Fiddler Fair (anthology)

There was something wrong with these men; he knew that as soon as he faced them. They moved oddly; their eyes were not quite focused. And even in the heat of the day, when they must have been standing out in the sun for a good long time setting up their ambush, with one exception they weren’t sweating.

Then Lyran noticed that, except for the man he’d thrown the dagger at—the man who was sweating—they weren’t casting any shadows. Which meant that they were illusions. They could only harm him if he ­believed in them.

So he ignored them, and concentrated his attention on the leader. He went into a purely defensive stance and waited for the man to act.

The fighter, a rugged, stocky man with a wary look to his eyes, sized him up carefully—and looked as if he wasn’t happy with what he saw. Neither of them moved for a long, silent moment. Finally Lyran cleared his throat, and spoke.

“This one has no quarrel with any here, nor does this one’s lady. You have done your best; this one has sprung the trap. There is no dishonor in retreat. Hireling to hireling, there is no contract violation.”

The man straightened, looked relieved. “You—”

“No!”

The voice was high, cracking a little, and came from Lyran’s left, a little distance up the street. It was a young voice; a breath later the owner emerged from the shadow of a doorway, and the speaker matched the voice. It was a white-blond boy, barely adolescent, dressed in gaudy silks; from behind him stepped two more children, then another pair. All of them were under the age of fifteen, all were dressed in rainbow hues—and all of them had wild, wide eyes that looked more than a little mad.

The man facing Lyran swallowed hard; now he was sweating even harder. Lyran looked at him curiously. It almost seemed as if he were afraid of these children! Lyran decided to act.

He stepped out into the street and placed himself between the man and the group of youngsters. “There has been no contract violation,” he said levelly, meeting their crazed eyes, blue and green and brown, with his own. “The man has fulfilled what was asked.” Behind him, he heard the fighter take to his heels once the attention of the children had switched from himself to Lyran. Lyran sighed with relief; that was one death, at least, that he would not have to Balance. “This one has no quarrel with you,” he continued. “Why seek you this one?”

The children stared at him, a kind of insane affrontery in their faces, as if they could not ­believe that he would defy them. Lyran stood easily, blade held loosely in both hands, waiting for their ­response.

The blond, nearest and tallest, raised his hands; a dagger of light darted from his outstretched palms and headed straight for Lyran’s throat—

But this was something a Mage Guild fighter was trained to defend against; fire daggers could not survive the touch of cold steel—

Lyran’s blade licked out, and intercepted the dagger before it reached its target. It vanished when the steel touched it.

The child snarled, his mouth twisted into a grimace of rage ill-suited to the young face. Another dagger flew from his hands, and another; his companions sent darts of light of their own. Within moments Lyran was moving as he’d never moved in his life, dancing along the street, his swordblade blurring as he deflected dagger after dagger.

And still the fire-daggers kept coming, faster and faster—yet—

The air was growing chill, the sunlight thinning, and the faces of the children losing what little color they had possessed. Lyran realized then that they were draining themselves and everything about them for the energy to create the daggers. Even as the realization occurred to him, one of them made a choking sound and collapsed to the pavement, to lie there white and still.

If he could just hold out long enough, he might be able to outlast them! But the eldest of the group snarled when his confederate collapsed, and redoubled his efforts. Lyran found himself being pressed back, the light-daggers coming closer and closer before he was able to intercept them, his arms becoming leaden and weary—

He knew then that he would fail before they did.

And he saw, as he deflected a blade heading for his heart, another heading for his throat—and he knew he would not be able to intercept this one.

He had an instant to wonder if it would hurt very much. Then there was a blinding flash of light.

He wasn’t dead—only half-blind for a long and heart-stopping moment. And when his eyes cleared—

Martis stood in the doorway of the house that had sheltered them, bracing herself against the frame, her left palm facing him, her right, the children. Both he and the youngsters were surrounded by a haze of light; his was silver, theirs was golden.

Martis gestured, and the haze around him vanished. He dropped to the pavement, so weak with weariness that his legs could no longer hold him. She staggered over to his side, weaving a little.

“Are you going to be all right?” she asked. He nodded, panting. Her hair was out of its braids, and stringy with sweat, her robes limp with it. She knelt beside him for a moment; placed both her hands on his shoulders and looked long and deeply into his eyes. “Gods, love—that was close. Too close. Did they hurt you?”

He shook his head, and she stared at him as he’d sometimes seen her examine something for magic taint. Evidently satisfied by what she saw, she kissed him briefly and levered herself back up onto her feet.

His eyes blurred for a moment; when they refocused, he saw that the haze around the remaining four children had vanished, and that they had collapsed in a heap, crying, eyes no longer crazed. Martis stood, shoulders sagging just a little, a few paces away from them.

She cleared her throat. The eldest looked up, face full of fear—

But she held out her arms to them. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said, in a voice so soft only the children and Lyran could have heard the words, and so full of compassion Lyran scarcely recognized it. “I know it wasn’t your