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1

No Splendor, Some Ceremony

 

BEGIN AT THE beginning, Gray Khuzud would always tell me. Proceed, with all the grace you can muster—and I know that’s not much, but try, try, Kami Khuzud, you must try—until you reach the end.

Then stop, clean up after yourself, and put the props away.

So, obedient to command, I begin with the arrival of the troupe of Gray Khuzud in Den Oroshtai.

“They come;

“The Troupe of Gray Khuzud ar-rives,” the soldiers at the battlements sang, their lovely four-part harmony growing stronger as we wound our way through the dusk, up the darkening road, toward the castle.

Lord Toshtai always insisted that his troops be of good voice, and while the war had worn some of his good intentions away at the edges, we were far away from those frayed edges, in Den Oroshtai. Firm, glassy young tenors mixed with heady baritones, bold bass voices supporting the structure of song.

“Wonders will be seen,

“We are sure.

“What wonders they will be,

“Will be re-vealed,

“In the hour of the snake.”

They broke into a game of musical catch—a fugue, I think it’s called—on that last phrase, which slowly faded.

“Not quite yet,” Gray Khuzud said, “but let us prepare.” He dropped his pack to the ground and loosened his tunic, and then bound it peasant fashion about his waist.

We all did the same, unworried about the possibility of theft. While stealing is in theory not permitted anywhere in D’Shai, it is D’Shai, after all—but Lord Toshtai’s face was never turned from theft.

I shivered as the cold evening wind breathed against my chest; I had worked up a sweat as we climbed. I flexed my shoulders and hands, trying to work out the kinks.

Gray Khuzud hurried up the line, gesturing both tumblers and anchors into place, shaming careless Fhilt into better posture with a frown, favoring Large Egda with a quick, affectionate pat, tucking here and polishing there. There was a hint of nervousness in his fastidiousness, perhaps. Or perhaps not; I never really understood my father, and certainly there was nothing unusual in his taking pains on the troupe’s entrance.

Finally, he arrived at the head of the line, and stopped in front of me. “Eldest Son Acrobat,” he said, formally, as our names are always pronounced formally: Old Shai is formal for everything but names.

“Gray Khuzud,” I responded, bowing properly, my eyes fixed on his. Gray Khuzud, of course, was always a mix of formal and casual, as was his name. There was no Old Shai translation of the first part of his name—it was not the light gray of the predawn, Erevair, nor the dirty gray of the late winter snows, Belen. He was never Gray Acrobat, never Erevair Khuzud, never Belen Khuzud: he was Gray Khuzud, always and only.

Gray as a rat, he was a fine figure of a man, even in his fifties, the muscles still firm beneath his broad chest, his belly flat and rippled like a washboard, the treetrunks of his legs solid as ever. The years had lined and creased his face until it looked and shone like old leather, and what was left of his hair was bound behind him in a long thin pigtail.

His powerful shoulders and arms were of flat, hard muscle, far stronger than they looked, but the hand that rested on my shoulder was a horror of horny ugliness. All our hands were. If you spent much of your life dangling and swinging from rings and ropes, your hands would be, too.

He was my father, and I loved him.

 

Stately jimsum trees bowing over us, the Troupe of Gray Khuzud arrived at the castle in Den Oroshtai without splendor, but with much ceremony.

Den Oroshtai is laid out like many of the smaller lord’s cities guarding the way to Seat of the Scion: the keep is set on a hill above the village, a trail screwing its way up the side through the thorny irpnweed and astringent jimsum, past the treeskin houses that are all the town-bound peasants can afford, past the wooden homes of the hill-dwelling middle class and the bourgeoisie, past the brick permitted the relatively minor lords and ladies and the stone allowed the comparatively major lords and ladies, up toward where the keep sits, its walls, towers and granaries dominating more than the view.

Springstream was a pretty time to be arriving in Den Oroshtai: the savorfruit trees were just into their first flower, buds popping scented silken streamers into the air and turning the trail misty and vague. Silk burst into momentary flame at the touch of my torches, a fine ash settling on my face and shoulders.

I jumped, startled, as the night high above the castle burst into a silent explosion of light.

The soundless fireball faded, and the giant translucent figure of a man loomed over the castle: fat and scraggle-bearded, a plain rope belt holding his stained robes together. Behind him dim, wavering bottles and shelves and tools hung in the dark, battling with the stars for visibility.

“I see Narantir’s dressing for the occasion,” Fhilt muttered.

“Hush,” Gray Khuzud said. “He’s announcing us.”

The image bowed deeply as it faded, and was immediately replaced by that of a massive black bear, its arms spread wide, its mouth open to reveal yellowing teeth.

A golden lion, its mane too rigid and immobile to be real, leaped upon the back of the bear.

“I’ve seen better lions,” Enki Duzun whispered. “Narantir probably carved the model himself.”

“With an axe, I’d wager,” Fhilt said.

“From pine, it would seem,” I said. “And not very good pine, at that—I saw a knothole.”

The bear disappeared, leaving the lion to prance woodenly until a frosty breath turned it to ice, then shattered the ice into a shower of blue sparks.

We didn’t see the dragon, of course. I don’t know enough about mahrir, wizard-magic, to know why, but even the representation of dragons involves dangers that make wizards hesitant to manipulate their images. It was one thing for Narantir to take some carvings or paintings in his study, and magnify and transform their images using some magical principle or other—but there is magic in dragons that it’s better not to be around.

The breath of the dragon gave way to an image of a cock crowing silently, its red wattles rippling; the cock gave way to a fat hare.

“I bet you he’s got a real chicken and rabbit,” I said.

Enki Duzun nodded.

A waxy-looking horse kicked the hare into invisibility, only to be shouldered away and into nothingness by an old ox, its steel horncaps rusted through in spots, its back sagging with almost impossible weariness.

“He probably bought that carving,” Enki Duzun said. “It’s too good.”

The ox faded to a sketchy octopus, and the octopus was replaced by a green garden-snake, its scales gleaming with reflected fire.

“I think he put his candle too near the snake,” Enki Duzun said.

“Probably.” Fhilt turned to Gray Khuzud. “It is the hour of the snake.”

Gray Khuzud gripped my shoulder. “Lead us,” he said. My father was never much for wasted words.

 

We were road-weary, but we were the Troupe of Gray Khuzud, and I kept my head high as I led the troupe through the gates of Den Oroshtai, past rows of soldiers singing at attention. It seemed larger than it was, but leading the troupe into the castle was really only a small part—which suited me just fine; I had other things on my mind. And it was hard enough just to be Kami Khuzud, Eldest Son Acrobat, and to be as inept as I was.

Am.

As Gray Khuzud says, clumsiness is not the Way of the Acrobat.

But while I was not the tumbler or ropewalker that I should have been, juggling was something that I could do reasonably well, and that looked harder than it was, at least at my level.

Juggling is the first of the arts that make up the Way, which is why a juggler always leads the Troupe of Gray Khuzud into town.

For me, juggling had always been a simulation of kazuh, rather than kazuh itself: I would just get the mind out of the way, and let the muscles do what they knew best.

The mind was always the problem in juggling, anyway—it kept telling me that each hand was handling four or five flares at once, instead of only one. That is the secret of juggling: just handle one thing at a time, and don’t worry about what comes next.

Not a bad way to run your life, but much of the Way of the Acrobat is a good way to run your life, no? Acrobat or not, it’s good to keep yourself and your props clean; it’s wise to think about what you’re doing and practice it often; it’s sound to listen to the more experienced with the proper mixture of respect and doubt; it’s sensible to learn to handle fire and steel with firmness, safety, and respect.

Flame hissed through the early evening air as I twirled and spun and flung the flares through the simplest shower:

—right flare up;

—catch the hilt of the flare descending toward the right hand;

—and then left flare up;

—then catch the descending flare in the left hand before switching over.

A circular juggle is much more difficult; the shower was simple, but like so much that was simple, apparently complex. There is a game of points of light that wizards play, with only three simple rules, which generates almost impossible crystalline structures of light and movement.

The smooth-worn hilts of the flares slapped reassuringly into my hands, just as they should; I wouldn’t even have looked if looking weren’t part of the act.

A juggler must have a mind like the moon, but a face like water: it should reflect the faces of the audience, and the audience gaped in amazement at the flames spinning through the dusk. A better juggler could have raised kazuh, focused only on the juggling itself. Me, I kept the flares showering, but watched the crowd from the corner of my eye. It’s more fun that way, and everybody was enjoying it, as far as I could see.

Except for one.

Fat Narantir, his massive belly barely held in by the rope holding his robes together, scowled. Magicians don’t like zuhrir, of which kazuh is the expression, and either Narantir wasn’t sensitive enough to detect the fact that I was only using skill, or he wasn’t trying.

Or maybe it was just that magicians are famous as lechers, and that NaRee was becoming prettier by the year. Perhaps fat Narantir had his eye on NaRee, and wished his hands on her as well.

I looked for her, and ached for her. But she wasn’t there.

“Hei, hei,” I called out. Behind me, my sister, Enki Duzun, clapped her hands twice, and then, in perfect rhythm, flung another flaming wand over my shoulder.

It slapped into my horny palm, and the crowd gasped, and then hissed their applause. I bowed my thanks—a hard move; you try to bow gracefully while showering five burning wands—as though I’d done something wonderful.

I’ve always been unusually sensitive to the flare of others’ kazuh. It’s no great gift—you can usually see it; you don’t have to feel it—but it is sometimes a comfort.

This time it was Enki Duzun, of course, who had done it, raising kazuh enough to be sure that she could throw the wand exactly right, precisely correctly. I could barely feel her kazuh simmering, then subsiding. I was mildly surprised; Enki Duzun relied on her skill much more often than her kazuh.

I broke from the shower into a circle—much harder; but, as I say, I’m not a bad juggler—and then back into a shower, so that I could bow in the direction of Narantir.

The audience hissed their applause, two young girls chewing spring daisies, spitting the petals out in front of the troupe.

I thought I caught a glimpse of NaRee between two of the nobles’ palanquins near the rear of the crowd—members of our beloved ruling class are as fond of acrobats as are the lower classes. But I could have been mistaken, and the next time I looked, there was nobody there.

The sand cold under my feet, I juggled my way into the center of the square. Beneath the immobile torches guarding the walls of Den Orosh-tai, my flaming wands tumbled through the night air, until my shoulders became so tired that I knew I could keep up the juggling only by raising kazuh.

Which I knew I could not do, not yet, so I finished with a flourish, then one by one planted the wands in the sand of the square, diving over them and cartwheeling off into the dark.

Invisibility is part of the act, and the way to become unseen is first to get the crowd’s attention, and then to focus all your attention on the next act. The crowd’s focus will follow yours.

Paying attention to the next act wasn’t hard—Fhilt’s and Enki Duzun’s entrance was spectacular.

Ropes, pads, and guy wires tight about their waists, the two Eresthai brothers (while they had been with the troupe for ten years, I still couldn’t reliably remember which of the over-muscled men was Eno and which was Josei) had taken up their positions behind me, stretching the ropes tight between them, then planting double-ended spikes all around them in a seemingly random pattern with quick, jerky wrist-flicks.

The spikes were plated in rippling gold and black—showy in the flickering torchlight. Spikes and knives don’t quite generate the same kind of drama and tension that height can, but they are an acceptable substitute during the troupe’s entrance. The only other choice would be to send the Eresthais in a day or so early, and have them set up our equipment. But that’s contrary to the way Gray Khuzud sees the Way: when the troupe arrives, it should all arrive.

Fhilt, always straightforward, did it straightforwardly: he ran toward Large Egda, who cupped his massive hands, tossing Fhilt into the air. He landed catlike on the rope, then bowed, turning his bow into a forward roll, springing from the shoulder of the far Eresthai brother, and then landing in the dirt, ending with another deep bow.

Now it was my sister’s turn. Enki Duzun began with a tumbling run, her thin legs pumping, then springing her into a series of hand-wheels that ended with a leap in the air that launched her headlong toward Large Egda, who bent to catch her feet in his massive hands, then flip her head-over-heels toward the low rope.

She landed squarely, but then teetered on the edge of disaster.

And then she fell, and the crowd gasped with one voice as she caught the rope with one hand and one foot, and swung around underneath it, springing into the air and then landing on the rope, unmoving, steady on its slimness as she would have been on the solid ground. She leaped over the head of the far Eresthai brother, and then landed on the ground with the barest give to her knees.

The applause was gratifyingly loud.

The rest of the company made their entrances—Evrem the snake-handler twirling a cobra in each hand, Sala of the rings dancing the steel around her body.

Last, of course, was Gray Khuzud, and his entrance was the grandest of all. Superficially, it was like Enki Duzun’s, save that Gray Khu-zud’s moves were perhaps a hair sharper, a fraction cleaner: he tumbled, sprang into the air, and then Large Egda tossed him, too, above the rope.

And then he landed, off balance, teetering on the edge of disaster.

The crowd shouted, but not as loudly as they had for Enki Duzun; they had seen this before.

And, just when it seemed as though all he could do was fall, he fell, onto the field of spikes.

But his body twisted into a blur of motion, and his fall became a handspring, and a cartwheel, spinning him through the field of spikes, some of the razor points missing his outstretched hands only by fractions of a fren. Then he was clear of the spikes, and his cartwheel became a series of handsprings, and his handsprings a leap, and his leap a midair flip.

Gray Khuzud, his full kazuh upon him, broke out of his tuck, landed feet-first in the sand, and accepted the thundering roar of the crowd.

“The Troupe of Gray Khuzud is among you,” he said, a particularly deep bow aimed toward the dark window high above.

I clapped as loud as any, not caring how it looked.

 

The crowd was mostly gone from the courtyard; Lord Toshtai was going to hold an audience, and those who had business with him needed to bathe and change into their finery.

Under flickering lamplight, castle servitors were already busy tidying up, some sweeping dirt and sand and a few stray leaves from the flat stones, others raking the pebbled paths from the old donjon to the larger, new one, yet others watering potted bushes and reaching up to pull dead leaves from the trees.

Enki Duzun tugged at my wrist. Slim as a boy, she was much stronger than she looked.

“Be gone, Kami Khuzud,” she said, her lips twisted into a thin smile. “This one might not wait for you.” Her bare shoulders and her torso were slick with sweat and caked in places with dirt and sand.

“This one, little sister, is special.”

“That’s what you say about all of them.”

I was going to say something to the effect of I mean it with her, but I was afraid that Enki Duzun wouldn’t have believed me. Even though, by the Powers, it was true. So I settled for, “You’re falling out again.”

Self-conscious, she adjusted her halter.

She hadn’t been falling out; I was being unfair.

Enki Duzun’s breasts had begun to grow over the past few months, and she was paying too much attention to not falling out, at least among outsiders. Dressed in a halter and acrobat’s blousy demi-trousers, she drew appreciative looks from the men of the court and intermittent glares from the overwrapped women. It must have been the eyes. My little sister was just fourteen years old, and her chin and cheeks were still too round, barely hinting of the beauty that would surely appear later, and force me to spend much time fending off admirers, but her eyes were those of my mother: old, wise, kind, and very tolerant.

I loved those eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“About what? The usual?” She smiled, again. “Go, Kami Khuzud.”

Timing is everything, as Gray Khuzud says. Just as I was about to steal away, Large Egda’s massive right hand closed around my arm. I would have tried to get away, but when Large Egda grabs something, it stays grabbed—even though my biceps was well developed, his fingers almost met.

“Gray Khuzud says not to sneak off, not yet,” he said, his voice a dull rumble. “Everyone is summoned to audience with Lord Toshtai. Time enough to bathe and change only.”

“Well, now.” Enki Duzun grinned. “At least we eat well tonight.”

“You, little sister, think with your stomach.”

“True enough.” She patted her naked belly. “You, Kami Khuzud, think with your phallus.”

It wasn’t true, not with NaRee. But, a true D’Shaian hypocrite, I couldn’t say that; I couldn’t even agree sarcastically, letting her know that NaRee and I had something special, that it was different here, with her.

Large Egda pulled again.

“Let go, let go, I’m coming.”

He thought about it for a long moment, and then released me.

Obedient to command as always, I accompanied Large Egda, rubbing at my arm.