Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [123]
“Brought to you, lords and ladies, at great expense and tremendous personal risk from the darkest, deepest wilderness of the Outland! Here it is, lords and ladies, the genuine article, the only one in Merilon. I present for your enjoyment — a peasant!”
The crowd laughed appreciatively. Mosiah, blood pounding in his ears, caught hold of Simkin by a multicolored arm. “What are you doing?” he snarled.
“Go along with me, there’s a good chap!” Simkin muttered in an undertone. “Look, over there! The Kan-Hanar who nearly caught us at the Gate! Told him we were actors, remember? Must appear legitimate, mustn’t we?”
Suddenly he shoved Mosiah backward. “Ye gads! It’s attacking!” he shouted. “Savage creatures, these peasants, lords and ladies. Back, I say! Back!” Taking off his belled cap, Simkin waved it furiously at Mosiah, to the enjoyment of the crowd.
Staring at Simkin in confusion, Mosiah was wondering fleetingly if he had enough Life within him to turn himself invisible, or at least enough to choke Simkin to death, when the bearded young man came dancing up to him and began stroking his nose!
“See here?” Simkin called to the audience. “Quite docile. At the close of the act, I’ll put my head in his mouth. What are you doing, Mosiah?” Simkin hissed in his friend’s ear. “Strolling troupe of players, what? Remember? The Kan-Hanar is watching! You’re doing a remarkable impression of a flounder, dear boy, but I’m afraid someone’s going to find it a bit fishy after a while. Come up with something more original. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves….”
“You’ve already taken care of that! What the devil am I supposed to do?” Mosiah whispered back angrily.
“Bow, bow,” said Simkin between clenched teeth. Smiling and bowing and waving his hat to the crowd, he put his hand on the back of Mosiah’s neck. Digging his fingers into his skin, Simkin forced his “savage peasant” to duck his head awkwardly. “Let’s see,” he muttered, “are you lyrical? Can you sing, dance, tell the odd joke? Keep bowing. No? Mmmmm. I’ve got it! Swallowing fire! Perfectly simple. You don’t suffer from gas, do you? Might be dangerous …”
“Just leave me alone!” Mosiah snapped, breaking away from Simkin with difficulty. Standing up, his face flushed and his palms sweating, he faced the crowd, who were staring at him expectantly. Mosiah’s limbs were as cold as ice; he was frozen, unable to move or speak or even think. Looking out at the people hovering over him, staring down at him as he stood on the grass, Mosiah saw the Kan-Hanar — or at least it was a man in the robes of the Kan-Hanar. He couldn’t be certain if it had been the one at the Gate or not. Still, he supposed they couldn’t take chances. Now, if there was only something he could do! …
“Hey, Simkin! Your peasant’s boring. Take him back to the Outland —”
“No, wait! Look! What’s he doing?”
“Ah, that’s more like it. He’s painting! How original!”
“What is that?”
“It’s … yes, my dear … it’s a house. Made out of a tree! How marvelous and primitive. I’ve heard the Field Magi live in these quaint little hovels but I never thought I’d see one! Isn’t this fun? This must be his village he’s painting for us…. Bravo, peasant! Bravo!”
The comments continued, along with the applause. Simkin was saying something, but Mosiah couldn’t hear. He couldn’t hear anything anymore. He was listening to the voices from his past. He was painting a picture, a living picture, using the air for his canvas, his homesickness for his brush.
The crowd around the young man grew larger as the images created by Mosiah’s magic shifted and changed in the air above his head. As the images became clearer and more detailed — the young man’s memory giving them life — the laughter and the excited chatter of the crowd gave way to murmurs. Then awed silence. No one stirred or even spoke. All watched as Mosiah portrayed to the glittering, gay audience the lives of the Field Magi.
The people of Merilon saw the houses that had once been trees, their trunks magically transformed by the Druids into crude dwellings, the roofs made