Free Burning Tower by Larry Niven Page B

reached into a bag—two sets of warriors tensed—and pulled out a fist-size ball of scorched glass. “Do you recognize this?”
    Wanshig considered; then: “Magicians have been turning up everywhere since Yangin-Atep went myth. One sold me this. Someone gathered it before I could use it. Where did you find it?”
    â€œIn the ashes near Glegron’s body. It’s magic, isn’t it?”
    â€œIt’s supposed to make gold dust cling to itself, into one glop. Like to like. I never had the chance to try it.”
    â€œIt wouldn’t work,” Sandry said. “I don’t know a lot about magic, but I know that much. Once the magic is gone, charms and ornaments and magic tools don’t work.”
    Wanshig shrugged.
    A year ago, Whandall Feathersnake had drawn maps all over the floor of the big dining hall. Now, Sandry was startled to see something tiny in motion on one of the maps. When he looked directly at the map, nothing happened, but if he looked away and then back again, something had changed.
    â€œThe wagon train,” Sandry said. “It’s moving into town. How long has your map been doing that?”
    â€œAlways did since Whandall drew it,” Wanshig said. “Or at least since Yangin-Atep’s been gone.”
    And I’ll have to talk to the Lordshills wizards about it, Sandry thought. Could this be dangerous? But Lordkin were never wizards. Learning wizardcraft took years of study and hard work, and Lordkin didn’t do either. Not much danger they’d start now.
    Â 
    The wagon train came in late afternoon, accompanied by a cloud of chattering kinless and some hulking Lordkin looking for a chance to gather. They were escorted by Younglord Maydreo, and Lord Hargriff, and Peacevoice Fullerman with a fresh squad in newly polished armor.
    Sandry watched them from the comfort of his outside table at the inn. Order in confusion. Boxes came off the wagons to form living quarters, storefronts, goods tents. Cookfires were lit, and a cooking pot bubbled with the smell of red meat as they cooked the terror birds. The feathers had already been collected and stored away. Wagon traders wasted nothing.
    How long would it take to learn how to be a part of that? Too long. It would never work.
    Could she live here? What would Mother say? Nothing—she barely notices if I come or go. But Aunt Shanda!
    A flat board from a wagon’s side was laid on a box to become a wide table. Travelers spread it with tiny glass bottles, scores of them, too tiny to be of use, but pretty. Bordered around them, the travelers laid small, burned-looking stones.

    â€œMay I have some tea, please?”
    She had startled him, but Sandry was already grinning when he turned. Before he realized what he was doing, he jumped up and took her hand as if he were first meeting her, and then they were both grinning. But he’d have to let go to clap for tea, and he didn’t want to.
    But the kinless waitress had heard and went inside with a knowing smile. Neither Lordkin nor kinless were ever supposed to know anything about the private lives of Lords or even that they had private lives. And Sandry couldn’t make himself care despite what Aunt Shanda would say if she’d seen this.
    â€œFinished setting up?” he asked.
    â€œFor a while. My brother wants me to get into costume and do a performance before dark, get the crowds wanting to come to the market tomorrow.”
    â€œNo danger they won’t come,” Sandry said. “I don’t think there’s anyone doesn’t know the caravan is here.” He grinned. “But don’t let me stop you. I love to watch you, but I’m scared for you. It looks dangerous.”
    She shrugged. “Not as dangerous as it looks. Ropes don’t usually care. I mean they do if you don’t take care of them, but we’re always careful. They’re our ropes; my cousins made them.”
    Sandry looked at