Part Two
Chapter 16
DEPARTURE
The attention of the Traeppedelferes was attracted for a moment by an alternate type of titillation at this Great Banquet...
The torches had just been rekindled, and the Giestranweard could be seen running out of the Great Hall in haste. Goffe shook his head in disapproval: this ignominious retreat before the entire tribe was an insult to her office. But the ways of the Giestranweard had become increasingly unpredictable of late, and he was somewhat indignant to note that her wayward eccentricities only seemed to increase her sway over the tribe.
Some of the other Yldras were puzzled.
Some time ago, Snecchen had rushed unannounced into the Yldramot and feverishly declared that she would reveal a secret at the then-approaching Great Banquet that would amaze them, lore that would change the entire structure of the tribe, a tale of such fundamental importance that their lives could never be the same again. Naturally, the Yldras grew apprehensive at this kind of talk, but they had managed to keep the rash (some said gemaed, some saelig) promise from the ears of the tribe. If any mention of this kind of thing got out, they would have a full-scale revolt on their hands in no time, they worried, and so they had kept it to themselves all this time. They had also kept a close watch on Snecchen, hoping to prevent her from stirring up a riot.
But, reassuringly, the Giestranweard had settled down into her normal duties again almost immediately after her outburst at the Yldramot. Some of the Yldras soon became quite complacent about her alarming promise, although a few remained alert. But Snecchen gave them no further cause for consternation on her account, and indeed behaved as if she herself had forgotten all about it.
And now it seemed that that was exactly what had happened. The Giestranweard had delivered the same lesson, more or less word for word, that she had given at the last Great Banquet, and at the one before that. All the Yldras had listened intently throughout her talk to catch some mention of this momentous discovery, in vain. It seemed to some of them, though it must only have been their imaginations, that everyone in the Hall had done the same. But there was no mistaking it now that she was finished: nothing unusual had been said.
Puzzling, but a relief.
Stanstrang turned back from watching Snecchen's escape, and whispered inquiringly to his companion, "What that talk about Big Secret all Traeppedelfere say? Stancippians talk, maciantols talk; all talk Big Secret, Giestranweard say Big Secret at Great Banquet. I listen, not hear. You hear?" He nudged his neighbor with a huge shoulder.
Smerian was not listening. He was amusing himself and those behind him by squirting a stream of cider through his teeth straight up like a fountain and catching it again in mid-air. Stanstrang's nudge got his attention by knocking him a little to the side just when a particularly long and impressive gush was about to re-enter his mouth, and he spluttered and swore with irritation, whipping his dripping face toward the stancippian.
"Mocbraegen!" he cursed. Then, hearing howls of laughter all around him, he suddenly broke into a wide grin, licked his lips, mopped his face with the back of his thick forearm, and waved a set of bushy eyebrows. "But funny, um?"
Stanstrang's forehead furrowed. He wasn't sure. His heavy, solid frame was capped by a correspondingly heavy and solid head, which let things in and out with equal reluctance. He knew what he knew, and he knew what he didn't know. Whether something was funny or not fell into the latter category.
Smerian broke out laughing at the blank expression on Stanstrang's face. "I like you, you oxagrete!" he merrily cried, slapping the stancippian's back, stinging his hand. "You say what you think. Nothing! Oh, oh, oh, oh!"
An anonymous poke in the ribs, and a glance in the direction someone was pointing told Smerian it was time to be quiet, if only for a moment. Goffe, ancient Goffe, stood on the dais with his arms raised. The buzz and rumor that had erupted at the Giestranweard's anxious departure was soon quelled, and they heard the Maegenyldra cry out in a high, thin, but still clear voice:
"Let feast begin!"
Snecchen could hear the ensuing clamor from the corridor on her way back to her chambers. She was not in the mood to celebrate. The last place she wanted to be was in the middle of the Great Hall, surrounded by all those formerly curious and expectant, but now wondering and disappointed faces. She couldn't stand it.
When Monwyrt had left for the Haunted Lands the second time, it had taken her several days to calm down; she had been that angry at him, and that frustrated by his cavalier attitude. But when she did finally calm down, she began immediately to determine when she might be able to expect him to return. By speaking to everyone she could find who remembered anything of Smaelaer's journey, she concluded that he might easily be back well before the Great Banquet. This excited her a great deal, to the point where it was hard for her to concentrate on her routine duties, until finally she had burst into the Yldramot and ranted out deleriously about her dramatic plans.
Haegtesse had laid hold of her almost immediately afterward, asked her what she thought she was doing, and virtually shaken her to her senses. Nothing was known yet, she had reminded her, nothing! and Monwyrt's return was nowhere in sight. How she rued her rashness!
And now, even as the Great Banquet swung into full hue and cry, how she rued entangling herself with that empty-headed hunter. Monwyrt! She soothed herself by imagining what she might choose to do to that mocsaec twatunge if she could ever get her hands on him. Oh, how he would live to regret thwarting her! Who did he think he was, the little fool? He was, after all, toying with the Giestranweard!
Inflated into an imperious reserve by these thoughts, Snecchen sequestered herself in her chambers, giving an entirely unnecessary command to her astonished pupils (who were not yet of age) that she would not receive any visitors until further notice. She rammed the door to her sanctum back up into place with a resounding boom.
The morwegiestranweards just looked at each other and shrugged.
Two hand-days later, Cwidu was in the low warehouses, overseeing the final loading of the maciantols' wains in preparation for the journey to the Bazaar with the Mocwalwians. Things were going well: he was characteristically well organized and his folk were prepared; the various items were neatly arranged according to the order in which they were to be packed, and the work was proceeding apace. Cwidu allowed himself the satisfaction of a brief smile of self-congratulation, and went straight back to work; helping lash down some odd-shaped pieces here, rearranging an awkwardly loaded wain there, offering encouragement and advice all the while.
Not too far away, the shrill bleating voice of Bicce filled the stancippians' ears with her advice, and the rest of them with misery. They grumbled amongst themselves (but not too loudly!) at her incessant criticism and her frequently contradictory orders. They repeatedly had to point out to her that she was overloading the wains; that she was mixing different grades of castings, or ore, or fyrstan; and particularly that she was neglecting her workers, forcing them to continue the grueling task of loading their massive product without stopping for meals or badly needed rest. It was all one to her; she only saw that her orders were not being carried out to her demands, and as a result her voice raised both in pitch and in volume, until the warehouse walls rang.
Smerian, a maciantol, was finished with his loading duties and released for the day. He leaned against the wall (careful to avoid Bicce's eye) and watched the stancippians' plight with detached amusement. The exhausted miners' faces darkened with grime and disgust in direct proportion to the shrieking Bicce's expanding pop-eyed apoplexy, and the mischievous maciantol marveled at their collective capacity for tolerance. He approached a proud but obviously tired Stanstrang, who was momentarily out of the line of fire, and asked him why they put up with her.
Stanstrang shrugged. "She Maegenyldra," he answered simply.
Smerian winced. That was so like Stanstrang! "I have idea," he said. "Stancippians load wains better if Bicce leave, um?"
The thought oozed laboriously into Stanstrang's mind. "Um," he answered slowly, "but she not go."
Smerian raised and lowered his eyebrows once, winking slyly. "Watch!"
Stanstrang watched from a remote alcove as Smerian ran along the corridor, circled back around a corner, and then ran right up to Bicce as if he had come down from the caves. At first Bicce paid no attention to what Smerian was saying to her, but then Stanstrang saw her whirl all of a sudden and scream at Smerian as if she couldn't believe her ears. Smerian pointed at a wain they had already loaded; Stanstrang could actually hear her screech, "No!" her face a livid red and her fists clenched white-knuckle. He rolled his eyes up and closed them, feeling something like a numbing dread, so sure was he that Smerian was going to get them all in trouble. When he looked again Smerian was pointing up the long hall to the caves and calmly explaining something to the irate Maegenyldra.
The unfolding drama had come to Cwidu's attention, and he came up behind Stanstrang to inquire into it. "What happens?" he asked, tapping the bulky shoulder of the stancippian.
When Stanstrang turned and saw who had approached him, he just closed his eyes again and broke out in a sweat. "Please, Maegebyldra, I not know. Smerian," he gulped, "Smerian, uh, talk Bicce." He made a weak attempt at a smile.
"Really?" Cwidu asked drily, and then reassured him. "Don't worry. I know Smerian. Watch."
Stanstrang had no choice but to do so. Between two Maegenyldras, he could only hope that Smerian knew what he was doing.
All work had stopped. Even the attempts by a few to maintain the appearance of activity had ground to a halt. Bicce's charges, to a body, cowered anxiously, exactly as Stanstrang was doing, watching Smerian's unbelievable folly with morbid fascination, waiting for the inevitable crushing blow to fall. They did not have long to wait.
Bicce's unbearable rantings up to this point now proved to be no more than the hissing of the fuse. Now, she really exploded! The warehouses echoed with her bombast. She stood on her toes, frantically waving her arms, emptying her lungs in blast upon bilious blast into Smerian's face, screwing up her temper until, at last, she doubled up her fists and hauled off and struck him with all her might! A sudden momentary flash of surprise, and of pain, dimmed her crimson face then as she rubbed her smarting hands, but only briefly; for then, recovering with a vengeance, she concluded her blistering excoriation with trebled vehemence, ripped off an impressive collection of withering curses, turned on her heel, and stomped violently out of the warehouses, a veritable juggernaut of oaths.
All those who had witnessed this scene stood speechless, dumbfounded; except Smerian, of course, who, as soon as she was gone, fell to the floor roaring with unrestrained glee. The stancippians exchanged nervous glances amongst themselves, and narrowly eyed Smerian with a mixture of admiration, confusion, and distrust. Cwidu caught Smerian's eye and quickly beckoned to him.
Smerian came up and slapped the stunned Stanstrang on the chest with the back of his hand. "See?" he chortled, snapping his fingers. "Bicce gone! You load wains all right, now, um?" He winked at Cwidu.
"But she will come back!" worried Stanstrang. "Where she go? What you say?"
"She not be back before you finish," Smerian promised. "You forget what I say. You not know, you not get in trouble!"
Stanstrang considered this. He was dripping with uncertainty as he trudged off, but soon he was exhorting his companions to get on with their work, and, unhampered by Bicce's management, they progressed quite rapidly.
"Born leader," Smerian said approvingly of Stanstrang.
"Be careful judging leaders," Cwidu warned him with a grin. "You put hands too far into fire! Now, you tell me. What you tell Bicce, um?"
Cwidu and Smerian had known each other a long time, and they shared a well-founded and deep mutual admiration. All the maciantols accorded their able leader a respect approaching reverence. And Smerian, his incorrigible horseplay and inclination to overindulgence notwithstanding, was a master at his craft, head and shoulders above any other maciantol in the plying of his trade. As a result, over time an implicit understanding between them had arisen: Cwidu would look the other way when Smerian embarked on his pranks or practical jokes, with the stipulation that he be let in on them later. Smerian animated his eyebrows with obvious relish.
"I tell her - oh, oh, oh, it good! I say, 'Goffe send message. You must unload two wains' - I pick two already full - 'Goffe say, those two right there,' I say to her. She become gemaed - you see? oh, oh, oh, very funny."
Cwidu shook his head. "You should not say for Goffe, Smerian. Not good, not good." His demeanor was serious.
Smerian breezily waved off his comment. "Wait, listen," he said, smiling, and continued his narrative.
"Bicce say, 'Goffe?' she say, 'Goffe say to you?'
"'Um,' I say, 'Goffe - but not to me, he not say to me. He say to some stancippian eating in Great Hall, stancippian say to me.'
"'Stancippian in Great Hall when wain-loading work here?' she shout. 'Eating?!' she shout, louder. Oh, oh, oh, oh, I want to smile, but I not, I chew lip, I blow. 'Who?' she ask, 'What name stancippian?' She gemaed, her fist tight, eyes bulge.
"'Name?' I say, 'I not know - no, wait! Wait,' I say, 'I think name - no, um, no - ' I forget for her, you see; she shrieks, she whines, oh, oh, oh! 'I know!' I say, 'stancippian name Geoluscite!'
Cwidu winced in sympathy for this poor innocent stancippian. "That not fair, Smerian!"
Smerian raised his hands impatiently. "Bah! You not know Geoluscite! Listen.
"'Geoluscite!' she say. 'I show him! Geoluscite!' she shout, gemaed. Cwidu, Geoluscite not stancippian, he morwetraeppe! she never find! She not know names of her own workers!
"I say to her, 'I go help unload wains.' Oh, oh, oh, I can't stop! She turn red, she swear at Goffe, she swear at Geoluscite, she swear at me; she say no, I not unload anything! Then she hit me - Oh, I want to laugh then! - and she go to caves." Smerian was immensely pleased with himself.
"But Smerian, what happen when she find Goffe?" asked Cwidu.
Smerian tapped his forehead knowingly. "She not. Goffe out of caves, inspecting hunters' cabin. I hear, I see, I watch him go. And Cwidu, this Geoluscite, he is real mocsaec twat. I say he lie about Goffe, nobody believe him! Oh, oh, oh! Relax! Laugh at Bicce, she deserve it!"
Cwidu's uneasiness abated. This was a delicious gambit, he had to admit; and even if as a fellow Maegenyldra he was constrained from expressing openly his delight at Bicce's manipulation, he felt no compunction at all over rewarding a valued worker. "Smerian, I have chore for you," he said sternly. "You not respect a Maegenyldra, you must be punished. Go, now, into that storeroom," - he pointed - "and find dryge cask! Don't leave storeroom until you find it. Go!"
Smerian looked down, to all appearances properly chastised, but he was smiling to himself. "For you, Maegenyldra," he replied sincerely, "anything!"
Two days later, all was in readiness. The corridors of the low warehouses were lined with wains and carts loaded with the accumulated results of a season's labors. The wains waited in the order they would follow outside: the heaviest and most bulky loads first, heavy but more easily managed ones next, and so on. The order would be reversed for the return trip, so as to keep the most wayward and dangerous wains always on the downhill end of the train. Last-moment adjustments, some necessary, were being attended to, and anxious Traeppedelferes were clogging the passageways, bustling backwards and forwards along the train.
The embarkation to the Great Bazaar was about to begin.
Many of the Traeppedelferes participating in the sortie were restless. They had not slept well the night before, and they knew they would not sleep really soundly for some time. The Great Bazaar was an event not to be missed: it offered a wonderful array of entertainments; but it unfortunately entailed a five-day trek directly away from the caves, away from the mountains altogether.
The road to the Bazaar bore straight and true out of the Low Entrance and down the seemingly interminable slope beginning at the base of the mountains and running at last down to the river, to Ceapig, the Bazaar island. Traveled but twice a season (there and back), the road was nevertheless unmistakable: rutted by the great number of heavily-loaded wains and scoured bare by the great number of shuffling feet. The course of the road, purely through an accident of geography, was monotony itself. Except for a couple of looping bends around the remnants of the hummocky foothills, the trail did not relax its tenacious grip on line or grade, and the party could easily find the way, if it had to, blindfolded.
A large part of the population of the caves, perhaps one-third of all the Traeppedelferes, made up the traveling contingent. Those who were not of age; those who were infirm or otherwise a hindrance; wellemodors and sliefenumens; the hunters; those who maintained the fires and forges or other vital organs of the caves; and the Wrencanmodor, of course; were excused. The rest tried to resign themselves as best they could to the terrors of the outdoors for nearly three hand-days, attempting to distract their growing dread with saelig revelry. There were some, to be sure, who entirely succeeded, and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. There were some for whom the entire trip was an endless torture.
It was quite easy to see in the face of each waiting journeyor into which category he or she fell. It was either one or the other, if it was not his or her first Bazaar, and the difference in the attitudes of anticipation could not have been more pronounced.
Smerian squirted the glowering face of Stanstrang with his already half-dryge cider bladder.
"Don't like this," Stanstrang was muttering for the both hands-and-feet time.
"Don't like cider?" Smerian gaily gurgled, directing his next stream at himself.
Stanstrang shook his head stupidly. "Don't like this," he repeated, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular.
Smerian slapped him on the shoulder. "Bah! It not bad. Drink! Laugh! Mocsaec, we still in caves! Oh, oh, oh!"
He rose and inspected once more the long braided thong loops fitted into the grooves cut in the rims of the great wain-wheels. It was by pulling these loops, either over the top, or under the bottom, of the wheels, that two strong Traeppedelferes could manage the unweildy and wayward wains on the incline of the Bazaar Road.
They were the wheelers of a fyrstan wain, a thick, sturdy, massive craft in its own right, piled past the gunwales with the dense fuel. These wains took their place near the head of the procession, following only the carts carrying the Maegenyldras and the Yldras, and their stancippian wheelers were an imposing lot. Seasons ago Smerian had been recruited from the rank of the maciantols to lend a hand (it was how he came to know Stanstrang), and he had come back to it every season since. He was indeed the only maciantol to volunteer for this strenuous duty, and the stancippians and maciantols alike privately questioned his sanity for doing so.
A third hand was needed to carry the wain-tongue, just to help steady the two-wheeled vehicle; but two experienced and sufficiently burly wheelers could control the craftily-balanced wains well enough to render the duties of a tongue-walker almost negligible.
Smerian was just finishing the inspection of the wheel loops to his satisfaction when Cwidu walked up, on his way toward the head of the train.
"Smerian!" Cwidu called, and pointed at the other's cider bladder. "You found dryge cask?"
"Funny thing," returned Smerian, wiggling his eyebrows, "it first cask I open!"
Cwidu laughed.
"Cwidu, I want to know," Smerian asked, "who our tongue-walker?" He pointed to the as yet unfilled position.
"She will come soon," Cwidu answered, somewhat vaguely, and with a note of hesitation in his voice.
Stanstrang noticed this and broke out of his self-pitying trance. "What wrong with her?" he demanded suspiciously, then, mindful of who he was addressing, stammered, "I mean, Maegenyldra, uh, who our tongue-walker?"
Cwidu made a painful grimace to Smerian. "Look. I try to talk her out of it. She not go to Bazaar before - "
Smerian and Stanstrang groaned.
"She not maciantol or stancippian - "
They groaned louder.
"So I had to put her with best wheelers - "
Smerian and Stanstrang felt a little better.
"And besides," he winced again, almost as if he expected Smerian to strike him, "she, uh, demanded to go with you!"
Smerian's eyebrows nearly shot off the top of his forehead.
"I not know how she knows you," Cwidu went on apologetically, "but she ask for names of best wheelers, and when I say your name she not listen to any more. Sorry."
"What gemaed thriddaglof dares make demands of you, Maegenyldra?" Smerian asked.
Cwidu glanced hurriedly back over his shoulder. "Hsss!" he warned nervously. "She coming soon! She might hear!"
Smerian laughed. "I think Maegenyldra Cwidu afraid of antunge!" he mocked. "Who our tongue-walker?"
Cwidu looked around again, and gulped. "Giestranweard! Your tongue-walker is Giestranweard!"
Smerian was surprised, but soon recovered. "Snecchen? Oh, oh, oh, oh! Snecchen!" His laughter attracted the attention of some passers-by.
Stanstrang groaned again, thunderstruck. "Not like this," he chanted, falling with an almost audible thud back into his depression. "I not like this."
Cwidu went on to the head of the train, offering Smerian one final apologetic shrug before he left. Not too long after that, Bicce could be heard approaching, on her way to join Cwidu in the lead wain. She was volunteering her advice, which amounted to insubstantial criticism, to nearly everyone in the line. She stopped cold when she reached Smerian.
Her jaw worked, but no sound was emitted. She eventually seemed to control her thoughts, though, and offered one terse syllable to the maciantol: "Goffe?!"
Smerian's expression was utterly innocent and sincere. "Geoluscite say Goffe," he equivocated meaningfully, wide-eyed.
Bicce hyperventilated, then calmed herself with an effort. "I waste whole day! There no stancippian Geoluscite!"
"No?" Smerian seemed genuinely surprised. "He say he stancippian!"
Bicce was about to boil again. "Smerian," she began, menacingly.
"Bicce!" A sharp voice suddenly interrupted her.
"Snecchen!" Smerian cried delightedly upon seeing her approach.
"Giestranweard!" Bicce gasped, backing away in terror.
"Go!" Snecchen commanded the Maegenyldra, pointing toward the head of the train, giving her a stare calculated to be interpreted as foreboding.
"Um!" responded an obediant Bicce, immediately trotting away awkwardly and in obvious haste in the direction indicated.
"Not like!" moaned Stanstrang under his breath.
"Smerian," smiled Snecchen. She suddenly felt younger somehow; felt better than she could remember feeling for long seasons. Like she was a hunter again, almost. She leaned toward Smerian and whispered mischievously, nodding her head toward the retreating Bicce: "Sorry to chase off your antunge!"
Smerian laughed. "Um! Now you have to make it up somehow." His eyes gleamed under his wiggling eyebrows.
Snecchen suddenly felt very young. Her scalp tingled. "They say," she said coyly, wiggling her own eyebrows back at him, "I have strange powers."
The front wains had slowly rolled out of the Low Entrance as soon as Bicce had clambered into the lead wain with Cwidu, and the procession was under way.
"Maybe," Smerian continued his flirting even as he and Stanstrang strained to start the huge wheels rolling, "Maybe I have strange powers, too!"
Stanstrang looked up at the, to him, painfully bright morning sky as their wain emerged from the caves, struggled to lower his long unused inner eyelids, and listened to the syrupy patter between a saelig maciantol and no less a figure than the Giestranweard Snecchen herself, and swallowed with difficulty.
"Not like!" he muttered again, and not for the last time. "Not like anything about this!"
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