The Flying Sorcerers

He shrugged. “All right, Lant. Go carve.”

I was delighted. I left him to go on up to the Crag, and I hurried off to the Upper Village to set my idle apprentices to work. We would cut each runforit rib into a thousand narrow slices — maybe more — and stain the resultant chips with the pressed juices of darkberries.

I found, after a little experimentation, that we could use the same cutting threads that we used for loomteeth. The cutting threads were held in a stiff frame. If we opened up one side of the frame and spread the threads out more, we could use it to cut several slices at a time off the end of each rib. Later on we figured that a larger frame holding more threads could cut more slices at a time.

In fact, there was no reason at all that the threads had to be held in a rigid frame — not for this type of cutting. In the space of that afternoon I must have figured at least six new ways to carve bone slices. One of the most effective involved wrapping a single thread in a loop around the piece of bone and pulling it steadily back and forth — in this way, the rib was cut from all sides at once.

We could cut several slices at a time this way — the only limit was the number of threads that we could string around the bone and pull at any one time.

While we were discussing this, Wilville and Orbur stopped by. They were on their way up to the Crag; each was carrying a bundle of hardened bambooze shoots.

I told them of my latest project and they nodded thoughtfully, “Yes, we can build you a device for cutting many slices of bone at a time. We will use cranks and pullies, and it will be operated by two apprentices. I think we may be able to pull fifty threads at a time with it.”

“Good, good,” I said. “How soon can I have it?”

“As soon as we have a chance to build it — first we must finish the airboat frame. The spirit pine is too heavy — we are going to try again with bambooze.”

“And that means building a whole new frame,” sighed Orbur.

They shouldered their loads and trudged on up the hill.

It was well past midnight when I finally grew tired. The red sun was already nearing the west.

It had been a relaxing day. It had been too long since I had concentrated on my bonecarving only, and I had missed it.

I was tired and I ached all over — but at the same time I glowed with the satisfaction of a job well done.

As I trudged across the blackgrass-covered slope toward my home I thought of the pleasures that awaited me there: a hot meal, yes — perhaps even a bit of choice meat; a massage, gentle and warm — I might even let the wives rub precious oil into my fur. It had been too long since I had allowed myself that luxury. And perhaps, if I felt in the mood, perhaps we would do the family-making thing. It would have to be the number two wife, of course — number one was growing heavier and more swollen every day.

Perhaps a hot brushing too, I dreamed — yes, definitely. I could feel the combs already. I quickened my step. My nest-tree loomed invitingly.

I found my wives in bitter argument. The first wife, the one with seniority, was in tears — the second wife, the thinner one, was red-eyed and glaring.

“Have you no sense?” I shouted at her. “You do not badger my number one wife — she has borne me two sons! You have borne me none!”

The woman only glared angrily.

“Go get the whip!” I ordered.

She said, “You may whip me, my master — but you cannot change what is. What is is!”

She would pay for such insolence. A man with a wife he cannot control has one wife too many. I stepped over to the other woman and put my arms around her swollen form, “What is the matter, my number one woman?”

She pointed and said through her tears, “That — that woman — she —”

My second wife interrupted haughtily, “I am not ‘that woman’ any more. I am Kate.”

“Kate? What is a Kate?”

“Kate is my name. I have a name. Purple has given it to me.”

“A what? You have a what? You cannot have! No woman has ever had a name!”

“I do! Purple gave it to me!”

“He has not the right!”

“He does too — he is a magician, isn’t he? He came up to the Crag today where we spin — and he talked to us, and he asked us what our names were. When we told him we had none, he proceeded to give us names — and he blessed them too! We have consecrated names!”

Why, the fool would bring ruin upon us all! There is nothing so dangerous as a haughty woman — we should never have allowed them to learn how to spin! And now he had given them names! Names, indeed!

Did he think they were equal to men in other respects as well? I would fear to ask him — he might say yes. And this from a magician?!!

Shoogar would have to be told at once. The other men must be warned. Purple must be chastised. If women could have names, then they could be cursed through the power of those names. A man is strong enough to bear such responsibility and avoid such cursing. But a woman? How could a woman even realize the danger? They would be so delighted at having names, they would run to tell everybody.

My first wife turned to me in tears. “Give me a name, my husband. I want to be somebody too.”

I stormed out.

The village was in an uproar. The sky was smoky and red, and angry men stood about in clumps, shouting foolishness. As if they would dare attack a magician!

Pilg the Crier stood on a tall housetree stump, shouting into the uproar, “Torchlight procession — burn the — blasphemed against —”

A lot of help he was. And Pilg didn’t even have a wife any more! What had he to complain about?

This had gone far enough — a voice of reason was needed here. I climbed the stump behind Pilg and pushed him hard in the small of the back. He stumbled forward and off, waving his arms.

I filled my lungs and bellowed, “Listen to me, townspeople —”

But there was too much noise — and suddenly they were all going away.

Torches appeared as if by magic, red flames bright over dark crazed heads. I was off the stump and shoving through the jostling crowd. Where was Shoogar now that we needed him?

There was only me to stop them as they streamed toward the river, toward Purple.

I pushed and fought my way to the front of the crowd so that they could see me. “Listen to me! Listen to your Speaker!”

And then the mob from the Lower Village charged into us, and there was no point. Nothing human or demon could have been heard above the roaring.

We were a raging torrent of men bent on murder. I was still trying to reach the leading edge, trying to turn it aside, somehow deflect it.

And then we spilled out onto the riverbank and there was Purple.

He was kneeling beside one of Bellis’s funneled pots, hugging a kind of bag against his chest, an inflated bag as big as a small woman. As the mob rolled toward him he turned in astonishment, letting go of what he was holding.

And it fell up.

It was as if the villagers had run into a stone wall. They stopped joltingly short, and then they moaned as if in agony.

Purple’s thing tumbled slowly upward into the red-black sky. It was a flimsy-looking bag of wind, made of