As one, the crowd moved forward, blank of expression, their movements marked by the jerkiness of puppetry. Their eyes had a slight grey sheen, and an odd flickering of light and shadow too, as if they were all staring into the sun through a cloud of passing starlings.
“Dapple…” said Caewen. “Dapplegrim.” She moved the sword, pointing it this way, and that way, but there were dozens of people moving towards them. There was no way to break through them without relying on her blade or Dapple’s heavy hooves. “I don’t want to be cutting down innocent folks.”
“It’s a big spell,” Dapplegrim snarled. “Hurm. The stink of it is like rancid cheese. There’ll be no easy way to break it.” He growled and showed off a snarl and a biting threat in the direction of one advancing magician, but the man did not so much as flinch.
She looked at Fafmuir, standing in the doorway to his tent. In a flash of hope she said, “Rush him.”
“What? Are you mad? He’ll murder us both with magic.”
“I don’t think he can, or he would have. He’s spread himself too thin already. And I don’t think he has any strong talent for death-magics anyway. Else, why go to all this trouble?”
They were backing towards one another, and soon enough they would need to be fighting off the enclosing mob, innocents or not.
“Hur. So you want to knock him down? Hurm.”
“No. Charge him but keep going.” She was speaking lower now, almost a harsh whisper. “Just follow my lead.”
“Go past him? But what good will that do?”
The staring, blank-eyed people were lurching closer and closer. Some had drawn weapons. Some had balled up their fists as if anticipating a brawl. A few were even conjuring up wisps of fire and light at their fingertips.
“No time,” yelled Caewen. “Now!”
She ran at Fafmuir and yelled a shrill cry as she sprinted. Her blade waved around in an artless sort of flourish over her head. Dapplegrim came roaring up behind her. Fafmuir was taken by surprise. He blanched in the face and moved immediately, without thinking. As quick as he could, he ducked off to one side. Caewen went straight past him into the tent. Dapplegrim followed.
“Stop, stop,” she said.
They turned around.
Fafmuir stood at the tent opening, framed in the light of the cold hard morning. He had not followed them. He seemed to be at first surprised, then his face drew into lines of real anger. Maybe he’d expected them to attack him? A worm of rage was twisting itself around his brow and lips.
“Not keen to chase us in here?” said Caewen. She flicked her sword-tip back and forth. “Oh, hey, why don’t you send your spell-thralls in here then? Oh, wait, that won’t work either, will it?”
He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Oh, very clever of you, I’m sure. Very well then. Have another few hours of life. When you are burning along with the rest of the fools in this place, you can congratulate yourself on how clever you are.” He sniffed. “The precise manner of your death does not matter to me.” After that, he snapped an order at his enchanted mob. “Surround the tent. Don’t let them sneak away. Kill them if they try.” The sound of mindless footsteps fanned out around the tent. “As for me,” said Fafmuir, easing the glove back onto his maimed right hand, pullings some pained expressions as he did. “I suppose, I will simply have to turn up to the gift-giving in my everyday clothing. If anyone complains, I shall tell them that they may eat themselves from the toes up. It hardly matters, now, does it?” He shot them an oddly distant, more resigned look. “You know, I really was inclined to let you two escape. I rather like you, truth be told. You’ve a good spirit to you. Some real backbone.” He was looking at them, long, considering. “I chose you right back at the beginning, you know. Here’s a couple likely folks, I thought to myself. They will do nicely. And besides, she seems nice enough. Might have eased my conscience a little. Just to save one person.”
“Two people,” said Dapplegrim, though if he was actually affronted was hard to tell.
Caewen hushed him, then turned back to Fafmuir. “The rumour-monger,” she said. “He said his name was something birdlike. Twit or tweetle or something? All your magic bends towards the feathered kind doesn’t it? How did you get from the outskirts of the moot to the heart of the moot ahead of us?” He started to answer, but she cut him off. “No doubt you can take a bird form too. Old Mannagarm could do that, but he needed a cloak of feathers. You wouldn’t, would you? And that’s why you sent dark birds to fetch away the assassin. You were sending your own magic and soul out into the air. What were they, blackbirds? Nightingales?”
“Nightingales, yes. You are right,” he conceded. “Uncanny-wrought, and made of my own bleak purpose and will. I had to set them upon your friends, unfortunately: the sun-mage Sarmakarantha and his associate. They were snooping about the tent of gifts. But maybe I shouldn’t have done that? Maybe it did draw too much attention… I wasn’t able to kill them cleanly either… I’ve never had much stomach for learning that sort of spell… still… You’ve a keener mind than most, young lady, and a clearer eye. I wonder then, have you worked how the moot will end?”
Caewen shook her head.
“Well, it will no doubt be an illuminating surprise for you. Pity about your coming to such a bad end. You really aren’t half-bad, as magicians and vagabonds go.” He sighed, smiled sadly, and continued, “It has been something of a pleasure, but, I must perforce be going. Here’s to one last, wotcha!” Fafmuir turned his back to them and ambled off, his hands behind his back, and a beautiful, sombre sort of whistle on his lips.
When he was gone, Dapplegrim turned a querying look on Caewen. “Alright. I’m stumped. Why didn’t he send his spell-thralls in here after us? Why did he leave us be?”
“It’s the tent”, said Caewen. “When I was here last, he told me that the tent has charms woven into it that suppress spells and enchantments. I took a guess, and I was right. He can’t work magic in the tent either. His enthralling charm would just fade if he sent his crowd after us. If he came in here himself, he’d just be an old man.”
“Sooo…” said Dapplegrim. “He can’t come in after us, but we can’t leave? That’s only mostly a step above being torn apart by an enchanted mob. Wait!” he said with a start, looking around. “I’m mostly magical.” He looked down at one hoof, lifting it to examine the ground underneath, not a little anxiously. “What is this tent going to do to me?”