw and scowled at the High Kasso as he came quietly into the Chamber. Juvalgrim wore a plain black robe, his hands were bare of rings, his hair brushed smoothly back, hanging in a silver-streaked fall down past his waist, his only adornment the cloudy crystal on the heavy black iron chain-Chumavayal’s Eye, the sign of his authority. Despite his annoyance with the man, Famtoche was tempted to applaud; the High Kasso dominated the room without saying a word.

Juvalgrim stopped as he reached the feet of the groveling Primes, moved a hand in a graceful gesture that took in them and the rows of terrified suppliants and acolytes shivering on their stools. “You’ve made your point, heshim.” His voice was like honey butter on hot bread, rich and satisfying. Famtoche lost his scowl and the hostas stirred, their leather creaking, metal clanking against metal. Juvalgrim brought his fingertips together, bowed his head slightly, his hair whispering across the rawsilk robe. “How may we serve you, O Amrapake?”

Famtoche Banddah brought his hand down flat against the chair arm, a sharp splatting sound that shattered the mood the High Kasso had created. “That Barrier or whatever it is, it mocks us and Chumavayal. Why do you permit it to exist, High Kasso?”