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  that this buzz was because the Jinn did not belong here.

  Perhaps what she sensed was his dissonance with The Tradition here, like an improperly fitting wheel, or the grating of a movable joint that had not been smoothed.

  So, that was something. He could not watch her without her knowing that he was about. So long as she did not hear that hum, she could operate knowing that he could not find out about it.

  She waited until the hum went away—and actually, she watched him go. He gathered one of those whirlwinds about himself and lofted into the sky, the bizarre thing forming a kind of brown blot against the blue.

  When he was out of sight, and the hum was gone for a bit, she took her waterproof wallet of oiled eelskin and unsealed the paraffin holding the edge shut. From it she took her paper crane. The Jinn had taken everything from her that looked like a weapon, but not this. He probably thought it was a lover’s token.

  It might not be a bad thought to moon over it as if it were when he was about.

  Carefully, she wiped her hands and forehead with a soft cloth, to avoid dampening the paper or dropping sweat on it. She unfolded the bird, and with a bit of lead stolen from a window, wrote swiftly on its interior. She used a tiny bit of magic of her own, the magic that allowed her to speak and read in any language in any land. Whoever got this would see it as the script of his or her own native tongue.

  Captives being held by Jinn at Castle of Katschei. Jinn plans conquest. Champions needed. Follow bird.

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  That was all she had room for.

  She had thought, and thought hard, about sending for Sasha—and she would, when the bird came back. But although he was a Fortunate Fool, he was no warrior, and it was warriors who were needed here now. The Jinn had to be stopped. Not just for the sake of the Sea King, but for everything else hereabouts. If the Jinn could transform one piece of forest to desert with only the power at his personal disposal, what could he do with the nearly unlimited power he would have if he took many folk captive? He could lay waste to entire Kingdoms without ever leaving the castle grounds. The more she thought about it, the more alarmed she became.

  And she could not send the bird to her father, not directly. It was, after all, paper. Nor were any of his forces useful for this—not in the Drylands. It would take time for him to gather help from his allies, and time might be in short supply. A Champion or two could stop the Jinn now, before he became too powerful, but the longer they waited, the harder it would be to stop him. So she would send him word only after she sent word to Sasha.

  She folded the bird back up, held it in her hands, and concentrated. I need a Champion, or more than one. I need the nearest. I need the strongest of the nearest, something that can take on a Jinn, someone clever, someone skilled. I need you also to find the nearest Champion who qualifies that can also read, so that he or she can read your message.

  The nearest, strongest literate Champion; yes, that was exactly what she needed. There. That should do it.

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  She folded the crane again and held it on her palm, balanced as if to fly. “Do my bidding, bear my word, then come you back, my paper bird,” she breathed to it.

  With a rustle, the bird sprang to life.

  It hovered over her hand for just a moment, tiny paper wings a blur, then shot off into the sky, just as she felt the hum return. She bit her lip. The Jinn could probably sense magic being worked. Had he felt her at work? Had he sensed the bird? Swiftly she turned to the rosebush beside her.

  A moment later, the Jinn appeared in the middle of the garden, with a sound like a thunderclap and a puff of smoke, his bronze face creased with a ferocious frown.

  She froze in place, as if terrified, as his eyes lit on her, then moved to the branch of the rosebush in her hand.

  The barren branch was now showing life, in fact, the entire bush had come back to life. Green leaves were slowly unfurling and there was a hint of buds where there had been only dry thorns before.

  The Jinn stalked over to her.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  She shrank back. “T-tending the garden,” she stammered. “They were drying dying, these roses. Green things…it is what I do….”

  “A waste of magic!” he growled. “Putter about in the dirt if you wish, but waste no more magic on it! Your magic is mine to draw on!”

  She nodded, and let go of the branch. He stalked away.

  And only then did she heave a sigh of relief. The 198

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  illusion of greenery about the bush faded away. It took very little magic to create an illusion, especially when it was one that someone would reasonably believe.

  But while she was at it—the bush was still alive, it only needed coaxing. And today in the bottom of a chest she had found a very practical set of the baggy trews and a sleeveless shirt of some light beige stuff that was not linen and was not silk, being softer than the former and tougher than the latter. She went to change into those, to nurture the garden the hard way while she continued to think and plan as hard as she ever had in her life.

  There was no fence or border or even a border guard on the road where the Kingdom of Led Belarus ended and the wilderness began. The only sign of the transition was the road itself, which went from being in relatively good repair to degenerating to a rutted dirt track within a matter of a few hundred yards. This was forested land, the beautiful hardwood forest of the north, mostly un-touched even by woodcutters. The trees reached high into the sky, and the track lay deep in shade. Where fallen trunks lay, they were covered in soft moss. Here the leafy trees were mixed with cedar, and the scent of them was sharp on the air. There should be mushrooms.

  He wished he had the time to look.

  It was there that he encountered the old beggar woman.

  He had been expecting one all along. In fact, he was rather surprised that The Tradition hadn’t supplied him with old beggar women between every village. If ever Fortune’s Fool

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  there was a situation that The Tradition must surely be agitated about—if something like the Tradition could be agitated—it was this one. The Sea King’s daughter missing, some dire problem in the north, and not a Godmother in sight. By now it must be spinning around like a dancing mouse, trying to find a solution to a problem.

  It was, he thought, dreadfully ironic that usually it was a Godmother working to find a way to steer The Tradition into an alternate path in order to solve a problem.

  Here it was The Tradition itself frantically casting around to heal itself.

  It was too bad that he didn’t yet know what the problem was.

  Needless to say he was not at all surprised to see the old beggar woman there just over the border, as if she had been placed there to intercept him.

  She was a small, bent bundle of black and rusty-brown fabric beside the road. He couldn’t see her face, only the fold of her shawl over her head and a curling lock of white hair. She looked up at him from under her shawl as he rode near, and held out her hand to him, entreatingly. “Please, young man, can you spare an old woman a crust?” Her voice was soft and quavering.

  “Little mother, I can spare far more than a crust,” he said, dismounting. “You look fair famished and you are terribly far away from anything like a village. Come—”

  leading his horse with one hand, he took her by the elbow with the other, and escorted her to a fallen log.

  “Here, now sit down, rest your honored bones, and let 200

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  me tend you, as surely your own son would want you to be tended.”

  “Alas I have no son,” she replied, looking startled as he spread out a napkin and broke open a small loaf for her, stuffing it with the cheese he had bought at the last village. He put the bread down on the clean napkin, then handed her his own waterskin to drink from.

  “Eat and drink,
little mother,” he said, “and when you are done, I will take you up behind me and take you to your home. You should not be alone out here, and you should not have to walk when I can carry you.”

  The “old woman” made a sound between a snort and a giggle and pulled the shawl off her head, revealing a not-so-old woman. “That won’t be needed, Prince Sasha,” said the witch, in a perfectly normal and pleasant alto voice. “I don’t know why anyone ever bothers to test you anymore. You clearly expect every test we could give you.”

  “No more do I know why you test me,” he said cheerfully. “But I like finding living folks on desolate roads, I like giving beggars something to eat, and I like witches.

  So as it’s about midday, do have some bread and cheese and share a meal with me. It’s very good bread. Another witch baked it for me.”

  “Did she, then? Well good, thank you, I will.” She took the half of the loaf he had already stuffed with cheese and began making a hearty meal of it, while he tore open the other half and served it in the same fashion. “Well the warning I was to give you, if you passed the test, was that Fortune’s Fool

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  in order to get where you’re going, you’ll have to deal with Baba Yaga.”

  “Hmm. That’s not good news,” he replied, starting on his own half. “In fact, I have to say that is very bad news indeed. Of all the creatures in the world that I would rather not meet, she is high on the list.”

  “But she will have something you need if you are going to succeed.” The witch shrugged. “The saints only know what that thing is, I certainly don’t. It could be anything from a single pin to an elephant.”

  The mental image of Baba Yaga riding an elephant made him blink, and he shook his head to clear it. There was such a thing as having too vivid an imagination.

  “A single pin is more like, but you never know,” continued the witch.

  “Anything else you can tell me?” he asked.

  “Only that The Tradition is not happy about something that is north of here. Whatever it is, it’s an irritant now, and if it stays there it will become deadly as well as dangerous and we will all find ourselves in rather a pickle. Now you know everything that I know.”

  He nodded. The witch was a very pleasant-faced, tall, thin woman of about late middle age. Unlike the illusion she had worn, she was not stoop-shouldered, nor were there more than a few streaks of white in her light brown hair. “In that case, may I give you a ride anywhere?”

  She shook her head, and helped herself to his waterskin. “I live just off the road. I live in a rather nice, dry cave, actually. It’s been used by the witches hereabouts 202

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  for generations. It’s warmer in winter and cooler in summer than any house I’ve ever had, and I never have to fix the roof. I share it with a bear.”

  “A bear!” His eyebrows rose. He saw no reason not to take her literally. “That’s likely to keep you even safer than having a wolfhound!”

  “And he is very pleasant company, when he hiber-nates, he is warmer in winter to curl up against than a dog, and in summer, he feeds himself. He is not a bear-man, but he is a Wise Bear. We get along.” She smiled.

  “Now, I wouldn’t turn down another loaf if you happen to have one to spare.”

  “Even if I didn’t, I’d give you my last one,” he laughed.

  “But as it happens, I do.” He dug out another of the loaves, tight-wrapped in dried, tallow-soaked kelp, and handed it to her. “I came prepared. I had no idea how many of you kind ladies I would meet—or even how many genuine beggars.”

  As he finished his meal, he was planning. Baba Yaga…

  She was the thing you frightened small children with, but she was one of the most deadly witches there was. The only thing that kept her from being a real menace to be hunted down by a Champion was that encounters with her were so infrequent, and took place only in the wilderness. And that she did as many good turns as she did vile things.

  The trouble was she usually did the good turns to good little girls; he had never heard of her doing one for a young man.

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  Armed with the knowledge that he was about to encounter the dreaded witch Baba Yaga, he needed to change his plans.

  If he was going to encounter Baba Yaga, the best thing he could do would be to look as if he wasn’t worth a ransom.

  Not that he had ever heard of Baba Yaga holding anyone for ransom. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t have anything she wanted. She wasn’t bound by the conventions of “good” witches to use her powers unselfishly. She could be just as selfish as she liked. He’d heard tales that inside that weird hut of hers it was like a hundred palaces rolled into one.

  But at bottom she was an evil old peasant woman with more grudges than a cur had fleas, and when an evil old peasant woman of that sort got her hands on a prosperous-looking young man…the results were generally less than pleasant for the young man.

  “I don’t suppose,” he asked as he finished the last of his meal, “you’d be able to keep my horse?”

  The cave-witch considered that for a moment. “I don’t know why not. There’s a side cave I could use for a stable. There’s plenty of grazing. And if you aren’t back by autumn—”

  “If I am not back by autumn,” he said a bit grimly,

  “then I am dead, and you had best think about using my horse to get yourself as far from whatever is brewing in the north as possible.”

  So he left his horse with his new friend, bundled his things on his back, and set off down the road. It wouldn’t 204

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  be the first time he’d traveled afoot. Even a Fortunate Fool can have accidents, though even accidents generally tended to be the sort that got him where he needed to be at the time he needed to be there. He didn’t expect to be afoot for too long, anyway.

  And he hadn’t gotten more than a league down the road when it happened.

  The road passed through an area of rocks, where the trees thinned out a bit. There was now open sky above him, rather than branches. The first thing he heard the moment he set foot on that stretch of road was a strange roaring sound. It was something like the wind in the trees—except that there was no wind. Then he heard a wild, high-pitched cackling that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. It wasn’t sane, that laugh. In fact, it was the laughter of someone who never had more than a nodding acquaintance with sanity.

  But he kept going, pretending he hadn’t heard, either, because he had decided that he was going to pretend to be a deaf-mute. He marched down the road, head high, foolish grin on his face as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  He pretended not to know that the roaring, and the cackling, were approaching him from behind. He forced himself not to react as it drew nearer and nearer.

  And then—

  He found himself knocked flat on his face by a sudden burst of “wind” as the most improbable vehicle in the world shot down the road and skimmed just over the top of where his head had been the moment before.

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  The thing, and its driver, spun around in a tight circle and landed right in front of him as he picked himself up out of the dirt.

  It was a giant grey mortar, the sort that apothecaries and herbalists—and witches—used to grind up ingre-dients in.

  It looked as if it was made of stone, and the pestle somehow hung off the back of it, as if the witch was using it as a rudder. The mortar was fully large enough that it came up to the witch’s waist, and she was not small.

  As remarkable as the vehicle was, the rider was even more striking. She had wild, bright red hair, red eyes and skin of a pale green. Tusks protruded from beneath her withered lips, and her face had more wrinkles than an oak tree’s bark. She wore at least three blouses, each a different clashing color, all layered on top of one another, all in various states of tattered, so that the colors of one showed through the holes of an
other. She had a kerchief tied loosely on her head, but not as a good, modest housewife would, so that none of her hair showed; no, the witch’s bright red hair stuck out in every direction as if squirrels had been nesting in it. There was a black shawl about her shoulders, three more in different colors tied about her waist. It looked as if she had on as many skirts as she did blouses and for the same reason, because all three of them were torn and tattered. Her neck was hung with necklaces of bones, teeth, tiny skulls, and charms, and her arms were loaded with gold bracelets.

  She looked down at him out of those red eyes, and there 206

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  was no more sanity there than you’d see in a goshawk.

  He scrambled to his feet, bowed, then stood before her, grinning foolishly.

  “Don’t you know better than to get in my way, fool!”

  she screeched. Her voice was as harsh as a screaming cat’s.

  He allowed puzzlement to creep over his face, though he never stopped smiling, and tilted his head to the side.

  Then he pointed to his ears and shook his head.

  She spat into the dust. “Bah! Not only a simpleton, but a mute, too!” With a sour look, she flapped her hands, miming speech. He shook his head again. Then, thinking quickly, mimed wood-chopping, then rubbed his belly and looked at her entreatingly.

  She growled and mimed shoveling, then eating, and pointed to him, then to herself.

  He nodded eagerly.

  “Hmph,” she said, though she didn’t seem as irritated as she had been a moment before. She made a gesture; he felt his eyes widen as the mortar began to grow, until it was more than wide enough for both of them. She pointed at the mortar, then at him, then pointed down beside herself.

  So clearly she had just hired him to do her heavy labor, just as he had hoped she would.

  Because if she had something that he needed, this was no bad way to find out what it was, and maybe even get hold of it. And if she thought him to be a simpleton, she would not set him any impossible tasks, such as sorting out three kinds of grain from a heap of several bushels worth.