The Unfinished Land

King of All Tricks

NOW THEY HEARD MUSIC—flutes and tambourines, as if there were a troupe of players ahead.

“We are close,” Widsith said. “He never sleepeth in the same hut for more than a few days. He hath been for years moving around this clearing like a dog finding his rest—so I suppose we just… Wait! There are Travelers.”

Reynard looked deep into the woods, then down, and realized they were not far from an actual trail—which he had not seen before. The trail crossed their rude path perpendicularly, and they heard horses and people a few yards off, hidden by brush and leaves, but closing slowly.

“The King’s tricks?” Reynard asked Widsith.

The Pilgrim shook his head. “These make their own roads. Queen Hel empowered them long ago… and they have served her ways ever since.”

Three sleek horses came into view, well-curried and fed, and on their backs rode two men and one woman, men dressed in wide-lapeled leather greatcoats over jerkins, with silver-buckled leather belts and wide, sun-shading hats. The woman wore a red cape, somewhat faded but still grand. Seeing they were being observed, the first riders doffed their hats and murmured to each other in a language that tugged at Reynard’s memory. Tinker’s Cant, or Rom, he was sure of it!

“They are Roma!” he exclaimed. Widsith hushed him, but the women looked their way with disapproving frowns.

More horses and riders followed, then a great, wide wagon, almost the size of his uncle’s hoy, on wheels as tall as a man, and pulled by a train of six great draft horses, twenty or more hands high, as proud as any horses the Spaniards had landed and much larger and stronger. Children peered from windows in the wagon. The trees that had closed around them were now politely spaced to each side of the road, bowing as if in deference.

A train of almost twenty riders followed the great wagon, all caparisoned like festival players, smiling and laughing and chatting, and Reynard could hardly believe they were not in the presence of the King of Troy’s magic.

When the procession had passed and could not be seen, and only faintly heard, the road closed again, the trees moaned and leaned and obscured, and all was as it had been before.

Widsith relaxed a little, then urged Reynard on.

“Do we see them by permission, or by accident?” the boy asked.

Widsith squinted at the boy. “I wonder whether they came to get a look at thee, young fisherboy.”

“What am I they would care?”

“Indeed, what art thou?”

They walked on another hundred yards, over difficult, thick roots and overgrown paths, when Widsith paused again and looked up and beyond Reynard’s shoulder, eyes growing wider. Reynard started to turn, but Widsith stopped him, hand on arm, and said, “Be still.”

That was almost impossible.

“More Rom?”

Widsith grabbed his arm and dug in his fingers. Reynard felt his flesh creep, but pulled free, then swiveled to look at whatever was behind him—and saw a woman, a very tall woman, rising through the branches of one of the great spider trees. He looked up into her face, but she was not looking at him. With her intense blue eyes, like the eyes of twilight itself, she was focused on Widsith.

“Thou art not Hel, old man!” Widsith said to the air around them, if not to the immense spectral woman, now leaning as if about to topple. “We are friends. Thou hast no need to frighten.”

And then…

The tall woman was gone. A rain of leaves and sticks fell from the air she had filled, along with a few thin bones, and Reynard smelled a burned, brothy odor, as of soup boiling too long in a kettle.

A gray and red man, striped like a tiger, emerged from behind the tree where the woman had risen. He was naked but covered in fine, silky hair, the longest hanging from his crown and covering his face like a veil. Reynard was fascinated by the precise trim of the veil—red where it covered the mouth, which could not be seen.

The edge of the veil puffed.

“Who might this be?” the striped man asked. “The perilous boy himself?”

Widsith watched the striped man closely, as if unsure what additional wonders he might perform or traps spring.

“Once more, is he the dangerous boy?” the striped man asked. “That one who bringeth Spaniards and Travelers into my woods, and doth so afflict my dreams?”

“He may be,” Widsith said. “But so have I, and thou dost know me.”

“Truth! These woods are full of new dangers, and they follow thee, Pilgrim,” the striped man said. “Why hast thou brought them?”

“I return to report to the Travelers, when they are ready, and found this boy along the way. I come for thine opinion on him, and to ask what thou hast done on this coast whilst I was gone.”

“A cordiality, I suppose,” the striped man said. “And if this be the awkward boy, the one some say is of interest to Crafters, I would be introduced.”

“By your proper name?”

“My player name will suffice,” the striped man said, walking slowly before them, bare feet padding in the litter and kicking aside a couple of what might have been rib bones from a previous dinner.

“Reynard, make the acquaintance—I believe, lest this be another of his illusions—of the King of Troy, fabled in song and legend.”

“No need for flattery,” the striped man said. “I am beyond good reviews, unless they come from mine illusions, who know the art well. Greetings to thee, Sir Fox. And where is Ysengrim now, young beast—awaiteth he inland to join in more japery?”

Reynard was not familiar with Ysengrim.

“That is the wolf thou dost oppose in legend, young trickster,” the striped man explained, with a veiled glance at Widsith. “An unpleasant character.”

“I am no trickster!” Reynard said, gritting his teeth. “I am a fisher­man, and wonder why you, sir, though famous, have no audience.”

“A joust of tongues, is it?” the striped man asked after a moment’s pause. He sounded more than a little drunk. “It hath been many a year since any so challenged me. In honor of the occasion, I appear, for a time, as I am. Though the aches and chills of an aged frame are tiresome.”

The striped man vanished, and a frail, elderly man in a long brown coat stood before them, hands out, palms up and wavering, as if beseeching coins. “ ’Tis a strange fisherboy who doth not admire wonders and signs. A dangerous boy to be sure.”

“He is but a fraud,” Reynard said to Widsith, speaking more in anger than conviction. He had no idea how they had been fooled and was ashamed at being frightened.

Widsith stepped lightly on Reynard’s left foot. “The King is neither fraud nor harmless,” he warned. “And I bring thee to appear before him, to acquaint and ask, witness and judge—not anger or insult.”

The King of Troy, stooped and quaking like an aspen in a breeze, waved his ancient hand for them to follow, and said, “I venture that thou, Widsith, hadst a worse look till Guldreth sent her minister. Didst thou know this Pilgrim then, Young Fox?”

“He was very old,” Reynard said as they fell in behind the magician and he led them on a straight path between the trees, though no path had been visible minutes before.

“And now he is not,” the King said. “My wonders, gentlemen, do not involve Eaters. Eaters are not enchanted by my works, nor by me—though they borrow of my time, of course. They borrow time from most on this shore. But from me, they take little, as I am so old and my time is stretched so thin, like wine puddled in rain! Compared to Widsith, I am a lamb, and he is a wolf, fed by those who keep and value him.” He grinned, entirely un-lamb-like, at both of them. “Is that thy plan, too, young Fox?”

Widsith raised his hand and swept the air around Reynard. “Is the boy followed?” he asked.

The King of Troy paused on the path and held out his own hand to stop Widsith’s sweeps. “Do not so disturb his airs,” he said, perturbed. “Mine own thoughts are more fog than substance, nowadays.”

“I asked, is the boy followed?”

“No, his line is clean,” the King said, but then looked up at Widsith. “Wait. There is something… Something I do not credit!”

“And what would that be?” Widsith asked him.

“Hath this boy ever consorted with a Crafter, or something very close to a Crafter?”

Widsith shook his head. “No, of course that would be impossible for a mortal. He hath been touched by an Eater, that is all. And I doubt the Eaters have contact with such, either.”

“Well, there is a trace… Hast thou in mind odd presences? Visitations?”

Widsith looked to Reynard.

“No,” Reynard lied, not yet trusting either the Pilgrim or the King of Troy.