Wild Magic

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Faan leaned on the railing, scowling at the noisy scene, wrinkling her nose as the horns blared, the drums beat. Each time one of the lancers seated his spear and rode at the Barrier, her skin twitched and her pulse jumped-and her cramps got worse. She swung round, pulled herself onto the rail and sat balanced there, her boot heels hooked over a lower rail, her back curved, her hands dangling between her knees.

A while later she wiped at_, the sweat beading up on her face, dropped her hand again; she could smell herself and she didn’t like it and the monthlies sponge was rubbing her raw, felt like it had grit in it. Of all the times for the blood to come down! Now, when she was supposed to be ready for anything. All she felt ready for was curling up in bed with a hot bottle on her stomach. “Just what we needed,” she muttered. “More potzheads on a tear.”

Tai resettled the Takaffa cloth about her neck, smoothed the embroidered panels over her breasts, began folding back her sleeves to bare her forearms. “Fa, you’ve been a running sore for a week now.” She was frowning, gray-white brows drawn together, the lines from her nose to her mouth-ends cut deeper.

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.