Magic in Ithkar Read Online Free PDF

so crazy. “Bless you,” he kept muttering, “bless you, Father—”
    “Lords bless you, too, boy; mind your feet.”

    It was a flaky pastry, a cup of milk— Ale will put you on your nose in it, son. Take the milk. Sphix had wobbled up to the noisy little zone of benches and tables with the friar’s arm firmly locked about his own: the friar had set him on a bench at the other end from doting parents placating a squalling youngster. Sphix blinked and winced at the screams, but he was too unsavory—they moved and took the howling brat. He shut his eyes, opened them again with a jerk as the bench rocked and the friar was back with food.
    He ate, picking at the crust and letting his stomach know something was on the way: no rushing. There was meat and gravy inside. He still had his copper. The clothes—there was another benefit to fine clothes: witnesses saw the color, not the man. Tomek would trade off, if he could get to Tomek’s booth. The outfit, split up, would never be recognized.
    Coss—Coss was another problem. A permanent one. He could go to Luttan and his lot; but Luttan was worse. Nothing like Khussan.
    Tears ran down his face while he numbly chewed away and drank the warm milk.
    “Where are you staying, boy?”
    He blinked; he shrugged then, because he felt the tears cold on his face and had no wish to look that way. “Dunno,” around a mouthful.
    “A weaver lets a corner to me, after hours. A place to sleep.”
    He blinked again. It was a dream of his, to prowl the tents after hours and not be caught; but he was not that skilled, to bypass the night-warding charms of the rich places: that took a minor magician, a special kind of thief. “Sure,” he said. (But a weaver’s shop—nothing to pocket there. He could see himself with some great bolt of cloth, staggering away.) “Sure. Thanks.” He sipped at the milk.
    The bruises hurt. His ribs and gut ached. He would be slow for days. And Coss—Lords, Coss expected profits.
    He forced the last of the pie down and swallowed the last of the milk. He looked at the friar, who finished his and got up.
    “Come along,” the friar said.
    He got up. His legs felt battered. He was sore everywhere. But he walked on his own, with the old man at his side through the crowds, the laughter of the young, the pranks.
    A boy jerked the friar’s sleeve. “Cut it!” Sphix yelled and aimed a kick, proprietary.
    “No need for that,” the friar reproved him.
    “Brat’ll have your purse,” Sphix muttered. It was one of Oin’s lot, no proper thief. Beggar. But opportunist.
    Another ran up to stop the friar, a fat woman from a booth who pressed something in his hand. He touched her cheek, blessinglike. “Here’s a coin,” the friar said, opening his palm when they walked on. “They come to me. What if one were taken?” There was another beggar, another, and another. To an old woman the friar gave the coin.
    Rage swelled up in Sphix, longing for that coin. “Lorssakes,” he cried. “Father, that woman’s no more blind than you.”
    “I don’t need it,” the friar said. “I’ve eaten. I have a place to sleep. She has to have something to give her guild . . . doesn’t she?”
    Sphix opened his mouth. Shut it. A tiny alarm rang deep within his heart. But the friar took his arm. “This way.”

    It was a wagon-tent, one of the down-Ith kind that pulled into the grounds at the start of fairtime, turned its draft animals to the livery, and settled deep into the appropriate rows. It extended awnings and all the appurtenances and produced a marvelous lot from its insides, which in this case was not alone a great lot of canvas, but skein upon skein of wools, carding-combs, folding chairs, peg-tables, vats, hanging-frames. It smelled of wools and warmth, of cookery and charcoal; it was a maze inside of hanging fabrics, blankets, like laundry of a hundred lamplit hues: stripes and plaids, checks and embroideries.
    The merchandise flapped as they came in and gave