Free Changeling (Illustrated) by Roger Zelazny Page A

did notice her, he nodded, smiled and watched for her reaction. He wished to take no chance of frightening her away, making no sudden movements. When she returned his nod, with a small smile of her own, he stopped playing and placed the instrument back in its case.
    The leaves fell, the animals froze for an instant then tore off into the woods. The day brightened.
    “Hello,” he ventured. “You live around here?”
    She nodded.
    “I was walking the trail back to my village when I heard you. That was quite beautiful. What do you call that instrument? Is it magic?”
    “A guitar,” he answered, “and sometimes I think so. My name is Dan. What’s yours?”
    “Nora,” she said. “You’re a stranger. Where are you from? Where are you going?”
    He snapped the case shut and climbed down to the ground.
    “I’ve come a great distance,” he said slowly, seeking the proper sentence patterns, locating words with some hesitation, “just wandering, seeing things. I’d like to see your village.”
    “You are a minstrel? You play for your keep?”
    He hauled down his coat and shook it out, draped it over his arm.
    “Yes,” he said. “Know anybody who needs one?”
    “Maybe . . . later,” she said.
    “What do you mean?”
    “There have been a number of deaths. No one will be in a festive mood.”
    “I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps I can find some other employment for a time, while I learn something of this land.”
    She brightened.
    “Yes. I am sure that you could—now.”
    He picked up the guitar case and moved forward.
    “Show me the way,” he said.
    “All right.” She turned and he followed her. “Tell me about your homeland and some of the places you’ve been.”
    Best to make something up, he decided, something simple and rural. No telling yet what things are like here. Better yet, get her to talking. Hate to start out sounding like a liar . . . 
    “Oh, one place is pretty much like another,” he began. “Is this farming country?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, there you are. So is mine. What sorts of crops do you grow?”
    They came to the trail and she led him downward along it. Whenever a bird passed overhead, she looked upward and flinched. After a time, he found himself scanning the skies, also. He was able to direct the conversation all the way into town. By the time they got there, he had learned the story of Mark Marakson.
     

 
     
XI .
     
    The old man in the faded blue robe walked the streets of the drowsing city, past darkened storefronts, parked vehicles, spilled trashcans, graffiti that he could not read. His step was slow, his breathing heavy. Periodically, he paused to lean upon his staff or rest against the side of a building.
    Slowly, light began to leak through the dark skyline before him, a yellow wave, rising, putting out stars. Far ahead, a shadowy oasis beckoned: trees, stirred by the faintest of morning breezes down a wide thoroughfare.
    His stick tapped upon the concrete, more heavily now, as he crossed a side street and negotiated another block with faltering steps. His hand trembled as he reached out to grasp a lamppost. Several vehicles passed as he stood swaying there. When the street was clear, he crossed.
    Nearer. It was nearer now, the place where the boughs swayed and the songs of birds rose in the early morning light. He strode clumsily ahead, the faintest of blue flickers occasionally dancing at the tip of his stick. The breeze brought him a weak, flower-like aroma as he bore toward the final corner.
    He rested again, breathing heavily, almost gasping now. When he moved to cross this street, his gait was stiff, awkward. Once he fell, but there was no traffic and he recovered and staggered on.
    The sky had grown pink beyond the small park which now lay before him. His staff, from which the final light had faded, swung clumsily through a patch of flowers which closed immediately, undisturbed, behind it. He did not hear the faint hiss of the aerosols as he crossed