THE UNICORN TRADE
They graze at night, the unicorns, upon the fresh-dewed grasses, Molten starlight flying as they toss their
sapphire horns.
They step with light and dainty hoof below the stony passes,
Shimmer under shadow where the nightingale mourns. The bright manes ripple over dapple
flanks,
Quarter-moon racing past cloudy banks Now on the warning wind of dawn they flee
night’s crimson death;
They sleep in velvet forest shade; they spice it with their breath.
The castle queens it on her hill, the crown of pride and power, Turreted and traceried and carven like a
gem,
With sunny court and golden hall, with wall and lordly tower
Rich-tapestried with vine and grape, with rose on thorny stem; Rubies, damask, pomanders and swords Wild loves, black hates, delights of wine and words
Let pipe and tabor play! and thus, hand
resting light on hand, With quicker-beating heart we’ll foot the
skipping allemande.
There’s goodly trade in unicorns, in castles and their treasure. Dragons are much demanded, endless
caverns, eagly crags,
There’s trade in rings of elven work, in songs of striding measure,
Star-smiting curses, aye, and quests, and splendid thumping brags. Come buy, come choose your heart’s
desire of these,
Fable and dream, wondrous commodities. Already yours, these unicorns, as aught you
owned yestre’en,
This castle, real as memory, that none but you have seen.
KAREN ANDERSON
FAIRY GOLD
Women, weather, and wizardry are alike in this, that their beneficences are apt to be as astonishing as their betrayals.
The Aphorisms of Rhoene
It is an old tale, often told: a young man loved a young woman, and she him, but they quarreled, whereupon he went off in search of desperate adventure while she wept in solitude. However, this time it was not quite so. Arvel stormed down Hammerhead Street toward the Drum and Trumpet, where he intended to get drunk. Lona, after a few angry tears, uttered many curses and then returned to her pottery, where she punished the clay with her fists and pedaled the wheel until it shrieked.
The hour being scarcely past noon, Arvel found none of his cronies in the tavern, only a half-dozen sailors. Trade had grown listless throughout Caronne, after much of the kingdom’s treasure bled away abroad during the Dynasts’ War. Ships that came to Seilles often lay docked for weeks before their masters had sold all cargo. The markets at Croy were a little better, but the Tauran League now held a monopoly of them.
These men were off a vessel that had arrived on the morning’s tide. They sat together, drinking like walruses rescued from a desert, rumbling mirth and brags, pawing at the wench whenever she came to refill a goblet. Arvel recognized the language of Norren, though he did not speak it. A couple of them were not of that land, but dark-hued, while the manes and beards of the rest were sun-bleached nearly white and their skins turned to red leather. Evidently they had been in the tropics.
Worldfarers! His longing took Arvel by the throat. He flung himself down at a table in a corner, hard enough to bruise his bottom. A sunbeam struck through a window leaded together out of stained glass scraps, to shatter in rainbows on the scarred wood. Smoke and kitchen smells lapped around him.
The wench came through the gloom, her clogs loud on the floor. “Joy to you,” she greeted. Surprise caught her. “Why, Arvel, what a thundercloud in your face. Did a ghost dog bite you today?”
“A pack of them, and the Huntsman himself to egg them on,” he snarled. “Winethe cheapest, because I’ll want a plenty.”
She fetched, took his coin, and settled on the
FAIRY GOLD
13
bench opposite. Pity dwelt in her voice and countenance. “It’s about your girl, isn’t it?” she asked low.
He gave her a startled blue glance. “How can you tell?”
“Why, everyone knows you’re mad with your wish to go oversea, and never a hope. But that’s had you adrift by day, not at drink before evening. Something hew must have gone awry to bring you in here so early, and what could it be save what touches your betrothal?”