The
Magic of Recluce
by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
Recluce
Book One
Copyright
© 1991
Edited
by David G. Hartwell
Cover
art by Darrell K. Sweet
A Tor
Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
175
Fifth Avenue New York, N.Y. 10010
Exile-or
a quest that might take his life . . .
"So where do I go?"
"You're sure?" asked Uncle
Sardit, his mouth full.
"What choice is there? I either get
plunked down on a boat to somewhere as an exile, knowing nothing, or I try to
learn as much as I can before doing something that at least gives me some
chance of making a decision."
"I think that's the right choice for
you," said Aunt Elisabet, "but it's not quite that simple."
After finishing my bread and cheese in the
strained atmosphere of the house, I went back to my quarters over the shop and
began to pack. Uncle Sardit said he would keep the chair and the few other
pieces until I returned.
He didn't mention the fact that few
dangergelders returned. Neither did I.
For Bob
Muir, Clay Hunt, and Walter Rosenberry.
Too
belated an appreciation, but real for all the delay.
I
GROWING
UP, I always wondered why everything in Wander-naught seemed so dull. Not that
I minded the perfectly baked bread routinely produced by my father or by Aunt
Elisabet, and I certainly enjoyed the intricately carved toys and other gifts
that Uncle Sardit miraculously presented on my birthday or on the High
Holidays.
Perfection, especially for a youngster
learning about it from cheerfully sober adults, has a price. Mine was boredom,
scarcely novel for a young man in the middle of his second decade. But boredom
leads to trouble, even when things are designed to be as perfect as possible.
Of course, the perfection and striving for perfection that marked the island,
though some would term Recluce a smallish continent, had a reason. A good
reason, but one hardly acceptable to a restless young man.
"Perfection, Lerris," my father
repeated time after time, "is the price we pay for the good life.
Perfection keeps destruction away and provides a safe harbor for the
good."
"But why? And how?" Those were
always my questions.
Finally, shortly after I finished the
minimum formal schooling, in my case at fifteen, my mother entered the
discussion.
"Lerris, there are two fundamental
forces in life, and in nature. Creation and destruction. Creation is order. We
attempt to maintain it-"
"You sound just like Magister Kerwin .
. . 'Order is all that keeps chaos at bay . . . because evil and chaos are so
closely linked, one should avoid all but the most necessary acts of destruction
. . .' I know perfection is important. I know it. I know it! And I know it! But
why does it have to be so flaming boring?"
She shrugged. "Order is not boring.
You are bored with order." She looked at my father. "Since you are
bored with us, and since you are not quite ready for the possibility of
undertaking the dangergeld, how would you like to spend a year or so learning
about woodworking with your Uncle Sardit?"
"Donara?" asked my father,
obviously questioning my mother's volunteering of his sister's husband.
"Sardit and I have talked it over,
Gunnar. He's willing to take on the challenge."
"Challenge?" I blurted.
"What challenge? I can learn anything . . ."
"For about the first three
weeks," my father commented.
"It's not as though you will ever be a
master woodworker, Lerris," added mother. "But the general skills and
discipline will come in useful when you undertake your dangergeld."
"Me? Why would I ever go tramping off
through the wild lands?"
"You will."
"Most assuredly."
But the only thing that was assured then
was that I would have the chance to learn how to craft some of the screens,
tables, chairs, and cabinets that Uncle Sardit produced. Every once in a while,
I knew, someone traveled from Candar or even from one of the trading cities of
Austra to purchase one of his screens or inlaid tables.
Until I had a better idea of what I really
wanted to do in life, woodworking was better than helping my father keep all
the stonework spotless or mixing clays or tending the kiln fire for mother.
Although the same traders who visited Sardit also visited my mother's shop, I
did not have the touch for pottery. Besides, pots and vases bored me. So did
the intricacies of glazes and finishes.
So, within days I had left the neat and
rambling timbered and stone house where I had grown up, where I had looked out
through the blue-tinted casement window in my bedroom on the herb garden for
the last time. Then, I had walked nearly empty-handed the half-day to my
uncle's where I was installed in the apprentice's quarters over the carpentry.
Uncle Sardit's other apprentice, Koldar, had almost completed his term and was
building his own house, with the help of an apprentice stonemason, a woman
named Corso. She was bigger than either of us, but she smiled a lot, and she
and Koldar made a good pair. He was living in the unfinished house alone, but
probably not for long. That meant that until another apprentice came along I
had the privacy and the responsibility of the shop in evenings.
Still, it had been a small shock to realize
that I would not be living in the guest room at Uncle Sardit's, but in the much
smaller and sparsely-furnished apprentice's space. The only furniture was the
bed, an old woven rug, and a single hanging lamp. The plain red-oak walls
scarcely showed even hairline cracks where the boards joined. The polished
floors, also red oak, displayed the same care and crafting.
"That's what you're here for, Lerris.
When you learn how, you can make your own tables, benches, chairs, in the
evenings. Have to fell your own wood and make arrangements with Halprin at the
sawmill for the rough stock to replace what's been seasoned unless you want to
try to cut and rough-cure the logs yourself. Don't recommend that."
Sardit as a craft-master was a bit
different than as an uncle.
I was going to learn about carpentry, and
tools, and how to make screens and cabinets and tables, right? Not exactly. To
begin with, it was just like the pottery shop, but worse. I'd heard about clays
and consistencies and glazes and firing temperatures for years. I hadn't
realized that woodworking was similar-not until Uncle Sardit reminded me
forcefully.
"How are you going to use tools
properly, boy, if you don't know anything about the woods you're working
with?"
With that, he sat me down with his old
apprentice notes on woods. Each day, either after work or before we opened the
shop in the morning, I had to show him my own hand-copied notes on at least two
kinds of trees, the recommended uses, curing times, and general observations on
the best uses of the wood. Not only that, but each card went into a file box,
the one thing he had let me make, with some advice from him, and I was expected
to update the cards if I learned something of value in a day's work on a wood.
"What did you write down on the black
oak? Here, let me see." He scratched his head. "You spent all day
helping me smooth that piece, and the wood told you nothing?"
Once in a while, I saw Koldar grinning
sympathetically from whatever project he was handling. But we didn't talk much
because Uncle Sardit kept me busy, and because Koldar mostly worked alone, just
checking with Uncle Sardit from time to time.
After a while, Uncle Sardit even nodded
once or twice when reviewing my cards. But the frowns and questions were always
more frequent. And as soon as I thought I understood something well enough to
avoid his questions, he would task me with learning some other obscure
discipline of woodworking. If it weren't the trees, it was their bark. If it
weren't their bark, it was the recommended cutting times and sawmill
techniques. If it weren't one type of wood, it was what types you could match in
inlays, what differences in grain widths meant. Some of it made sense, but a
lot seemed designed to make woodworking as complicated as possible.
"Complicated? Of course it's
complicated. Perfection is always complicated. Do you want your work to last?
Or do you want it to fall apart at the first touch of chaos?"
"But we don't even have any white
magicians in Recluce."
"We don't? Are you sure about
that?"
There wasn't much I could say to that.
Practicing magicians, at least the white ones who used chaos, were strongly
discouraged by the masters. And what the masters discouraged generally stayed
discouraged, although there seemed to be only a few masters for all the towns
in Recluce.
I guess my old teacher, Magister Kerwin,
actually was a master, although we didn't usually think of magisters as
masters. They were both part of the same order. Magisters were those who
actually taught.
So ... I kept studying woods, trees, and
tools, and after nearly a year began to make a few simple items.
"Breadboards?"
"Someone has to make them. And they
should be made right. You can do it well enough to keep chaos at bay, and you
can select from any of my designs or try one of your own. If you do your own,
let's go over it together before you begin cutting."
I did one of my own-simple, but with an
octagonal shape.
"Simple, but nice, Lerris. You may
actually have a future as a wood crafter."
From breadboards, I went to other simple
items-outdoor benches for a cafe, a set of plain bookcases for the school.
Nothing with carving, although I had begun to do carving for my own furniture,
and Uncle Sardit had even admitted that the wooden armchair I had built for my
quarters would not have been out of place in most homes.
"Most homes. Not quite clean enough,
and a few rough spots with the spoke-joining angles, but, on the whole, a
credible effort."
That was about the most I ever got in
praise from Uncle Sardit.
But I was still bored, even as I continued
to learn.
II
"LERRIS!"
THE TONE in Uncle Sardit's voice told me enough. Whatever I had done-I did not
wish to know.
I finished washing the sawdust from my
face. As usual, I got water all over the stone, but the sun had already warmed
the slate facing, and the water would dry soon enough, even if my aunt would be
down with a frayed towel to polish the stone within moments of my return to the
shop.
"Lerris!"
Aunt Elisabet always kept the washstones
polished, the kettles sparkling, and the graystone floors spotless. Why it
should have surprised me I do not know, since my father and, indeed, every
other holder in my home town of Wandernaught, exhibited the same
fastidiousness. My father and his sister were both the householders, while
Mother and Uncle Sardit were the artisans. That was common enough, or so I
thought.
"Lerris! Young . . . man, . . . get .
. . yourself . . .back . . . here . . . now! "
I definitely did not want to return to the
carpentry, but there was no escape. "Coming, Uncle Sardit."
He stood at the doorway, a frown on his
face. The frown was common, but the yelling had not been. My guts twisted. What
could I have done? .
"Come here."
He thrust a wide-fingered hand at the
inlaid tabletop on the workbench.
"Look at that. Closely." His
voice was so low it rumbled. I looked, but obviously did not see what he wanted
me to see.
"Do you see that?"
I shook my head. "See what?"
"Look at the clamps."
Bending over, I followed his finger. The
clamps were as I had placed them earlier, the smooth side, as he had taught me,
matching the grain of the dark lorken wood.
"With the grain of the wood . .
."
"Lerris . . . can't you see? This end
is biting into the wood. And here . . . the pressure has moved the border out
of position . . ."
Perhaps the tiniest fraction of a span, if
at all, but all I had to do to correct that would be to sand the other end a
bit more, and no one, except Uncle Sardit, and perhaps the furniture buyer for
the Emperor of Hamor, would have ever noticed the discrepancy.
"First, you don't force wood, Lerris.
You know that. You just aren't paying attention any more. Woodworking means
working with the wood, not forcing it, not working against it."
I stood there. What could I say?
Uncle Sardit sighed.
"Let's go into the house, Lerris. We
have some talking to do."
I liked the sound of that even less, but I
followed his example and unstrapped my leather apron and racked my tools.
We walked out the door and across the
smooth pavement of the courtyard and into the room Aunt Elisabet called the
parlor. I never knew why she called it the parlor. I'd asked once, but she had
just smiled and said it had been a name she had picked up along the way.
A tray sat on the table. On it were two icy
glasses, some slabs of fresh-baked bread, cheese, and several sliced apples.
The bread was still steaming, and the aroma filled the small room.
Uncle Sardit eased himself into the chair
nearest the kitchen. I took the other one. Something about the tray being ready
bothered me. It bothered me a whole lot.
The soft sound of steps caused me to look
up from the tabletop. Uncle Sardit put down his glass-iced fruit punch- and
nodded at Aunt Elisabet. She, like father, was fair-skinned, sandy-haired, slender,
and tall. Uncle Sardit was smaller and wiry, with salt-and-pepper hair and a
short-cropped beard. Both of them looked guilty.
"You're right, Lerris. We do feel
guilty, perhaps because you're Gunnar's son." That was Aunt Elisabet.
"But that doesn't change
anything," added Uncle Sardit. "You still have to face the same
decisions whether you're our nephew or not."
I took a gulp of the fruit punch to avoid
answering, though I knew Aunt Elisabet would know that. She always knew. So did
my father.
"Have something to eat. I'll do some
of the talking. Elisabet will fill in anything I miss." He took a wedge of
cheese and a slab of bread and chewed several bits slowly, swallowed, and
finished up with another gulp of fruit punch.
"Magister Kerwin should have taught
you, as he taught me, that a master or journeyman who instructs an apprentice
is also responsible for determining the apprentice's fitness for practicing the
craft."
I took some bread and cheese. Obviously,
the master was responsible for the apprentice.
"What he did not tell you, or me, is
that the craft-master must also determine whether the apprentice will ever be
ready for practicing a craft, or whether the apprentice should be considered
for dangergeld or exile."
"Exile . . ."
"You see, Lerris, there is no place in
Recluce for unfocused dissatisfaction," added Aunt Elisabet.
"Boredom, inability to concentrate, unwillingness to apply yourself to the
fullest of your ability-these can all allow chaos a foothold in Recluce."
"So the real question facing you,
Lerris, is whether you want to take the dangergeld training, or whether you
would rather just leave Recluce. Forever."
"Just because I'm bored? Just because
I put a little too much pressure on a wood clamp? For that I have to choose
between exile and dangergeld?"
"No. Because your boredom reflects a
deeper lack of commitment. Sloppy work on the part of someone who is doing his
best is not a danger. Nor is sloppy work when the honest intent is perfection,
provided, of course, that no one has to rely on the sloppy work for anything
that could threaten their life if it failed." Aunt Elisabet looked somehow
taller, and there was a fire behind her eyes.
I looked away.
"Are you saying that you have honestly
been happy trying to achieve perfection in woodwork?" asked Uncle Sardit.
"No." I couldn't very well lie.
Aunt Elisabet would catch it.
"Do you think that it would become
easier if you continued to work with me?"
"No."
I took another slice of bread and a second
wedge of cheese. I didn't remember eating the first, but I must have. I sipped
the fruit punch only enough to moisten my mouth, since I was cold enough inside
already.
"Now what?" I asked before taking
another bite.
"If you decide to take the dangergeld
training, the masters will work with you for as long as necessary, in their
judgment, to prepare you for your dangergeld. After training, you cannot return
until you have completed the charge laid upon you.
"If you choose exile, you will leave.
You cannot return except with the permission of the masters. While not
unheard-of, such permission is rarely given."
"Just because I'm bored? Just because
I'm young and haven't settled down? Just because my woodwork isn't perfect?"
"No. It has nothing to do with
youth." Aunt Elisabet sighed. "Last year, the masters exiled five
crafters twice your age, and close to a dozen people in their third and fourth
decade undertook the dangergeld."
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"Yes."
I could tell she was. Uncle Sardit, for all
his statements about doing the talking, hadn't said a word in explanation. I
was getting a very strange feeling about Aunt Elisabet, that she was a great
deal more than a holder.
"So where do I go?"
"You're sure?" asked Uncle
Sardit, his mouth full.
"What choice is there? I either get
plunked down on a boat to somewhere as an exile, knowing nothing, or I try to
learn as much as I can before doing something that at least gives me some chance
of making a decision."
"I think that's the right choice for
you," said Aunt Elisabet, "but it's not quite that simple."
After finishing my bread and cheese in the
strained atmosphere of the house, I went back to my quarters over the shop and
began to pack. Uncle Sardit said he would keep the chair and the few other
pieces until I returned.
He didn't mention the fact that few
dangergelders returned. Neither did I.
III
LIKE A
LOT of things in Recluce, my transition from apprentice to student dangergelder
just happened. Or that's the way it seemed.
For the next few days after my rather
ponderous and serious conversation with Aunt Elisabet and Uncle Sardit, I
continued to help out around the carpentry shop. Uncle Sardit now asked me to
rough-shape cornices, or rough-cut panels, rather than telling me to. And
Koldar just shook his head, as if I were truly crazy.
He shook it so convincingly that I began to
wonder myself.
Then I'd hear Uncle Sardit muttering about
the inexact fit of two mitered corners, or the failure of two grains to match
perfectly. Or I'd watch him redo a small decoration that no one would see on
the underside of a table because of a minute imperfection.
Those brought back the real reason why I
couldn't stay as his apprentice-the boring requirement for absolute perfection.
I had better things to do with my life than worry about whether the grain
patterns on two sides of a table or panel matched perfectly. Or whether a
corner miter was a precise forty-five degrees.
Perhaps it suited Koldar, and perhaps it
kept the incursions of chaos at bay, but it was boring.
Woodworking might have been better than
pottery, but when you came right down to it, both were pretty dull.
So I didn't mind at all when, several days
later, Aunt Elisabet announced that I had better get my things together.
"For what?"
"Your training as a dangergelder, of
course. Do you think that the masters just hand you a staff, a map, and some
provisions, and hustle you aboard a ship to nowhere?"
That thought had crossed my mind, but I
quickly dismissed it in the face of my aunt's insistence.
"What about saying good-bye to my
family?"
"Of course, of course. We're not
exactly barbarians, Lerris. They've been expecting you for some time, but
you're not an apprentice any longer. So what you do is strictly up to you. The
masters at Nylan are expecting you, and several others, the day after
tomorrow."
"That's a good distance . . ." I
hinted, hoping that Aunt Elisabet would indicate that the masters would provide
a carriage, or a wagon. While I had a few silver pence, I certainly had no
desire to spend them on riding the High Road. Nylan was a full day's walk, and
then some.
"That it is, Lerris. But did you
expect the masters to come to you?"
I hadn't thought about that one way or
another.
Aunt Elisabet cocked her head, smiling, as
if to indicate that the sunny morning was passing quickly. It was, and, if I
had to be in Nylan by the following evening . . .
Another thought crossed my mind. "When
on the day after tomorrow?"
"No later than noon, although I
suppose no one would mind if you were a trifle later than that." Her smile
was kindly, as it usually was, and the sun behind her still-sandy hair gave her
the look of ... well, I wasn't sure, but Aunt Elisabet seemed to be more than I
had thought. Why, I couldn't say, just as I couldn't explain why woodworking
seemed so incredibly boring.
I swallowed. "I'd better get going.
That's an early rising tomorrow, and time to make on the road."
She nodded. "I have some flake rolls
for your parents, if you're going that way. And you'll find a set of boots,
with the right trousers and cloak, laid out on your bed."
I swallowed again. I hadn't thought about
the boots, although my heavy apprentice clothes would have been adequate for
most hard travel.
"Thank you . . ." I looked down.
"Need to say good-bye to Uncle Sardit."
"He's in the shop."
After going back to my room, I found my
clothes had been wrapped in one bundle, and that someone had laid out not only
boots and clothes, but a walking staff of the heaviest, smoothest, and blackest
lorken. The staff was almost unadorned, not at all flashy, but it was obviously
Uncle Sardit's work, probably months in preparation as he had cut, seasoned,
and shaped the wood, and soaked it in ironbath. The ends were bound in black
steel, with the bands recessed so precisely they were scarcely visible against
the darkness of the wood.
I held it and it seemed to fit my hand. It
was exactly my own height.
Finally I shrugged, and looked around for
the old canvas bag in which I had brought my old clothes. Not that there were
many left after nearly two years of growing and discovering muscles in the
process of woodworking. Don't let anyone tell you that precision woodwork isn't
as hard as heavy carpentry. It isn't. It's harder, and since you can't make
mistakes, not for someone like Uncle Sardit, it requires more thinking.
The last thing laid out was a pack. Not flashy,
not even tooled leather, but made out of the tightest-woven and heaviest cloth
I'd ever seen. Dull brown, but dipped in something that had to be waterproof. I
wondered if Aunt Elisabet and Uncle Sardit felt guilty for deciding that I
didn't fit in. Certainly the staff and the pack alone were magnificent gifts,
and the clothes, although a dark brown, were of equal quality and durability.
That wasn't all. Inside the pack was a
small purse. Attached was a note.
"Here are your apprentice wages. Try
not to spend them until you leave Recluce." I counted twenty copper
pennies, twenty silver pence, and ten gold pence. Again, a near-incredible
amount. But I wasn't about to turn it down, not when I couldn't tell what might
lie ahead.
I picked up the staff again, running my
fingers over the grain, examining it once more, trying to see how the ends were
mated so closely to the wood that the caps were scarcely obvious.
At least they, or my parents, whoever had
supplied me, wanted to send me off as well-prepared as they could. I remembered
from Magister Kerwin's dry lectures that dangergelders were only allowed
whatever coins they could carry comfortably, two sets of clothes, boots, a
staff, a pack, and a few days' provisions.
If you decided to return, of course, after
your year or more away, and the masters approved, you could bring back an
entire ship, provided it wasn't stolen or unfairly acquired. But then, the
masters weren't too likely to let you return if you'd turned to thievery.
I shook my head, put down the staff, and
examined the pack, realizing my time was short. Inside were another set of
clothes and a pair of light shoes, almost court slippers.
Stripping to the waist, I headed down to
the wash trough to clean up before putting on the new clothes. Uncle Sardit was
humming as he buffed the desk he was finishing, but did not look up. Koldar was
down at the sawmill, trying to find enough matched red oak to repair the
fire-damaged tables at Polank's Inn.
I'd overheard my aunt and uncle discussing
the fire, acting as if it had been totally expected, ever since young Nir
Polank had taken over from his ailing father.
"Some have to learn the hard
way."
"Some don't . . ." my aunt had
answered, but she hadn't said anything more once I had entered the house for
dinner.
On the washstones was a fresh towel, which,
after the chill of the water, I gratefully used. At least I hadn't needed to
take a shower. Standing under even partly-warmed water in the outside stone
stall wasn't exactly warm. Cleaning that stall was even less enjoyable, but
Aunt Elisabet, like my father, insisted on absolute cleanliness. We didn't eat
unless we were washed up, and more than once as a child I'd gone without dinner
for refusing to wash.
They both took a shower every day, even in
winter. So did my mother and Uncle Sardit, although my uncle occasionally
skipped the shower on the days that Aunt Elisabet was out visiting friends.
I folded the towel, and put it back on the
rack.
"Getting ready to go?"
Uncle Sardit stood in the shop door,
finishing cloth in his left hand.
"Yes, sir." I swallowed.
"Appreciate everything . . . sorry I just don't seem to have the
concentration to be a master woodworker . . ."
"Lerris . . . you stayed longer than
most . . . and you could be a journeyman for some. But it wouldn't be right . .
. would it?"
Since he was standing three steps above me,
I looked up. He didn't seem happy about my leaving.
"No . . . probably get more bored with
each day. And I don't know why."
"Because you're like your dad . . . or
your aunt. In the blood . . ."
"But . . . they seem so happy here . .
."
"Now . . ."
I couldn't seem to find anything to say.
"Be on your way, boy. Just remember,
you can always come back, once you discover who you are." He turned back
into the shop and returned to buffing the already shining wood of the desk,
without humming.
All of a sudden, there seemed to be so many
things unsaid, so many things that had been hidden. But no one was saying
anything.
It seemed so unfair. As if I couldn't
possibly understand anything until I'd gone off and risked my life in the Dark
Marches of Candar or the Empire of Hamor. Then everything would be fine . . .
just fine.
And my parents-they never came by to see
me. Only if I ; went to see them, or on High Holidays, or if they came to visit
my aunt and uncle.
Up in the apprentice quarters, no longer
mine really, I pulled on the clothes, ignoring their comfort and fit, and the
boots. Then I picked up the cloak and folded it into the pack, and strapped the
old clothes to the outside. Those I could leave at home, if it were truly home.
Besides the new clothes and the pack, the staff was the only thing that felt
right.
As I looked around the quarters, I wondered
about my armchair . . . and my tools. What about my tools? Uncle Sardit had
said something about taking care of them, but hadn't said how.
I found Uncle Sardit in the shop. He was
looking at a chest, one I hadn't seen before.
"I thought I'd store your tools in
this, Lerris, until . . . whatever . . ."
"That would be fine, Uncle Sardit . .
. and could you find some place for the armchair?"
"I was going to keep it here, but I
could take it back to your parents."
For some reason, I'd never considered the
chair as belonging where I'd grown up.
"Whatever you think best." One
way or another, I wouldn't be needing it for a while.
"We'll take good care of it ... just
take care of yourself so you can come back for it."
We stood there for a moment, with
everything and nothing to say.
Finally, I coughed. "I'm not a
woodworker, Uncle, but I learned a lot."
"Hope so, boy. Hope it helps
you."
I left him standing there, turning to rack
my tools in the chest he had made for them.
Aunt Elisabet was waiting at the kitchen
doorway with a wrapped package. Two of them.
"The bigger one has the flake rolls.
The other one has some travel food for you."
I took off the pack and put the travel food
inside, but just strapped the rolls to the top. They weren't heavy, and while
it was cloudy, the clouds were the high hazy kind that kept the temperature
down but almost never led to rain. That early in the summer the farmers would
have liked more moisture, but I was just as glad I wouldn't have to trudge to
Nylan through a downpour. I had a feeling I'd be traveling in enough wet
weather.
"And here are some for you."
On a plate she had produced from nowhere
were two enormous rolls, one filled with chicken and the other with berries
that dripped from one end.
"If you want to get home by dinner,
you'll need to start now."
"Dinner?"
"I'm sure your father will have
something special."
I did not answer, nor ask how she would
know that my father would have a special dinner, because, first, she would
know, and, second, I was wolfing down the chicken-filled flake roll. In all the
hurry to get ready for Nylan, I hadn't realized how hungry I was. When you
chose dangergeld, you obeyed the rules of the masters, including their
schedule.
After washing down the last of the first
roll with a tumbler of ice-cold water, I took the second.
"You have enough time not to eat them
whole, Lerris."
I slowed down and finished the dessert roll
in four distinct bites. Then I took another deep swallow from the tumbler.
"Do you have your staff? Your uncle
wanted you to have the best . . ."
I lifted the staff. "Seems to belong
to me already."
My aunt only smiled. "You should find
it helpful, especially if you listen to the masters and follow your feelings .
. . your true feelings."
"Well . . . time for me to go . .
."
"Take care, Lerris."
She didn't give me any special advice, and
since I wasn't exactly in the mood for it, that was probably for the best.
As I walked down the lane with its
precisely placed and leveled gray paving-stones, I felt both my aunt and uncle
were watching every step, but when I turned around to look I could see nothing,
no one in the windows or at the doors. I didn't look around the rest of Mattra,
not at the inn where Koldar was laying out the timbers from the sawmill, not at
the market square where I had sold my breadboards-one had actually fetched four
copper pennies.
And the road-the perfect stone-paved
highway-was still as hard on my booted feet as it had been on my sandaled feet
when I had first walked to Mattra.
I made it home, if Wandernaught could still
be called home, well before dinner. But Aunt Elisabet had been right. I could
smell the roast duck even before my feet touched the stone lane that was nearly
identical to the lane that led from the street to Uncle Sardit's. Mattra and
Wandernaught were not all that different. Some of the crafts were different,
and Wandernaught had two inns and the Institute where my father occasionally
discussed his philosophies with other holders or- very occasionally-masters
from elsewhere in Recluce. But nothing very interesting ever happened in
Wandernaught. At least, not that I remembered.
My parents were seated on the wide and open
porch on the east side of the house, always cool in the summer afternoons. The
stones of the steps were as gently rounded as I recalled, without either the
crisp edges of new-cut granite nor the depressions of ancient buildings like
the temple.
"Thought you'd be here about now,
Lerris." My father's voice carried, although it had no great or booming
tone.
"It's good to see you." My mother
smiled, and this time she meant it.
"Good to be here, if only for a
night." I was surprised to find I meant what I was saying.
"Let me take the pack and the
staff-Sardit's work, it looks like-and have a seat. You still like the
redberry?"
I nodded as I slipped out of the pack
straps. My father laid the pack carefully next to the low table.
"Oh, I forgot. The top package is for
you-Aunt Elisabet's flake rolls, I think."
They both laughed.
"Good thing we don't live closer, not
the way she bakes . . ."
My mother just shook her head, still
smiling.
For some reason, they both looked older. My
father's hair was no thinner, and it still looked sandy-blond, but I could see
the lines running from the corners of his eyes. His face was still smooth, with
a slight cut on his chin from shaving. Unlike most of the men in Recluce, he
had neither beard nor mustache. I could sympathize. Although I could have worn
a beard, I followed his example, not blindly, but because whenever I worked
hard I sweated buckets, and I found even a short and scraggly beard more of a
bother than shaving-cuts and all.
He was wearing a short-sleeved open-necked
shirt, and the muscles in his arms looked as strong as ever. The woodpile
behind the house was probably three times the size it needed to be. Dad always
claimed that handling an axe was not only necessary, but good exercise.
My mother's angular face seemed even more
angular, and her hair was too short. But she had always worn it too short, and
I doubted that she would ever change that. Short was convenient and took less
time. She also wore a short-sleeved faded blue blouse and winter-blue trousers,
both more feminine, but essentially mirroring what my father wore-not because
she cared, but because she didn't. Clothes were a convenience. That's why Dad
did all the tailoring-except for holiday clothes-for Mother and me.
He was funny about that. He refused to let
anyone see him work. He'd take measurements, fit partially-sewn garments, and
adjust until they fit perfectly, but not with anyone around When I was little,
I thought he must have had someone com< in. But as time went by, I realized
that he understood clothes understood too much not to have done the work.
Besides it's pretty difficult not to believe, when your father disappears into
his workrooms with cut leathers and fabrics and returns with the
products-especially when there's only one door and when you're an exceedingly
curious boy trying to find a nonexistent secret passage. There wasn't one, of
course.
While I was remembering, my mother had
poured a large tumbler full of redberry, and Dad, after setting the pack down
and recovering the flake rolls, had disappeared. To the kitchen, presumably.
"It's too bad you have to be in Nylan
tomorrow," offered my mother, as I eased into one of the strap chairs
across from her. My feet hurt, as I knew they would with the new boots, but I'd
wanted feet and boots worked together as soon as possible.
"I didn't realize it would happen so
quickly."
"Sometimes it does. Other times it
takes weeks," added my father. As usual, I had not heard him return. He
was always so silent when he moved, like a shadow.
"How many . . . will there be?"
"It depends. There could be as few as
four dangergeld candidates. Never more than a dozen. And you'll lose two before
the masters are through."
"Lose?" I didn't like the sound
of that. He shrugged. "Some people decide they'd rather accept exile than
listen to the masters. Others decide they'd like to go home."
"Can they?"
"If they can convince the masters ...
it happens every so often."
Not very often, I could tell from his tone.
"If they can't?"
"They can continue with their training
or go into exile."
I got the feeling that you didn't just go
wandering out of Recluce on any old quest without the approval of the masters.
Before I asked another question, I took
several healthy swigs from the tumbler, then ate some of the plain flake rolls
Dad had cut into bite-sized pieces. Mother had one or two, which was more than
she usually had before dinner.
"What are the masters?" I finally
asked, not that I hadn't asked the question several dozen times before of
several dozen people. Usually the answer amounted to: "The masters are the
masters, entrusted with the guardianship of the Isle of Recluce and the Domain
of Order."
This time, though, my father looked at my
mother. She looked back at him. Then they both looked at me.
"The answer isn't likely to mean what
it should . . ."
"In other words, you aren't going to
tell me?"
"No. I will tell you, as far as I am
able. But I'm not sure that you will either like or appreciate the
answer." He pulled at his chin, as he did when he was trying to find the
best words to express something unpleasant.
"Try anyway."
He ignored my comment, and, for a moment,
his eyes almost misted over, as if he were looking a world away.
I took the opportunity to drain the rest of
the redberry.
My mother refilled my tumbler, and Dad
still hadn't said a word.
Finally, he cleared his throat. ". . .
Uuuhhmmm ... you recall . . . Magister Kerwin . . . when he told you that the
masters stood between Recluce and chaos because they were the defenders of
order?"
I found my fingers tapping on the edge of
my refilled tumbler.
"Bear with me . . . this is difficult
. . ."
How difficult could it be? Everybody had a
role in life, including the masters. Either they controlled Recluce or they
didn't.
"Perhaps I should go back to the
beginning. It might be simpler . . ."
I managed to keep from grinding my teeth,
only because I somehow could tell that he was not trying to put me off. But I
still couldn't see why an explanation of who controlled what had to be so
difficult.
"... fundamental conflict between
order and chaos, or simplistically speaking, between good and evil. Though
that's not exactly correct, because chaos and order do not by themselves have a
moral component. More important, while certain components of order may be used
for evil, and certain components of chaos for good, almost never can anyone devoted
to chaos remain committed to good. Someone committed to good finds anything
other than the most minor uses of chaos repulsive. That distinction is
important, because someone committed to order itself, rather than good, can be
corrupted, while seeming orderly in all he or she does . . .
Curiosity was fighting boredom in my case,
and rapidly losing.
"No ... I can see you're bored
already, Lerris . . . that explanation is too long. Try and remember the
beginning, though."
My mother was slowly shaking her head.
Finally, she interrupted. "Think of it this way, Lerris. It takes skill to
be a potter. A potter may use his skill for producing containers. Those
containers may be used for good or evil purposes. Most are used for purposes
without much real good or evil. And most people find a truly beautiful and
orderly vase hard to use for evil things. In the same way, it is much easier to
use a chaotic or disorderly creation for evil."
That made sense, so far. "What does
that have to do with the masters?"
"That's the hard part," said my
father slowly. "And we may have to continue the discussion over dinner,
because the duck is almost ready.
"The masters are responsible for
ensuring that things in Recluce are what they seem to be, for rooting out
self-deception, and for maintaining our physical defenses against the Outer
Kingdoms."
"Physical defenses? Magister Kerwin
said that Recluce had no armies and no fleets, only the Brotherhood of the
Masters."
"As you will learn, Lerris, words can
conceal as much as they reveal." He stood. "Wash up, and we'll try
and answer the rest of this question over dinner. A good dinner shouldn't be
kept waiting."
Since I didn't know when I'd get that good
a duck feast again, I went down to the washstones to rinse the dust from my
face and the grime from my hands, and tried to figure out a better set of
questions.
The duck smelted as good as I remembered,
and I put the questions aside until I had finished my first helping, which
included another flake roll warmed in the oven, sliced and spiced sourpears,
and some tart greens. The duck was tangy, moist, and not at all oily. Dad was
one of the few cooks I knew who could manage the moistness without an oily
taste-though I'd tasted few enough foods from other cooks.
I decided to slow my headlong pursuit of
various foods and took a sip of water, cold from the deep well.
"About the masters . . . was Magister
Kerwin misleading us? Do the masters act like the armies of the Outer Kingdoms?
Isn't that a form of chaos?"
My father chuckled. "Yes, and no, to
the first. No to the second, and, if true, yes to the third, although it
probably wasn't intentional, which would mitigate the impact."
"But-"
"Kerwin let you think what you wished,
which is a form of deception, particularly to an agile mind such as
yours." He held up his left hand and took a brief sip of his wine.
I'd never liked the wine and still
preferred cold water.
Mother continued to pick at her meal.
"Some of the masters deal extensively
with the Outer Kingdoms, and counter chaos on a daily basis. We seldom see
them, but they're properly called the Brotherhood. They wear scarlet and black.
Then there are the masters, who wear black when undertaking their official
duties, and whatever they please at other times. There are others as well, whom
you will come to recognize in the days ahead.
"While each group has specific duties,
all their duties revolve about maximizing reasonable order in Recluce. You
remember the baker-Oldham?"
I nodded wearily.
"Who took him away?"
"The masters."
"What did they do with him?"
"Dumped him somewhere in the Outer
Marches, I suppose. Or killed him."
"Do you know what he did?"
I drained the rest of the water from the tumbler
before answering. "What difference does it make? The masters are powerful,
especially the hidden ones."
"Hidden ones?" asked my mother.
"The ones no one knows about. How else
would they know about people like the baker?"
"I take it you do not believe in
magic, then, Lerris?" asked my father.
"How can I believe or disbelieve? The
practice of chaos-magic is prohibited, and I've never seen anything that would
be called good magic that could not be explained by either chance or hard
work."
My mother smiled, a rather strange smile,
almost lopsided.
"What point were you trying to make?
What about the baker? Why was that important? Or was it just to show that the
masters control Recluce?" By now I was as impatient as I had been when I had
left for my apprenticeship.
"I'm not sure, Lerris, except to show
that the masters affect everything in Recluce. By the way, the baker is still
living, and doing fairly well in Hamor. That might indicate the masters are
neither cruel nor vindictive, but only protective of us."
"Then why are they so secretive?"
I was beginning to regret even getting into the argument. My parents hadn't
changed at all, still talking around things, hinting, but never saying anything
outright.
My father sighed. "I'm not sure I can
answer that."
He hadn't been able to answer that question
before I had left, either.
"Dear," added my mother,
"right now we can't tell you everything, and you want explanations that
require experience you don't have."
"That means you aren't going to
explain anything."
"Hold it. You asked about defenses. I
can answer that." My father practically glared at me.
I ignored him and speared another slice of
duck.
"The Brotherhood does act as our army,
and as a navy, too. As part of the dangergeld choice, you could choose to serve
as a border guard with the Brotherhood, assuming the masters agreed. The
masters themselves maintain a sort of watch against chaos-magic, even in its
subtler forms, such as shown in the case of the baker.
"The coasters belong to the
Brotherhood, although they fish as well as watch the offshore waters, and each
ship that flies the flag of Recluce carries a member of the Brotherhood as well
as a junior master."
"How many are there?"
"Enough," answered my father.
"Enough."
I could tell that was all I was going to
get, just from his tone, and, on my last night, it seemed stupid to refight a
battle that would only end up frustrating us all. So I had some more duck, and
slathered another slab of the dark bread with the cherry conserve.
"Any new neighbors?"
"There's a young couple building a
place on the empty lane, the one that overlooks Lerwin's orchards." My
mother was more than glad to lapse into small talk.
My father shrugged and reached for the
cherry conserve.
Maybe we were too. dissimilar. Or too much
alike.
I had a third helping of the duck, as good
as my first slices. I also enjoyed the lime tarts.
And, for the most part, that was dinner
before I went off to Nylan.
IV
SUNRISE
FOUND ME awake and washing up, not that early rising was ever a problem.
As I splashed the cold water over my face
to wash away the soap and scattered whiskers not already carried away by the
razor, I could sense someone watching-obviously my father. My mother generally
rose later than he did, although neither one would have been considered a night
dweller.
I said nothing as I toweled myself dry, and
made sure the razor was also dry and packed into my wash bag. Neither did he.
Without looking, I could tell he was
smiling, and I refused to acknowledge his presence.
"I hope you have a good journey,
Lerris. So does your mother." His voice was calm, as usual, and that
irritated me even more. Here he was, seeing me off to dangergeld and all the
dangers it entailed, as if I were headed back to Uncle Sardit's on a trivial
errand.
"So do I. But I'd settle for
survival."
"Don't ever settle for just survival,
son. Survival isn't life . . . but I didn't come down to preach. Do you want
something to eat before you leave?"
"Rather not leave on an empty
stomach," I admitted, following him to the kitchen where he had laid out
an assortment of fruits, two heavy rolls, and some cheese and sausage. The
square, perfectly-fitted red-oak table was bare except for the woven straw mats
and the food.
He nodded toward the tiled counter under
the open window, where a brown cloth bag rested. "The bag has some
additional provisions for eating along the way."
The cloth sack was already bound, but
looked as though it contained at least as much as had been set on the table.
He set down a full mug of freshly-drawn
water, knowing I preferred that to tea or wine, especially in the morning.
I ate, and he sat on one of the kitchen
stools, saying nothing, for which I was grateful. What was there to say? I was
required to undertake the dangergeld, not him, on pain of exile.
Eating what I could didn't take that long.
"Thank you." I gathered the sack
under my arm and headed down to pick up my pack and staff.
To make Nylan by midday meant moving out
without wasting more time. And what else could I say?
As I stood there on the stones, ready to
walk away from my parents, and my mother who hadn't even gotten up to say good-bye,
I wondered if this would be a final farewell, or what.
"She's awake, Lerris. But she will not
let you see her cry."
Flame! I hadn't asked that. Why not?
"Because she is your mother. You ask
us to accept you as you are. Cannot she be what she is?"
There it was again-that gulf that we never
seemed to cross.
"Whether we do cross it, Lerris . . .
that depends on you. We both wish you well, son. And we hope . . ."
I ignored the break in his voice as I
turned away. Why in hell was he upset? Why didn't he understand?
I didn't look back, nor did I wave. My
first steps were fast as I marched down the lane, but my legs let me know
quickly that I was pushing, and I eased up before my strides took me clear of
Wandernaught. I ignored the low hill and the black-columned temple upon it.
What had listening to all the talks on order done for me?
For some reason, the staff felt even
heavier in my hands than the pack did upon my back. As my thoughts seethed,
something occurred to me. My father had responded to my feelings, but had I
actually spoken them? Or did he know me that well?
I forced a shrug. Where I was going that
didn't exactly matter. Not at all.
The morning was warm, warmer than I would
have liked, and I opened my shirt almost to my belt, but the pack weight on my
back left my shirt damp. The cloak I would need in the months and years ahead,
assuming I lasted that long, was folded and rolled inside.
As early as I had left, there was no one
else on the High Road, although in the orchards to the south of Wandernaught
the growers were already among their trees, going about their business.
The High Road is just that-a solid, stone
road, wide enough for four wagons abreast. It provides the central thoroughfare
for Recluce, the one to which all major local roads can link, and all
communities are responsible for its upkeep. When I was with Uncle Sardit, I
spent a few days helping to replace and reposition several of the granite
blocks, but the stones are so solid and massive that they don't need to be
replaced often. The biggest problem is keeping the drains clear so that the
rains don't erode the roadway on which the capstones are placed. Even that
would be hard, because the entire roadbed is solidly constructed and faced with
heavy riprap.
The next town toward Nylan from
Wandernaught is Enstronn, more of a crossroads than a town, where the East-West
Highway, almost as grand as the High Road itself, crosses the High Road.
Outside Enstronn, on the west side, I
caught up with a low wagon carrying a load of early melons. The driver was
walking beside her horse, singing softly.
". . . as if I cared, as if I dared,
And the stars are ice, while the High
Road's run, and the winter reigns for
the summer's sun."
The song was unfamiliar, and I dragged my
feet a bit as I neared her. For some reason, I wished I could put away the
staff, but it was too long to carry easily while bound to my pack.
Her voice was pleasant enough, although
from behind she seemed older than me. But she heard me and stopped singing,
looking back at me from under a broad-brimmed hat trimmed with a wide band of
blue-and-white fabric.
I slowed my pace to match her steps.
Dark hair, narrow face, and she looked
about the age of Corso, mid-twenties.
"Up early. Must be important."
Her smile was nice, too.
"Dangergeld," I admitted.
"You're a bit young for that."
"Not totally my idea." I
swallowed as I answered. What right did she have to judge me?
Her eyes widened as they focused on the
staff I still held loosely in my left hand. "And the staff, that is
yours?"
"Yes." I wondered why it mattered
at all whether a black lorken staff was mine. A staff was a staff. Right now it
was a bother, though I knew I would need it once I actually left Recluce.
Her smile turned sad, somehow. "You'd
best be going, then . . . and ... if I could ask a favor . . . ?"
That stopped me. Ask me, not much more than
a youngster, for a favor?
"If it's something I can do . .
."
"So cautious . . . yes . . . it's not
much . . . I'm sure you can. Should you ever run across a red-haired man from
Enstronn-he went by the name of Leith-just tell him that Shrezsan wishes him
well."
"Shrezsan . . . ?"
"That's all. Perhaps too much."
Her voice was businesslike. "Now, best be on your way to Nylan."
"You sing nicely."
"Perhaps another time . . ." She
turned to look at the horse, flicking the reins.
Clearly dismissed, I shrugged.
"Perhaps another time, Shrezsan . .
."
She avoided meeting my eyes. So I picked up
my stride to a traveling pace and passed through Enstronn without saying a
word. That was easy enough, because no buildings may be closer to the highways
or the high roads than six hundred cubits.
I
spoke to no one else on the High Road for some time, instead turning over
thoughts in my mind and finding no answers. No one seemed to like the
dangergeld. But everyone accepted it as necessary. And no one could or would
explain why-just great windy platitudes about the necessity of order in the
continuing fight against chaos. So who was against order? Who in his right mind
wanted total chaos? And what did the dangergeld have to do with any of it?
I walked and asked questions that had no
answers. Finally, I just walked.
V
JUST
BEFORE MID-MORNING, when it became clear that I was going to be arriving in
Nylan at least close to on time, my stomach began to protest.
After passing through Enstronn, I had also
passed by Clarion, and a place called Sigil. Despite the elegantly-lettered
sign, I had never heard of Sigil, and that meant it couldn't amount to much.
Though I strained my eyes to the north of the High Road, and while I could
sense that a few houses lay in that direction, I had been able to see nothing.
Beyond Sigil the road grew less travelec,
and slightly more dusty. The sun continued to beat down on the dust and on me.
Ahead a blur appeared on the right side of
the High Road. Even before I could see it clearly, I recognized it for a
wayfaring station. A wayfaring station on the way to one of the main ports of
Recluce?
Few citizens of Recluce travel that much,
and the masters allow even fewer outside traders upon the isle. They always
seem to know when strangers land on the open south beaches or sneak through the
fjords punctuating the mountainous north coast. The mountains form a shield
against the worst of the winter storms, but they also trap the warm damp winds
from the south, which is why the highlands are so damp- almost a jungle in
places.
The traders who have leave to travel
Recluce are seldom young, and they always say little. Usually they are buyers
of art, of pottery or other crafts. Sometimes they sell the southern jewels,
the yellow diamonds and the deep green emeralds, that occur only in the far
reaches of Hamor.
I wondered once why everyone used the same
coins, before I discovered that everyone didn't. Most countries, except for the
Pantarrans, use coins similar to the Hamorians-just like we did-copper, silver,
or gold pennies. They all have different writing, but the weights are the
same-unless someone's clipped the coins. Why? Probably because almost everyone
sells to Hamor. Even the Austrans, for all their pride, use coins of the same
weight. They call them different names that no one uses-even in Austra.
With so few people traveling beyond a few
towns, I used to ask about the High Road, and why it had to be so grand. My
father just shook his head. Uncle Sardit never even answered.
As my sore feet brought me nearer to the
wayfaring station, the thought of a short break became more and more welcome.
The stations are all alike-tiled roof over
four windowless walls, a door that can be barred, and a wide covered porch with
stone benches. No furnishings inside, not even a hearth or chimney for a cook
fire. Strictly for a quick rest or a place to wait out bad weather.
After pulling off my boots, rubbing my
feet, and taking a sip of warm water from the water bottle as I sat on the back
stone bench closest to Nylan-the coolest one-I opened the provisions my father
had provided. The leftover duck was still good, and there were the last two
flake rolls, one plain and one stuffed with cherry preserves. I finished up by
eating one of the two sourpears and saved the other.
As I took the last bite of the fruit, I
could feel someone approaching. So I looked to the west. Sure enough, a man was
leading a horse and covered cart. While he looked to be a trader, I took the
precaution of pulling my boots back on, wincing at the blisters I was
developing. After that I replaced the provisions bag in my pack and tossed the
few scraps out for the birds, out beyond the road.
The staff leaned up against the bench,
where I could reach it easily, and my pack was ready to go. I just wasn't.
"Hello there," he called from the
wagon post. The man was young for a trader, younger than Uncle Sardit, but with
black ragged hair, and a close-trimmed full beard. His short-sleeved tunic was
of faded yellowish leather, as were his boots and his trousers. He had a wide
brown belt on which he wore a brace of knives. Shoulders broader than Uncle
Sardit, and muscles to match.
"Good day," I answered, politely,
standing. "Heading inland from Nylan?"
"Couldn't be from anywhere else, now
could I?" He laughed as he said it, while he tethered the horse, a dark
brown gelding. "And you?"
"From the east ..."
He finished with the animal and stepped up
the two stone steps. "Young for a myskid to be traveling, aren't
you?"
For some reason, his tone bothered me, and
I stepped back, ready to pick up the staff. "Some might say that."
"Never seen a place like Recluce.
Nobody travels."
"Not many."
"You're about as friendly as the rest,
aren't you? Don't think much of the rest of the world, I guess."
"Really don't know much about
it," I admitted.
"First one I've seen who's willing to
admit that there is a world off this overgrown island."
I didn't say much to that. What was there
to say?
"Strange place. The women won't look
at you unless you take a bath at least three times a week, and they don't talk
to you anyway, except to buy or sell. Those characters in black, they have
everyone scared, I guess. Even the empire doesn't mess with them."
"Empire?"
"Haven't you heard of Hamor? The
Empire of the East?" By now, the trader had put one foot up on the other
end of the bench.
He was just like all the other traders.
Boring. He'd seen something I had not, and that made him feel better.
"You don't like me, boy? Just like
everyone else? If you want my jewels, or you want to sell something-Tira! You
don't have anything worth selling, except maybe that staff. Good work,
there."
He reached for it, as if I weren't standing
there.
The staff was somehow in my hands, although
I didn't remember grabbing it, and I had brought it down on the back of his
extended wrist.
Crack. Hsssss.
"Another damned devil-spawn! . .
." He backed away, his unhurt hand on a knife.
I could tell he was deciding whether to
throw it, and I could feel my guts tighten. I hadn't meant to hit him, or do
whatever the staff had done.
"The masters wouldn't like it if you
did." It was a struggle to keep my words even, but I managed it.
"Devils take your masters . . ."
he gasped. But he didn't use the knife. He took another long look at me.
I brought the staff down. It felt warm to
me, as though it had been in the sun or next to the fire.
"So you're another one of them . .
." He was slowly backing away from me, although I had not moved. "I'm
nothing . . . yet."
"Damned isle . . ." He was next
to his horse.
I swung the pack onto my back and started
toward the near steps, the ones closest to Nylan.
"You can stay. You need the
rest."
He watched me, but said nothing else.
I could feel his eyes on me, and the hate,
deep as the North River in flood, and almost as wild. But I put one sore foot
in front of the other, wanting to get as far from the waystation and the trader
as possible.
Were all traders like that, underneath,
when they thought people were helpless? And why had the staff burned his wrist?
I knew woods, and some about metal, and the staff was just that-lorken and
steel . . . wood and forged metal. Almost a work of art, and that was why the
trader had wanted it, but no more than wood and steel, certainly.
I knew some staff-play, just because my
father had insisted on it as an exercise. That had been years ago, before I had
been Uncle Sardit's apprentice. I guess you don't forget some things, but even
remembered practice and fear wouldn't make a staff burn someone.
Could it be that the trader was a devil? I
couldn't believe that, much as the old legends spoke of devils that burned at
the touch of cold iron.
I shivered as I walked, despite the
sunshine, the heat, and the dust. Did all the reaction of the woman on the road
and the trader have something to do with me? Or with the staff?
But there was no magic in Recluce, and I
was certainly no magician.
I shivered again and kept walking.
VI
NYLAN
HAS ALWAYS been the Black City, just like forgotten Frven was once the White
City. It doesn't matter that Nylan has little more than a village's population,
or that it is a seaport used only by the Brotherhood. Or that it is a fortress
that has never been taken, and tested but once.
Nylan is the Black City, and it will always
be that.
From the High Road, at first it looked like
a low black cloud of road dust, then like a small hill. Only when I came within
a kay or so did I recognize its size. The walls are not high, perhaps sixty
cubits, but they stretch from one side of the peninsula to the other, with the
one gate, the one that ends the High Road. I'd seen paintings of the walls and
castles of Candar, Hamor, and Austra, but Nylan was different. The walls were
featureless. No embrasures, no crenelations. And no ditch, no bridge, no moat.
The High Road ran straight to the gate.
The other end of the High Road is at Land's
End, nearly a thousand kays eastward. Land's End is just that-where Recluce
ends. Once it was a seaport, before the currents and the winds changed the Gulf
of Murr from a sheltered haven into the most storm-tossed section of the
Eastern Ocean. Ships landed there occasionally, but not generally by choice.
The only official port was Nylan, which seemed strange to me even when Magister
Kerwin taught us that.
The walls are not the most impressive
feature of Nylan. The cliffs are. Black as the stone walls, smooth as black
ice, they drop two hundred cubits to the dark gray-blue of the waves that crash
against them.
I saw both walls and cliffs at midday, with
the sun full upon them. Even in full sunlight, they resembled shadows. I
shivered, grasping my staff, which felt warm in my hands, as if it were trying
to dispel that inner chill.
Just looking at the massive black metal
gates, the black stone, and the cliffs, I could see why they called it the
Black City. I could also see another reason to worry about what I was getting
into. Except I didn't have much choice.
The gate was open, wide open, with no one
in sight.
So I walked up the last cubits of the High
Road and into the narrow band of shadow before the gate itself, looking up at
the featureless walls.
"What's your reason for being here,
traveler?"
The voice was pleasant enough, and I looked
for the speaker, finally locating her seated on something in a walled ledge
seven or eight cubits above the road and beside the archway. Where she sat
would be covered by the gates when they closed.
She wore black-black trousers, black tunic,
black boots. A staff, dark like mine, rested by her hand. Her hair looked to be
brown in the shadow.
"Your reason for entering Nylan?"
"Dangergeld," I answered slowly.
"Your name?"
"Lerris."
"From where?"
"Raised in Wandernaught; apprenticed
in Mattra."
"Just about on schedule." Her
voice was polite, but bored. "Once you go through the gate, turn left and
go straight to the small building with the green triangle beside the door.
Don't go anywhere else."
"And if I do?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. Except
you'll waste your time, and someone else's, if they have to go find you. Anyone
who sees you will direct you back to the orientation building." Her voice
was so matter-of-fact that I felt chilled again.
"Thank you."
She did not speak, but nodded as I passed
beneath, through the archway that was another fifteen cubits overhead. The
walls were thicker than I'd thought, perhaps as thick as they were tall. Up
close, each stone looked like granite, but I had never seen black granite.
Inside the archway, the shade and the breeze from the water were both a welcome
relief.
Once back into the sunlight, I stopped at
the crossroads for a moment to take in Nylan. One road went right, toward a
squarish and massive low building. Another went left, and the largest split in
a circle around a black oak and headed due west.
The city itself was a disappointment in
some ways, fascinating at first glance in others. Trees, welcome after the
featureless plains and fields that had led up to the wall, were scattered
throughout Nylan. Some of them were apparently ancient, like the huge black oak
lying directly before me that stood taller than the wall itself. I stepped
several paces to the left and kept looking. All the ways were paved in the same
black stone as the walls, and the low buildings, none more than a single story,
were also of the same stone. The roofs were shingled with black stone, and
although the color matched the rest of the stone, the texture seemed more like
slate.
No building was closer than fifty or sixty
cubits from another, although several rambled quite extensively.
The grass was emerald-green, brilliant, in
contrast to the sun-faded grasses I had observed from the High Road and
throughout Eastern Recluce. Few people seemed out and about, and most of those
that were wore black.
Nylan stretched further westward than I had
thought, easily another five kays before reaching the tip of the peninsula where,
I presumed, existed the Brotherhood's walled and protected seaport. From what I
could see, the ground sloped gently downward toward the west, allowing me to
see that the pattern I saw close by generally continued further westward. The
trees and areas of park land made it hard to tell for certain.
Outside of all the black, it looked
pleasant enough, almost like an oasis of sorts. But the black was hard to
ignore. It wasn't depressing. It was just there.
Finally I flexed my shoulders, grasped the
staff, and walked down the black stone road. Why the woman had even bothered to
say that the building had a green triangle by the door was a wonder. The narrow
road ended at right angles to a much wider road heading westward. The only
building there was the one with the triangle. I supposed that the colored
shapes were used as some sort of identification. How else would you give
directions when all the buildings, homes, and shops were the same color and
construction? It seemed rather ; dull, almost boring. If you were as powerful
as the masters were, why build everything the same?
The black-oak door was open, and I walked
in. The door itself was well made, almost as good as anything that Uncle Sardit
had done. So was the rest of the woodwork, although I could see I would be
bored stiff if all the masters used were black oak and black stone.
"Another one . . ."
I looked up from my study of moldings to
realize that I stood in an upper foyer. At the bottom of three room-wide stone
steps sat five people, three women and two men, on two long benches.
I nodded and stepped down, realizing as I
drew closer that, with the possible exception of one of the women, a muscular
blond, I was easily the youngest, and the only one with a staff. Everyone else
had a pack by their feet.
"Lerris," I announced myself.
An older man, perhaps in his late thirties
from his looks, stood. "Sammel." He was balding and brown-haired,
with deep-set circled eyes.
"Krystal." She was black-haired,
black-eyed, white-skinned, and thin, with fine hair that spun down to her
waist.
"Wrynn." Blond, wide-eyed, with
wide shoulders and callused hands, she dismissed me instantly. '
"Dorthae." Flat-voiced,
olive-skinned, with strawberry ringlets of hair, she flashed a gold ring from
every finger.
"Myrten." Sharp-nosed, with the
eyes of a ferret, and hair like a shaggy bison, he spoke with a voice both high
and cutting.
I nodded to all five of them and came down
the steps, unslinging my pack and laying it carefully in the corner next to the
empty spot at the far left end of the left-hand bench. I stood my staff in the
corner as well.
"There is one more on the way, or so
we have been told," added Sammel in a quiet and deep voice. He reseated
himself and sat down.
I
did not sit down. My feet were sore but sitting down was boring, and besides, I
hadn't had a chance to look around.
The foyer, waiting room, whatever it was,
was maybe ten cubits wide and not quite that deep. There were three doors
besides the entry, one in the center of each wall. The benches were backed up
against the wall opposite the front doorway and the stairs, separated by a
closed door. All the doors were hung to open away from the foyer. All were
black-stained black oak, bound in black steel, and all were closed.
The walls looked to be timbered and covered
with rectangular dark oak-veneered panels, each panel edged with a finger-width
molding. The three interior walls were topped with a triangular crown molding.
The gray-plastered ceiling seemed almost bluish against all the black.
A portrait hung above each bench-a woman on
the right, a man on the left. Naturally, they both wore black. Black was
getting boring.
Nobody wanted to say anything; that was
clear. I looked at Krystal, with her dusty-blue smock and trousers. She looked
through me. But she was too thin and distracted-looking anyway.
Wrynn wouldn't look at me at all, just kept
looking at the floor. She had nice legs. Even the fringed leathers she wore
couldn't hide that.
Dorthae kept looking at Myrten, the
thin-faced man, who returned the look.
Sarnmel just sat there, sadly looking
nowhere.
And I wandered around trying to figure out
what kind of tools the woodworkers had used to carve the panels, because I still
didn't know anything about the dangergeld except that I had to do it.
What a sorry bunch.
Click, click, click.
Everyone looked up at the newcomer.
She carried a staff, too. Black as mine,
but somehow more . . . used. Her hair was flaming red, and I could tell that
her eyes were ice-blue. Dust covered a freckled face that made her look younger
than she was. She could have passed for my age but was much older, at least
five or six years.
"What a sorry bunch." Her voice
was cheerfully hard.
"Speak for yourself." I hadn't
realized I'd spoken until I heard the words.
"I am speaking for myself."
"I'm Lerris. Who are you?"
"Tamra will do." Her hard eyes
scanned the others and ended up back on me. "Aren't you a little young to
be here?"
"Aren't you a little
presumptuous?"
"Tamra . . . Lerris," interjected
Sammel, standing up. "Whoever is here is here with the acceptance of the
masters. Can we leave it at that for now?"
"Fine with me." I was ready to
throttle the red-haired bitch in her hard-heeled black boots and dark-gray
trousers and tunic. She was wearing as close to black as she could decently get
away with in Recluce, and flaunting it.
"The masters this, the masters that .
. . what difference does it make?" Her voice was disgusted, but she took
off her pack just like the rest of us as she came down the stairs. Then I
realized she only came to my shoulder but she had carried a pack fully as big
as mine, and while she was fine-featured and slender, she was not thin like
Krystal nor muscular like Wrynn. She was about the same size as Dorthae, but
she had a certain presence.
She didn't sit down either, but put her
pack at the end of the right-hand bench, next to Sammel's stuff. Then she
looked at the pictures, which outside of their somberness seemed unremarkable
to me. She ignored the quality of the woodwork and kept comparing the pictures.
Since she was ignoring me, like the whole
sorry bunch, I walked over and stood in front of the picture on the left, trying
to figure out why Tamra felt it was so interesting.
The man in the picture was in black, but
not in the official-type robes of a master, and his hair was silvered gold,
much like my father's. Even though they didn't look much alike, the more I looked
at the portrait, the more I could sense a certain likeness. I pushed that
thought away and looked for the technical details.
A shadowed bar behind his right shoulder
caught my attention next. The height and the positioning indicated that it had
to be a staff of some sort, but unlike the detail shown in the man's face, none
of the background was depicted clearly at all.
I looked around the room. Tamra was still
studying the other portrait. Wrynn and Krystal were talking in little more than
whispers. Sammel and Myrten looked at the stone flooring, and Dorthae sat on
the bench with her eyes closed.
My eyes returned to the portrait. It was
the only thing in ' the whole foyer, besides the other portrait, that had any
detail. That had to mean something-but what? I shook my head. More riddles. The
masters had more riddles than a world full of jesters, and no one wanted to ask
them anything.
For a moment I thought the man in the
picture had come alive and was looking at me, but when I concentrated on the
picture, it was as lifeless as ever. Accurate, perhaps, but lifeless.
I glanced at Tamra. She was looking at me.
She wanted to look at the picture of the
man. I could tell. I nodded and moved aside.
Not a word from her as she walked over and
stood where I had been standing. So I walked back to where she had been and
tried to concentrate on the picture of the woman in black. The portrait woman
was not blond, but brown-haired, and the artist had caught a glint in her eyes
though they were black. The only live black in that picture was that of her
eyes.
I was no artist, but it seemed to me that
the same person had painted both portraits. That would have been hard to do,
painting a series of masters, if you knew that these were the people who
controlled Recluce.
Enough was enough, and I looked away from
the painting. Wrynn and Krystal had lapsed into silence. Tamra glanced away
from me with a funny look on her face.
"Thoughts?" I asked, without
thinking.
She grinned and shook her head. Her
expression was so knowing that I immediately wanted to bash her with my
staff-except it was sitting in the corner. And besides, I had no reason. I just
knew I would have.
"Careful, Lerris," boomed a deep
voice.
I jumped. So did everyone else in the room,
even Tamra.
How he had entered unseen bothered me, but
the man's voice was bigger than he was. He had silver hair and broad shoulders,
but he did not even reach to my shoulder. For Recluce, I was only a half-head
above average, if a shade broader in the chest and shoulders.
He wore a tunic and trousers of some sort
of silvery-gray. Even his boots were silver-gray.
"No black?"
Tamra shook her head at my comment. No one
else did anything but stare.
"As you will learn, Lerris, one way or
another, black is a state of mind." He bowed to me, then to Tamra, and
finally to the others in a sweeping gesture. "I am Talryn, and I will be
your guide to Nylan and for the first few days of your stay here." He
gestured toward the doorway between the two benches, then stepped forward and
touched the wood. The doorway swung open, and I could see the light flooding
from the room. "If you will gather your possessions and follow me, we will
begin with a meal."
Talryn stepped through the doorway.
I picked up my staff and pack, then nodded
to Tamra. She inclined her head to me. I inclined mine back, but she still
waited.
Finally, I walked after Talryn, and Tamra's
light steps clicked after mine. The others shuffled along after us.
The doorway led not into another room, but
into a long corridor lit solely from a clear glass skylight. I studied the
skylight as well as I could without losing my balance while trying to keep up
with Talryn.
A series of curved glass panels had been
fitted into bent dark-oak framing for the entire length of the building.
Through the glass, I could see that the skylight was nothing more than a
continuous window into a small garden above us that filled the center of the
building.
On each side of the corridor where we
walked were massive stone supports, clearly bearing the weight of the garden.
Somehow, again, it was disappointing. The
design and engineering had been well-thought-out and the effect was quite
pleasing. But that was all it showed: good solid design and good engineering.
Talryn tapped another door, dark oak, at
the far end of the garden corridor walk, and stepped inside. We all followed
into a small room.
He waited until everyone had gathered.
"Through the door on my right, there
are facilities suitable for you gentlemen. On the left are facilities for you
gentle ladies. Please leave your packs and traveling gear in the open lockers.
They will be quite safe there, and you can reclaim everything after we
eat."
"Why different facilities?" asked
Tamra.
"Because, even in Recluce, there are
some who hold to the Legend, who feel men and women are different, Tamra."
"That's just an excuse."
"Perhaps. You may use the facilities
or not." Talryn's deep voice was noticeably cooler. He turned from her.
"Once you are washed and ready, step through the center doorway here and
we will eat. During the meal, I will attempt to provide a general introduction
to the dangergeld and what it may entail."
The way he stood before that door, almost
like a guard, made it clear that a certain amount of cleanliness was mandatory.
I didn't bother to wait, but headed toward the facilities. I was ready for both
the relief and the cleanup, in that order.
Myrten dragged in after Sammel and me, as
if he didn't like soap and water. That confirmed my opinion of him.
The masters not only had good engineering
and sanitary facilities, they had an ample supply of warm and cold running
water, and heavy gray towels. It took a fair amount of soap and water to get
the road dust off my face, hands and arms. I really could have taken a shower,
except the building facilities weren't that elaborate, for all the gray tile on
the walls and floor. But I felt better, a lot better, by the time I finished.
VII
THE
TABLE WAS filled with platters, mostly of fruit and vegetables, with a variety
of cheeses and some thin slices of meat. Two smaller platters bore a selection
of breads. I concentrated on the fruits, noting apples, sourpears, and chrysnets,
not to mention the heap of redberries. The plates were heavy gray stoneware,
serviceable and banded with a thin green border, like something that might have
been produced by one of my mother's better apprentices after a year.
Beside the plates were matching heavy mugs,
small towels in place of napkins, and spoons and forks. No knives. The
black-oak surface was polished but bare, without even rush mats under the
plates.
Talryn stood by the head of the table set
for eight, three on a side and one at each end. The space on his right was
vacant. On his left stood Dorthae. On her left was Myrten. The foot of the
table was vacant.
So was the other space on the left, as were
all the spaces on the right.
"If you would take the other end,
Lerris . . ."
Since he was a master of some sort, and
since it wasn't exactly a request, I moved over and stood at the end, waiting
for the others to arrive.
Sammel came next, his balding forehead
shiny and his remaining thin brown hair damp. The loss of road dust and grime
made him look younger. He gave Talryn an almost shy smile.
"If you would take the middle, Sammel
. . ."
Sammel did just what I had done. He nodded
and eased up to his indicated position.
As he stepped around the table, Wrynn and
Krystal appeared together, still whispering like girls after school. They
stopped as they saw Talryn looking at them.
"If you would take the place between
Myrten and Lerris, Wrynn . . . and you, Krystal, the space across from her . .
."
That left Tamra, who seemed already to be
the last one anywhere. She still hadn't appeared and would have to sit next to
Talryn. I didn't think that was coincidence, somehow.
Talryn let us stand for a little while
longer, then nodded. "Please be seated. I think we should begin."
Even before we could get the heavy wooden
chairs pulled out, Tamra appeared. Her hair was lightly curled and brighter
than when I had first seen her, as if she had washed and shaped it, but it was
as dry as if she had been sitting in the sun. She had also pulled it back from
her face with a pair of dark combs.
She still wore the gray tunic and trousers,
but a blue scarf around her neck added a touch of color. All in all, she made a
striking appearance.
Talryn nodded to the empty space at his
right.
Tamra opened her mouth, then shut it
quickly as Talryn pulled out her chair for her. Her ice-blue eyes flashed like
sun from a glacier.
Talryn moved the chair so easily that I
tried to edge mine back with one hand. It didn't move. I quickly reached down
with both hands and lifted it by its curved arms, sliding it back. Black oak,
shaped and bent into a flattened point without a crest at the height of the
chair back. The curved back was supported by four spokes twice the width used
for household chairs. A flat black cushion covered the seat.
"If you are done inspecting the chair,
Lerris, would you join us?"
"Sorry. The design ..." I sat
down and edged the chair forward to the table. Again, it took two hands.
Everyone waited, looking at Talryn.
"Go ahead. There's no blessing, no
incantations, no mysticism-just good food." He reached for the platter of
breads. "After all of you have served yourselves, I will provide the
explanation I promised."
I reached for the cheeses before me,
spearing several with ! the long wooden-handled fork, just ahead of Krystal.
She already had taken a sourpear and a chrysnet.
"Would you pass the cheeses?"
Wrynn asked. Her voice was flat.
"You done?" I asked Krystal.
"Yes." When she wasn't giggling
her voice almost sang when she talked, but it didn't sound affected.
At the other end of the table, Tamra had
piled her plate with everything in sight-sourpears, apples, cheeses, breads,
and meat.
Beside me, Krystal offered the meat
platter.
"Thank you."
She nodded, and, after removing several
slices, I took the serving plate from her and offered it to Wrynn. The blond
woman took twice what I had heaped on my plate, without looking at me-leaving
me still holding the platter.
"Wrynn . . . would you pass this to
Myrten?"
The woman still didn't look at me, but took
the platter with a sigh and thrust it in front of Myrten, almost hitting him in
the nose as he bent forward.
"Thank you." Myrten's voice was pleasant
enough, but it sounded as though he had polished each word.
Wrynn said nothing to him, either.
I lifted the mug, sipping gingerly, and
found it was some sort of juice combination-light, with a touch of sparkle.
Krystal, to my right, had produced a small
knife and dissected her sourpear into neat slices. Just as quickly, she had
eaten nearly half of the fruit. I tried not to gape, instead smearing some
redberry jam over a thick slice of bread and munching through that,
interspersing it with some of the yellow cheese.
"Where are you from?" I finally
asked Krystal.
"Oh, from Extina."
I'd never heard of Extina.
"A little village near Land's End. No
one else has ever heard of it, either." The small knife flashed, and the
chrysnet lay in quarters, the pit removed nearly effortlessly. "What about
you?"
"Wandernaught."
"Oh ... is it true what they say about
it?" She giggled, spoiling the momentary impression of a calm and dark
beauty.
"What they say about it?" I'd
never heard anything said about it.
"You know," Krystal giggled
again, "that nothing ever happens there because the Institute really runs
the Brotherhood." She popped two orangish chrysnet quarters into her
mouth, one right after the other.
"Oooofff ..." I choked on the
last part of her question. The Institute running the Brotherhood? That
collection of four buildings where people just gathered to talk to each other?
"Are you all right, Lerris?"
broke in Talryn from the other end of the table. All conversation died away for
a moment.
I nodded, managed to swallow the suddenly
very dry bread, and reached for the mug of fruit punch, ignoring the glint in
Tamra's eyes as she watched my discomfort.
Krystal, her eyes on me, brought forth the
little knife and, with deft cuts, not even looking, created four miniature
sandwiches out of a slab of white cheese, some dark bread, and one thick slab
of buffalo.
I swallowed again.
"Are you sure you're all right?"
Krystal asked, her voice concerned for the first time.
"Yes . . . just surprised. I've been
to the Institute many times, even heard my father speak there, but no one acted
as though they were running anything at all-except their mouths. It was boring
. . . very boring." I took another sip from the massive brown mug.
"You are right about one thing. Nothing ever happens in
Wandernaught." I stopped, realizing that tears were welling up in the
corners of Krystal's eyes. "Are you-did I say something?"
She shook her head, pursing her lips together.
Wrynn had stopped shoveling in her food and
was listening, as was Sammel on the other side of Krystal. Myrten pretended not
to listen as he played with a sourpear. Tamra, Talryn, and Dorthae were
discussing shipping, or ships.
Krystal swallowed.
I waited, suddenly not as hungry as I had
thought.
"It's just. . ." Krystal began,
". . . your father, to even speak there . . . and you're younger than
anyone here . . . and you have to do dangergeld . . ." She shook her head
slowly, the sandwiches left neatly on her platter.
My head seemed ready to lift off my
shoulders.
"Is your father a master?"
blurted out Wrynn.
I shrugged. "He never said so. He
never did anything that made me think so, and he never wore black. I never
thought about it. My mother is a skilled potter. People come from as far as
Austra to buy her vases and figurines. My father was always the holder . .
."
"You sound as though you are
reconsidering," observed Myrten. His voice was even more polished, as if
oil-coated.
"I don't know. He's always talked a
lot about the importance of order. I found it boring. Still do."
Krystal sniffed. "... no mercy . .
."
I didn't really expect mercy from the
Brotherhood, but what did she mean? "Mercy?" I finally asked.
"All of you," interrupted Talryn
before Krystal could reply, "I promised you an introduction and an
explanation. I will try to make both short and then answer questions. Some
questions I may not answer until later, but I will try to provide as much
information as I can."
Once again, even before they started, they
were saying they were going to hide something. I stifled a snort.
At the other end of the table, Tamra had
adopted a look of resignation. Only Sammel looked really interested in what
Talryn might have to say.
"First, the dangergeld. What is it,
and why is it necessary? And, from your point of view, why were you
selected?" Talryn took a sip from his mug.
"Stripped of all the piety, rhetoric,
and rationalization, the dangergeld is simply a quest, a series of duties, or
an exile-or some combination of all three-to enable you to discover whether you
belong in Recluce, and, if so, in what capacity. None of you have been happy in
what you have been doing. Unfocused discontent is contagious and leads to
disorder. Disorder leads to chaos, and chaos to evil.
"After this meal, you each have a
choice. You may accept dangergeld training, which can last several months,
sometimes longer, or you can accept immediate exile. If you choose training,
then depending on the results of that training you may be offered one or
several options on how to fulfill your dangergeld obligation. Again, if you
like none of the options, at that point you may choose exile.
"All exiles are transported, with
their available funds and traveling gear, to one of three outside ports,
depending on the time of year. Those are Freetown in Candar, Brysta in Nordla,
or Swartheld in Afrit, north of Hamor."
At the last two names, most of the eyebrows
around the table went up. I'd heard of Brysta and certainly wouldn't have been
pleased to land there. Nordla was cold, and Brysta was as far north as you
could get for an all-year port. Above Brysta, the winter ice sheets closed the
coast.
". . . may not bring more than you can
comfortably carry on your person. If any of you choose exile, the next
departure will be in about ten to twelve days. You will remain in Nylan,
although you may participate in any or none of the dangergeld training, as you
please.
"For those of you considering
dangergeld, training begins tomorrow. There will be classes on the details of
what the dangergeld obligation entails, on the geography and customs of most
major countries outside Recluce, on their economies and trade, on how money is handled-customs
surrounding funds do vary, by the way-and on weapons familiarization and
self-defense.
"We will also provide some additional
background on the Brotherhood, since some of you may choose, or be offered, the
option of performing your dangergeld in some capacity with the Brotherhood,
depending on your own inclinations and the progress of your training.
"As always, your participation is
voluntary-with two stipulations. First, should you choose not to participate in
any training, you will be regarded as choosing exile. Second, you may not leave
Nylan. Any attempt to do so will result in confinement until you can be
exiled."
"Voluntary?" snorted Wrynn.
"You don't play the Brotherhood's game, and you're locked up until you can
be shipped off" to Nordla or Hamor."
"You have already made a choice that
you cannot accept living in Recluce," Talryn observed mildly.
"No. You made that decision based on
your rules," countered the blond..
Talryn shrugged his broad shoulders.
"The rules, as you call them, are accepted and honored by virtually
everyone in Recluce. Do you honestly believe otherwise? That a handful of
masters and brothers who have never raised a violent hand in centuries could
override the will of our people?"
I almost laughed at that. The masters
controlled all the education. They didn't need swords. Besides, a bunch of
boring sheep would agree to any rules that would send the wolves away. But no
one raised that question, not Tamra nor Wrynn.
Krystal giggled again, and sliced her
drying sandwiches into halves, which she quickly ate. How she could eat so much
and stay so slender I couldn't imagine.
"Why do you teach us about so many
countries, and not just the area where we will be sent?" The calm voice
was Sammel's.
"You may end up seeing more of the
world than you think, and we would like you to have some idea of where you may
end up. Also, you will find Hamorians in Nordla and Candarians in Hamor.
Knowing their differing customs has proven useful to others and should help
you."
Myrten gave his head the smallest of
shakes. Tamra stifled a grin, although I couldn't see what was funny. Wrynn,
beside me, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Krystal cut a green apple
into a series of intricate slices arranged around the edge of her plate.
But no one asked another question, and
Talryn volunteered nothing more about the dangergeld itself.
"You will probably have more
questions. Anyone who does not want to undertake the dangergeld training,
please see me when we finish eating. After the meal you will be shown your
rooms, and you may spend the afternoon any way you like, including visiting the
market in the harbor, or anywhere else in Nylan.
"Breakfast will be at the first bell.
At the second bell, the first class will begin. You will be shown the class
area on your way to your rooms." Talryn stood up. "Please finish as
you like. I will be in the next room. When you are done, gather your things and
join me there."
He pushed back his chair and departed,
leaving the door behind him ajar.
Tamra raised her eyebrows, saying nothing.
"High-handed . . ." murmured
Wrynn.
Krystal began eating the apple slices she
had laid out around her plate.
Myrten pocketed two hard rolls and an
apple, and Sammel frowned, either at Talryn's departure or Myrten's theft . . .
or for some reason of his own. I took a last swallow from the mug, deciding
against another slice of cheese. Enough was enough, and I was ready to find out
what lay in store for me.
Tamra and I were the first ones on our
feet. She hadn't eaten everything on her plate, either.
As I glanced at her plate, our eyes
crossed, hers looking at my partially-eaten meal. I had to grin, and, this
time, she grinned back momentarily, although her expression hardened into a
bored look.
I held the door for her, but she nodded.
"Go ahead, Lerris. I'll hold my own doors."
"As you wish, lady."
"And I'm certainly no lady, not in the
way you meant."
"I didn't mean anything, other than
courtesy. If you don't like simple manners ..." I let go of the black wood
of the door and stepped back into the hallway toward the washrooms where my
staff and pack were stored.
"Touchy, too. You should have red
hair."
I ignored her comments, although I could
feel the flush in my face.
"Healthy circulation, if
thin-skinned."
Did the bitch needle everyone, or just
those she could bully? I wished my thoughts were as quick as hers, but trying
to match her would just make the situation worse.
The staff was where I left it, the lorken
wood a shade ' warmer to my touch. Was that because we were in Nylan? Did it
have some response of its own to magic or danger? I shook my head.
"Why the frown?" Sammel's voice
was concerned. He probably always sounded concerned. He looked like his
vocation was trying to do good whether anyone wanted it or not.
"Just thinking . . . wondering about
all the black, whether , it meant magic."
"It probably does. The Brotherhood
couldn't have shaped the harbor or the cliffs without some fantastic forces.
But they : mean well, I think."
"So did Heldry the Mad."
Sammel smiled. "The Brotherhood
doesn't hold mass executions."
I shrugged on my pack. "They settle
for dangergeld and exile. That way the deaths are on someone else's
hands."
"You are rather bitter for someone so
young."
"That's easy when you're forced on a
dangergeld for a reason you don't know by a group that enforces unspoken rules
\ in unsaid ways."
That stopped him long enough for me to step
around him and past Myrten. Tamra's back was in front of me as she passed by
the table. No one was left there. Even Krystal had left several of the
delicately-cut apple slices on her plate, where they were now turning brown.
I followed Tamra into the waiting room
beyond.
"... That's no choice." The voice
was Dorthae's, and she was facing Talryn.
Talryn smiled a smile that wasn't really a
smile, since his black eyes were hard as the stone of the paved floor
underfoot. "You can choose either. Your actions already made that choice
necessary."
"What . . . because I wouldn't stay
with a man who turned out to be an unfeeling and unthinking brute?"
"No. Because you crippled him before
you left him."
I winced. While there was a hardness to
Dorthae, I hadn't seen just how hard she was.' Yet she looked vulnerable
standing before Talryn, even though he was no taller than she was.
Dorthae turned away, her lips tight.
Myrten and Sammel had followed me. Only
Wrynn and Krystal were missing.
Dorthae glanced at me, saw my black staff
and stumbled back toward Tamra, also carrying her staff. Dorthae cringed away
from the redhead.
Tamra and I exchanged glances. She
shrugged. After a moment, so did I.
Clearly, as I had recognized from the
encounters with Shrezsan and the trader, I had some power, associated with the
staff. What it was . . . that was another question. Unfortunately, everyone
else thought I had some power, too, and they were just as clearly very wary of
it. Wonderful-heading into a dangergeld cursed with an ability I hadn't even
known I'd had, with the whole world ready to pounce on me for it. Sent for
reasons I still didn't understand and which no one would explain. Just
wonderful.
As I pondered, Krystal and Wrynn had
appeared.
"You are all here. Good," said
Talryn. "Follow me."
VIII
PRETTY
MUCH IN silence we walked up a set of wide black I stone stairs. The side walls
were of the same black stone. All the stone was smooth but unpolished, and it
seemed to absorb light with almost no reflection. Each stone was set so tightly
in place that the mortar between each was less than half a fingertip in width.
That thin line of mortar was black. So clean were the steps they bore no trace
of dust, although ; the light from the overhead skylights did not fall on the
steps directly.
Talryn and Sammel were at the front of the
group. I was at the back, just behind Wrynn and Krystal. From Krystal's , blue
leather belt, darker than her faded blue blouse and trousers, hung two sheaths,
both containing knives, one barely a span in length. She wore a small matching
blue pack.
"All this black . . . depressing . .
." muttered Wrynn, shaking her head, her blond hair fluffing out for an
instant. She ; wore a brown pack like mine, except hers was stuffed to the
bursting point and had several small bags tied to the outside.
"It smells like power," answered
Krystal, touching her hand to the long black hair she had wound up into a bun
after our rather late lunch. Then she emitted the faintest giggle. ;
If only she didn't giggle ... I shook my
head. She was nearly a decade older than I was, at least, with the hint of
lines around her eyes-almost scrawny, except for her nicely-formed breasts.
"Creepy, if you ask me," muttered
Wrynn again. Her right [ hand rested awkwardly on the haft of a long sheathed
knife.
At the top of the steps was a foyer of
sorts, windowless, . and, on the far end, a set of doors that Talryn held open.
The breeze blowing toward me held a hint of
spring, or rain-that clean smell that follows a good rain when the dust is
washed out of the air. Yet I could see that the sky was as blue and nearly
cloudless as when I had walked under the gates and into Nylan at midday.
"Gather round . . ."
So we gathered. I gave Myrten a wide berth.
Smooth voice or not, he looked like he'd steal anything available just to prove
he could. Dorthae didn't have that problem. She practically cuddled up next to
him. I stood a pace or so behind Wrynn and Krystal, facing Talryn.
"Right ahead of us are the transients'
quarters where you will be staying. Each of you will have a separate
room," explained Talryn. "You can sleep there, or with anyone else in
your group, as you please-but only with that other person's consent. Forcing
yourself on someone else is a good way to immediate exile."
"Now . . . it's that way . . ."
complained Dorthae.
Myrten sniffed. Wrynn grinned as if no one
were about to force her- a thought with which I certainly agreed, wondering
absently if, with her, / might need that protection.
I glanced around to find Tamra looking at
me. She nodded once, then transferred her attention back to Talryn, who had
continued droning on.
Had she understood what I had been thinking?
How?
". . . washrooms and showers are at
the end of the hallway. The small building on the other side of the square
garden with the fruit trees is the dining hall where your meals will be served.
You may eat there, or you may pay for meals anywhere in Nylan. The choice,
again, is yours." He grinned broadly. "But the Brotherhood's meals
are good, and the price is right."
"Only your life," said Dorthae
softly, but loudly enough to stop Talryn momentarily.
He frowned, then shook his head. "Believe
it or not, our interest is in saving your lives, not spending them." He
cleared his throat before continuing. "Your introduction to the elements
of the dangergeld will start tomorrow after breakfast in the classroom
building-that's the one with the red square by the doorway toward the harbor
from the dining hall. Now I'll show you your rooms. If you wish to trade a room
with someone else, you certainly can, provided you both agree."
Without another word, he turned and opened
the black-oak door, not even looking to see if any of us followed him. Of
course, we all did. What else could we do?
My room, like all the others, had a narrow
bed, just wide enough for one comfortably. The wooden frame was, thank-fully,
of polished red oak. A single sheet covered the mat-tress, and a dark-blue
blanket was folded across the bottom ; of the bed. No pillows, not that I had
slept with one since I ! had apprenticed with Uncle Sardit, and only a single
small oil lamp on the table. There was no closet, but a square red-oak
wardrobe, half hanging space and half open shelves.
A braided and multicolored oval rag rug
perhaps three cubits across covered most of the blue floor tiles between the
door and the bed, which was nearly against the outside stone wall. The half-open
single casement window was in the middle of the wall, just short of the foot of
the bed.
I pulled my cloak from the pack and hung it
up, as well as my single spare set of trousers and tunic. The order-locked
purse was there, with my apprentice wages, as was another I purse I did not
remember. I opened it. Inside were ten more \ gold pennies, worn, nothing more.
I swallowed.
For some reason, I had trouble seeing for a
minute, perhaps because I recalled the gold penny with the small clip out of it.
My mother had remarked on it as coming from the buyer from the Emperor of
Hamor. She refused to let me see her tears, but left me what she could. I
grasped back in the ; bag for something . . . anything.
There was also a short-sleeved summer
shirt, but I left it folded and put it on the second shelf. My leather case
with the razor and soap I put on the top shelf. The few other underclothes I
had fit in with room to spare, as did the small ; book my father had clearly
tucked into my pack.
The Basis of Order ... of all things. Who
knew? I figured reading it might be something to do. Especially if the training
got boring. I didn't leave it out in the open, but tucked it under the shirt.
The purses I put back in the pack, which I i folded and put on the top shelf.
They would be safe-that I knew. I took ten coppers and a silver penny.
None of the rooms had locks, just bolts
that could only be closed from inside. Then again, who was going to try to
steal anything with the Brotherhood around? Even Myrten would hesitate ... for
now.
I shook my head. The hour was early, and
even if it were kays down to the harbor, a good walk, and even if my feet were
blistered, I intended to try it, just to see if I could get a better idea about
what Nylan really represented. And I didn't want to sit around and think about
either the book or the extra purse.
The staff stayed in the wardrobe along with
the cloak.
With a last look at the small room, I
closed the door. Outside, the central hallway was empty, although I could hear
voices in the neighboring room-Wrynn and Krystal. Their words were low.
The pathway toward the harbor was easy
enough to find, since there were stone pedestals every hundred rods or so along
each of the paths, with names and arrows pointing out the way.
Harbor-3 kays
North way Depot-2 kays
Administration-1 kay
I kept following the arrows until I reached
a black stone wall that ran north and south from one side of the peninsula to
the other. It was low, a little over two cubits. Nor was it really a barrier,
since there were no gates at the openings where the paths went through it. On
one side were the almost park-like grounds that had stretched for more than a
kay, with scattered low buildings.
From where I stood at the top of a long set
of wide steps, I could look over the central part of Nylan-or the commercial
district, whatever it was called. Behind and over the building tops, I could
see the blue of the harbor and the tops of several masts.
Right beyond the wall, the ground fell
away, in a grassy slope that dropped a good fifteen cubits in less than a
hundred. On the other side of the downslope, the buildings began-all black
stone, roofed in black slate. Each stood separately, set back from the black
stone-paved streets and the shinier black curbs. Unlike Enstronn or Mattra or
even Wandernaught, there were no hitching posts. Despite the width of the
streets, they did not seem to be designed for horses or wagons.
People walked the streets, some carrying
packages, some carrying nothing, some in black, some in all colors of the
rainbow.
No one even looked up the hill. So I headed
down.
Halfway down, I looked back up. The wall
that had looked so low from the uphill side appeared at least fifteen cubits
high from the base of the hill. Even accounting for more stone exposed on the
downhill side, I didn't think the wall was nearly that high. But speculating on
optical illusions wouldn't tell me any more about Nylan.
Once on the streets of the harbor area,
everything felt more normal. People talked, and I could hear the babble of the
market square ahead. With all the black stone, the city should have felt
warmer, especially on a summer afternoon, but the breeze from the west was cool
enough, apparently, to keep the temperature comfortable.
A sailor, red-haired and red-bearded, gave
me a long glance as I entered the square. Half the booths, those on the north
side, seemed permanent, workmanlike and well-crafted. Those on the south side,
some of which were no more than half-tents or canvas-covered tables, seemed
shoddy by comparison. Several seemed untended.
I nodded. The outland traders and ships had
their wares on the south side.
"Young fellow-come see the amber from
Brysta!"
". . . fire-diamonds from Afrit! Here
alone! . . ."
Still, the calls from the hucksters were
muted. Perhaps thirty shoppers filled the entire square, split among nearly as
many vendors. Most of the shoppers were young, not much older than me.
Dangergelders, those doing duty with the Brotherhood, I guessed as I looked
first at the booths on the north side of the square.
The first displayed some ceramics. Good
work, but nothing to compare to my mother's. The colors were too vivid. A man
sat behind them, perched on a stool, who gave me a passing grin as if to
acknowledge I would buy nothing.
In quick order, I passed some carved and
gilded mirrors; a goldsmith's display of rings, necklaces, and pendants; a
smith's array of assorted steel tools, which seemed of high quality; leather
goods, including purses, belts, packs, and sheaths for various sizes of knives;
a bootmaker's display with several gaudy, if well-tooled, sets of boots.
At the woodworking stall, I stopped,
surveying the items on display. All were small-breadboards, book holders, and
mostly carved boxes. No furniture, except a tiny pedestal table and a two-shelf
bookcase of gray oak.
"You know wood," observed the boy
minding the display. His brown eyes almost matched his brown hair, and he wore
a tan shirt.
"Some. You do any of these?"
"Only the breadboards. My older
brother did most of the rest, except the table and the shelves."
"Your father?"
"Mother. She sells mostly on
consignment to Hamor."
The breadboards were adequate, as were the
boxes, but I had been doing better when I had left Uncle Sardit. Only the
pedestal table was clearly better than I could do.
"You think you do better work?"
asked the boy.
"It doesn't matter now," I
answered absently. Whatever I did from there on out, it wouldn't be woodwork.
I left without saying more and walked
across the square. The first cloth-draped table was the trader who had been
screeching forth about amber. A single look told me that the amber was fair at
best, and the silver settings in which most of it was encased were worse.
The trader glanced away from my scrutiny,
not even speaking.
The adjoining table was filled with uncut
fire diamonds. Even from the spread stones, I could pick out three or four
clearly superior to the others. Not bigger, just better. Displaying what I
might have called more order. But I couldn't afford them, and there wasn't much
point in bargaining over a lesser stone, not when I would need funds more than
diamonds before very long.
Several tables were vacant, their canvas
flapping in the breeze, barely held down by stones.
Further toward the corner closest to the
harbor was a tiny man sitting behind a half-dozen small and elaborately-carved
ivory figures. Those alone matched the quality of crafts displayed on the north
side of the square.
For a long time, I studied the figures.
One, that of a young man carrying a dark staff, appealed to me. Once again, I
passed on without even trying to bargain. Nor did the trader or carver try to
entreat me.
From the square I walked down toward the
four long wharves. Each gray stone structure rose out of the dark blue water of
the harbor more than five cubits, with a central paved roadway more than ten
cubits wide. At the first wharf, the one closest to the harbor mouth and
farthest from the center of the market area, was a huge twin-masted and
steel-hulled ; steamer. A thin wisp of smoke rose from the forward funnel, The
ensign I did not recognize, but, with the blue-green background and the golden
crown, I would have guessed the ship was from somewhere in Nordla.
A half-dozen loading carts, stacked with
square wooden packing cases of differing sizes, waited for the ship's crane to
transfer each into an open forward hold. What was in the crates I couldn't see.
I walked down toward the pier. Although there was a small stone booth for a
guard, the booth, spotlessly clean, was empty. Nor was there a guard around.
Click . . . click . . . My boots nearly
skidded on the smooth pavement underfoot.
Whhhsssss .. . . Ahead, steam drifted from
the small tractor linked to the loading carts, though they were long like farm
carts, each nearly ten cubits in length. The sides were of smooth-milled red
oak, held in place by steel brackets.
"Stand clear, fellow." A woman I
had not seen, wearing a set of black coveralls, waved in my direction then
gestured toward the ship.
Whhheeeepppp . . . The crane lifted two
more crates, cradled in a heavy mesh net, up off the next-to-last cart. The end
cart was already empty.
The woman walked briskly toward me.
Dark-haired, she was nearly as tall as I was, and as broad in the shoulders.
She smiled. "Must be new in Nylan. Dangergeld?"
I had to nod.
"We're loading furniture right now.
The ship is the Empress-out of Brysta, Nordla Lines. I'm Caron."
"Is this your dangergeld?" I
blurted.
She laughed. "Not exactly. I started
as a purser on the Brotherhood ships, but traveling got old. I liked dealing
with cargo and making up shipments, handling the cube and stowage
calculations-"
Whhhheeee . . .
"-Excuse me . . ." She was back
at the cart, deftly jockeying two more crates into the net, without seeming to
work up a sweat.
Whheeeeppp . . .
As the net lifted away, Caron returned.
"So that's how I ended up here. I have a small farm not too far from
Sigil, in the low hills north of the High Road. I spend my free time
there."
"But . . . don't you need help loading
all these ships . . . ?"
"There are four of us. That's enough.
We don't handle that much bulk anyway. The economics don't work, not against
forced labor or slavery."
Whheeepppp . . .
As she turned back toward the loading, I
frowned. For a glorified stevedore, Caron was unusually bright, and perfectly
willing to talk to a total stranger. Was she just another Brotherhood type,
with quick and incomplete answers? In the direct sunlight, even though it was a
shade cooler than normal for a summer day's late afternoon, I was beginning to
sweat.
After wiping my forehead with the back of
my sleeve, I looked at the steam tractor. Magister Kerwin had taught us about
steam-powered machinery, how it created too much chaos unless properly designed
and handled, and how it generated too much concentrated heat. Steamships could
handle the heat because of the conductivity of the ocean and their relative
isolation from other chaos-sources.
Whheeeepppp . . .
Another full net lifted away, and the
gregarious loadmaster, or whatever else she was, stepped back toward me.
"What do you think of Nylan?"
"Don't know what to think. I just got
here today." I pointed to the tractor. "That seems contrary to the
magisters' teaching."
Caron grinned. She looked younger-say about
Tamra's age-when she smiled. "It only seems that way. If you consider the
alternatives in order theory, the number of bodies required to lift that
cubage, it works out about even. Plus, the fact that we can operate them
without the usual catastrophes scares the hell out of the outlanders."
Whhhhhheeeeepppp . . .
Scares the hell out of the outlanders? For
all of her direct speech, the woman still didn't really explain things. I
watched as she single-handedly lifted a bulky crate into the net. Up on the
steamer, two long-haired, bearded crewmen gawked at the ease with which the
woman handled the heavy cargo.
Whhheeepppp . . .
"Anyway," she continued, not even
breathing hard, and as if she had never left, "loading them like this gets
the point across."
"What point?"
"That they'd better not mess with the
Brotherhood, or Recluce. What else?"
I shook my head.
"Think about it, young fellow. Sorry I
can't talk longer, but the crates coming up are going to take all my effort.
Good luck!"
She was back at the third cart, the fourth
and fifth carts since emptied of their crates.
Wheeepppp . . .
I was the one shaking my head as I walked
back toward the harbor wall from which the piers protruded. The wall stood
another three cubits above the pier surface, not really a defensive bulwark,
but a physical barrier that declared to the sailors on the ships that Nylan was
foreign territory.
At the end of the second pier a long
schooner was tied, flying the ensign of Hamor from the rear staff. Two armed
guards stood by the plank to the ship, half-turned to face each other. From
their posture it was clear they were not guarding the ship against Recluce, but
discouraging unplanned crew departures.
I strolled toward the third pier, slowing
as I saw that the guard booth was manned. Tied to the pier were three long and
low shapes that had to be ships, but ships like none I had ever seen.
They were totally of black steel, with no
masts, and only a low black superstructure beginning a third of the way back
from the bow. Their bows were raked and sharp, somehow sharklike. Each flew a
single ensign from the jackstaff-a solid black flag.
How I had missed them earlier I didn't
know, except I could see what looked to be heat waves surrounding each.
I shivered, even in the warm afternoon
sunlight. Yes, the Brotherhood had ways to protect Recluce.
"Young fellow, this pier is
closed." The guard in the booth wasn't that much older than I was, but he
wore what was clearly a black uniform, and I could sense, rather than see, the
sword and club.
I just shrugged and turned away, looking
down the pier again at the three strange ships. The guard watched me with a
puzzled look on his face.
Wasn't I supposed to see the ships? Had the
heat waves been a shield of some sort?
I glanced around the grassy space on the
other side of the harbor walk. A scattering of people sat on the few benches.
Down opposite the fourth pier, a meat vendor was selling sandwiches or
something to the crew of the square-rigger that was tied up.
No one even glanced at the closed third
pier. Shaking my head again, I began to walk back toward the market and toward
my quarters, with more questions and fewer answers than when I had started.
The bell was chiming as I crossed the grass
toward the dining hall, and the blisters on my feet were burning.
IX
MAGISTER
CASSIUS WAS black. I don't mean he wore black. His skin was a blue-black that
glistened in the sun or the shadow. His short curly hair was black, and his
eyes were black. Squarish, he stood more than four cubits, like a heroic
black-oak carving. The only things light about him were the whites of his eyes.
He did have a sense of humor, of sorts.
"Do
you favor suicide or murder, Lerris?" His deep voice rumbled.
"What
. . . huh?" Once again, he had caught me with my thoughts elsewhere,
wondering, this time, about how the cliffs I could see through the open window
had ever been made so black and so sheer. After all, just like old Magister
Kerwin, he was pounding on and on about the basis of order.
"I
asked you whether you favored suicide or murder?"
Krystal,
sitting cross-legged on her pillow, suppressed another giggle. She had on the
blue smock-like tunic and trousers, with sandals. And she still looked dusty,
but that was because her clothes, pressed and clean as they were, had been
washed so often the blue had faded away in spots.
Tamra
continued to look at Cassius as if he were an insect under study. Over the gray
tunic she had draped a vivid green scarf. Each day the scarf changed, but not
the clothes. Either that, or she had a bunch of gray tunics and trousers.
Sammel
looked from the Magister to me and back, then sighed.
I
wondered how I would escape this time. "Neither ..." I finally
answered. "Both are very disorderly."
From
the corner of my eye, I could see how Tamra shook her head.
Cassius
almost sighed-almost, perhaps, the most fallible gesture I had seen from the
Brotherhood. Then he continued. "We were speaking about order, a topic all
of you have been exposed to since your birth. Unfortunately, for various
reasons, such as Lerris's boredom, Tamra's equation of order with male
dominance, Sammel's compassion for those unable to accept order, Krystal's
unwillingness to concentrate, and Wrynn's contempt for weakness . . . none of
you can-accept order as the basis for a society."
I
grinned, not really caring if I had been a target with the others, as I watched
his gentle barbs bring the group alert. But I wondered why he had not said
anything about Myrten. Cassius turned and jabbed the short black wand he
carried at me. "Lerris, you find order boring. Tell us why. Stand up. You
can walk around and take as long as you want."
I eased
off the brown leather pillow and stretched, conscious that even Tamra was
looking toward me. I ignored her, or tried to. I didn't like being studied like
a bug under a magnifying glass.
"Order
is boring. Everything is the same. Every day in Reduce people get up and do the
same things. They do them as perfectly as possible for as long as possible.
Then they die. If that's not meaningless and boring, I don't know what
is."
Wrynn
nodded, as did Myrten, but Tamra's ice-blue eyes were hooded. Krystal
suppressed a musical giggle and wound her long black hair around her fingers,
letting the tips brush her feet as she watched from her cross-legged position.
I
didn't know what else to say. After all, what I'd said was obvious. So I stood
there. No one else added anything.
"Lerris, suppose, for the sake of
discussion, there is a kingdom somewhere in this universe-"
"Universe?"
"Sorry. Just imagine another world.
One where people have all the children they want, without order, without rule.
One where every generation, for no apparent reason, all the kingdoms go to war.
The young men wear their armor and carry their weapons, and one-fifth of them
die. Some kingdoms win, and some lose, but the only real result of the wars is
that the weapons become more terrible and more effective.
"More children are born; more go
hungry; and more of those who reach maturity die in the wars." Cassius
paused and looked over the group of us. "All of you think about this
imaginary world, not just Lerris."
I didn't think long. So what. So people
died. People always die.
"Lerris, did you know that five
thousand people died in Southern Hamor last year?"
I shook my head. What did five thousand
deaths in Hamor have to do with an imaginary world? What did the imaginary
world have to do with boredom? Or order?
"Do you know how they died?"
Cassius's voice rumbled.
"No." How was I supposed to know?
"They starved to death. They died
because there was no food."
Wrynn, sitting back against the black oak
that paneled the lower half of each wall, pursed her lips.
Anyone could die without food. I nodded.
"Do you know why there was no food?"
"No."
"Does anyone here know?"
"Was that the rebellion?" asked
Tamra. She seemed amused, as if she knew where Cassius was leading us.
I wondered how she knew about a rebellion
in Southern Hamor. And who cared?
"There was food in Western
Hamor," Cassius added slowly. "Enough food that the price of grain
was lower than in years."
Myrten looked puzzled.
"Yes, Myrten?" Cassius
acknowledged the ferret-faced man with the unruly hair as thick as a buffalo's
coat.
"Couldn't they have at least smuggled
some grain?"
"The Imperial Army blocked the roads.
Some grain was smuggled, a great deal, in fact, but not enough to compensate
for the fields burned by the emperor's troops."
There was a moment of silence.
"Lerris, has one person ever starved
to death in Recluce?"
"I don't know." Damned if I would
admit the point, although I wasn't sure which point I wasn't about to admit.
"So . . . you are saying that avoiding
starvation is boring? That having happy and well-fed people is boring? Would
you prefer to live in Hamor, where the lack of order leads to rebellions,
oppression, and starvation? Is death preferable to boredom?"
"Of course not." My voice was
louder than it should have been. "But you're saying that boredom is
necessary to avoid death or some kinds of evil. That's what I don't
accept."
"I never said that, Lerris. You
did."
I started to open my mouth, except Tamra
snorted. "Lerris, try thinking for once."
Krystal giggled.
I glared at her. She didn't look at me.
Wrynn did, but she was shaking her head, even as she stretched out those long
shapely legs.
No one said anything.
Magister Cassius finally sighed-a real
sigh.
"All right," I demanded,
"would someone explain to dumb Lerris?"
"You're not dumb," snapped Tamra.
"You just refuse to see."
"See what?"
"Lerris . . ." rumbled Cassius,
"order is necessary to prevent evils such as starvation and murder. Will
you grant that point?"
I nodded. "Yes."
"You find excessive order boring, you
said."
I had to nod again.
"Do you see the difference between the
first point and the second?"
I must have looked blank.
Everyone was shaking their heads.
Cassius took a deep breath. "Honest
order prevents evil. That is a truth of life, and also of magic. On this ... on
our earth that truth approaches a fact." He paused.
"All right," I admitted, still
wondering why he insisted on a difference between truth and fact.
"You call excessive order boring. That
is a personal value judgment. When you apply that boredom to order, you are the
one who says that boredom is necessary to avoid evil. Boredom is not a
component of order. It is only your reaction. Boredom is not necessary to prevent
starvation; order is. You just find that order boring."
Magister Cassius was just twisting words.
Too much order was still boring.
"You all have a problem similar to
Lerris's," continued the black man in black. "Tamra-you find order a
tool of men. Therefore, you refuse to accept our way of life totally because
order accepts the valid differences between men and women. You feel that women
can do anything, if not more, than men can."
"We can," murmured the redhead,
so low that no one seemed to hear it except me, although she was across the
room from me. My hearing seemed to be getting better, or perhaps I was more
alert. Tamra smoldered, but kept it hidden.
I slipped back down onto the brown leather
pillow. The Magister smiled faintly and turned. "Wrynn," continued
the black man implacably, with his eyes turning toward his next victim,
"you feel that strength is the answer to all problems, and that, given
enough effort, anyone can be strong. Your philosophy would leave infants and
the sick to grow-or die-as they could."
"That's not true . ." Wrynn
straightened on the pillow. Her brown-flecked green eyes turned cold.
"Then," Magister Cassius smiled,
"would you explain it for us? Feel free to stand or walk around."
I watched Tamra, as graceful as a dancer,
yet wound with a steel inside that would have dulled the sharpest blade. Her
flame-red hair framed a freckled face that almost-almost-looked friendly when
she was not speaking. She turned toward me, caught my eyes. I felt like a cold
dash of water had been thrown across the room at me, and I looked toward Wrynn.
"Everyone has an obligation to be as
strong as they can be. It isn't right for the strong to have to take care of
those who refuse to be strong." Wrynn hadn't stood from her cushion, and
her hands were clenched into fists. She looked down at the knife sheath at her
belt.
"What do you mean by 'strong'?"
asked Cassius in that low rumbling voice.
Wrynn looked at the polished black-oak
floor planks, then at Krystal, and finally in the general direction of Myrten,
who seemed to shrink further into the corner. Myrten always seemed to put
himself in a corner when he could, a corner from where he could watch
everything.
The room grew silent.
"You know what I mean. You just play
with words." Wrynn's voice was harsh.
I agreed with her assessment of Cassius, of
all the magisters and masters. All of them played with words, twisting their
meanings, hiding more than they revealed.
"Come, now," Cassius's voice soothed.
"You feel that strength is important. What kind of strength? Is a bully to
be admired? Would you despise a small woman who required aid to stop a
thief?"
"I don't admire bullies. I don't think
much of people who invite theft or attacks. And I don't like thieves."
Each word came forth filled with grit. Wrynn glared at Myrten, who for some
reason looked away.
"So you feel order should rest solely
upon strength and self-discipline?"
"I know what I feel." Wrynn
glared this time at the magis-ter.
"Fair enough." Cassius actually
chuckled before wiping the smile from his face and turning toward Krystal.
"And you, laughing lady? Why do you fail to pay much attention to order?
Or to anything?"
Krystal didn't even look up at Cassius. She
giggled and played with her long black hair.
"Krystal . . ." The booming voice
turned cold. Even I shivered.
Krystal looked at the floor planks.
"It . . . doesn't help to pay attention. Things happen anyway. Thinking
doesn't stop them." Her voice was barely above a whisper. Wrynn sniffed
loudly.
"Then you agree with Wrynn? That
violence is the only way in which evil can be stopped?"
"Sometimes." She shifted her
weight and looked at me. "What do you think, Lerris?"
I wished she hadn't made that unspoken
request, and especially that Cassius hadn't caught it. I coughed, trying to
figure out what Krystal had really meant. ". . . ummm ... at least
sometimes it seems like perfectly good people can't do anything against evil or
against accidents . . . and sometimes"-I recalled the baker-"people
seem to be punished or exiled from Recluce just because they don't meet some
unseen or unspoken standard. I guess I see that as unfair, that because they
can't understand or aren't strong enough, they get punished."
"Do you think life is basically fair?
Or that the Brotherhood has the obligation to be fair to an individual, when
that fairness could threaten the safety of all Recluce?"
"I haven't seen that happen, I haven't
seen any threat of that nature, but I have seen people who were not bad people
exiled or punished."
Cassius smiled sadly, glancing from
Krystal, who refused to look up, to Wrynn, who glared at him, and back to me.
In the corner, Myrten licked his lips.
"Is living in Recluce a right or a
privilege?" Cassius's question hung in the air like a spell.
"You're saying it's a privilege, that
we have to meet certain conditions," I snapped. "That's fine, except
no one ever explains the reasons behind the conditions. Just mind the rules;
maintain order and banish chaos; and don't ask questions that we don't want to
answer."
"I take it that you don't find the
explanations satisfactory."
"You're right. I don't, and I don't
think most of the people in this room do, either."
"So . . . the emperor has no
clothes." Cassius's voice was lower and softer.
No clothes? What emperor? What clothes?
"This . . . philosophy ... is all very
inspiring. But how does this prepare us for dangergeld?" Tamra's voice was
cutting, and she had stood up.
"Sit down, and I'll tell you. None of
you are likely to believe me. But I'll tell you."
I shrugged. So did Wrynn. Tamra glared, but
she sat back down.
Cassius waited until the murmurs died away.
"It's really quite simple. Against
perfect order, it is almost impossible for chaos-magic to prevail. Recluce is
based on maintaining that order. Some people are order-sources; some people are
chaos-generators; and some people can be either.
"Most people selected for dangergeld
are either uncontrolled order-sources, or could generate either order or chaos
without knowing it. The first step in dangergeld is to recognize that all of
you have the ability to either allow chaos a foothold in Recluce or to help
keep it from Recluce. You have to choose which, and the Brotherhood is not
about to let you make that decision unless you're being watched and checked or
unless you're outside Recluce.
"Since Recluce is not a police state,
the best option is to let you see the rest of the world, or some of it, while
you learn and decide."
Police state? That was an odd way of
putting it. Only Hamor had police. For a moment, the room was still.
"So . . . you just throw us out for
Hamor or Candar to murder, and everything stays fine with the sheep who
remain?" Wrynn's voice was tight.
"Hardly. The current Emperor of Hamor
is the grandson of a dangergelder who preferred the Southern Reaches and who
was quite successful in taking over the Province of Merowey. The head assassin
for one major power came from Sigil, not all that far from here." Cassius
shook his head. "Believe me, the rest of the world will reward many
talents. You're in the greatest danger if you believe in order and reject the
Brotherhood." His eyes flashed toward me. "That's because you become
a walking order-source in the realms of chaos and a threat to the
chaos-masters."
"You're saying that because we have
talent we have to leave Recluce until we master that talent?" asked
Sammel.
"Not until you master it. That could take
years. Until you decide within yourself your own course of action."
I almost bit my tongue. It was even worse
than I thought. If I didn't accept the Brotherhood's stiff-necked order and
rules, then I'd be thrown to the wolves, and, somehow, I didn't exactly see
myself as a chaos-master. Why couldn't an ethical person use both order and
chaos? Life consists of both.
"What about . . ."
The questions went on, but I didn't pay
much attention. Everyone was just asking the same things with different words.
So I was an uncontrolled order-source? Or worse. And no one still was
describing what that meant, except that it was dangerous to Recluce.
My stomach growled, but no one heard as
they argued with Cassius.
Krystal and I sat there in a quiet island.
She looked at the floor, and I looked at everything and saw nothing.
X
THE SUN
HUNG like a golden platter over the black stone wall that separated the
Brotherhood's enclave from the seaport- that wall that seemed so low from the
Brotherhood side, and so imposing from the market square below.
Even though it was but a few days past
midsummer, the grass remained crisp and green, the air clean, and the nights
cool-the result of the Eastern Current, according to Sammel.
I hadn't thought much about it, not until
Magistra Trehonna started in with her maps and lectures on geography, and how
the placement of mountains and currents affected weather. Then she got into how
geography determined where cities and towns were, and why places like Fenard,
the capital of Gallos, sat on the edge of the hills leading to Westhorns
because the higher elevation made the city more defensible and the two small
rivers provided power for the mills. The only interesting bit was how the
imposition of order and chaos at what she called critical nodes could change
whole weather patterns.
That partly explained why some of the
Brotherhood ships patrolled certain segments of the northern waters. But her
lectures were like everything else-a piece of knowledge here, another one
there, and a whole lot of boring repetition in the middle.
So I sat with my back against a small red
oak and watched the puffy clouds in the eastern skies begin to darken from
white into a pinkish-gray. Just because, I tried to see if I could discover the
patterns behind the clouds, trying to look beyond their surfaces.
Again, I could see the faint
heat-shadow-like images I had seen around the strange Brotherhood ships, but
the ones in the clouds were natural. How I could tell the difference, I didn't
know. But I did. After a while, my eyes began to ache. So I closed them and
began to listen.
There were other dangergeld groups around.
We met in the quarters and sometimes talked over dinner. They weren't much
different, except they looked to be in better shape, and they all seemed
distant. Friendly, understanding, but distant.
Two of them were seated on a bench on the
other side of the hedge. Their voices carried.
". . . Brysta, that's what they say .
. ."
"At least it's not Hamor . . ."
"Take Hamor over Candar . . . home of
the chaos-masters . . . Emperor of Hamor likes some order . . ."
Cassius had mentioned that Candar was the
most chaotic of the major continents. Tamra said that was because it was
closest to Recluce, and there had to be balance. Cassius frowned, but hadn't
corrected her. That meant she'd been right.
So what else was new. From Frven in Candar,
the chaos-wizards had ruled most of the world-until they'd created a new sun in
the sky and melted most of the capital's buildings and people like wax.
Although that had been generations ago, the people probably hadn't changed that
much.
"Could I join you?"
I almost jumped, opening my eyes with a
start.
The musical voice belonged to Krystal.
"Sure . . . I'm not certain I'm much company."
"That makes two of us." She
tucked her feet under her and settled down with a cubit of grass between us,
shrugging her shoulders as if to loosen her faded blue tunic. The long hair was
bound up with silvered cords. When she wasn't giggling or fiddling with her
hair I enjoyed watching her. She was as graceful as Tamra, but without the
arrogance, and behind the giggles I suspected there was more strength than
either of us knew.
Thimmmmm . . . The chime from the temple
echoed once, calling those of the Brotherhood who wished to join the evening
meditation. I wasn't about to, and I'd noticed that Magister Cassius never did
either.
Krystal did not move, but the two men on
the bench on the far side of the hedge left.
"They're probably going to give thanks
for being sent to Brysta, instead of Candar." The words popped out of my
mouth.
"Where do you think we'll be
sent?"
"Candar," I opined.
"You're usually right ... I mean,
about facts . . ." She looked down at the grass.
I straightened into a sitting position and
stopped leaning against the oak. Both tree and ground were hard. The clouds
above the eastern horizon showed gray, and the breeze from the west picked up,
ruffling my hair. A hint of trilia tickled my nose, bittersweet orange.
"What will happen to us?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. It seems
like we're a strange lot, but I suppose all dangergelders are. Myrten's a
thief, but how he lasted so long . . . Wrynn's really a soldier, probably
belongs in the border guard. Sammel's a missionary in a land that already has a
faith that doesn't place compassion above order. Tamra hates men, and half the
world is male. Dorthae ... I just don't know . . ."
"And you?"
"Me?" I shrugged again. I didn't
want to talk about me. "Like Cassius says, I'm easily bored. What about
you?"
"I think you're bored because you want
to know everything and you don't want to admit it."
Thimmmmm . . . The second chime from the
temple rang, indicating the evening meditation had begun.
"What about you?" I asked again.
"Me?" Krystal giggled just
slightly.
I frowned.
"You don't like it when I
giggle."
"No." I looked over her shoulder
and down the grassy stretch toward the small garden just before the wall.
Dorthae and Myrten were seated on opposite ends of the bench, playing some sort
of card game. That figured. Myrten would find something with odds in it
anywhere.
"I was contracted, you know. He didn't
mind the giggling too much."
"I'm sorry." I hadn't thought
about that. I was young. What if Koldar or Corso had been picked for
dangergeld? Krystal was announcing that the Brothers had pulled her away from
her husband/lover, just like that. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was a good excuse to
leave. He'll be happier. I already am."
"Just leaving?" I couldn't
imagine my mother walking away from my father.
"You look at my hair. You see my
breasts. So do all the men. Your looks are honest, at least." Her voice
was low, almost whispery, yet still musical.
"True," I admitted.
She readjusted her position on the grass.
Somehow the readjustment got her almost next to me. "Do you think about
what I feel?"
Actually, I was wondering how she would
feel to hold and touch, but that wasn't what she meant. "Not at
first."
"Oh, Lerris . . ." her voice died
off.
We sat there as the darkness drifted down
upon Nylan.
"Would you just hold me?" Her
voice was like a child's.
I did, and that was all I did. Not that I didn't
think about more, especially later that night, alone in my bed.
XI
AFTER
WE WERE well into the lectures from Talryn, Magister Cassius, and Magistra
Trehonna-the lady with the glare that even quieted me-one morning Talryn
marched us down another long but well-lit tunnel and out into a wide room,
sunken partly into the ground.
Underground or not, the overhead and upper
side windows admitted more than enough light. Unlike the teaching rooms, the
stone walls were plastered over with an almond-shaded white finish. The
flooring was the strange part, neither wood nor stone, but a greenish and
springy substance that gave slightly underfoot.
The same substance was used for flooring in
the exercise rooms where Dilton tried to force us all into a better physical
condition. I had tried, but hadn't been able to break even the slightest
fragment from it, even though I could squeeze it enough to press a thumb's
width of it up between my fingers, and the woodworking with Uncle Sardit had
left them strong. -The muscles in my legs were what suffered under Dilton,
especially from the running and stretching.
The best part of the conditioning was
watching Tamra and Krystal. I didn't really dare to do more than watch with
either one. Sometimes, as with the time on the lawn, Krystal would sit next to
me or ask for a hug, but she clearly wanted it as a brotherly gesture, or even
as a fatherly one. And that was the way it stayed, no matter what my body said.
Why? Because deep inside the lady, I could
feel, not knowing how, something that I wasn't about to tamper with. What? Like
a lot of things, I couldn't say what, only recognize its danger. Like Tamra,
like Candar. When I even saw maps of Candar, I wanted to shiver.
My musings stopped when I saw Tamra was
smiling. She still wore the dark gray, this time with a blue scarf. No one had
said a word about her clothing. Then, Talryn hadn't said a word about my
dark-brown garments either.
Against the wall opposite the door we had
entered were racks of objects, some clearly swords or knives. Half a dozen of
each were racked next to each other, and there were five large racks.
"Candidates . . ." Talryn cleared
his throat. He always cleared his throat after he got our attention. "This
is Gilberto."
Gilberto wasn't tall. I'm taller than
average, almost four cubits, but not that much taller than average. Gilberto
stood nearly a head below me-more like Tamra's size. Wearing black trousers and
black leathers over a black shirt and black boots, with his black hair and pale
white skin, he looked like an executioner.
"This is Gilberto," repeated
Talryn. "The world outside Recluce boasts an array of weapons. Gilberto
will attempt to give you some familiarity with the most common and some minimal
ability with one or two, assuming you are willing to learn."
Gilberto smiled crookedly, as if offering
an apology. The expression turned him from a colorless executioner into a
sad-faced clown.
Tamra studied him from one side. I just
smiled back at the man. He looked funny. Boring or strange as some of the
Brotherhood could be, I never doubted their abilities. Krystal pursed her
too-red lips, trying not to giggle. Wrynn scowled. Myrten licked his lips.
Dorthae looked at Talryn, then at Gilberto, without saying a word.
Gilberto acknowledged us, bending forward
at the waist. The gesture was formal. "There are weapons on the racks.
Please look them over. Pick them up. Handle them -touch at least one of each
kind. Whichever one of them feels most comfortable to you, please take that one
and sit down on one of the pillows at the end of the room."
The weapons-master's eyes turned cold.
"Do not pick a weapon with your head. Do not pick whatever seems the
easiest, or the most destructive. The weapons you use must reflect you."
He paused. "Later, I will teach you about other weapons." He bowed
again and gestured toward the racks.
Gilberto was serious. I knew that. So I
edged toward the nearest rack, on which I could see swords-long ones, short
ones, and some no bigger than long daggers. I looked at a narrow-bladed sword
with a business-like handle, finally nerved myself to pick it up-and damned
near dropped it. The chill and almost forbidding feel of the weapon nauseated
me. As quickly as possible I set it down, wiping my forehead.
"Heee . . ."
Krystal and her damned giggles. "Go
ahead. You pick one up."
She twisted her hair back over her shoulder
and reached past me for the sword, easily holding it, turning it in her hands.
"It feels fine, but not quite right." She set it down and reached for
a slighter, shorter sword, although it had the same narrow blade.
I reached for the sword she had tried, the
one I had let go of so quickly. The jolt and chill weren't quite as strong, but
my stomach still twisted.
Looking for. Talryn, I wondered what
trickery he and Gilberto were up to. But Talryn had disappeared so silently no
one noticed his departure, and Gilberto stood at the end of one of the racks, a
thoroughly impassive, even bored, look on his face.
Tamra came up beside me, grinning, and
reached for the sword that I had tried twice. Her mouth opened as her hand
grasped the hilt. Then she tightened her lips, finally setting the sword down.
"Not for me." A faint sheen of perspiration had popped out on her
forehead.
I repressed a smile and walked down the
first rack, looking at the daggers, many of which were finely crafted, even
while displaying workmanlike effectiveness. Even running my hands over their
hilts told me that the daggers were equally repugnant. I had handled knives
before, and I had never felt so repelled. Clearly a spell had been placed on
the weapons. But why?
From the corner of my eye, I could see that
Tamra was as vexed as I, and her grin had long since disappeared.
The spears were only mildly uncomfortable.
Next to them were a row of halberds, their axe-blades polished, glittering. But
when I lowered my hand to one of the heavy brass halberds, I thought my stomach
would empty on the spot.
Clunk. I pulled away so suddenly that one
of the lower and shorter halberds rolled out of its resting place and struck
the floor.
Even Gilberto turned toward me, his
eyebrows raised.
Despite the look, I left the halberd on the
floor. Damned if I was about to risk disgracing myself on the spot by losing
what remained of my breakfast.
I waved him off, moving from the edged
weapons toward the pistols. I'd never seen one up close, but Magister Kerwin
had mentioned them in history, noting their limited effectiveness in warfare
because of their unreliability at any distance and the problems created by
their complexity, especially their susceptibility to chaos-magic.
I didn't even have to touch them. They were
just as unfriendly, although I watched Myrten fondling one almost lovingly. So
I admired their carved handles and blued steel and barely let my fingers pass
over them, walking down that weapons rack toward the next.
On the next were various clubs. I tried
several, relieved that I could at least pick them up. Not one felt comfortable,
but my stomach didn't do flip-flops, either. The metal ones, like the mace and
the morningstar, screamed at me to leave well enough alone. After the
experience with the halberd, Gilberto's instructions or not, I left them alone.
Next to the clubs were some coiled ropes.
They felt all right, only faintly repugnant-but what could you do with a rope?
How was it even a weapon? Then there were some sort of polished handles
connected by heavy cords. Same thing there-I could handle them, but couldn't
imagine how they worked.
Finally, I came to the staves.
Surprisingly, there were two dark ones, of a polished dark brown wood-darkened
white oak, rather than black oak or black lorken, like my staff. Also unlike my
own staff, which Talryn had suggested most strongly that I leave in my room
during instruction periods, none of the staves were bound in metal, although
their finish was almost as fine as that which Uncle Sardit had imparted to my
staff. One staff, which I took, nearly matched my own in length. The other was
somewhat shorter. Both were the first weapons, if a staff were a weapon, that
hadn't made me uncomfortable.
With the longer staff in hand, I looked at
the remaining section of the last rack, which contained truncheons. One, more
like a short staff, although it was pitch-black, beckoned almost as much as the
full-length staff. I held it for a while, then returned it.
Tamra walked toward the staves. Her feet
dragged, as if she wanted no part of them. Her lips were pressed tightly I
together, and she carried no weapon.
Beyond her, I could see Krystal standing by
a brown leather sitting pillow, almost fondling the deadly sword. Myrten sat,
examining the pistol which he had taken from the racks.
Sammel carried a pair of matched
truncheons, and Wrynn was still poking around the blades.
My eyes shifted back to Tamra. Her forehead
glistened with a layer of perspiration as she picked up a steel mace with iron
spikes. The mace head was nearly the size of hers. Her lips tightened until I
could see the whiteness in them even from five cubits away. Slowly, she set the
mace back in the rack.
I had to admire her strength, even if she
were far more stubborn than I. But why did she put herself through that kind of
torture? It was torture; that was certain. Her hands were almost shaking by the
time she finally reached the staves.
"Think it's amusing, do you?"
Tamra's voice was like molten lead.
I shook my head. She didn't have to prove
anything to me, and she certainly didn't owe any sort of proof to the
Brotherhood.
She looked right through me as she picked
up the other dark staff. The tension in her body eased, but the frown remained,
like a line chiseled above the ice-blue eyes. Unlike some redheads, or Dorthae,
Tamra didn't darken her eyebrows, and she seemed to scorn any kind of adornment
except the colored scarves she wore.
"Tamra . . . Lerris ... are you
finished admiring your weapons?" Gilberto's voice was dry.
"Admiring is not the word I would have
chosen," observed Tamra, her voice cold enough now to chill warm fruit
juice-instantly.
Gilberto ignored her comments, stood there
waiting, holding a short black baton in his hand, the length of a truncheon, as
I scrambled to a pillow next to Krystal.
Tamra sauntered toward a pillow at the other side of the group, each
step slow and deliberate. Gilberto waited. I would have clobbered her . . .
with something. He just gave a slow and lazy smile, and I shivered.
Tamra smiled back sweetly.
Krystal giggled.
Gilberto turned to the group even before
Tamra seated herself. "The weapons you have in your hands are the weapons
most suited to your temperament." Gilberto's voice was dry. "That
does not mean they are the best weapons for your defense-right now. If you
choose to learn them, they will become the best weapons for your defense."
The weapons-master surveyed the group, as if asking for questions.
"You keep talking about defense,"
asked Tamra. "Is your purpose only to teach us self-defense?"
Gilberto hesitated, glancing toward the
open doorway to the tunnel through which we had entered, as if looking for
Talryn. Finally, he answered. "Anything used as a defense can be a weapon.
Violence is not the way of Recluce, or of the Brotherhood. You may use what we
are able to teach you in any way you wish." He smiled faintly. "Those
who find more joy in using weapons than in avoiding their use will appreciate
Hamor or Candar."
Once again, one of the Brothers really
hadn't answered the question. I was finding the lack of direct answers
tiresome. I might conceivably be a child, but certainly none of the others
were. Yet Gilberto treated all of us as if we couldn't be trusted to understand
a complete answer.
"What do you mean by that?"
snapped Dorthae. "You're not talking to children."
Gilberto shrugged, lifting his shoulders
with an exaggerated care. "Very few people in Recluce enjoy weapons. The
opposite is true in Hamor and Candar. If you enjoy using weapons for more than
exercise, you probably belong in Candar or Hamor."
Krystal giggled . . . again. Her hair was
up, this time in golden cords, and instead of playing with it, her fingers ran
along the sword blade. For some reason, I remembered how surgically she used a
knife at meals.
Wrynn frowned. She carried a brace of
throwing knives.
Gilberto paused while he looked us over
again. "Here . . . you will get exercise, and you will learn weapons,
beginning with the ones you have picked out. Not those exact ones, but the same
type."
"Why not these?" asked Myrten,
grasping his pistol tightly.
"They're enchanted to seek affinities
. . . which reduces their effectiveness. Now, please put them back where you
found them, and I'll take you to the student armory, where you will be issued a
set of weapons based around the one you chose."
The whole business seemed odd. Why have us
choose weapons at all? Certainly the Brotherhood could have told who was suited
for what weapons. Why did they bother? And what was the basis for deciding who
was "suited" for what?
"What is the basis for these
'affinities'?" I asked, as Gilberto started to turn toward the other
doorway-the one across from where we had entered.
"Your underlying character is the most
important thing. If you have training with a weapon that is not suited to your
character, that can confuse the issue, but Talryn indicated that was not the
case for any of you."
"How would he know?" asked Wrynn.
Gilberto shrugged. "I just teach
weapons. The masters know what they know."
He wasn't telling all he knew, but what
else was new? That didn't exactly surprise me. Gilberto walked toward the
doorway, then turned to wait for us to put back the charmed weapons.
I got up to return the staff. I liked mine
better.
Tamra didn't look at anyone as she walked
across the springy greenish floor toward the racks. Krystal took a long time to
let go of the sword.
Staying more than a respectful distance
behind Tamra, I followed.
The practice weapons were scarred, but sound.
The cutting weapons had rounded edges, from what I could see, since I received
a club, a truncheon, and a staff. As far as I could tell, only Tamra, Sammel
and I received no edged weapons at all.
XII
GILBERTO
HAD BEEN right about one thing. Training with the weapons was hard, and not
just physically. Who ever would have thought about the proper ways to hold a
truncheon? The staff ... I guess I saw that as more like a sword or an
unpointed spear . . . anything that long clearly required technique.
Almost all of what I learned was new, and
with all the repetition in the lectures, the weapons classes were usually the
most interesting.
"Lerris, used properly, that truncheon
is a far more effective weapon than a knife. Used properly . . . you're holding
it like . . ." Gilberto broke off and shrugged. "I cannot even make a
comparison."
Most training sessions were like that.
Initially, nothing I did was right. The same was true of almost everyone-except
Tamra and Krystal. Gilberto said almost nothing to Tamra, except occasional
suggestions. Krystal he paid more attention to, but not much. As far as any
kind of blade went, she picked up what he had in mind immediately.
Me ... it was like I had two left thumbs.
"Lerris, stop fighting yourself . . .
just relax."
How many times I heard those words, I don't
recall; but hear them I did, time after time.
Once we had some basic idea of what we were
doing, Gilberto began pairing us off-first against him, or one of his
apprentices; then, occasionally, against each other.
Eventually I found myself facing Tamra, not
exactly in the field I had wanted.
We stood on opposite sides of a white
practice circle on the spongy green flooring. Outside, the late summer sky was
overcast, which was the exception rather than the rule, and the light filtering
through the long and high wall windows was grayish.
Tamra smiled. Her face lit up when she
smiled, but it was not a pleasant light at all. "Rules, Magister
Gilberto?" The fingers of her heavy padded gloves tightened on the hard
wood of the practice staff-the center part that was unpadded. Not that the
padding on the ends was all that heavy. Her eyes were on me, as if she were
studying some insect or a painting on a wall.
A wisp of her flame-red hair peeked from
under the leather and wood of the padded practice helmet.
"Tamra . . ." began Gilberto.
Then he shook his head. "No blows to face, knees, elbows or groin."
"I can live with that," announced
the redhead. I thought I could, also, but I didn't like the look in Tamra's
eyes, or the instinctive ease with which she took her balanced stance. Then,
again, I overtopped her by nearly a head and probably had twice her physical
strength. And I hadn't done that badly against Demorsal, one of Gilberto's
apprentices, over the past days.
Besides, Tamra deserved anything I could
land on her, the arrogant bitch. Always so damned superior, as if she didn't
really belong with mere dangergeld trainees.
"Two to one she takes him . . ."
Myrten's raspy whisper annoyed me more than the bet. He laid odds on
everything. I couldn't see as well as I would have liked. The helmet restricted
my peripheral vision, but I felt as though Myrten had rasped his bet at Sammel.
Sammel shook his head.
"Start when I tell you. And stop at
the bell. Do you understand? Ready?" Gilberto stepped out of the circle,
then glanced at Tamra. "Tamra?"
She nodded.
"Lerris?"
"Yes." I nodded without taking my
eyes off Tamra. I didn't see why everyone thought a match between Tamra and me
was such a big deal. She clearly had more experience, but I was stronger, and
almost as quick.
Myrten probably bet on her because I'd
trounced him in the last round. At least I was halfway decent at something.
"Go!"
Tamra circled to my right. I pivoted.
Thwack. I barely managed to throw my staff
up to block her first thrust.
Thwack . . . thwack . . . thwack . . .
I danced back, still on the defensive.
Thwack . . . thwack . . . thwunk . . .
". . . oooofff . . ." Her last
blow crashed into my lower-right ribs. Her staff moved like lightning bolts,
flashing this way, forking back, always probing.
Thwack . . . thwunk . . .
Another blow ... to my ribs on the left.
Thwack . . .
Fwooopp . . . My staff slipped past hers
and bounced off her upper leg.
THWUNK . . .
I could feel the floor rising at me, but
there wasn't anything I could do about the momentary blackness and the stars
that greeted me.
"... poor bastard . . ."
". . . sufficient, I trust, Magister
Gilberto?"
I squinted and sat up, trying to still the
swirling inside my brain.
"Sufficient, Tamra." Gilberto's
voice was dry. "Are you all right, Lerris?"
My head felt like a log flayed out of its
bark. My ribs were an unbroken ache, and Tamra was almost openly smirking.
"Fine. Just fine." Standing up required most of my remaining
strength.
"Why don't you take a hot
shower?" suggested the weapons-master.
I didn't even argue. Most of the time,
whether the water was lukewarm or warm didn't seem to matter. The idea of hot
water, another luxury enjoyed by the Brotherhood in Ny-lan, never seemed more
welcome.
"Krystal . . . Wrynn . . . long knives
. . . use the wooden ones."
My feet found their way, somehow, to the
lockers where I stripped off the padding and the loose exercise clothing that
I'd been supplied.
"She was a little hard on you."
Demersal was leaning against the wall.
". . . Ummmmm . . ." The tunic
was halfway over my head.
"But that's because you're fighting
yourself, and you don't even want to admit it."
"Not you, too?" I pulled off the
tunic. "Just what the hell do you mean? Everyone keeps telling me not to
fight myself."
"I shouldn't tell you . . . Talryn
says that we all have to discover ourselves."
"Talryn be damned," I muttered,
sitting on the bench and pulling off the soft exercise pants. I was going to be
sore-really sore, shower or no shower. "At least, tell me how to keep from
getting killed the next time."
Demersal grinned. His black eyes twinkled.
"I just did." He wasn't much taller than Tamra, but she never seemed
to lay a staff on him. Neither did I, but he didn't hit me except lightly.
"I'm stupid. Tell me in another
way."
"You got decked when you tried to
attack. Every time. Why?"
I shook my head. I wished I hadn't, and put
it between my hands to keep it from coming off.
"I'll ask it another way. Why did
Tamra hit you the hardest when you attacked? Why don't I hit you hard when we
spar? You leave openings, you know, especially when you try to attack."
"I don't know," I groaned.
Questions I didn't need, not when my head was pounding.
"Because I have the same problem. I
can't attack."
About that time I finally realized what he
was saying. Finally. "Is that why I wasn't allowed edged weapons?"
Demorsal looked around the lockers. "You believe in order. You have to.
Use of weapons conflicts with order. For you to make an attack, you have to
fight yourself first, then your opponent. You can't help getting clobbered that
way."
I looked at him. "Tamra uses a staff,
and she clobbered me."
"She's a little crazy, but think about
it ... she hit you hardest when you attacked . . . and I've probably said too
much. Hope you feel better." The senior apprentice turned as I stood up to
head for the showers.
The pieces fit, but I didn't like it. Then
again, I didn't have to like it. If I wanted to survive, I just had to adapt to
my own limitations. But I didn't have to like it. I certainly didn't.
XIII
WHEN I
HAD free time, usually in the afternoon of our rest days-every eighth day of
the Temple calendar-I still walked down to the harbor area in Nylan, checking
the scattered ships from across the oceans, seeing how many countries traded
with Recluce and how.
Were they using steel-hulled steamers, or
wooden-framed square-riggers? I never saw anything resembling a galley,
although Magister Cassius indicated some coastal states to the far southwest of
Candar, the ones around the smaller Western Ocean, operated slave galleys for
coastal defense forces.
I always looked for the telltale sign of
concealing screens and for the black ships of the Brotherhood that no one ever
talked about. I didn't talk about them either, since I wasn't about to admit I
had seen them unless someone else already said something. None of our
dangergeld instructors did.
It was the same old story. If I asked about
something and they didn't want to talk about it, the answers were always
platitudes or so vague that I already knew most of what they said.
Still, I kept visiting the harbor-usually
alone-with some of my dangergeld funds, just in case I found something useful.
I hadn't, but that didn't mean I wouldn't.
Once Krystal and I went together, on a
sunny and cloudless afternoon. A brisk wind was blowing in from the west, so
stiff it tugged at our tunics and hair. Krystal had bound her hair up, with the
silver cords this time.
Crackkk . . . thrappp . . . crackk . . .
The canvas on the outside trading tables cracked almost like trees breaking in
a storm as we walked through the center of the market square. Less than half
the booths on the Recluce side of the square were occupied, and but a handful
on the outland side. A man in pale green browsed at the woodworker's stall, and
the same youngster sat on the stool. I grinned, but he continued to watch the
customer.
Just a handful of people, mostly
dangergelders or members of the Brotherhood, wandered around the square.
"There's a weapons table."
"You want to see what's there?" I
asked. "It won't be as good as what you have."
Without stopping, Krystal looked sideways
at me, raising a dark eyebrow on a face more tanned than when she had arrived
in Nylan. Her natural pace nearly matched mine, despite the difference in our
height. "What I have? I have nothing except a belt knife and a small
cutting knife. You expect me to step out in Hamor or Candar with those
alone?"
"Sorry."
Krystal stopped in front of the table.
On light-blue felt were laid out a number
of blades. A thin man with a waxed mustache, ropy arms, and a gray leather vest
sat on a stool opposite us. His expressionless black eyes met mine.
I looked through him. After all, 'I wasn't
shopping for blades.
Crackkk . . . The canvas of an empty table
snapped in the wind, and the sting of salt air brushed my face.
The proprietor transferred his unspoken
demand to Krystal, who had lifted one of the thinner blades, the plainest one
on the table. Even to me, it was the best. Not that I really wanted to even
touch it.
"You like that one?" His deep
voice was flat, almost expressionless, like his eyes.
She set the blade back on the felt. "I
prefer this style . . . to . . ." she gestured at a scimitar with a
swirled and gilded hilt and guard. "Do you have any others like it?"
In the hands of the dark-skinned trader
appeared two other blades. Around one glimmered scabrous blood-red
force-swirls. Just looking at that unpatterned display turned my guts.
Krystal reached for it.
"No! Not that one." I spoke
before realizing it. But I didn't want her even to touch the blade, not with
the real hint of evil embodied in the chaos. For the first time I saw, really
saw, a clear distinction between honest chaos and true evil.
Crackkk . . . The flapping canvas
punctuated the moment.
Krystal frowned, but her hand stopped short
of the hilt.
"It is said to be cursed,"
admitted the trader. His voice was still flat.
My eyes focused on him, as they had on the
blade, but discerned nothing, not that I would have known what to look for.
"Try the other one ..." I
suggested.
"You're telling me about swords?"
Krystal's voice was anything but musical, almost waspish.
I shrugged. "The pattern's . . ."
How could I tell her what I saw? How can you say that a pattern of force-swirls
that no one else sees says that the sword will lead its wielder from chaos into
depravity ... or worse? How can you describe a set of unseen forces that are so
chaotic that their only coherence is opposition to order? I had to shrug again.
"Please . . . Krystal . . . just trust me."
An odd look, one I couldn't identify,
passed across her face and was gone.
The trader looked at me. "You are an
apprentice master, then?"
His flat voice bothered me. Something was
missing, although I couldn't say what. "I am what I am," was my
answer-conceding nothing, admitting nothing.
He inclined his head slightly, but waited
for Krystal.
"Lerris . . . what about the other blade?"
This time she made no movement toward the sword.
The second blade, slightly smaller, showed
no force-swirls, only the honesty of forged metal.
"It's an honest blade, not turned to
any use."
Krystal took it gingerly, then examined it
in more detail, studying the metal in the sunlight. She did all the things with
blades that people who like them do to discover whether they might be right for
them, like flexing them and waving them around, and balancing them to determine
whether they are hilt-heavy or blade-heavy.
She liked it, that I could tell.
So I studied the trader. Assuming most
people had a soul, or that inner spark that passes for it, he didn't. There was
no life beyond the physical, and I tried not to shiver.
That didn't make his wares either good or
bad, but it meant looking them over most carefully, and I wasn't sure I was the
one to do that. But the blade seemed all right.
Krystal set the sword on the felt, slowly.
"How much?" I asked.
"Ten gold pennies."
Krystal looked at the blade. "It's
good, but you could buy a Recluce ordered blade and a scabbard for that."
"It's not ordered."
I understood immediately. "That's an
advantage in Candar, but not for us." I shrugged, and started to turn.
"Eight ..."
"It doesn't matter," Krystal said
quietly.
"Six . . ."
The west wind picked up, swirling my short
hair.
Cracckkk . . . crackkkk . . .
"Five and a silver," suggested
the trader.
"Four and two silvers," I
countered.
"Done, apprentice." His voice was
still flat.
"Lerris . . ."
I ignored Krystal, knowing she could not
pay for the blade; but she had not had anyone to help her, and I did not think
my mother would have minded.
"But ..."
The trader placed the sword in a cheap
scabbard.
I dug out the price in coins, marveling
that I had even thought to bring enough.
Crackkk . . .
The trader's eyes kept darting toward me.
He took the coins as if he wanted us to leave, without a nod, and I gave the
sword and scabbard to Krystal.
"Lerris . . ." She tried to push
it back at me.
I pulled my hands away, gambling that she
wouldn't want to drop the blade. "Let's go. We can talk on the way."
As we started toward the harbor wall, the
trader began to pack his wares, hurriedly, but I ignored him, looking at
Krystal. I wondered how he had gotten the devil-blade into the square, but that
wasn't my real concern at the moment.
"It's yours."
"I can't take it."
"It's yours," I repeated,
"You need a blade, and you need it before you end up in Candar or
Hamor."
"I can't . . ."
"Krystal . . . you need it. I know you
need it, and you know that. Call it a favor. Call it a loan. Call it anything
you want."
She stopped. We were opposite the fourth pier,
the one closest to the market square, and only a small sloop without an ensign
was tied up. "We need to talk."
"How about here?" I pulled myself
up on the black stone wall. As I scrambled around, I scanned the harbor.
Besides the sloop and an old sailing ship with a combination of masts I
couldn't identify, the harbor was empty. Not even a sign of a Brotherhood ship.
She set the scabbard and blade on the flat
stones and vaulted up next to me. We sat with our backs to the water, facing a
two-story building of black oak and black stone. The sign over the locked
double doors read, in three languages it seemed, "Supplies." The
first line, in black, was Temple Script. The second was in green, which
suggested Nordla, and the third was in purple, edged with gold.
It was funny, when you thought about it,
that Candar and Recluce shared the old Temple Tongue, although there were
people in all cities who did, since it was the main trade language, while
Nordla and Hamor had totally separate languages. I would have expected Candar
to have its own language.
I suppose that was why Magistra Trehonna
insisted we learn a little of Nordlan and Hamorian.
"Lerris." Krystal's voice was
insistent, breaking my reverie, overriding the lap, lap, lap of the waves
against the stone seawall.
I shifted on the hard stone, turning toward
her, but letting my feet dangle. She was already cross-legged.
"You didn't have to do that. It's not
as though ... I mean, I see how you look at Tamra . . ."
"Tamra . . . what does she have to do
with anything? She's an arrogant bitch."
Krystal smiled faintly, but she didn't
giggle. She just waited, and the water lapped against the stones, and the wind
gusted through my hair and pulled strands of hers from the silver-cords,
softening her straight strong features in the afternoon light.
The sun felt warm on my back, not
unpleasantly so, and I waited to see if she had anything else to say. It was
simple. She needed a sword, and I could help. I couldn't help the world, and I
wouldn't help people who didn't make an effort. I guess I agreed at least
partly with Wrynn.
"Lerris?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
I shrugged. "Because you don't ask.
Because I like you. Because you take me for what I am. Because you don't hide
behind half-truths and platitudes. Lots of reasons, I guess."
She shook her head. "What do you think
will happen to me?"
"I don't know."
Krystal looked down at the rectangular
stones, black granite, that paved the road to the piers. The seawall where we
sat was made of the same stone. "I don't think I'm meant to stay in
Recluce ..."
I felt the same way about Krystal, but
couldn't say why. So I didn't. I'd seen her lose herself in fencing with
Gilberto. Already, he was hard-pressed by Krystal-and he had the experience.
"What will you do?"
She didn't answer me. Instead, we sat there
quietly.
"It's mine! Mine!"
From around the corner where the supply
store faced the pier dashed two youngsters-a boy and a girl. The girl was
running lightly ahead of an older or bigger boy, waving something in her hand.
"You give that back . . ."
The girl stopped at the dark wooden bench
before the closed exchange. I wondered how you obtained currency or drafts or
whatever traders needed that way on rest days.
"All right. Here's your stinky model.
Let's go out on the pier."
"You go. I'm going home." The
dark-haired boy tucked the model into his near-empty pack.
"Oh, come on." The redhead smiled
at him.
"I'm going home."
"Just for a moment?"
"Oh ... all right. But there's nothing
there but that little ship."
"So?"
The two walked past where we sat with only
a passing glance, the girl almost skipping above the stones, the stocky boy
plodding after her.
"There we go . . ." I didn't know
why I said those words, but that was the way I felt.
Krystal glanced over at me. She shook her
head slowly.
I shrugged. That was the way I felt.
"We ought to be going."
And we did, but neither of us exactly
danced back to the dining hall and the chimes that announced the evening meal.
XIV
AS THE
SUMMER drew to a close, some things improved.
As far as weapons practice went, Demorsal
had been right. So long as I concentrated just on defense with the staff,
nothing happened and I got better-so much better that even Gilberto couldn't
break through. Then he taught me how to use the staff against blades, and that
was interesting. Why a swordsman would ever want to take on someone trained
with a long staff was beyond me, but Gilberto assured me that some would. So I
listened. Even there, I could barely make one move toward him.
I was almost disappointed that he didn't
pair me against Tamra, but he just grunted and said, "You're as good as
you'll ever need to be with the staff and truncheons. Now you need to learn
about blades."
That was worse than the staff had been.
Every inch of my body seemed to have welts from the wooden blades. I must have
used more hot water in two eight-days than in my whole life.
This time I improved faster, though,
because I decided my whole use of any blade was to weave an impenetrable
defense. I'd never hold out against a really skilled blade-master, but the idea
was to learn enough to defend against the common ruffian types.
Gilberto insisted I learn attacks.
I was terrible. "Why bother?"
He insisted. "There are times when an
attack is a defense, and your body will recognize those times. You need to
learn these automatically."
Occasionally, as a respite, he let me spar
with the staff against Krystal and Myrten and Dorthae. That was more for their
benefit, in case they were faced with a staff, but it was still interesting.
Only Krystal ever came close to touching me. Of course, I couldn't attack much,
but occasionally I found I could tap them lightly in embarrassing places.
Krystal laughed.
Myrten looked more like an angry buffalo.
"Think it's funny, do you . . . ?"
I couldn't help grinning, and, strangely,
he grinned back. "Young-old magister, you're still a good kid . . ."
A good kid? Not sure I ever would have
called myself that. Or a magister. Me? But . . .
Outside of the physical training, things
got worse ... or didn't improve.
Magistra Trehonna left, and was replaced by
a smiling man named Lennett, who immediately launched into discussions on the
theory of order. The theory of order? Who cared about the theory of order?
Magister Lennett did, it turned out. And he
insisted that we did, especially Tamra and me. Tamra smiled sweetly and asked
polite questions.
"Does that mean that a chaos-magician
must employ order?" Her voice was almost dipped in honey as she leaned
toward him. She eased forward on the gray pillow where she sat.
How she had found a gray pillow, I didn't
know. The rest of us used brown.
"Exactly!" bubbled Lennett. His
eyes danced.
My stomach turned at the sickly-sweet tone.
"Even to manipulate chaos requires the
use of order. In essence, a chaos-magician sets up a fundamental conflict by
his very existence-"
"They are at war within themselves?" asked Tamra.
That was obvious, but why did Tamra keep
playing up to him?
". . . why chaos-magicians have short
life-spans unless they use other methods to artificially prolong their
existence; and few have the talent. Fewer still can master the order-chaos
conflict on that plane."
I thought about reading the book my father
had tucked away, but I never got around to it. Besides, in traveling, I
suspected, I would have more than enough time to read.
". . . and- Lerris!"
"Yes?"
"Can you explain the magic-reality
strength theorem?"
I repressed a sigh. "That's the idea
that the greater the magical composition of a construct, the less strength it
has compared to something made out of natural materials by hand, rather than by
magic."
"And what does that mean?"
Lennett smiled and looked around the room.
Myrten was running his hand through his
unruly black hair, while Dorthae looked at Myrten, and Krystal looked toward
the afternoon clouds. Sammel tried to stifle a yawn.
Tamra smiled brightly. "It means that
magic can diffuse strength or material over a greater area, but cannot build
things that last."
So ... what else was new? Chaos-magic was
great for destroying things, but you still had to hire stonecutters and masons
to build anything.
"That is not precisely correct, as
you"-he glanced from Tamra to me-"will discover."
Myrten snickered.
"Order magic can be used to enhance
natural strength, both by providing a defense against chaos and by
strengthening the internal order of substances." Magister Lennett shook
his head. "But that is really a subject of advanced study. The important
point, as Tamra has noted, is that an equivalentlyarmed individual can prevail
against a number of magical constructs, provided . . . provided you are
adequately trained and weaponed."
"Magister?" asked Sammel.
"What about cases like the power of the ancient wizards of Frven? Or the
White Knights?"
Lennett shook his head. "You are
confusing two aspects of chaos. In pure destruction or chaos magic-that is,
loosening the bonds of order which hold all materials together-chaos cannot be
successfully opposed except by three factors. First is will. Your will to
survive prevents any direct magical attack on your person except by the
strongest of the chaos-magicians. You are still subject to temptation, and that
is another issue entirely. Second is the natural strength of materials. A young
person generally has greater resistance to magic, as does a building built of
the strongest stone and best-braced timbers. Third is order magic itself, which
can suffuse all things with a strengthening of internal bonds ..." What
Lennet said was probably true enough, but it was also generally meaningless.
Only a strong magician would ever try a personal attack. Anyone using magical
constructs would not employ them unless they were equipped with superior
weapons. The White Knights had swords that would have made most great warriors
damned near invincible. I remembered that from my lessons with Magister Kerwin.
". . . the greatest strength of chaos
is its ability to thwart complexity . . ."
"Is that why most nations don't use
much steam machinery?" Tamra smiled brightly once again.
Wrynn snorted audibly.
I
tried to relax. Theory was fine, but I for one was getting very tired both of
Tamra's phoniness, and of Magister Lennett's enthusiasm for explaining the
obvious and avoiding the explanations behind the obvious. What was order magic?
How did it strengthen internal bonds? Why did no one admit to practicing it?
For that matter, how did chaos-magic work?
Magister Lennett kept asking questions, and
I began to think about Candar, about what I would have to do, and what I might
face there.
XV
FROM THE
BEGINNING-or at least it had seemed that way to me-we had been destined for
Candar. But understanding that, and finding out that we would actually be
leaving Recluce, were two entirely different things.
We all waited in the same room where we had
first gathered after entering Nylan. This time, each of us went in to see
Talryn separately.
The dark oak-paneled walls seemed even
gloomier the second time around, and the pictures of the two masters on the
wall seemed to have a more knowing look to them, almost as if they had a secret
they weren't about to share.
I knew that was nonsense, but when I looked
at the man in black I wanted to shiver. I didn't look at the woman. She
reminded me of Tamra, for all that there was no physical resemblance.
Sammel went in, and he didn't come out. I presumed that he left
through the other doorway. Then Talryn called for Dorthae, followed by Wrynn
and Myrten. Krystal and Tamra each sat on a bench. Krystal sat on the edge,
ready to stand up in an instant. I understood.
I wasn't about to sit anywhere. I still
didn't know much more than when I had arrived early in the summer, although I
was in better shape and knew enough about half-a-dozen weapons to get myself
into real trouble.
What I didn't know was why I was being sent
from Recluce. Oh, they'd all explained how I was a danger to the order of our
wonderful island nation. But not one had explained exactly why.
"Krystal . . ." Talryn waited by
the half-open black oak door.
Krystal stood up slowly.
"Good luck," I said softly.
She gave me a faint smile, then a shrug.
Talryn's face remained professionally
cheerful, like that of a dedicated executioner.
Click.
Tamra glanced up at me from the bench.
Unlike Krystal, she was almost casual, half-draped along the dark wood. The
sharp blue of her scarf and the brightness of her hair made her seem somehow
out of place in the somber setting of the anteroom. "Fond of older
women?"
"No. Just like women." I was so
damned tired of her edges. She didn't want to understand anything, just to use
it. "Particularly women who don't mind admitting that they're women."
"Oh . . . the submissive kind."
I shook my head, not bothering to look at
her. "Good as you are, Tamra, Krystal could cut you into little pieces.
That's not submissive, not by chaos or by order. Krystal is my friend. That was
the way she wanted it."
"So you're the submissive one,
then." She half-smiled, stretching out on the bench, cat-like.
I didn't bother answering. Tamra would
twist . . . use . . . anything I said. Instead I studied the stone underfoot,
trying to touch the patterns of its existence, trying to trace out the hidden
breaks in the stone. According to Magister Lennett, all materials had patterns.
The wood I understood, and, were I ever to work it again, that understanding
would allow me to craft more finely than most journeymen. The heavier
materials-like slate, marble, granite, iron-were tougher.
The stone floors in Nylan were different.
All the stone used by the Brotherhood was different. The hidden breaks weren't
there, and each paving stone seemed complete by itself, yet fitted into a
larger pattern. Worked metal felt that way, but not most stone.
"Tamra." Talryn merely announced
her name.
As she sat up, rather abruptly, I thought
about looking up to see her leave, but kept my head down. She'd just turn my
concern against me.
Click.
Alone in the anteroom, I finally sat down
under the picture of the woman master. Why did I even care about Tamra? Krystal
needed me more than Tamra, didn't she? Tamra didn't need anyone, except to
insult them in order to feel superior. She was good at that, because she was
better than anyone else, both in brains and physical skills. So why did she
have to keep proving it?
"Lerris." Talryn's voice was
calm, and this time he wasn't smiling.
I took a deep breath and rose, wishing I
had my staff with me. Everything was packed, but waiting, in the room that had
been home for the late spring and long summer.
He held the door open for me, then closed
it. I stood by the table where we had eaten so many eight-days earlier.
"Sit down, Lerris." Talryn took
the same chair, the one at the head of the long table.
I pulled out the heavy black-oak chair. This
time it moved easily. I said nothing, waiting for Talryn to say whatever he had
to say, since whatever I thought clearly didn't matter.
"You could be a problem, Lerris. You
keep expecting someone to hand you the answers. Life isn't like that. Neither
is the dangergeld. Because you demand answers and reasons, no one wants to give
them to you."
I tried not to sigh. Another lecture I
didn't need.
"So I will. We've discussed it. You
may not believe me now, but try at least to remember what I'm about to say. It
might save your life."
I almost smiled at the melodramatic touch,
but decided to listen. It couldn't hurt.
Talryn waited.
Finally, I nodded.
"First, you are a potential
order-master. You have the talents to be a chaos-master, but not the
disposition. You aren't contemptuous enough, and you never will be. Trying the
chaos path will leave you dying young in Candar, if it doesn't kill you
outright.
"Second, you're strong enough to tempt
most chaos-masters into trying to corrupt you. Third, you refuse to understand
that each master must find his or her own meaning in life." Talryn sighed.
The master in silver actually sighed. "Finally, what we're doing is unfair
to you."
"You admit that?" I couldn't help
asking.
"We admit it."
"Then why are you doing it? I don't
understand."
"Because your doubts and your open
skepticism are enough to disrupt anyone who spends much time with you.
Normally, two masters work with each dangergeld group. Sometimes only
one."
Talryn, Trehonna, Gilberto, Cassius, and
Lennett-not to mention the occasional appearances by others-that totaled five,
plus apprentices like Demorsal.
"Four . . . five perhaps. It took that
many to keep your efforts damped, and we'll all have to work that much harder
for another year to catch up."
"Why?"
Talryn sighed again. "You have great
potential, Lerris-for order or chaos. How you use it is your choice. That
choice is not simple. Not at all."
I opened my mouth.
Talryn raised his hand. "Let me
explain. The reason why you call upon order or chaos is meaningless. If you
destroy a tree for firewood to warm a freezing child, you have still given
yourself to chaos. Likewise, if you heal a murderer, you give yourself to
order."
"What?" I couldn't believe what
Talryn was saying.
"That's why handling order is so
difficult. You have to have good intent, and using chaos for a good purpose
leads to greater disorder."
I still couldn't believe him. "I
couldn't even fell a tree to save a child?"
Talryn smiled sadly. "I didn't say
that. I said you could not use chaos forces. You could use an ax or a sword to
cut branches. Where physical force doesn't affect human life, it doesn't affect
order or chaos either."
I shook my head.
"Oh . . . it's worse than that,
Lerris. Far worse." His tone was almost mocking. "What I said is not
quite true. You can occasionally use chaos in service of order-but only when
balanced by higher-order considerations. Indeed ... if you choose to serve
order, you may have to. If you wish to be an order-master, every use of order
must be calculated. You may be lucky. You may intuitively understand those
balances, but without being able to check such intuition logically, how will
you be able to tell the differences between what is intuitively correct and
your underlying desires-and we all have them- to take the easier path?"
"You re asking for ... a man ... a
woman . . . someone who is perfect . . ."
"Didn't I tell you we were being
unfair?" asked Talryn softly. His tone was not mocking now, just soft.
I looked down at the polished surface of
the table. "Are you done?"
"Not yet. I have to lay our charge
upon you. It seems simple. It is not. You must travel Candar beyond the
East-horns to the Westhorns, and you must not return until you feel you are
ready. You must also travel alone; that is, not in company of anyone else from
Recluce."
"What the hell does that mean?" I
think I glared at Talryn.
He met my glare. "You will know what
it means. Do you have any more questions?"
I had lots of them, but they were the kind
I couldn't ask. Why me? What did I ever do? Why didn't anyone ever try to
explain things? Why was everything either on faith or through experience I
didn't have? Why did they train us together and then say not to travel
together? "No. None that make any difference."
"All right." He stood up,
tired-looking, the first time I had seen him show any really human feelings.
"I will not see you until you return. We wish you well, Lerris. The rest
of your group is waiting. Your ship leaves shortly."
"Now what?"
"You pick up your things and walk to
the pier where the Eidolon waits." He gestured toward the other door, also
of black oak, but did not move.
I nodded. "Thank you for your
frankness. I hope I can use it."
The gray man said nothing, just watched me.
So I took the hint, inclined my head, and walked away from Talryn.
Would we be traveling in the strange black
Brotherhood ships that everyone ignored? Or in the hull of some Candarian
duchy's freighter? From what Talryn had said, I still didn't know.
There was so much I didn't know. Even
Talryn had behaved as though he were bending some great rule or tradition to
say what he had said. He believed it-that was for sure, and that made it a
little scary. Never to use a destructive power . . . even in the service of
good?
I shivered. My feet carried me down the
long underground hallway, well enough lit by the late afternoon sun, and the
green of the gardens beckoned through the overhead glass. But I still shivered.
XVI
TALRYN
WAS RIGHT. Sammel, Myrten, Dorthae, Wrynn, and Krystal all stood outside,
waiting. The late-afternoon westerly swished the leaves of the red oak under
which they had gathered. Behind us, the dangergelders' quarters loomed black
even in the sunlight.
Sammel wore his pack and a pair of
shortswords-short staves, a closer look revealed. Myrten wore no obvious
weapons, nor did Dorthae. Wrynn had on her belt both a short sword and a throwing
knife. A second knife was concealed in the hidden thigh-pocket of her trousers.
Krystal wore her faded blues and the blade
I had bought her, although she had replaced the cheap scabbard with an older
but sturdier one of hardened gray leather. She nodded at me.
I wiped my forehead and nodded back, then
walked over to her.
"Talryn was hard on you," she
observed.
"I'm fine." I really didn't want
to talk about it.
"Tamra came out looking the same
way."
"What about you?" I asked.
She
didn't giggle, just smiled gravely. "He told me I might be happier in
Candar, and to weigh what I really wanted carefully."
A cold weight settled in my guts.
"Are you all right?" As she
spoke, her hand was warm on my shoulder.
"I'm fine."
"What did Talryn tell you?" Her
voice was gentle, again musical.
I shrugged. "What he told everyone, I
guess. That I had to find myself for myself. Except it's going to take a long
time."
Krystal nodded. Her fingers squeezed my
shoulder, then relaxed. "You'd better get your pack."
"Thank you." I didn't look at the
others as I headed past Wrynn and Myrten and through the open doorway. One door
was ajar-Tamra's. I didn't look inside.
In my former room, my things were where I
had left them. The pack lay on the bed, the staff beside it, along with the
knife-not that I expected to use the knife for anything besides cutting brush,
meat, and other non-intelligent objects. My heavy cloak was rolled into the top
of the pack. With the knife on my belt, I slung the pack half over my shoulder
and picked up the staff. The door I left open as I left-a minor protest against
the order of the Brotherhood.
Tamra had left her door open as well.
By the time I stepped outside-my feet
moving from the smooth stones of the interior hall to the heavier, weathered,
paving-stones of the walkway that would eventually lead to the harbor-everyone
was waiting.
Waiting with Tamra and the rest was a woman
I had not seen.
"My name is Isolde," she
announced. "I will be your guide from here to Freetown." Her hair was
silver-blond, cut squarely across the back of her neck, and her eyes were dark
gray. She wore a faded green one-piece coverall and black boots. At her belt
were a pair of knives, one on each hip. The belt was wide, of black leather
with a triangular silver buckle. "The Eidolon is a Nordlan half-steamer
registered out of Brysta. We have two cabins, which shouldn't be that much of a
problem since Freetown isn't much more than a day and a half under normal
conditions . . ."
Problem? Why would two cabins be a problem?
I glanced over at Tamra, but the redhead was staring at the ground, ignoring
Isolde and me. Even from nearly ten cubits away, I could see Tamra's fingers
were white from how tightly they gripped her staff.
". . . make the transition easier, we
have an inn in Freetown where you will all stay, assuming you wish to, tomorrow
night. Once we reach the inn-it's only a short walk from the harbor-you'll
receive a last briefing on the current conditions in Candar. Things like which
provinces or duchies to avoid, and why.
"Two days from now, you'll be on your
own. Any questions?"
". . . Uhhhhmmmm?" coughed
Myrten. "Who pays the passage costs?"
"Those have been taken care of by the
Brotherhood. So have your meals and lodging at the Travelers' Rest. After that,
all expenses are yours." Isolde glanced around the group, looking for
other questions.
"Why are we going on a Nordlan
ship?" Wrynn's voice seemed to silence even the breeze.
"Why not?" Isolde's tone was
amused. "The Eidolon is headed where you are going, and it's a lot cheaper
than sending a Brotherhood ship on a special run."
"It also tells the world that Recluce
is harsh enough to throw out its own." As she spoke, Tamra barely glanced
toward Isolde.
The brittleness of Tamra's voice surprised
me, as did its ragged sound. Was this the confident woman who had thrashed me
so soundly with the staff in our initial sparring? The woman who understood
order theory better than Magister Lennett?
"That is also partly true. By your
actions or beliefs, you have chosen not to accept Recluce. Until you do, you
are from Recluce, but not of Recluce."
I almost shivered. Isolde's matter-of-fact
tone was more chilling than any of old Kerwin's lectures had been. No threats,
no scare tactics-just a statement. Unless you believe, you don't belong.
Tamra glanced up from the grass, and I
tried to catch her eyes. No wonder she was upset. All the excellence in the
world didn't matter, only what she couldn't bring herself to accept. The
redhead looked away, back toward the harbor.
"If there are no other questions,
let's be on our way."
Slinging my pack onto both shoulders, I
straightened, ready to leave. Sammel and Dorthae stood on each side of Isolde.
Myrten picked up his pack.
Without another word, Isolde left, leading
us straight down the main walkway, straight through a market square largely
deserted, except for a pie vendor who was closing up and a sailor from somewhere
stretched out on a table, sleeping.
The Eidolon, moored at pier number one, the
one closest to the sea, carried one square-rigged mast and whatever they called
a sloop's mast. A mizzenmast, I thought. Amidships, between the masts, were two
paddle wheels, one on each side. A black stack, slashed with a diagonal green
stripe, ran up between the masts as well. The sails were furled on the masts.
"Hello, the Eidolon!" called
Isolde.
"Hallo . . . the pier ..." A tall
blond man waved vaguely.
Isolde didn't bother to call again, but
walked up the steeply-inclined gangplank, leaving us to follow.
I followed right after her. Waiting
wouldn't solve anything.
"Stand right over there," ordered
our guide, pointing to a clear space of deck to the right of where the ship's
officer waited.
I followed her directions and positioned
myself by the railing. A quick glance toward Nylan reassured me that I could
still see the market square, though most of the tables and booths had been
deserted even before we had passed by on our way to the harbor.
". . . eight passengers, as agreed
with Captain Heroulk . . ." Isolde started right in with the mate on duty,
a man with a short blond beard and a sleeveless shirt that revealed
heavily-muscled and bronzed arms.
At first, as I stood by the rail, I could
smell nothing except a lingering scent of something-salt, soap, varnish. The
deck was clean, aside from several coils of heavy rope by the foot of the
masts. The railing, as my fingers brushed it, felt faintly tacky, and glistened
as though recently varnished.
Two sailors stopped their work on a
windlass, or something like it, to survey the group that had trooped on board.
"Witches, the whole lot . . ."
observed the older, a wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair.
Clank. His hammer knocked the handle loose
from the assembly.
". . . see if you can pry loose that
broken edge . . ."
"The ship seems clean enough, if
small," noted Myrten, stepping up next to me.
"Small?"
"Haven't you seen the Hamorian
freighters? Some of them are nearly three hundred cubits long."
I shrugged, not really having thought about
it.
"Good thing it's only a day and a
half. I'd hate to go to Hamor on this. That would take nearly two
eight-days."
Tamra stood by herself further down the
rail toward the bow. I walked away from Myrten and stood next to her. She said
nothing, just looked up at the black wall overlooking the harbor area, much as
I had first looked at that same wall, wondering how it could look so
insignificant from behind and so imposing from the waterfront.
"Are you all right?" I tried to
keep my voice low.
"Does it matter?" She sounded
tired.
"Yes."
"Why?"
I didn't know what to say. ". . .
Because."
She didn't say anything. She just kept
looking from the harbor wall to the hill wall and back again.
After a while, I eased away, thinking she
wanted to be alone.
"Oh . . . sorry . . ." In backing
up, I backed into Wrynn.
"Since it's only you, Lerris . .
."
I thought she was joking, but held up my
free right hand, since I was still holding on to my staff with my left. "I
apologize."
"We'll accept," added Krystal
with a soft smile. She didn't giggle.
"All right!" interrupted Isolde.
"Let's get your gear stowed. Follow us."
Wrynn shrugged. Krystal and I both shrugged
back. All three of us followed Isolde and another officer-the officers were all
taller than the crew, and had yellow collars on their sleeveless shirts-aft and
down a narrow wooden staircase. The sailors all called it a ladder.
"I'll bunk with Sammel, Lerris, and
Myrten," announced Isolde. "We'll take the first cabin."
Myrten's face went blank, as did Dorthae's.
I thought Wrynn and Krystal nodded, but couldn't see for sure in the dimly-lit
passageway.
The cabin was the size of a large pantry
with four built-in bunks, two on each side, one above the other. Each bunk had
a thin pallet covered with a faded linen sheet and a folded brown blanket-no
other covers. The floor space between the bunks was less than three cubits. A
single porthole graced the outboard side, opposite the door.
Two lockers fitted side-by-side under each
lower bunk.
Isolde threw her pack on the top outboard
bunk. "Lerris, you're the most agile. Why don't you take the other top
bunk?"
Since it wasn't really a question, I put my
pack up on the other top bunk.
"You can use the lockers. No one on
the ship will steal anything." She glanced at me. "Please leave the
staff on your bunk until we land."
Always the staff. I tucked it next to the
pallet, then squeezed my pack into one of the lockers. Sammel eased his smaller
pack into the other one.
Myrten was shaking his head as he knelt to
get into the other locker.
"Is it all right if we go back on
deck?" I asked.
"Of course. Just stay out of the
crew's way."
So I went back up the ladder.
Whufff . . . whuff . . . Through the
timbers I could feel the steam engine, as if the ship had come alive. A
helmsman stood at the wheel on the bridge, flanked by a silvered and weathered
man I took to be the captain, since his entire shirt was yellow.
"Lines aboard!"
"Lines aboard, sir!"
Clang!
"Pressure on the boilers! Stand by for
paddles."
Thwap . . . splat. . . thwap . . . Slowly,
ever so slowly, the paddles began to turn as the Eidolon eased off the pier.
I nearly tiptoed to the rail to watch the
Eidolons departure.
Tamra stood by the same point on the rail
as when I had left her. She must have gone below because both her staff and
pack were absent, but her posture was the same.
With its black slate roofs, black streets,
and black walls lit by the low western sun, and with the grass hidden behind
walls, Nylan looked more than ever like a brooding fortress rising from the
sea. Nothing reflected the reddish near-setting sun, except the water itself.
In a way, the scene reminded me of one I'd seen in one of my father's history
books-the White City of Frven, under the chaos-masters. But Frven had been all
white, and it had perished. Nylan endured, its black order stolidly guarding
Recluce.
A shimmer of distorted air caught the
corner of my eye, and I turned my head to see one of the long and mastless
black boats of the Brotherhood trailing the Eidolon. A single narrow .turret
gun bore on the Nordlan ship, shifting slightly as the Brotherhood ship easily
drew up and took station on the Eidolon's stern.
"You do that so easily." Tamra's
voice was pitched to me, barely carrying the three cubits between us.
"Do what?"
"See the unseen."
I shrugged. "I never thought whether
it was easy or hard. I just looked. It is a strange-looking ship, though."
"It's not really fair, you know."
The redhead's voice was expressionless, so expressionless that I felt colder
than the sea breeze whipping through my tunic should have made me feel.
"They don't care how hard you try. They don't care how much you learn.
They don't care."
I edged closer. "The Brotherhood, you
mean?"
"They don't love. You're the child of
one of the high temple masters. You don't swallow their beliefs, and they throw
you out younger than anyone else." *
High temple master-my father?
The Brotherhood ship increased its speed
and veered toward the right, pulling up beside the Eidolon. The impression of
order and power pounded at me from more than a hundred cubits away.
"You don't even know, do you? Is that
fair?"
"No. But they don't go by what's fair,
Tamra. It's already pretty clear to me that they go by what works. If we get in
the way . . . then we go."
She turned to me, and her face was white.
"You agree with that?" Each word was evenly spaced, dropping like a
hammer on a forge.
I wanted to step back, but the ship
lurched, and, instead, I grabbed the railing. The Eidolon had passed the
breakwater, and the waves were higher.
Thwup, thwup, thwup . . . thwup, thwup,
thwup . . . The paddles churned, dipping into the water with increasing speed,
and a heavier and thicker plume of whitish smoke billowed from the stack.
"... foresail . . ." Sailors were
scurrying over the masts as well, releasing and adjusting the canvas of the
sails.
"Do you agree with them?" asked
Tamra, thrusting her face closer to me.
"I don't know."
"Oh . . . shit . . . uhhh . . . arrghhh
. . ."
"Can I do anything?"
"Yes. Just . . . leave . . . me . . .
alone . . ."
As I stood there, she emptied the contents
of her guts over the side. I danced away, since I was downwind and didn't have
that much in the way of spare clothes. But Tamra was too busy turning her
stomach inside out to demand answers to any more philosophical questions.
So I walked toward the bow and watched the
black ship heading north, moving at a speed that seemed unbelievable. No
paddles, no sails-just a wake, and a thin trail of black smoke. No one even saw
it, except the two of us; and Tamra was too sick to care, from waves that were
scarcely two cubits high.
Off the bow, the sun dropped toward the
now-black waters of the gulf.
Thwap . . . splat. . . thwap . . . The
paddles dipped, and the Eidolon rolled, and we all were carried cubit by cubit,
rod by rod, kay by kay, toward Candar.
Isolde stood at the rear of the bridge,
tacitly ignored, while Myrten shuffled the cards under a swinging lantern and
Tamra clutched a rail still tacky from varnish.
I just watched the white foam spill from
the wave crests.
XVII
THE
WAVES REMAINED moderate across the entire gulf, giving the Eidolon a
near-constant rocking, pitching motion the entire trip. The half-steamer
maintained a west-northwest heading.
I hadn't slept well, waking time and time
again, but I had slept-unlike Sammel, who had eventually shared Tamra's
discomfort with the ship's motion, and spent much of the night at the rail.
Isolde slept like a log. She even snored.
Myrten arrived back late, and his purses were far fuller than when he had left,
proof that knowing the odds was profitable anywhere. He also rose first. Even
his quiet movements were enough to keep me awake.
I followed him up the ladder and onto the
sun-splashed deck, where various members of the crew were already
working-varnishing the other railing, disassembling another winch. Ignoring the
industrious types, I trailed Myrten into the ship's mess.
Wrynn, Dorthae, and Krystal were already
there.
I eased onto one of the oak benches across
from Myrten- the table was empty except for us.
Scruffff . . .
Sammel stood there, swaying, but not in
rhythm to the pitching of the ship. I motioned to the table. He finally
staggered to a spot at the end of our table closest to the wall and away from
anyone.
Breakfast was dried fruit-apples, red
currants, peaches- hard biscuits, and a tea so strong even I winced. The tea
was excellent for softening the biscuits.
I ate slowly, not looking up. Clearly, the
crew had eaten earlier, much earlier. The mess room, under the bridge, took a
space not much bigger than our two cabins together. The two tables were bolted
to the floor, as were the backless benches. The grooves in the table would hold
something, perhaps trays for dining in heavy weather.
Sammel tried the biscuits, and a touch of
tea. After no more than half a biscuit, he got up and left, still greenish
around his ears.
Wrynn, Krystal, and Myrten wolfed down
everything in sight.
Despite his late night, Myrten looked fresh
and rested, although his black hair was more unruly than ever. Myrten was the
first to leave, without even a grunt. Dorthae followed him out, a glint in her
eye. Wrynn fingered the hilt of her throwing knife, then followed the pair.
Krystal smiled, shaking her head.
"Something funny?" I asked.
"Not exactly," she answered,
except that it wasn't an answer. She continued to sip from her mug, but took
nothing, else from either of the polished wooden serving platters. "That's
not an answer."
"Men . . ." She shook her head.
Her hair was bound up, not in silver or gold cords, but in dark blue, as if she
didn't want to call any attention to herself. "Men . . ." she repeated,
as she stood up, leaving the mug on the table. Her steps were quick and sure,
not that the deck rolled or pitched much, and she was gone before I could
figure out what I could have said to keep her.
Just as I was finishing up a second biscuit
and some dried peaches by myself and getting ready to leave, Isolde arrived
with Tamra in tow.
For an instant, like the palest of china
fired by my mother, precious and breakable, the redhead paused. "Urrrppp .
. ." The burp destroyed the fragility. "Excuse me." She slumped
onto the bench where Myrten had been sitting.
Isolde poured the dark tea into two brown
hard-glazed earthenware mugs.
"Honey?"
Tamra nodded, swaying slightly to the roll
of the Eidolon.
I downed the last of my mug and looked
around for a place to leave it.
"Don't leave just yet, Lerris."
"Where would I go?"
Tamra sighed. Isolde glared, and I raised
the empty mug to my lips so I didn't have to look at either for a moment. Then
I took the heavy teapot and poured another mug, dumping in a large glob of
honey from the server, an iron-gray squat pitcher that matched neither the mugs
nor the teapot.
"You're quite a pair," began
Isolde, her voice matter-of-fact. "One of you believes that success lies
in accomplishment, and the other believes that having answers will explain
everything. One of you hates privilege but covets it desperately; the other has
it and has rejected it unthinkingly."
Tamra and I exchanged glances.
"You're both in for some real
surprises." Isolde took a deep swallow of the tea and pulled a pile of
mixed fruit off one platter-mostly dried apples. Next came some of the squarish
and crumbly biscuits. The guide in the faded green jumpsuit alternated fruit,
biscuits, and tea.
I drank more of my own tea, bitter even
with the large glob of honey I had dropped into it.
Tamra nibbled at a biscuit, sipping from
her mug enough to be able to swallow the crumbs she had placed in her mouth.
Without a colored scarf, dressed just in dark gray, she looked washed-out, like
a limp china doll.
Finally, as the silence dragged out, I put
my half-empty cup in one of the holder slots in the center of the table and
stood up, glancing from Isolde to Tamra and back. Neither looked at me, and
neither said anything. Isolde just kept eating, slowly and methodically. Tamra
stared at the smooth brown wood of the table beside her mug.
I almost paused to see if either would say
anything, but kept moving.
Outside on the main deck, the wind had
picked up and whipped through my short hair. My steps took me toward the bow,
where I stood with the sun on my back watching the wind carry spray from the
crests of the dark-blue waves. The Eidolon didn't exactly cut through the sea,
nor did she lumber. Just like Isolde, the ship was efficiently matter-of-fact.
That solidity was helpful, because my
thoughts were anything but solid. Me-a potential order-master? Born to
privilege? Convinced that answers would solve everything? How could I even
decide what I wanted to do without knowing? Talryn, Kerwin, my parents, even
Isolde-they were all saying that everything was obvious, that I was blinding
myself, and that I just had to choose. Choose what? What did it mean? Eternal
boredom if I chose order? Early death if I chose chaos? From what I already
saw, the alternatives weren't exactly wonderful.
Whhstttt. . . The Eidolon plowed into a
bigger-than-normal wave, the spray from the impact almost reaching the railing
where I leaned. The ship seemed quieter.
Of course! The paddles were silent, and the
steam engine was cold. While the wind held, the captain didn't need to burn the
coal.
I wondered if my belated recognitions were
typical, that I didn't see things obvious to others until later.
"May I join you?"
I
jumped. Tamra stood almost next to me, not quite so pale as at breakfast.
"Fine."
"You looked worried . . ." Her
voice was softer, but still carried an edge.
Did I really want to talk to her? Ever
since I'd started the dangergeld she'd been a bitch. I sighed. What would it
cost me? We weren't exactly going anywhere, and she certainly wasn't boring.
"Yes ... I guess I was . . ."
"You didn't know your father was a
high temple master?"
"No."
"I ... I'm sorry . . ."
Her words didn't sound sorry.
"You don't sound sorry."
"Do we have to fight?" she asked.
"No. But do you have to doubt
everything I say or do?"
"It's . . . hard ... I look at you.
You had everything. And . . ."
"And what?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she just leaned
on the rail next to me and looked at the waves.
Silence and the swishing of the sea were
preferable to a dubious discussion. So I watched the water too.
"Lerris?"
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For . . . why do you make it so hard
for me?" Her voice was tight again.
I thought for a moment, biting back what I
really wanted to say-that she was a conceited bitch who wanted to run the
entire world. But what good would that have done?
Whhhhssstttt. . . The spray almost touched
the edge of the deck.
I watched the waves for a while, and she
watched beside me.
Finally, I tried again. "Do you
remember when we met . . . the first thing you said was something like I was a
sorry sight . . . when I was learning staff work, you took the first
opportunity to beat the crap out of me ..." I looked back at the water,
wondering if I'd said too much, wondering why I even bothered.
"Oh . . ." She actually sounded
taken aback, and it felt like she was surprised.
I shook my head.
"You don't make it easy, either, you
know." Her voice was quiet.
I could barely hear her above the waves,
the whisper of the wind, and the creaking of the ship. "What did I ever
say?" I asked.
"That's it. You never let anyone see
you. You're bored, or very polite, and we all know what you feel. That's why no
one can get very close, not even Krystal, and she wanted you a lot."
Krystal? She was older . . . only said she
needed a friend . . .
"You're upset again."
I
glared at the waves instead of Tamra.
"And angry."
"Why do you push at me?" I asked.
"Because . . . I'm scared . . . and
you're scared . . ."
Scared? Me?
"Yes, you, Lerris. You're scared,
scared shitless, no matter what you tell yourself or anyone else."
Whhsssttttt . . . The Eidolon lurched, and
a sheet of water sprayed past me, leaving me with wet hands and a tighter grip
on the railing.
Scared? Maybe? But who wouldn't be?
When I looked up again, a lot later, Tamra
was gone. I wished she hadn't left, somehow. But she was still a bitch.
The rest of the day held the same pattern.
The Eidolon plowed west-northwest. The wind held. The crew kept working on
repairs. Sammel stayed seasick, and Isolde and Tamra avoided me. The crew
avoided us all, except to ask brief questions of Isolde. We ate bread, cheese,
fruit, and tea after the crew did at midday.
I walked the deck, studying how the ship
was put together, trying to sense the underlying patterns, the forces, the stresses.
In a way, it was like Uncle Sardit's work-simple on the surface, very solid,
and a lot more involved than I had thought.
Tracing the flow of the woods, the way the
masts were stepped, the flow of the hull and the timbers and braces - that was
easy. The metals were harder, especially the mechanical stuff.
Whuffff. . . whufff. . .
The belch of the engine and the acrid scent
of burning coal broke me away from trying to feel how the stem and the bowsprit
were joined.
Flappppp . . . thwipp ....
Aloft, some of the crew were furling sails.
Not all of them, but the mainsails.
A line of green hills had stretched
southward off the bow-on the side opposite where I had been sitting propped
against the forward hatch cover. When I scrambled up, I could also see a
fainter line to the north, covered with a haze that had seemed more like
low-lying clouds.
Freetown couldn't be that far away, not if
we were at the edge of the Great North Bay.
Splattt. . . thwap . . . thwap . . .
splatt, thwap, thwap . . .
The paddles began to bite into the calmer
waters of the bay. Then the sun dimmed as the Eidolon moved under the high hazy
clouds and into suddenly damper air.
Back behind the ship's bridge, a crewman
hoisted a huge Nordlan flag to the top of the aft mast. I wondered who the
Candarians didn't like. Except that wasn't the way to look at it. Who didn't
the Duke of Freetown like? That was the question.
"Are you ready to go?" Isolde
stood by my elbow.
"All I have to do is gather my pack
and staff."
"Leave them there for now. It will be
a while, but we need to get ashore as soon as the Eidolon ties up."
"Safer for us or them?"
Isolde didn't answer, perhaps because she
had left.
The Eidolon, with the grizzled captain on
the bridge, continued to make surprising speed, the engine substituting for the
sails, which now hung nearly limp. Once we had neared the hills and entered the
bay, the wind had died, as had the waves.
Sammel appeared at the rail, followed by
all of the dangergelders but Dorthae-and Isolde. Myrten wore a white bandage on
his forearm, which showed only when he reached to steady himself on the
railing.
The sun had disappeared totally behind the
shapeless clouds by the time the ship rounded Cape Frentala. Freetown, at first
glance, was not prepossessing. Only a single spire graced the gray sky, and the
harborfront was mostly of low wooden buildings. The piers were of heavy
weathered and unpainted gray timbers, except where a brown line showed the replacement
of an older plank by a newer one.
"Get your gear . . ." Isolde, now
wearing solid black and looking grim, was talking to Sammel, but I didn't need
a personal reminder. At her belt was a sword, also black-hiked, and a long
knife.
In the short time it took me to go down the
ladder and claim cloak, pack, and staff, the Eidolon was jockeying up to the
pier, where a handful of figures waited.
"Tax guards . . ." muttered
Myrten. For whatever reason, he stood nearly next to me at the railing.
"Tax guards?"
"The duke wants his cut first."
"Of everything?"
"Everything. Isolde will have to shell
out a gold penny for each of us."
"We have to pay to come here?"
"Hell, isn't it?" Myrten smirked.
I hadn't thought about that. Would we have
to pay entry taxes in other provinces? My stock of coins was looking less and
less adequate.
"Dangergelders!" called Isolde.
I turned to see her motioning and followed
her gestures. Someone wanted us off the Eidolon as soon 'as possible. The
gangplank was barely in place as we lined up and walked down. A pair of seamen
were still tying lines to the bollards on the pier.
A round-faced official with gold braid on
both shoulders and a silver breastplate waited at the bottom of the plank.
Behind him stood ten soldiers, each wearing a sword but carrying a club ready
to use. Their breastplates were cold iron. Behind them lurked a shadowy
presence, a woman in white, with the same sense of disorder I had felt once
before, in the blade the trader had tried to sell Krystal.
In the dampness I wanted to shiver, but
tightened my grip on my staff. Strangely, it felt even warmer now than on a
sunlit day.
"Dangergelders?" rasped the
round-faced man. His eyes looked beyond Isolde, avoided looking at any of us.
"Seven," noted the woman in
black.
"That will be seven golds."
"You have a receipt?"
The round-faced man looked to his right,
where a thin youngster scribbled on a tablet, then handed the single sheet to
the tax agent.
Isolde offered the coins and took the
receipt.
"Weapons?"
"Nothing except the normal-staves,
swords, knives, and a few pistols. All for personal use."
"Magicians?"
Isolde hesitated briefly, so briefly I
doubt the official caught it, before answering.
"No magicians. Two blackstaflfs."
"That's another four golds."
"Since when?" Isolde fixed full
concentration on the official.
The round-faced man said nothing, but his
forehead was damp.
"Since . . . since ..."
"This afternoon, perhaps?"
"Magistra ... it has not been a good
year . . ."
"Additional duties are not in the
Agreement."
The round-faced man swallowed. His forehead
was clearly wet now, and not from the dampness of the afternoon. He swallowed
again.
A soldier, his iron breastplate bearing a
four-pointed star on the upper left, eased forward from the armed group.
Isolde shifted her weight ever so slightly,
and I imagined she was smiling, although I could not see her face, wedged as I
was into the narrow space just at the foot of the plank. Myrten was in front of
me, breathing noisily. {Crystal's hand was on the hilt of her blade.
"The duke has insisted, has he?"
prompted Isolde. "With your head on the line?"
A few drops of rain splattered on my face,
and the wind from the hills overlooking the city seemed ever cooler. I glanced
back toward the Eidolon. The weathered captain and two officers stood at the
top of the plank, watching. All three carried halberds I hadn't even seen
during our passage.
Clearly, we weren't expected back aboard.
"No . . . Magistra . . . but the needs
of the duchy . . ."
"Then I demand the right of instant
trial." Isolde took a step forward, and the tax official squirmed
backward.
Myrten looked at me. I looked back. Right
of instant trial? Our lectures hadn't covered that.
"But . . ." protested the
official.
"You wish to repudiate your own
laws?" asked Isolde softly.
The man shook his head mutely.
I jabbed Myrten in the ribs. "Move. We're
too crowded." I tried to whisper, but Tamra looked around Wrynn and Myrten
and glared at me.
I shrugged and rolled my eyes.
She shook her head, but edged outward.
"Who represents the duke?"
demanded Isolde, ignoring the shuffling our movements created. Her voice cut
like a knife.
"I do." The soldier who stepped
forward was the one who had moved earlier. He topped any of us, even me, by
half a head, and Isolde by more than half a cubit. His face was lean,
clean-shaven and unscarred, but his short black hair bore traces of silver, and
his eyes were flat and lifeless.
"Blood or death?" asked Isolde.
"It has to be your death, Magistra.
You are an outlander, and death is prescribed if you fail."
"I was talking about you."
Isolde's voice was cold enough to make the tax official scuttle back further.
The soldier inclined his head. "That
is your choice, Magistra, but I will fight until I cannot. That is also
prescribed." His voice was polite, but rough, as if unused.
One of the soldiers unrolled a reddish cord
that had presumably once been scarlet. A cord-defined square about ten cubits
on a side appeared on the gray pier planks. The square was about two-thirds the
width of the pier.
Two soldiers took positions, with unsheathed
swords, at opposite corners.
"Your corners, Magistra?"
Isolde did not take her eyes off the Duke's
champion. "Krystal . . . Lerris . . . take the other two corners."
The tax collector's eyes widened as Krystal
stepped forward. He paled, I thought, as she unsheathed her blade, and took the
corner farthest from the Eidolon. That left me the corner only cubits from
where I had been standing.
The wood of my staff was almost
uncomfortably warm.
"... blackstaff," murmured one of
the soldiers in the guard group, which had retreated to the shore side of the
pier as if to block our way to Freetown.
"Are you ready, Magistra?"
"I'm sorry for you, Duke's Man."
Isolde sounded sorry, yet I wondered why she was so confident. The whole thing
was a setup. The man had to be the best in the duke's forces.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes."
They both stood for an instant, blades out.
Isolde's back was to me.
The man's blade flashed, impossibly
quickly. Yet, in scarcely moving her own blade, Isolde somehow deflected the
attack.
Flttt . . .
. . . hsssttt . . .
. . . hsssttt . . .
Blades caressed, never meeting directly,
edges sliding against each other.
Clank ...
Thud . . .
The Duke's champion lay face-down on the pier,
separated from sword and life. Just as suddenly as it had started, it was over.
The tax collector's mouth hung open. So did
those of the other soldiers.
I held my staff ready, wondering what would
happen next.
"I trust you will record that the
duke's proposed tariff on blackstaffs has been nullified." Isolde's voice
had reverted to a merely matter-of-fact tone at least as chilling as the
coldness she had conveyed moments earlier.
"... uh ... yes, Magistra . . ."
One of the two soldiers who had served as
corners began to reel the faded reddish cord back onto the spool. I stepped
aside, but continued to watch the remainder of the squad. So did Krystal.
Two others hoisted the body and began to
carry it toward the horse-drawn wagon that waited at the causeway at the end of
the pier. Another retrieved the sword.
The thin youth scribbled some more onto his
tablet, and the tax collector wiped his sweating forehead with a darkish cloth.
"You understand, Magistra . . . Duke
Holloric ... we only serve his requirements . . ."
Isolde nodded briskly. "Convey our
best wishes to the duke. We trust he will wish to continue maintaining the
Agreement without further attempts at one-sided changes."
"Yes, Magistra . . ." He backed
away, then turned.
The soldiers followed him back down the
pier. Not one looked in our direction.
I looked at Tamra. She raised her eyebrows.
I nodded. We both knew. For whatever reason, it had been an attempted setup by
the duke. And the Brotherhood had known. I suspected Isolde was one of the best
the Brotherhood had, and that was scary. Giving away nearly a cubit and a half
an arm's length, she had dispatched the duke's best in instants.
No wonder the soldiers wanted off the pier.
I glanced back at the Eidolon. Only one
guard remained by the railing, just a regular crewman. He grinned at me, then
let his face turn impassive as the captain walked past him to the top of the
gangplank.
Isolde turned to face the man.
"Our appreciation, Magistra. Our
appreciation."
Isolde nodded, and he nodded back, then
turned back to his command.
"Let's go." Isolde looked
unruffled and was five paces gone toward the shore end of the pier before we
started after her.
By the time we reached the causeway, the
tax collector, the wagon, and the troops were gone, carried into the mist that
clung even more heavily around the wooden buildings of Freetown.
Given all of the bollards on all the three
long piers, Freetown seemed deserted. Only the Eidolon and a smaller fishing
boat rested at the piers, and there were no traders, no cargos obvious for
unloading or loading.
I caught up to Isolde. Her steps were still
quick, and she didn't even look at me as we stepped off the pier and onto the
stone pavement of the causeway. "Will your success teach the duke
anything, or will this . . . embargo . . . whatever it is ... go on?"
"Who knows?" For the first time,
her voice sounded tired.
"You didn't want to do that?"
"Lerris . . ." The exasperated
sound of her voice was more effective than an explanation.
"Oh ..."
"That's right. Now, we need to get to
the Travelers' Rest before the duke gets any more ideas. We'll turn at the next
street, if you can call it that."
The buildings looked almost ghostly in the
dim light and heavy fog and mist. Every so often, an oil lamp peered through
the gloom, or a single person scurried away from us.
Tamra had caught up and walked beside me as
we followed Isolde up the street away from the harbor proper. Every step seemed
to echo, and no one said a word. We just kept walking.
XVIII
THE FOG
THINNED by the time we had stumbled and generally trudged uphill for several
long blocks. In the middle of an open space where two narrow streets crossed, I
paused for a moment. Over my shoulder, I could see the mast tips of the
Eidolon.
"Ooooffff. . ." Sammel, head
down, ran into my shoulder.
"Sorry ..." I turned and took
several quick steps to catch up to Tamra and Isolde.
Overhead, higher clouds had turned dark
gray, and a touch of a damp breeze brushed my cheek then was gone. The mist
still dropped a faint gauze curtain over the buildings we passed. Many were
deserted, or at least dark. From a handful of windows oozed the golden light of
lamps. The acrid tang of wood smoke mixed with the dampness of mist.
"Ghost town," muttered Myrten
from somewhere behind me.
"We're the ghosts," responded
Isolde. Her voice was so low I doubted that Myrten had heard her.
I supposed we were, outsiders haunting the
streets while, inside, the Freetowners huddled around the lamps and fires that
held an unseasonably early fall at bay.
"Here we are," announced Isolde.
I glanced ahead over her shoulder.
The building's weathered timber walls looked
gray, spirit gray in the thinning mist and growing dark. But a golden glow
poured from every first-floor window, and the blue shutters were folded back to
let the light escape, almost as if making a statement that the structure would
not draw into itself against the forces of chaos.
"Travelers' Rest" proclaimed the
sign hanging over the wide double doorway. The doors themselves, their thick
brass handles glinting in the light of the two oil lamps that flanked the
doorway, were still folded back against the wide timbers of the front wall,
almost as if daring the dark to enter.
I took a deep breath, feeling some of the
tension begin to leave me as I followed Isolde through the doorway.
A second set of doors, red oak like the
first, although half the thickness, swung open at her touch.
Within moments we all stood on an open
polished wood floor separating a parlor-like area from a wooden counter. Like
the doors, the counter was finished and smooth-planed red oak, without
ornamentation except for matching oak coping covering the corner joins. The
wood was protected by a dull varnish that radiated the gold of the lamps on the
wall. Right before us was a wide wooden stairway with a brownish-carpeted
runner covering most of the stairs themselves.
To
our left opened another archway, through which I could see a series of tables
covered in red checked cloths, with individual chairs drawn up to each table.
Behind the counter stood a gray-haired
woman with a cheerful smile. She said nothing as Isolde turned and looked us
over.
"Each of you has a single room. It has
been paid for. You may make other arrangements if you wish. We will have dinner
together in the small dining room which is behind the one you see on the left.
Meet there as soon as you are settled. You can leave your weapons in your
rooms. They will be safe there. Now . . . please check in at the counter."
Her words reflected long practice, and
while I was wondering how many groups she had escorted to Freetown, she had
already stepped up to the counter.
"We didn't think to see you again,
Magistra."
"The unexpected can change everyone's
plans." Isolde laughed an off-tone laugh. "Here's the normal."
Clink . . .
The momentarily-widened eyes of the woman
in the faded green blouse indicated that the payment was scarcely normal.
"Did you meet the new tax
collector?" asked the counter lady.
"Ah, yes. We also met the duke's new
and late champion."
"Oh, dear . . ."
"I doubt the duke's enforcers will be
here immediately, but I won't be staying after this group leaves tomorrow, not
this time."
"The new duties are unpopular, and
rumor has it that the Hamorian legate left Freetown rather suddenly. No ships
are likely to enter the harbor until some certainty is established." The
innkeeper raised her eyebrows slightly as she eyed Isolde.
"If Hamor is thinking of acting,
that's certainly true. No ships are likely to be seen."
I didn't frown, but I knew how Isolde was
leaving. The only question in my mind was what else she might be doing before
she left.
"Come on, Lerris. Don't gape. Step
up." Isolde had stepped aside without my noticing it.
"Ah ... a young blackstaff . . . I'll
bet the harbor guard didn't like that. Especially now."
"No ..." I looked at the open
ledger, which had a space only for each traveler's name-no country. Scrawling
down my single name beneath Isolde's, I started to step away.
"Here's your key, young man. Room
fifteen, second floor at the back."
The key hung from a brass square nearly the
size of my fist. I took it and headed up the stairs, not looking at anyone,
just trying to keep my staff from banging on the staircase railing posts.
I followed the upstairs carpeted hallway,
also lit by a set of oil lamps, to the back and number fifteen. Two doors stood
side by side-fourteen and fifteen. The key opened my door easily, without so
much as a squeak, then swung quietly closed at my touch.
Click.
The room held a double bed, a low
three-drawer red-oak dresser topped with an oak-framed mirror, a washbasin
table with towels, and a wardrobe. A braided rag rug covered the wide and
polished gold-oak planks from next to the bed to just before the dresser. The
single window was closed, flanked by cheerful red-checked curtains tied back
with thick white cords. A lamp over the low headboard lighted the room. The bed
was covered with a handmade red quilt showing a pattern of geometric
red-and-white snowflakes.
After hanging my cloak in the wardrobe, I
stripped off my tunic and rummaged through my pack.
The water in the basin was warm, and with
the small bar of soap, the razor from my pack, the water, and the heavy towel,
I did my best to make myself presentable.
The mirror showed me as clean-shaven,
tanned, reasonably decent-looking-but young, still too young to be doing what I
was going to have to do beginning in the morning.
Picking up the tunic and looking it over, I
decided it was still adequate. Slightly grimy, but wearable, and there wasn't
either the time or the place to wash it. So I put it back on, and used a
dampened corner of the towel to remove a few of the more obvious smudges.
As I placed the pack in the wardrobe, I had
to shake my head. The Travelers' Rest was definitely more than it seemed-the
sort of inn that probably only the very well-off could afford. The staff just
barely fit inside the wardrobe and only at an angle, but, Isolde's words to the
contrary, I didn't really want to leave it in plain view. The lorken was cool
to my fingers, reassuring me that at least I wasn't in the presence of overt
chaos, although that was scarcely likely with someone such as Isolde leading
us.
With a last look around the room, I picked
up the key, opened the doorway, and stepped out onto the hall carpeting and
almost into Krystal, who was backing out of her room.
"Oh . . . sorry," I apologized.
Clank. My key jangled against hers.
We both smiled, more from nervous relief
than from humor.
"Rather lovely quarters for us
outcasts," I observed.
"Lovely? I suppose."
"You don't think so?" For some
reason, I didn't want to walk away from her.
"Are you going to change what you are
because of lovely quarters?" Her voice was both soft and musical, more
relaxed than I had heard it.
She had me on that one, and I wondered why
I would listen to Krystal, and think about what she said, when if Tamra
questioned me I was ready to fight.
"What are you thinking, Lerris?"
"Oh ..." I didn't really want to
tell her. "Just . . . that I can listen to you, even when you raise
questions."
"I'll take the flattery." She
bestowed a soft smile on me.
Clink. Wrynn stepped from her room into the
hallway and looked at us.
"Are you two going to talk forever, or
can we get the sermon and have some dinner?" The blond looked at us, then
bent over and inserted her key into the room lock.
I decided not to follow Wrynn's example,
since I really doubted that locking the door made any difference in this
particular inn.
"Shall we go?" I asked Krystal.
"I suppose we should." She turned
and made her way down the hallway toward the stairs, the sword I had given her
still at her belt.
Sammel, Myrten, Dorthae, and Wrynn were
already seated at the rectangular table in the small dining room when we
arrived. The place at the head of the table had been left for Isolde.
I sat in the vacant chair at the foot of
the table. Krystal sat on my left and Myrten on my right. My other choice would
have been to the right of Isolde's chair. I left that for Tamra.
As I pulled out my chair, Isolde, face
washed and hair brushed, stepped through the archway from the main dining area.
Looking up, I nodded at her, receiving the barest inclination of her head in
return. She glanced up one side of the table and down the other side, pausing
as she stopped at the empty space left for Tamra.
Almost as if she had been waiting for the
notice, the redhead stepped through the archway.
Isolde's eyes flicked back to the rest of
us, without really looking at any of us. "This is the last place where you
can freely mention your origin," began Isolde, her hands resting on the
back of the red-oak chair at the end of the table. As when we had left the
Eidolon, she wore black, all black. Tunic, trousers, boots, belt, and neck
scarf. With the pale skin, she looked like a soldier-or worse. "Once you
step outside the walls of this inn, you are subject to local customs, thieves,
bandits, and soldiers-to mention the most obvious dangers.
"As a practical matter, the road outside
the main gates is generally safe for at least several kays into Candar, except
for petty theft and assault, which can happen just about anywhere."
"Except Recluce . . ." muttered
someone behind me.
"Except Recluce," affirmed
Isolde. "But for various reasons, you have all found Recluce too
confining, or Recluce has found you in need of the outside world. It is for
that reason that you will travel alone. You made your decisions alone, and you
must face the consequences alone, at least until you are ready to make your
final decisions. But you all know that.
"First ... I promised an update on
local conditions. As you discovered earlier, the duke has decided to use his
control of the port to attempt to raise more revenue. Most of the trading nations
are avoiding the port, and there will be more unrest in Freetown, enough that
you should probably consider leaving the area quickly. Spidlar and Hydlen have
taken over much of the trade, and the routes south of the West-horns to
Sarronnyn . . .
"Sligo, north of here, has suffered
unseasonable weather, including early snowfalls, and food is getting scarce . .
."
I couldn't help yawning, but I managed to
stifle it without it being too obvious. Krystal frowned, though.
". . . safe to travel in either Gallos
or Kyphros, but not from one to the other because of the increasing skirmishes
along their borders . . ."
Finally, she looked around the room.
"You have had enough lectures-"
I agreed with that wholeheartedly and hoped
she wouldn't be using that as a lever for yet another one. I was hungry.
"-And I won't be adding to
them-much."
I almost groaned.
"But there is one last thing to
consider. Those outside Recluce refer to their world, the rest of the world, as
the 'real world'. Candar will become your real world. If you die here, and some
of you may die, you will die, permanently. But Recluce is also a real world, in
many ways more solid than Candar. You have to decide which world is real for
you. Which reality, with all its rules-whether they are the rules of order, or
the mixed and changing rules of order competing with chaos-will be yours."
She gestured toward the archway through
which a serving boy brought a tray heaped with dishes. "Here is supper.
Afterwards, you may sleep in the rooms upstairs, or not, as you please. There
will be fruit and pastries here in the morning. You may leave when you please,
but you will all be out of the inn before sunset tomorrow. Those of you leaving
Freetown should not wait until the last minute. Someone is always robbed that
way. Given the current mood of the duke, I would not recommend staying in
Freetown, but that is indeed your choice, the first of many."
Abruptly, she stopped, then pulled out her
chair, -and sat. The plates came down upon the checked cloth, and the
innkeeper, appearing from nowhere, briskly set a glass before each of us.
"Wine or redberry ?"
"Wine," answered Tamra.
"Redberry . . ."
"Redberry . . ."
"Wine ..."
"Redberry," I answered, in turn,
watching as the liquid nearly filled the heavy tumbler, then smiling as Myrten
speared three chunks of steaming meat with a knife and deftly transferred them
to his plate.
We were all hungry, even Isolde, and little
enough was said until later, when Tamra sipped from her tumbler, then asked
brightly, "What will happen to the Duke of Freetown?"
Isolde looked up from her plate at Tamra.
Her face was expressionless even as she smiled. "Why . . . whatever will
be, will be."
"That's not exactly an answer,"
pressed Tamra.
"No. It is true and polite, and I will
be happy to discuss the matter with you in much greater depth once you return
from your dangergeld-assuming you choose to return and do not find Recluce too
confining." Isolde returned to cutting a sliver of buffalo from the slice
upon her plate.
Tamra glared, while the black magistra
ignored the redhead's impatience. I couldn't help smiling.
"You're amused?" mouthed Krystal.
After wiping the grin from my face, I
answered, trying to keep my voice low enough that it would not be heard over
the pleasantries being exchanged by Sammel and Dorthae. "Tamra has trouble
when people don't manipulate easily."
"Don't we all?"
I shrugged. Krystal was probably right, but
Tamra's whole attitude was to insist she was right and that the world should
recognize it.
"Good luck to you all." Isolde's
quiet tone stilled the small room. "From this point on, you are all on
your own. I hope to see you again, but that is your choice." She nodded,
turned, and walked out, the heels of her boots echoing faintly on the hardwood
floor as she crossed the empty main dining room.
"... abrupt . . ."
". . . typical of the masters . .
."
Rather than say anything, I gulped a
mouthful of redberry juice, then waited, looking to see who stayed and who
left, except that the table quieted, and we all ended up looking at each other.
"For all of the pleasant surroundings,
they still don't really care." Tamra's voice broke the silence.
I pulled back my chair. "I need some
sleep." I would have liked to talk to Krystal, but the thought of saying
anything with Tamra hanging on every word bothered me.
"It's early yet," complained
Myrten.
Nodding at the innkeeper, back behind the
counter, I took the stairs two at a time. I wasn't up to another argument, and
staying downstairs would have led to that. Besides, after the next morning, I
might never see any of them again, and I was getting tired of Tamra's attitude.
Then, it was clear she was tired of mine.
The door opened easily, and I stepped
inside. The room was just as I had left it, except darker, because the
blackness outside was absolute, with not even a single light showing anywhere
when I stepped to the window. The fog and clouds seemed thicker, but how could
I really tell?
. . . click . . .
As I sat on the edge of the soft bed and
pulled off my boots, I heard Krystal's door open and close, but no sound of
voices. Off came the tunic and trousers, and I reached up and turned off the
lamp.
With the quilt around me, I was asleep in
instants, although I thought I heard a faint knock on my door once, just as I
was dropping off; but I was too sleepy to get up and check, especially since it
was probably my imagination.
Still ... I wondered, but I dreamed of
neither red-headed girls nor of dark-haired women.
XIX
ONCE I
STEPPED outside the inn the next morning, I could sense more strongly what I
had felt the night before and what Isolde had alluded to in saying we would be
safe there without weapons. For all the faded blue paint on the shutters, the
weathered timbers and gray-painted plank walls, the building radiated order. No
barred windows, no heavy doors, no guards-just order. Enough order that it just
would not appeal to anyone bent on disorder.
The clouds and fog of the previous day had
vanished, except for higher puffy gray-and-white clouds that scudded quickly
across a bright-blue fall sky.
I looked at the inn again. The thick
shutters were supported by heavy iron hinges, with iron hasps for the sliding
locks that would be on the inside when the shutters were closed against weather
or other forms of attack. The iron was clean and black, the hinges clearly
functional. The red oak of the door had faded under the varnish to a grayed
gold that almost matched the big bronze door handles on the double doors that
were now folded back against the planks for the day.
From a timber projecting above the open
doors and perhaps two cubits below the second-floor window hung the neatly
painted sign-Travelers' Rest. The gray paving-stones were laid edge-to-edge
from the front wall to the curb, a distance of five cubits or less, and
stretched from one side of the building to the other. Already, the stones had
been swept.
Glancing up to the room where I thought
Tamra had slept, I could see a glimpse of red through the half-open window. But
the sea breeze gusting up from the harbor fluttered the fabric enough to tell
me it was only one of the bright red curtains. Then I looked toward the back of
the building, but Krystal's room window was around the corner. She had either
left earlier, or was still asleep.
I shrugged and shouldered my pack, which
didn't seem nearly so heavy as when I had left Wandernaught, and, after a last look
at the Travelers' Rest, turned my steps toward the livery stable that had been
listed on the wall behind the front desk of the inn. If I had to reach the
Westhorns, it wasn't going to be on foot, not unless I wanted to take years. A
thousand kays or more-I still resented Talryn's flat pronouncement. Someone
definitely wanted me out of Recluce for a while.
"Watch it, outlander!"
I dodged a thin man wearing a short cloak,
a ragged tunic not concealing a mail shirt underneath, and a short sword in a
battered scabbard. Then I smiled politely, and stepped aside. He stopped and
studied me.
I waited, shifting my hands on the staff
ever so slightly.
"Told you to watch it . . ." His
speech had a twang to it. Above his short gray-and-ginger beard, his face bore
large pockmarks. The odor of stale beer, dirt, and other assorted filth almost
forced me back another pace. "But you look like the peaceable type ... so
just hand over that pack."
I stood there for a moment, frozen, not
having expected an attack within a block of the inn.
"I said, hand it over!"
I smiled, moving the staff up into a
defensive posture. "I think you have the wrong person." I hoped my
voice didn't shake the way my knees threatened to.
"Ha!" His blade whistled out.
"Now! Let's have that pack!"
All I dared to do was wait. The sword edge
glittered even in the cloudy light of the morning.
"Be a shame to carve you up, outlander
. . ."
I would have liked to shrug, but I didn't,
instead watching his eyes.
Clunk. I blocked the short blade, knocking
it away.
"You do know how to use that staff a
little, but not enough . . ."
. . . clunk . . . clink . . . clunk . . .
The responses were nearly automatic as I
concentrated on anticipating his moves.
. .
. clunk . . . clink . . . clunk . . .
He wasn't nearly so good as Krystal or even
Demorsal. So I waited, parrying, turning the blade rather than meeting it
edge-on.
. . . clink . . . clink . . . clunk . . .
Sweat was pouring from his face, and he was
breathing hard.
. . . clink . . . clunk ...
Crack! . . . Whsssttt. . .
"Aiiieee . . . !"
Clank . . .
Suddenly, it was over. The small man, not
much above my shoulder, I realized, backed away from me, leaving the sword on
the dusty stones, clutching the back of his wrist where I had struck to disarm
him.
"Black bastard . . . witch spawn . .
." He did not move, but stayed well beyond the reach of the staff.
I didn't really know what to do. I didn't
want the sword. I really didn't want to hurt the man. He was more hungry than
evil, but I couldn't exactly turn my back on him.
"So ... up to trouble already,
Lerris?"
I recognized the voice, took a quick glance
over my shoulder to see Myrten strolling toward me. Even as I glanced back, the
man who attacked me was darting away down the street and twisting into an
alleyway on the right.
"That was stupid, youngster."
"What?" Still holding my staff
with one hand, I reached down and picked up the fallen sword. Just a plain
blade.
"Looking away from him. Good thing he
didn't have a throwing knife." Myrten wore a bright green tunic and dark
green trousers. His cloak was heavy dark-gray leather. Like me he carried a
pack, but his was half-slung over his left shoulder. He looked more like a
clean-shaven minstrel or a bard than the thief I felt he innately was. Two
large knives hung from his belt, but I could sense the small pistol under the
left-hand false knife.
I looked up the street. No one else had
followed us out of the inn. Myrten was right. I shrugged. "I didn't expect
something quite so soon."
"What you expect isn't what happens,
particularly when you get close to chaos." He half-laughed.
I shrugged. "Want the blade?"
"You could sell it," he suggested.
"Me?"
Myrten laughed again, a short bark.
"You're right. That would be more than a little out of character. I'll
sell it and split the profit."
That seemed more than fair. "Fine. But
where?"
"Let's just keep walking. There's
bound to be something." Myrten seemed much more at ease on the streets of
Freetown than in Nylan.
"What about-"
"We're not traveling together, and
we'll certainly leave Freetown separately."
At the next cross-street, Myrten stopped.
With dirt and clay packed over the paving stones and squarish mud-holes where
some stones were missing entirely, the street looked more like an alley
frequented by thieves or worse. Myrten nodded toward the left.
I frowned.
"It's early. Too early for the real
professionals." Myrten stretched his legs out, moving quickly, especially
for a man so short.
"What about our friend?"
"Him? He was just hoping for an easy
mark."
Most of the doors we passed were shut and
barred with cold iron. Iron doesn't have any magical power, despite the rumors.
It's effective because it takes so damned much chaos to break through it that
doing it isn't worth the effort. That was what Magistra Trehonna had said. It
made sense, I suppose, which was why swords still carried the day and firearms
were a novelty.
After we had traveled nearly fifty rods
down the narrow street, crossing yet another, wider street like the one on
which the Travelers' Rest was situated, Myrten slowed.
We stopped before a narrow storefront. The
planks were carefully painted in rust, and the shutters were black, trimmed in
the same rust color. A square iron hook the size of my fist held open the
iron-banded red-oak door.
"Norn's-Weapons" read the square
sign above the iron grate that covered the single narrow window.
"Shall we?" asked Myrten.
I tried to sense what sort of place Norn's
might be ... and failed. At least the shop did not radiate chaos. Neither did I
feel any underlying sense of order. "It feels all right."
Myrten hadn't waited for my assessment. So
I followed him inside, suspecting a neat and dark shop with rows of weapons
racked on dusty walls. I was wrong. The bright space inside, no more than ten
cubits wide, stretched back nearly twenty cubits, light conning from a high
roof that seemed more glass than timber. Ranged along the left wall were four
large cabinets, each standing open to display its contents.
First I checked the nearest cabinet-lightly
oiled, polished, with dovetailed and mitered corners, made of solid grayed oak,
originally probably red oak, with a tracery of fine lines bespeaking age. It
contained knives, even more varieties than I had seen in Gilberto's armory.
"May I help you?" The tanned and
white-haired man who waited by the second cabinet stood a half-head taller than
me. Spare, wide-shouldered, but his eyes seemed to twinkle.
I studied him for a moment-deciding that he
was indeed what he seemed.
Myrten, for some reason, looked at me. I
nodded.
"We were . . . bequeathed, as it were
. . . this blade."
The white-haired man smiled faintly.
"You're clearly from Recluce, and someone wanted to take advantage of you
early."
Myrten frowned.
"Why do you say 'clearly'?" I
asked.
"Your friend"-he gestured at
Myrten-"could be from Dirienza or even Spidlar. You, on the other hand,
would never seek out Freetown. A ship from Recluce ported yesterday, with
passengers staying at the Travelers' Rest."
I nodded. "It's that well-known?"
"Not quite that well-known, but known
among those who make their living that way."
Something about his speech tickled my
recall, but I couldn't place exactly why.
"About the blade . . ." prompted
Myrten.
"Oh, that? May I see it? You could set
it here." As he spoke, he pulled out a sliding shelf from the cabinet.
"By the way, my name is Dietre."
The cabinet's workmanship was first-rate,
since the polished flat wood scarcely whispered into place. Myrten set the
plain sword on it.
Dietre studied it carefully, then reached
toward the base of the cabinet and pulled a small pendulum from a narrow
drawer, adjusting it before letting it swing over the steel of the blade.
"Hmmmm . . . neutral, at least." He looked up. "Would you mind
if I pick it up?"
Myrten looked at me.
"No."
"You're either trusting or very
confident, young man." Dietre smiled.
"Myrten is good with his knives,"
I observed.
"I suspect you're better with that
staff, and I, for one, unlike the past owner of this blade, would not care to
test you." He held the blade lightly, moved it around, balanced it, and
then set it back on the wood. All his motions were deft.
I felt my earlier suspicions were
confirmed, but wondered how Myrten had known about the shop.
"Interested?" asked Myrten.
"It's a serviceable weapon. Nothing
more. Relatively untainted, but unordered." Dietre shrugged. "The
going rate for one of these is around a gold pence. My markup would normally be
two silvers. On the other hand, you probably saved Freetown some trouble by
handling this quietly, and I am the West Side councilor. Say, a gold
penny."
"Fair enough." Myrten didn't
hesitate on that, but he glanced at the third case, the one with the pistols.
"You have some interest in the
pistols? Firearms aren't much good except for hunting, and pistols are scarcely
the best for that." Dietre's tone was bemused as he lifted the blade and
slid the shelf back into the cabinet. "Take a look. I'd like to put this
up."
I raised my eyebrows. Most dealers would
scarcely have mentioned leaving customers with a set of weapons. Dietre had
some protection I hadn't detected.
The white-haired dealer walked toward the
back of the shop, where he laid the blade on a narrow workbench under a rack of
tools. Then he walked back to the third case where Myrten was studying the
weapons.
I ignored both of them, trying to figure
out the patterns of the shop itself, an island of concealed order in an almost
random section of Freetown. Behind the front door was a second archway, as
thick as the outer wall. A single plank covered the bricks or stones. The
framing pieces didn't overlap the plank edges, though.
How it worked, I wasn't sure, but it was
mechanical, and no one was about to leave the shop without Dietre's permission,
open and unprotected as the place looked. The cabinets fit the same
pattern-good solid workmanship that would have taken forever to break into once
they were closed. Impenetrable to casual chaos-use.
". . . three golds?" asked
Myrten.
"That's low."
I really didn't care about their
bargaining, but I did want my five silvers. Buying Krystal her blade had been
too impulsive, probably, and I realized that I could have used those golds. But
she needed a good blade. Tamra hadn't approved. I shook my head, wondering if
anything I ever did would meet with her approval.
"Three and half it is," agreed
Myrten.
I turned back to the two, waiting for the
settlement.
Myrten struggled to bring out some coins
from the guarded pockets in his belt. "Two and half to you, and I give the
five silvers to Lerris."
Dietre nodded, neither smiling nor
agreeing. "Whatever's easiest." He did not remove the pistol from the
cabinet.
Myrten gave me the five silver pennies
first, and I put them into the front pouch, the obvious one. Then he handed
five more to Dietre, followed by two golds. Dietre checked all the coins with
the pendulum.
"Chaos-counterfeiting?" I asked.
"You can never tell." Apparently
satisfied, he replaced the balance and walked toward the workbench. The coins
vanished into an iron box bolted to the bench. Then he walked back toward us.
"Is there anything else you need?"
"Not here," I answered.
Myrten just shrugged.
"Then . . . good luck, especially to
you, youngster. A lot of people don't like the blackstaffers, even young ones,
and there aren't ever enough of you to dispel the myths. Good day." He
turned back toward the workbench.
I looked at Myrten. He looked at me. Then
we left.
Outside, I stopped. "Is Cinch Street
the next one ahead?"
"Yes. If you can trust the map in the
inn. Good luck, Lerris." He turned back the way we had come, and I started
toward Cinch Street. The alleyway got narrower with each step, and the eaves of
the second floors seemed to lean down on me. A shadow fell across the stones
and refuse alike.
I started, then relaxed. A puffy white
cloud had scudded across the morning sun, and the shadow lifted almost as
quickly as it had fallen.
Outside of a beggar boy who scuttled behind
a refuse heap as I passed, I saw no one until I reached the next street-Cinch
Street. Myrten had been right.
Turning left, I started uphill. The slope
was gentle, but I had to watch my steps. Many of the reddish sandstone
paving-blocks had split or shifted out of place. Cinch Street had been added
later, and more cheaply. The paving-blocks in the unnamed alley-street had been
of granite and better placed, even though the way had been narrow and
neglected.
I marched perhaps a hundred rods, almost to
the top of the hill, before I reached the stable. "Felshar's Livery,"
proclaimed the weather-beaten sign carrying simple line drawings of a horse, a
saddle and bridle, and a squarish object that I gathered was a bale of hay. The
gray wood of the sliding plank door was pushed back.
After taking a deep breath, I stepped into
the building, a wood-planked passageway into an unroofed space. Underfoot was
hard-packed composite of clay, horse droppings, and who knew what else. In the
central court, a single swaybacked horse was hitched, without a saddle, on the
right side. At the far end was a smaller horse, a large and shaggy pony,
really.
Crraccckkk! A whip cracked toward the pony,
which lashed both rear feet toward the bearded man in faded gray.
The man ducked back from the hooves.
"Hamor take you!"
Wheee . . . eeeeiii!
An aura of hatred poured from the
liveryman, so strong that I could sense it without trying. I swallowed, then
called, "You there! Are you Felshar?"
". . . get yours later, beast . .
." muttered the man, as he coiled the whip and turned toward me. His
expression shifted to professed pleasure, but the hatred boiled underneath.
"Felshar will be back in a short time.
I'm Cerclas. How may I help you?" His voice was as slippery as the bottle
of leather-oil set beside the racked saddles by the tethered horse.
I shrugged. "I don't know that you
can. Thinking about a horse."
Cerclas smiled faintly, his eyes running
over my dark brown traveling clothes and cloak, noting the staff with a frown.
"Horses are dear this year."
I lifted my eyebrows. "Oh?"
"The drought in Kyphros, and the heavy
winter in Spidlar-they were hard on the stock, and few travelers returned with
mounts."
I nodded toward the swaybacked horse-a
nondescript grayish color. It looked gentle, unlike the small shaggy beast.
"That one?"
"Five golds." Cerclas shrugged.
"That's a steal. But feed is dear, too."
I really didn't want to deal with Cerclas.
The man smelled worse than the horses, and his eyes were bloodshot and kept
drifting to my pack. Like a lot of the traders who visited Nylan, he lied. But,
even with my growing awareness of order and chaos, I couldn't tell how much.
"There aren't that many travelers, and
there may not be any for a while. Your stable is nearly full." I was
guessing, but it seemed right.
"There are always travelers in
Freetown," observed Cerclas.
"What other mounts might you
have?" I walked toward the shaggy horse.
"A war-horse, a traveler, and some
others . . ."
For some reason I wanted to look at the
small horse. A welt the length of my hand lay across his flank, clearly raised
by the recent whipping. For the moment I merely noted it, trying to understand
why Cerclas had been so angry at the horse.
The animal was well-fed and untouched by
anything resembling chaos, unless it was far more subtle than I could detect.
Wheee. . . . eeeee . . .
I barely kept from jumping.
"Mean little bastard, isn't he?"
Cerclas stood by me. "If you don't know horses, stay away from ponies.
They're smart, and that makes them dangerous and mean. I can show you some
better mounts. In the stalls over on the right."
"All right." I let the liveryman
lead me toward the nearest stall, where a chestnut munched on hay from the manger.
"This one is a battle-trained gelding.
He'll stand up to anything."
I nodded. The chestnut seemed healthy,
well-treated, although there was something about him that bothered me . . . his
size? I wondered, looking up at his ears. Or something else? "How
much?"
"Fifteen golds."
That was a more honest price than the one
he had quoted for the swayback.
"What else?"
"Here we have a mare . . . good
traveler, but not nearly so good in a fight. Eight golds."
The mare was a blotchy-colored horse,
black-and-white patches across her body, with a short cropped mane. I liked her
less than the chestnut, and just nodded to Cerclas. "What else?"
He walked to the next stall, where a
hulking brown beast of a horse munched placidly on hay so dry it crackled.
"Plow-horse broken to ride. He's not much good in battle, gets nasty when
mares are around, but could carry 'two of you and your gear. He could also pull
a wagon if you needed it. Six golds for him. He's worth more, but there aren't
many caravans around this time of year, and he eats a lot."
We looked at three others, all broken-down
mares. I didn't like any of them and found my feet carrying me back toward the
central yard. As I stepped past the shaggy little horse, I could feel a sense
of Tightness about him, but kept moving toward the overpriced swayback.
Wheuuunnnn . . . The nag's whinny was
half-whine, half-groan.
I shook my head. I'd be lucky if the old
gelding made it much past the gates of Freetown.
"At five golds, he's a bargain,"
commented Cerclas.
"Is that what the glue works would
pay?"
Cerclas coughed into his tangled beard,
then straightened and fixed his glance on my staff. His eyes widened.
"He's a long way from the glue works, and you need transportation, I'd
venture."
"I do, or I wouldn't be looking at
horses. But even at two golds, this old fellow wouldn't get me halfway to
anywhere."
Cerclas shrugged, scratching the unkempt
gray-and-black thatch at the back of his head, then spat noisily on the clay.
"What about that undersized horse over
there?" I asked.
"That's not a horse. He's a mountain
pony, tough as they come. Felshar hasn't priced him."
I repressed a smile. That failure might be
enough. Walking over to the pony, but avoiding those effective hooves, I
stepped up toward his shoulder. While I was no judge of horses or ponies, he
seemed broader in the shoulders than some of the larger horses, and his legs,
while shorter, seemed sturdier.
"He might be able to carry me," I
let my voice ooze doubt.
"He'll carry you and another,"
admitted the liveryman, standing well behind me.
I touched a streak on the pony's flank.
Wheeee . . . The animal twitched, but did
not move away from me.
"These welts ..." I shook my
head. "Still . . . two golds?"
"Felshar hasn't priced him . . ."
I shrugged. "What good would it be to
price him? Most buyers wouldn't take him until these heal. Felshar would
certainly know that."
This time I could sense the uneasiness in
the liveryman.
"Three golds, if you throw in a
saddle, bridle and blanket."
"I don't know . . ."
I shrugged again. "Well ... I need to
check elsewhere, then . . ."
Cerclas scratched his head and spat again.
"Felshar wouldn't complain too much if I got four ... I don't suppose
..." He stepped closer to the pony.
Wheeeee . . . eeee . . .
The liveryman stepped back.
"Let's see the saddle and bridle first
. . ."
In the end, I paid more than I had to,
three golds and seven silvers, but I got a decent saddle and blanket. The
bridle wasn't a bit-type, but a choker, sort of a hackamore. But I had the
feeling that the force of the bridle wasn't going to matter much anyway. If I
couldn't persuade that pony to do something gently, he wasn't about to be
forced.
The only other sticky point was the chit.
"I never learned my figures. Felshar
does that."
"Fine. I'll write it up and you put
the chop on it." I'd seen the chop hanging next to the boxes where the
chits were lying.
"How do I know . . ."
I held up the staff. "Everyone knows
if you carry this, you don't lie. I couldn't afford to. The price is too
high."
At the sight of the staff, he stepped back.
"I don't know . . ."
"Felshar knows you don't cheat a
blackstaffer, and that they don't cheat you. Maybe you didn't get an outrageous
profit, but you got a fair price, and you're getting rid of some trouble."
I looked pointedly at the pony's flank.
"... suppose . . . wouldn't hurt . .
."
That was how I ended up riding down Cinch
Street toward the gates of Freetown. The old lance cup, with the addition of a
strip of leather, was adequate enough to hold my staff, although I had a
tendency to lurch in the saddle perilously close to the dark wood when I wasn't
paying attention.
The pony's name was Gairloch. I knew that
when I touched him to saddle him. He did try and puff out his belly, but,
following Cerclas's instructions, I kneed him, not very hard, and not nearly so
hard as Cerclas recommended, to get him to let out his breath.
Don't ask me how I knew his name, but I
did. That bothered me, but there wasn't much I could do about it.
Surprisingly, Gairloch didn't rock all that
much, and the old saddle was broken in enough that it wasn't too stiff. The straps
and girths had been replaced recently, and I had checked the stitching and
rivets to make sure they were solid, but the seat looked like it had weathered
more than a few caravans.
If Gairloch were as adept on the trail as
he was in avoiding city potholes, I would be better off than I had hoped-
although, as I looked overhead, we might be getting wet sooner than I had
hoped.
The early morning gray-and-white puffs of
cloud were darkening and thickening as Gairloch bore me onto the worn but even
gray stones leading to the city gate. The walls were scarcely impressive,
rising only about twenty cubits. Two squarish towers, each with crenelated
parapets too small to be very useful, framed the gate. Graying and iron-bound
timbers comprised the city gate itself, a gate that waited in a recess in the
walls behind the towers. A stone bridge spanned the space between the towers.
When closed, the gate sat in a stone groove and was backed with stone on all
sides, making it difficult, if not impossible, to batter down. But any attacker
would have gone for a less defended point on the low walls in any case.
Set toward the city from the walls was a
stone hut, and outside the hut waited a pair of guards. As I watched, a small
cart, pulled by a swaybacked horse that could have been a mate to the one I had
seen at Felshar's, rocked over the stone gate groove and onto the pavement by
the guard hut.
The rear guard waved the cart, driven by a
woman with straggly hair and a hooked nose, toward the other side of the
roadway. "Over there. Don't take the whole road!"
Whstt-chuck. The long reins clacked, and
the cart lurched slightly away from us.
"Halt!"
The other guard stopped looking bored as he
took in my dark cloak and the pony.
"Where'd you get that horse,
boy?"
"Felshar's, officer." There was
no sense in being nasty to the man. Besides, he was bigger than me, and, if
paunchy, probably could use the sword that one hand rested upon.
"Any way to prove that?"
I shrugged. "I have a bill of sale
with Felshar's chop." Then I touched the staff, which was faintly warm to
my ungloved fingertips. "And, besides, would I lie about it?"
His eyes moved to the staff, widened like
Cerclas's eyes had widened, then moved to my face.
"You're young for that . . ."
"I know. They've been telling me that
since the spring." I unfolded the thin parchment from my belt. "If
you'd care to look . . ."
The look on his face-that, and the fury
behind his eyes-warned me.
Clang . . . thwackt...
. . . whsssstff ...
"... Aiiiee . . . thief!"
Somehow, I had managed to stuff the
parchment into my belt and grab the staff from the holder quickly enough to
knock aside his sword even before he positioned himself. The second tap-and it
was scarcely more than that-was to his cheek, but the brand was instantaneous.
Gairloch didn't wait for my heels in his
flank, but began to trot, then gallop, through the still-open gate. The gate
couldn't be closed, not in the instants Gairloch took me past the second guard
and through the gate gap in the wall.
Cloppedy, cloppedy, doppedy . . .
Gairloch's hooves rang on the stones, and I dropped the reins and grabbed his
mane with my right hand, trying to keep from hitting anyone with the staff,
hanging on as we careened down the causeway.
"Look out!"
"Runaway horse!"
"Thief! Traitor!"
A set of peddlers scrambled off the
causeway into the mud-filled trench on the right, and Gairloch angled around a
slow-moving wagon pulled by a single plodding horse which barely lifted its
head. I could have reached out and touched the dusty harness, so close did we
pass.
The traffic on the causeway probably saved
us from an arrow in the back, but by the time we cleared the causeway where the
day's incoming produce and shoppers all funneled toward Freetown, we were out
of range of all but the strongest of crossbows, assuming any were ready and in
place on the guard-tower parapets.
The clippedy-clop of Gairloch's hooves
changed to a muted drumming as he carried me along the packed clay of the
highway. No stone roads or highways in Freetown, it seemed. We galloped past a
crossroads, which carried more traffic than the road we traveled, and kept
heading into Candar.
Before too long, I reined in Gairloch, keeping
in the middle of the road, which was surprisingly firm considering the
continuing rain and dampness of the night before. Gairloch dropped to a trot,
then a walk.
"Good horse." I thwacked him on
the shoulder, careful not to touch the welt raised by the liveryman.
Whnufff. . .
"I didn't like them much either."
I glanced at the causeway and the dark spot
that marked the gate. Nothing seemed to have happened. No other horses had
followed us. The intermittent stream of people, horses, and wagons still headed
up the stone pavement toward the city.
Then I realized I was still holding the
staff in my hand. The wood had cooled until it was no longer warm to my touch.
Half of the leather thong I had used to tie the staff in place was missing,
ripped in two when I had grabbed for the staff to defend against the guard. I
replaced the staff in the lance cup, tying it in place with the remaining
leather.
Looking from the staff to the road, my eyes
fixed on the rectangular stone post by the road. "Hrisbarg-40 K"
proclaimed the weathered stone.
I let go of Gairloch's mane and
straightened up in the saddle, chucking the reins lightly as we headed down the
rise on the road to Hrisbarg.
Already it had been more of a day than I
had planned. Assaulted by a thief, attacked by the duke's gate guard and
probably declared a criminal in Freetown-all in the first day. I didn't know
where I was going, except I knew that Hrisbarg was where I had to go first
before I could get to the roads leading to the Easthorns and eventually the
Westhorns.
Would the Freetown guards spread the word?
Or would they take it out on the other dangergelders? Or had the others left
while I had been haggling with Cerclas to get Gairloch?
My guts wrenched a little, wondering if I
could have left Freetown without causing so much of an uproar. I shrugged,
knowing I couldn't undo what I had done, but also knowing I might end up paying
for it somehow, some way, when I really didn't want to. So Gairloch and I
started the long walk toward Hrisbarg.
Thrummmm . . . thrummm . . .
Above us, the clouds thickened and rumbled,
promising more rain.
XX
THE MAN
IN white smiles, a warm and reassuring smile that spreads through the coldness
of the public room, which the dying embers in the dark hearth barely warm.
"Innkeeper! Could we have some warmth?"
As the woman in gray leathers watches from
the dark corner table, a heavy-set man lumbers forward. He wears shapeless
leather trousers, a worn brown tunic, and a soiled linen apron over which
protrudes a sagging gut. "Your lordship, there's no wood and no coal,
naught but the little we got on the grate. The black bastards cut us off, and
there's none to be had for us working folk."
A hissing whisper of agreement wafts across
the scattering of men and the few women who huddle at the tables closer to the
near-dead embers on the hearth.
"Bring me some stones, then."
"Stones?"
"Yes, stones. You wish to warm your
inn, do you not?"
Confusion and hope war upon the innkeeper's
face, but he retreats from the still-smiling man in white, who turns to the
veiled woman beside him and says something in a voice low enough that not even
the hovering serving-girl can catch the words.
At the kitchen door, the innkeeper motions,
then speaks quickly to the pregnant girl who responds. He remains by the
doorway, surveying the dim and chilly room.
In the shadows, the redhead in gray leans
forward and the hood of her cloak slips back, revealing the clean lines of her
face and the fire of her hair.
A thin-faced man grins through his straggly
beard and eases from his seat toward the table where his prey waits. His hand
touches the hilt of the sharp knife at his belt.
Even before he has reached the shadows, the
redhead has turned toward the thin-faced man.
"You look like you need a man."
His voice is ingratiating.
"In that case, you aren't the
one."
Only the dark-eyed and veiled woman who
sits beside the man in white watches as the thin man edges toward the redhead.
"Uppity wench, aren't you?"
"No. Just pointing out the
obvious." Her voice is cool, detached, and her eyes go right through him.
Oblivious to the confidence behind her
words, he reaches for the empty chair.
"I didn't invite you to join me,"
she observes.
"Don't need no invitation." He
leers and begins to sit.
Her staff and foot move simultaneously.
Cruump . . . Both chair and bearded man
crash to the gritty plank floor.
"Bitch!" His hand reaches for the
knife.
Before he can reach her, she is standing,
dark staff in hand.
Thud . . . crack . . . thump . . .
He pitches forward onto the floor.
The innkeeper lurches from his post by the
kitchen door. "There'll be no fighting . . ."
"You're right. There will be no
fighting," declares the redhead. "When this idiot wakes up, tell him
to be more careful." She stands while the innkeeper drags the unconscious
man toward the doorway, then resumes her seat to finish the bread and cheese
upon her table.
Across the room, the dark-eyed woman nods
and leans toward the man in white. In turn, he nods and smiles.
Shortly, the pregnant kitchen-maid
struggles to the hearth with a basket full of dripping stones, looking from the
innkeeper to the man in white. "The stones you wanted, your
lordship."
"Stack them on the grate, if you
would."
The girl complies, her eyes darting from
the slender lord in white to the hulking innkeeper.
"Thank you, girl. Here."
Her eyes widen as she takes the silver, but
she inclines her head as she covers the silver and thrusts it into the hidden
pocket in her wide belt. "My thanks, your lordship."
The man in white stands and turns to those
at the tables. "All of you are cold. Would you like some warmth?" His
fingers point at three figures at a table near the wall.
"I can tell you have come in from the
winter rains. The warmth is on me." He turns and gestures toward the
stones, cold and damp upon the grate.
HSSSSSSSSSSssssss! A flare of white sears
from the grate.
Even the redhead in the shadows winces, and
a hush drops over the tables.
When the brightness fades, steady coals
glow from the heap of coal that has appeared on the grate, and the warmth
begins to radiate across the public room.
The dark-eyed and veiled woman rises and
walks toward the redhead's table.
"Lord Antonin and I would like to
invite you to join us," she offers.
The redhead cocks her head, thinking.
"Why?"
The dark-haired woman looks at the staff
and smiles pleasantly. "Should we discuss it here?"
"I suppose not," answers the
redhead with a wry smile as she stands and follows the dark-haired woman.
"I am Sephya, and this is Lord
Antonin," offers the veiled woman as she resumes her seat.
"Be our guest," offers Antonin.
"Why?" asks the redhead.
"Why not?" he answers. "You
doubtless have some questions, and we may be able to provide some of the
answers."
As the redhead eases the battered chair
toward the table, she studies Sephya. Despite a fine figure, the veiled woman
is older than she had first looked, with fine lines radiating from the corners
of her eyes and the color in her face supplied by rouge.
"Why don't you start by explaining why
you flaunted your power? And why you invited me to join you?" Her tone is
half-humorous, half-sharp.
"A deed is a deed. Do you believe that
appearances can really deceive, young lady?"
"Go on," suggests the redhead.
"Actions speak louder than words.
There are those here who shivered from cold. Did the righteousness of Recluce
warm them? Will the innkeeper feed his fire for them from the goodness of his
heart?"
"That is a well-used argument,
Antonin. One good action does not make a man good. Nor does a single wrong
action make a good man evil."
The
outside door opens, and a gust of wet chill air momentarily disperses the
warmth from the hearth-until the door closes with a thud.
"Actions do speak louder than
words," Antonin insists, his voice melodious. "Tell me why it is
wrong to warm those who are cold."
"I don't like answers that are
questions. How about a straight answer?" The redhead looks toward the back
wall and the door.
Antonin shrugs, as if to deplore such
directness, then looks her in the eye. "What use is a good thought if it
does not translate into good action? I'm sorry," he grins. "Let me
rephrase that. The purists of the world of magic, such as the Masters of
Recluce, believe that the form of magic determines whether it is good or evil.
They insist that the use of chaos-magic to warm those who would die of cold or
to feed those who would starve contributes to evil. I cannot accept that
reasoning. Is not a human life worth more than a label?" He shrugs again.
"I ask you to think about that. Think about the beggars you saw in the
cold streets outside. In the meantime, share our meal."
"And?"
Antonin smiles warmly. "I have certain
business with the duke. If you're interested in working with us, I will be in
Hydolar in somewhat less than an eight-day from now. At the Grande Loge. Either
meet us there, or leave a message."
He takes a slice of meat from the platter
and nods toward the empty plate before her. "You need to see more of
Candar, and to reflect upon what you would do with your abilities. Enough of
talk. Enjoy the meal."
The redhead glances from Sephya to Antonin,
but no glances have passed between the two, nor have any of the twisted
energies that she has seen in Recluce. Shortly, she spears a slice from the
platter, and the three eat.
XXI
COMPARED
TO THE High Road of Recluce, or even to the lesser East-West Highway, the way
from Freetown to Hrisbarg seemed little more than a narrow lane. Straight, but
narrow. Right outside Freetown the road had split, going north, south, and
west, and I had taken the one road that had not paralleled the coast.
Hard-packed clay comprised the center of
the road, perhaps as wide as a farm wagon. The years of travel had created a
surface that seemed to resist the light rain, at least in the center of the
roadway. Heavy ruts and churned ground surrounded the hard-packed and level
central section of the highway.
I had tried to unstrap my cloak from the
top of my pack while riding and had almost fallen off Gairloch in the process,
saving myself with a desperate grab at the front edge of the saddle.
Whheeee . . . uhhhh . . .
"All right ... I'm sorry . . ."
So I reined to a halt in the middle of the road, looking behind again. We had
covered more than five kays without seeing any pursuit, and the rain was threatening
to change from a fine drizzle into something heavier.
As I clambered off Gairloch, the insides of
my legs twinged. After only a fraction of the distance we would have to travel,
my body was protesting, not exactly a promising sign.
Thrummmm . . . Overhead the clouds
continued to darken, threatening more than mere drizzle. Behind the tumbled
stone walls beside the road, the meadow grasses bore only a tinge of green amid
the tan of the end of the season. The washed-out brown of the long scraggly
blades at the base of the wall testified to more than casual rain, as did the
puddles in the middle of the unmowed field beyond. At the base of some of the
grasses were blackened stalks, showing rot from the continual rain.
The stony outcroppings even in the middle
of the fields, the shorter grasses on the other side of the wall, and
occasional breaks in the walls and the trampled hoofprints leading across the
road from one wall break to another, all pointed toward the fields as sheep or
cattle pasture. I had seen neither, unless a few grayish blurs to the south
were scattered sheep or goats.
Thrummmm . . . thrumm . . .
Splatt . . . splattt . . . The cold
raindrops on my head prompted me to complete my recovery of the cloak and to
replace the pack behind the saddle.
My legs twinged again as I climbed back
onto Gairloch.
"Let's go."
Wheee . . . eeee . . .
Thrummm . . . thrumnmm . . .
Splattt. . . splatt. . .
Things were going just wonderfully. After
being assaulted, threatened by a city guard and having to flee, we were now
headed through a cold and miserable rain to a town I knew nothing about, on the
way through more towns about which I also knew nothing, in order to reach and
cross two mountain ranges I had no great desire to reach, let alone cross.
Wheeee . . . eeeee . . ,
Ahead, a shapeless lump appeared on the
road, resolving itself into a coach drawn by a pair of huge horses. From a
short pole beside the driver, who was covered from head to foot with a hooded
and shiny gray slicker, drooped a reddish flag.
I looked for the less muddy side of the
road, and nudged Gairloch toward the right onto a patch of grass that rose
above the churned road-edge mud.
"Geee-haaaa!"
Crack!
A chill accompanied the coach, almost like
a cold wind, that blew softer, yet colder, as it approached.
Crack!
"Gee-haaa!"
The hoarseness and the mechanical nature of
the coachman's call twisted every nerve in my spine as the coach rumbled along
the level center of the road toward me.
The coach itself was of polished white oak,
varnished heavily until it was nearly gold, supported not by iron springs, but
by heavy leather straps. Even the axles and wheels were totally of wood. Yet
the coach's workmanship could not be obscured by the mud streaks upon the wood
or by the mist and water droplets which sprayed from it on its headlong journey
toward Freetown.
"Gee-haaa!" The coachman never
looked aside as he drove past.
Behind the coach rode two men, seated side-by-side
on chargers that mirrored the chestnut gelding I had seen at Felshar's. All the
horses moved at a quick trot, as fast as seemed possible for a longer trip.
Both soldiers wore the shiny gray slickers
like the coachman's, but shorter, more like jackets that allowed them to use
either their white lances, secured in holders like the battered lance cup which
held my shorter staff, or the whitescabbarded swords they bore.
The soldier closest to me glanced from
under the hood, but his scrutiny was mechanical, as though he had not even
really seen me, or as though he had seen a figure and passed on that
information as he watched-although his mouth did not appear to open.
For the moment that the coach passed,
midday seemed more like a stormy night. Then all that remained was a
dissipating sense of disorder, the soft rumble of the wheels fading away, and a
hoarse "gee-haaa!"
I shook myself and chucked the reins,
hoping that Isolde had completed whatever she had to do and had found the black
ship that doubtless waited unseen somewhere near the harbor.
Tamra-I hoped her procrastination hadn't
left her open to the chaos-wizard that had ridden in the white-oak coach, but
there wasn't much I could do. Not then. I swallowed, wiped the water off my
forehead, and watched the road, noting absently that the coach's passage had
left only the faintest of indentations on the road.
Splatt . . . splatt . . . The cold rain
gusted in icy drops from an ever-darker sky, and I looked for some sort of
shelter, but the road stretched straight ahead, level, for at least another
five kays, bordered by the same tumbled stone fences, the same withered
grasses, and the same distant and scattered sheep. Not one house nor homestead
had I seen since crossing that first hill outside of Freetown. Yet the sheep
indicated that someone lived somewhere-and that said that no one wanted to be
close to the road I traveled. I shivered again.
Wheeee . . . eeeee . . . Gairloch tossed
his head and droplets flew back onto my cloak and face.
"I know . . . it's cold and wet. But
there's no place to stop."
Wheeeee ...
"No place. Nowhere . . ."
So we kept plodding along the road.
No wagons, no more coaches, and a steady
beating flow of water from overhead. Finally, when my cloak was nearly soaked
through, its treated leather heavy on my shoulders, we reached the first low
hill at the end of that near-deserted meadow valley. By then, the rain had
eased to a mere chilling mist.
Some scattered pines bordered the road, and
the stone walls lapsed into tumbled low piles of rock. On the hilltop, more of
a hillock really, sat another pile of stones, the remnants of what had clearly
once been an extensive farm or estate.
There was no immediate sense of chaos or
disorder, only a feeling of age . . . and maybe under it all some sadness,
although my father, Kerwin, and Talryn would all have assailed me for ascribing
an emotion to a description of order or its lack thereof. At least Gairloch
couldn't comment on sloppy logic.
From that second hill, the terrain became
less ordered and more wild, with hills covered mainly with pines, although a
few gray oaks, their leaves turning yellow-brown, were scattered along the
lower reaches of the hills, especially near the few permanent streams. While
there were countless brooks and streams flowing with rainwater, only one even
approached looking like it had cut a permanent channel.
Again, I shivered. Whatever it was, as
miserably normal as the rain and the surroundings seemed, the cause of the rain
was not precisely natural. Why, I couldn't say; but that the extent of the rain
was unnatural was clear, even while I could detect no sign of chaos.
The water was natural. Gairloch enjoyed
lapping it up from several of the brooks, but when I stopped to let him graze,
he did not seem particularly interested in the straggly grass. So I pulled
myself back into the saddle and finished munching on the travel bread I had
brought from the Travelers' Rest.
The other unnatural thing was the road
itself, which ran straight where it could and curved gently when it could not
and climbed gradually if neither straightness nor curves were possible. Once
Gairloch and I had passed through the lower hills, in the higher hills the road
narrowed not a jot. Nor did the grade steepen. The sides of the hills seemed
planed away at a gentle angle, without the overhanging boulders or outcrops I
had half-expected to see.
In time, I almost struck my forehead.
". . . wizard's road ... of
course!" Magistra Trehonna had mentioned that there were some in Candar,
but I hadn't paid much attention to the details. She was even more boring than
Talryn.
Wheee . . . eeee . . . added Gairloch.
While I wasn't that good at extending my
senses, particularly in the rain, once I realized what might be there I could
almost feel the hard white stone pavement under the packed clay.
I shook my head as the light dimmed, and
Gairloch plodded downhill toward a few scattered lights that the intermittent
stone posts had led me to believe might be Hrisbarg.
Three or four kays short of the town the
road forked, and a large arrow roughly chiseled into a stone post twice the
size of most distance stones pointed down the right-hand branch. Above the
arrow were the letters HSBG.
The left-hand road continued straight,
without lights or dwellings nearby, toward the next line of hills. Only a line
of coach tracks indicated that the road was ever used.
After the turn, the remainder of the route
to Hrisbarg was churned, muddy, and, in parts, required near-fording of the
streamlets that meandered across the excuse for a road that we traveled. I
almost wished we had stayed with the wizard's road, gloomy as it was, that had
arrowed straight into the hills-especially after it began to rain again, the
cold pelting flow that quickly resoaked my cloak.
Wheee . . . eeeee . . . eeuuhhh . . .
"I agree. But do we really have any
options?"
Gairloch was silent on that point.
The first huts we came to were roofless,
dark, and deserted. Then came huts with roofs, if apparently deserted. Finally
Gairloch set his hooves on the thoroughly-churned mud of central Hrisbarg.
The main street in Hrisbarg seemed to
consist of equal sections of puddles and mud. Instead of stone pavement, or
even stone walks with storm drains, they used mud. The stores were fronted with
raised plank walkways. Some had posts and steps for tying carriage horses or
single horses, but most just had plain planks slapped down.
Even in the drizzle, I could see the
woodwork of those walks was abysmal-green wood, rough spiking, not even a
rudimentary effort to keep the walking surface level.
Whhffffff . . .
Gairloch shook his head and consequently
his mane, spraying pony-scented water all over my cloak and face. The cloak was
designed for it. My face wasn't. My obvious belt pouch had several silvers
remaining, enough for a night at an inn and a stable for Gairloch-particularly
after the day we had completed and the kind of night it was turning out to be.
One or two stores had oil lamps in front,
but Hrisbarg lacked street lamps as such. Even with my excellent night vision,
I was having trouble, what with the drizzle and the strangeness of Candar.
Whhhhhuffff. . .
Another sound of disgust from Gairloch and
another, finer, spray of water flipped across me.
"All right . . . we'll try to find an
inn ... or something . . ."
I began to look in earnest, although I also
kept my eyes open for signs of the road to Hewlett. The Brotherhood had been
singularly unhelpful with the directions that I needed to spend a full year in
Candar and pass through Hewlett to the cities beyond.
After all, I mean, was my dangergeld just
to spend time in Candar and pass through Hrisbarg and Hewlett and get to the
Westhorns? Not bloody likely. If they hadn't been so deadly serious, it could
have been a joke. And, once again, no one told me anything I couldn't figure
out first-except why Talryn had been so insistent on my getting to the
West-horns.
Down
a lane to my left I saw a faded sign with what looked like an "H" and
some sort of howling creature. Outside of a few dark buildings on the corner
and some small cottages huddled further down the road, I could see nothing. Nor
did I feel anything. Certainly no inns, road houses. So I kept Gairloch headed
toward the far end of Hrisbarg.
The sign read "The Silver Horse."
Predictably, since apparently no one in Candar besides the merchants and the
clergy could read, under the letters was a horse, badly painted, with flaking
silver paint that looked gray in the rain.
With a chuck of the reins, I nudged
Gairloch toward the slope-roofed and weathered building next to the inn.
"Uffffff . . ." My legs almost
collapsed under my full weight.
"Sir?" Standing there was a
stableboy not much taller than my elbow.
"Do I pay you or the inn?" I
asked.
"It's three pence a night, five with a
separate stall, oats, and a full manger."
I handed him a penny even before I touched
the rolled-up pack. "That's for you to take special care of my
horse."
"Yes, sir." The youngster stepped
back.
"Which stall?"
"You could have the one under the
eaves there . . . ?"
I got the message. If I took the one with
low headroom, none of the bully boys with the big horses would bother him. And
Gairloch didn't need the extra space as much as being left to rest and feed.
"That's fine." I led Gairloch
there myself, letting the dark-haired youngster open the half-door, as much to
keep him away from the staff that could have been a lance in the dim light of
the single covered tin lamp that hung from the beam by the doorway.
Before even starting to unsaddle Gairloch,
I removed the staff and tucked it under the straw by the outside wall. No one
but someone attuned to order/chaos forces would notice it, and it wouldn't be
that much good to me against an accomplished chaos-master anyway.
"I can help you," offered the
boy.
I didn't protest as he unstrapped the
saddle, since Gairloch didn't seem to mind, merely whuffing and shaking his
head. Besides, the youngster's hands were far defter than mine, and my legs
were still shaking.
With Gairloch mainly settled, and the
saddle and blanket racked to dry, I was ready to try The Silver Horse itself.
My leg muscles spasmed as I limped across the muddy courtyard to the inn. Faint
light glimmered through the small leaded windowpanes facing the stable.
The open outer door was of rough pine,
covered with peeling white paint. The inner door, which I checked as I pushed
it open, was of good red oak, but the varnish was worn and cracking and the
hinges had been reset too many times. It took some time for me to wipe all the
mud off my boots using the worn rush mats, but I managed, not that it mattered
much. The floor was scarred and stained wood, with dirt-heaps in the corners.
Inside, only one of the lamps in the narrow
hall was lit, and it smoked and flickered.
"Hello, the inn ..." I called.
A muffled voice answered from somewhere.
". . . coming . . ."
". . . At this hour?" questioned
another voice, sharper than the first, and nearer.
Waiting, I looked around the inn. On my
right, through a square opening the size of a double door, was a dining area,
and the faint glow of coals glinted from the stone fireplace. On the left I
noted a small sitting area with three wooden benches covered with oblong
cushions. A second wall lamp, damped low, illuminated the sitting area. The
bench backs were spooled and unpadded. In the center of the benches stood a
battered low wooden table, used primarily as a boot-rest, if the indentations
on the table edge were any indication.
As in Freetown and on the road, travelers
seemed few indeed.
"Yes?"
The voice was the sharp one and belonged to
a waspish lady dressed in a faded brown dress and stained yellow apron. Her
face was clean, if angular, and her silver-streaked hair formed a neat bun at
the back of her head.
'How much for a room, and some
supper?" My voice was hoarse, rough from the wet and cold.
The eyes raked over me. "A silver a
night." She paused, and the dark vulture eyes took in my soaked cloak.
"Paid in advance. That includes bread and cheese in the morning. Dinner is
extra-what's available on the bill of fare. Not much is left tonight."
After fumbling with the obvious front
pouch, I produced a silver and five coppers. "For me and for my
horse."
Part of the vulture look vanished as she
took the coins. "You rode in this weather?"
"It seemed like a good idea when I
started. Freetown wasn't a place I wanted to stay. Then there wasn't any place
to stop, and ..." I shrugged.
The woman glanced at the door, then back to
me. "Hrisbarg is part of the duchy, and Majer Dervill likes to stop
here."
I got the message. "Travelers don't
always know the local weather, madam, and I was just hoping for a warm inn and
some hot food."
"We can help there. Just go in and sit
down. Annalise will see to you shortly. Unless you want to see a room
first?"
"I think I'd like to see the room. At
least to lay out the cloak and dry out."
"Clean towel and basin are another
copper."
"Two towels, with fresh water in the
morning," I countered.
She smiled. "In advance."
So I paid another penny, wondering if I
should have asked for a chit, but deciding against it. The towels were thick
and clean, both of them, if a shade gray, and the basin held clean lukewarm
water.
The room itself was barely large enough to
hold the sagging double bed and battered red-oak wardrobe. The bed had a single
coarse sheet over an even lumpier-looking mattress, covered with a heavy brown
blanket. A wall sconce held a single scrawny candle that the thin innkeeper had
lit from her lamp.
The door had no lock, but with so few
guests I decided to risk my cloak and pack for the moment.
When I returned to the dining area, another
body sat at the table closest to the fire, a man in a dark blue uniform and a
posture that was arrogant even while slouched at the table and cradling a mug
of something.
I
took a wall table for two on the other side, not quite so close to the fire.
After a casual look at me, the soldier took
another deep swallow from the mug. "Annalise!"
"A moment, please," returned the
pleasant voice I had heard but not seen earlier.
I stretched out, enjoying the warmth of the
room and beginning to feel more human and less chilled.
"Thank you, Herlyt. I didn't know we
had another customer." The blond girl, probably not even my age, nodded to
the soldier.
"But ..." She ignored him and
walked straight to my table, long blond braids swinging at her shoulders.
"Good evening, sir. I'm afraid the larder is a little low tonight. We
still have some bear stew, and a pair of chops, I think. Wheat or corn bread,
and stewed spice apples. Also some white cheese." The open smile displayed
strong if uneven white teeth. The open low collar of the peasant blouse showed
some other strong features, especially as close as she stood. "Which is
better, the chops or stew?"
"The stew," called Herlyt.
"Take the stew. Those chops have been heated every night for a week. Get
me another mug, Annalise."
Annalise raised her eyebrows, then nodded
faintly. "I'll try the stew, cheese, apples, and a few slices of wheat
bread. What is there to drink?"
"Mulled cider, hard beer, Largo wine,
and redberry."
"Redberry."
"Real drinker you got there, Annalise.
Real manly fellow." Annalise shrugged as if to dismiss the soldier. Then
she grinned. "Would you like anything else?"
"Not right now, thank you." I
managed not to grin back at her, but she had asked.
Before turning from me, she wiped any
expression from her face. Then she retrieved the mug from the soldier.
"Another hard beer?"
"What else? That's all you'll ever
provide, and I still have to pay for it." The bearded man stared at the
fire as tentative flames hissed over a pair of green logs.
Annalise disappeared through an open door
into what I took to be the kitchen, reappearing with two mugs almost without
leaving my sight.
Thump. Herlyt's mug arrived without a word
from the girl. "Here you are, sir." My mug came with a plate that
held cheese and wheat bread. "Are you from Hewlett, Eagle's Nest, or
Freetown?"
The stiffened position of the soldier
alerted me.
"I guess I'd have to say not any of
them. Came down the coast road and decided not to stay in Freetown with all the
rain and gloom. They told me there were no ships anyway."
The soldier relaxed fractionally, and the
girl nodded. "That's a long ride."
I grinned. "It's a cold ride."
Then I sipped the redberry, breaking off some cheese to go with a chunk of the
wheat bread.
As I ate, forcing myself to take each bite
slowly, she withdrew to the kitchen, and the soldier retreated into his mug.
"Sir . . . ?"
An enormous steaming bowl appeared in front
of me, accompanied by a smaller plate of spiced and sliced red apples. Both
dishes -were heavy earthenware, with the fine cracks of age radiating through
the glaze.
Herlyt had been right about the stew,
though; it was spicy, hot, and tasty. But I pushed back the bowl before I
finished it, knowing that to eat any more would leave me ill, and then some.
"Will there be anything else?"
I glanced over at the soldier, slumped face
down on the table.
"Later?" I asked, testing her
earlier grin.
She shrugged, but did not smile.
"How much?"
"Five or a half-silver."
After draining the redberry, I gave her a
silver and got back five coppers, one of which went to her, and into her belt
before she went into the kitchen.
With a regretful look backward, I climbed
the creaking stairs to my room, checking my pack immediately once I had closed
the door. Nothing had been touched.
Even as I struggled out of my trousers, I
wondered if Annalise had really meant anything by that nod.
She hadn't ... or at least I collapsed into
sleep with no gentle tapping on my door or other interruptions.
XXII
THE
MORNING DAWNED no less dreary than the day before, drizzle and intermittent
rain dropping from formless gray clouds that churned but never seemed to move.
I woke once before I got up, when the
angular innkeeper replaced the water basin with fresh water, both quietly and
efficiently, and with barely a glance toward me or the wardrobe. After that my
eyes closed but my mind spun, asking question after question. Like, why was the
Duchy of Freetown getting so much rain? Or why had a chaos-master been in the
strange coach barreling toward the port? And why had he used a coach?
With a groan, I eased my feet over the side
of the sagging bed, wincing as I did. My thighs were as sore as I could ever
recall, even after beginning Gilberto's conditioning exercises, and my
shoulders were stiff. Sitting, even on the bed, was! painful.
Washing helped, as did some stretching.
Then I checked my clothing. The cloak was
dry, all the way through, as were my trousers. The dried mud on the legs mostly
came off with a little scraping and the moistened edge of the towel I had used
the night before. Still ... I could see that washing my clothes was going to be
another requirement before too long, unless I wanted to smell like the stable.
Outside the wind whistled, and the rain
splatted against the inn. After dressing and pulling on my boots, I checked my
pack, smiling as my fingers touched the book. The Basis of Order-\ still hadn't
gotten around to looking at it, but! supposed I would, sooner or later. My
father had a reason for everything.
I closed the pack and folded the cloak
across it, debating whether to bring them downstairs with me. Finally I
shrugged. Why not?
Without even a single light, the narrow
hallway appeared gloomier than the night before. My boots scuffed on the bare
wood of the floor.
". . . attack on Freetown . . ."
". . . any of them around here."
I paused at the top of the stairs, deciding
to wait a moment to see what else the speaker said.
"The courier said there were two
blackstaffs, and several others, including a black warrior, a damned
woman."
"Majer, I wouldn't even know what a blackstaff looked like.
All we have are two commercial travelers and some well-off young student. The
commercial travelers I see three or four times a year. The student-he's barely
old enough to let loose on his own."
"Did you see any weapons with
him?"
"Weapons? Hardly. A short knife."
"Where is he?"
"You might check by the fire."
"Come with me, and point him out,
Natasha ... if you would be so kind."
"Certainly, Majer . . . assuming he is
there."
Click . . . dick . . .
As the heavy boots passed the stairs, I
eased down the stairs further, casually, as if I had not heard a word, but
trying not to step heavily.
Annalise stood by the desk counter, her
eyebrows raised. Then she pointed toward the doorway and mouthed something.
I grinned, waved, and ducked through the
main doorway, yanking on my cloak as I did so. While the majer and Natasha
looked for me by the fire, I dashed through the rain to the stable, glad I had
brought the pack with me.
Sploosh, sploosh . . . sploosh, sploosh,
sploosh . . . My boots sloshed through the puddles in the courtyard clay.
The wide sliding door was ajar. The
stableboy was nowhere to be seen as I scurried toward Gairloch.
Rain or no rain, storm or no storm, I
needed to put some distance between me and Freetown's finest. While they might
be persuaded that I was not a blackstaff, something told me that the majer was
under orders to round up anyone who might be from Recluce. The questioning would
not be gentle. I would have liked to see whether Annalise had anything in mind
besides flirting . . . but that was out now. Besides, she only had played up to
me to avoid Herlyt, or because any man with a horse was bound to have money.
Trying to saddle Gairloch in the dim inn
stable was a joy, knowing that I didn't have much time. First, I got the saddle
blanket on sideways. Gairloch whinnied at that, but he didn't actually buck
until I threw on the saddle.
Thunk. The saddle slammed down on my feet
and onto the planking.
"All right, you miserable beast."
I rearranged the saddle blanket, then eased the saddle into place, but could
barely get the cinch closed.
Gairloch, gray-looking in the gloom,
skittered but did not make a sound as I fumbled with the closures. Something .
., Finally, I reclaimed my staff from the straw and placed the black wood
firmly, but gently against the pony's forehead.
"Whufffffff . . ." When he let
out his breath I yanked the cinch tight. I suppose I could have kicked him, the
way the saddler in Freetown had, but using violence unnecessarily bothered me .
. . besides being boring. The staff trick worked, although why the pony would
pay attention, I still didn't know. That bothered me, too, but not as much as
kicking him would have.
I had trouble with the hackamore, until I
slowed down and forced myself to be calm. All that left was tying my pack in
place and putting the staff in the lance cup. Then I untied Gairloch and walked
him to the sliding door of the stable. "Hallo! Hallo, the inn!"
That voice was too hearty for my liking.
Even behind the stained beams and planks of the stable door, I could picture
yet another duchy cavalry officer, dripping rain from his shiny blue or gray
waterproof, looking for a warm brew and a solid stew, or for the majer with
even worse news or more punitive orders.
"Damnable innkeeper ... no stableboy
on a morning like this ..."
Realizing he was coming in, stableboy or
not, I tied Gairloch to the beam fronting the first stall, then swung the door
open.
"You . . . keeping an officer in the
rain . . ." The officer, wearing a gold leaf on his collar, had been
reaching for the door. He stood at least a half-head taller than me, and his
horse made Gairloch look like a toy. "My apologies, officer. But the
stableboy is ill . . ."
"Leave that pony, man, and take care
of a real horse!"
"Yes, sir," I answered. "The
end stall on the right is the only one free. It's dry and clean." While I
wanted to clunk the arrogant bastard on the skull, I doubted that I could have
reached the staff before ending up spitted on his saber.
"That's fine, but make sure he gets a
rubdown and a brushing ... and no cold water, or I'll drown you in it." He
thrust the reins at me.
"Yes, sir." I took the damp
leathers and chucked them. The horse was better-trained or less stubborn than
the ones I'd seen at Felshar's. He actually followed me. The cavalryman watched
to make sure I was headed where I said. "Who has the pony?"
I did not turn, but gave a shrug.
"Young fellow, not much older than me."
"I'll be back in a shake, man, and
don't forget it." Sploosh . . . sploosh . . . His steps toward the inn
were quick.
I wrapped the reins around a post, tying
them in a quick knot that I yanked tight. Then I dashed for Gairloch, untying
his leathers, and scrambled into the saddle right inside the stable. I
remembered to duck as we stepped into the downpour. I was still trying to get
on my gloves as he stepped through the open doorway. Whhnnnnn . . . Clearly,
the cold rain on his face did not please him, but when the latest cavalry
officer and the majer got together, I definitely didn't want to be around.
I kicked Gairloch gently with my heels and
he began to walk, then trot. I grabbed his mane to steady myself, but let him
move. The rain, like icy needles, lashed at my unprotected face and head, since
I hadn't bothered with the cloak's hood.
I was lucky I'd even remembered the cloak,
the way things were going.
Guiding Gairloch around the small lake that
covered half the road in front of the dry-goods store, I looked ahead, trying
to make out the turn where the road to Hewlett began. Supposedly Hrisbarg was
one of the wool towns, the only one inside the duchy. Hewlett was a wool town,
too, but it was across the border in Montgren, another duchy, except it was
ruled by a countess who didn't like the duke.
I chucked the reins again once we were back
into the more solid mud.
"Halt! In the name of Candar! Rogue
wizard! Rogue wizard!"
We were turning onto the lane that
stretched ahead to the Howlett road. I kicked Gairloch in the flanks again, and
he began to run, but only for perhaps a hundred cubits before he settled back
to a quick walk. Clang! Clang!
For all the shouts by the cavalry officer
and the chimes on the alarm, no one followed us, at least not immediately and
not that I could tell. It seemed pretty stupid. I mean, just because someone
thought I was a blackstaff from Recluce, and just because I left in a storm, the
idiot was trying to rouse the whole town of Hrisbarg.
Then again, I had been lucky, damned lucky
that I looked so young. Why was everyone on the entire continent out against
anyone from Recluce? Just what had happened in Freetown?
I kept looking over my shoulder, trying to
feel whether anyone chased us, but could not see or feel anyone. All I felt was
the rain, the ice, and the cold.
The road was empty, at least as far ahead
as I could see through the mist and the rain. As Gairloch settled into a walk,
I leaned next to the staff, nearly brushing it with my cheek before drawing
back from the heat.
Trying to feel what might be around, I
reached out with my feelings, my thoughts, trying to get a sense of chaos . . .
anywhere. Other than a vague sense of unease connected with the road ahead, I
could find nothing.
The staff cooled as we rode westward
through the mud and rain. Traveling the road to Howlett was worse than the road
from Freetown had been. Water slopped out of the sky and froze in chunks on the
browned and dead grasses. The rain coated the oaks with ice sheaths, and turned
the thorn bushes that twisted from the shardstone road walls into a tangled
crystalline barrier.
The road itself-half ice, half black
mud-squuushed with every step Gairloch took. Once again, I missed the desolate
wizard's road that had covered most of the distance between Freetown and
Hrisbarg.
Each step of the pony made my stomach
churn, and with every other step, the wind gusted and threw the icy rain under
my cloak. I worried about his hooves and fetlocks, or whatever they were
called; but I worried more about me. So we kept going.
As I shivered in the saddle, I recalled
fondly the heat of the day when I travelled to Nylan, at least in comparison to
the chill that had already numbed my legs from boot-top to thigh. My buttocks
remained painfully unnumbed.
My staff rested in the lance cup of the old
cavalry saddle. That meant I swayed into it every so often, since it protruded
well above the saddle. Flexing the reins every so often split the ice off them,
but I had to keep brushing ice off the saddle and my cloak. The only thing the
rain refused to freeze to was my staff.
The staff had saved me at least twice, and
made me a target of everyone in Candar, or so it seemed. This last time, I had
managed to escape without even using the staff, or letting anyone know I had
it, but they were still after me.
We stopped twice, both times to let
Gairloch drink and to let me stretch the kinks out of legs that felt like
permanent cramps.
In time, close to midday, the rain stopped,
the wind picked up, and ice began to form on the remaining puddles. Then I
began to sense warmth in the staff again, as the road straightened and began to
climb toward a low hilltop. Through the mist I could make out some sort of
building.
"Oh ... of course." Since the
duke and the countess didn't like each other, the building was a border station
... and another damned problem, since someone might well have warned the guards.
I shrugged, pulled off my left glove carefully, and touched the lorken-hot
enough to melt ice, and that meant some sort of danger.
"Well, Gairloch, they said you were a
mountain pony . .. how much of a mountain pony?"
He didn't answer, didn't even flick his
head, just kept walking.
I tried to think it through. Probably no
one had warned the road guards. But even if they hadn't, word would get out
that someone from Recluce had entered Montgren, and no one seemed to be very
friendly to anyone from Recluce, especially blackstaffers.
In the end, the answer was simple-avoid the
border checkpoint. Accomplishing such a simple answer was more difficult.
Tangled low brush sprang from the roadside at every point, and most of it was
ice-covered.
Reining Gairloch to a halt off to the side of the road by a higher patch
of brush that would shield us from scrutiny, should any of the guards possess a
spyglass, I tried first to study the slopes and the land around us, low rolling
hills covered with sparse clumps of bushes and an occasional cedar, with white
oaks along the watercourse lines between the hills.
Few people in the duchy lived alone, or
away from the towns. On the hillside that sloped away to my right, a black line
ran nearly perpendicular to the road-the uncovered remnant of a stone wall
nearly buried by the meadow turf. But no trees. As I stared, I could sense the
same wavy heat lines that concealed the black ships of Recluce, except these
were older and fainter and tinged with unpleasantness.
In a way it was too bad the wall wasn't
headed where I was, but the disorder bothered me.
I shrugged. We couldn't stand behind the
bushes forever.
Whheeee . . . eeeeuhhh . . .
"I know ... I know . . ."
So I turned around and let Gairloch pick
his way downhill to where the road turned out of sight of the border post,
nearly half a kay. As I recalled, there was another brook that looked like it
meandered down in the same general direction as the border post, but with the
hill between us and the post.
I chucked the reins and Gairloch stepped
across the flowing water and out onto the meadow. Keeping the hill to my right,
we began following the watercourse, roughly parallel to the road.
. . . ppeeeeepppp . . .
The sound of the insects or frogs or
whatever it was reminded me that I had heard very little, certainly no birds at
all, since I had arrived in Candar.
We crossed a low mound that stretched
across the end of the meadow, and I knew that it had once been a homestead-hut
long, long before.
The brook narrowed as we continued and
angled more to the left, southward, than I would have liked; but most of the
space was open meadow, rather than brush or straggly cedars.
Another kay and the brook was barely a
cubit wide, and angling back toward Hrisbarg.
"All right, we go over the hill."
Gairloch shook his head, spraying mist on
me, and we started up the gentle slope, taking less time to reach the crest
than it had to circle the second hill, even though Gairloch's steps grew edgier
and edgier as we neared the crest.
I could sense nothing-neither heat nor
cold, but an emptiness, a lack of even nothing.
Wheeeeee . . .
As we came through the mist to the hilltop,
I shivered.
A pile of whitened and glazed stones graced
the hilltop. Two of the pale white-granite monoliths remained standing,
although their crowns were melted like candles left in the sun. Surrounding the
chaos-circle was dead-white bleached gravel. Outside the gravel was a whitish
clay that slowly darkened until it merged with the scraggly grass.
IVheeeeee . . . Gairloch shied from that
whiteness.
Less than a handspan from my face, my own
staff began to glow with a black light that urged me away from the stones.
Even with the age of the destruction, even
after all the years that had passed, I didn't even look at the twisted
patterns, but edged Gairloch around the dead-white stones.
Beyond the hilltop, north and west of us, I
could see the hilltop where the border station lay, and the angle of the road
descending toward Hewlett-away from us, of course.
Not until we reached the bottom of the hill
and turned back west did I remember taking a breath.
"Whuuuuuuhhh ..."
My knees were shaking. For someone who had
questioned magic and chaos, that ancient structure had been pretty convincing.
The whole hill had radiated destruction. No wonder people didn't live nearby.
That was the worst. After that, the
scattered brambles, and the wind that got steadily colder-all those seemed
merely natural. The road itself was also a natural disaster, churned
half-frozen mud, but somehow Gairloch mushed on.
Someone had to have seen us, but we saw no
one, not until we were back on the road to Hewlett, watching the scattered
flocks of black-faced sheep, and their shepherds bundled against the cold. Then
we passed a slow-moving wagon heading in the same direction, and an old coach
headed toward Hrisbarg.
Neither driver gave me more than a passing
glance.
XXIII
DUSK
WAS FALLING by the time we struggled-with stops for water for Gairloch, and
vain attempts to stretch out the permanent cramps in my legs-along the quagmire
that was called the road to Howlett. Even from the outskirts I could tell that
Howlett made Hrisbarg look like Imperial Hamor. Hrisbarg had rough wooden
sidewalks; Howlett had none. Hrisbarg had defined streets; Howlett had a rough
clump of structures. Hrisbarg's buildings had peeling paint; Hewlett's had
none.
But the rain had begun to fall as
ice-needles, and the wind howled in from the north, freezing my cloak as solid
as plate armor.
Almost at the edge of Howlett was a
careless building, accompanied by another not much better than a large
shack-the Snug Inn and its stable.
Wheeee . . . eeee, was Gairloch's only
comment as I led him inside the stable.
"Three pence, and he'll share a stall
with the other mountain pony," commanded the heavyset man by the sliding
stable door.
I looked at the small stableboy racking a
saddle while the big man collected. The stableboy shrugged.
In the open space to the right stood an
unhitched wagon and a coach-that same golden coach that I had seen on the road
to Freetown. I looked back at the heavy man to catch what he was saying.
"You stable him . . ." added the
man. ". . . damned ponies, kill anyone not their master . . ."
I handed over the three pennies.
"At the end. There's another one like
him there."
I led Gairloch along the narrow way toward
the back, and eased open the stall door, holding it so that it didn't fall off
the worn wooden hinge-pins, then glancing at the bleached and cracked support
timbers of the stable itself, still wondering about the golden-finished
white-oak coach.
Wheeee . . . eeee . . . The whinny of the
other pony subsided as I let Gairloch take his own time.
Both sniffed the air, while I wanted to
sneeze.
In time, I got him in and unsaddled. I
quickly stowed the staff in the straw, along with my pack, and searched until I
found an old brush. By then, the stableboy, not the collector, was watching.
"Any grain?"
He gave me a wary look, and I produced a
copper penny. The boy produced a battered bucket; and I split it between the
two, although I gave Gairloch the largest share.
Finally, I felt Gairloch was settled enough
for me to chance the inn.
Once inside, the odor of unwashed herders,
rancid oils, stale perfumes, and smoke left my eyes stinging. Squinting through
the haze, I peered over the crowded tables. Those in the back, toward the narrow
but drafty door through which I had entered, were long trestle tables with
benches. Beyond them were square tables, of a darker and polished wood. Between
the two types of tables ran a flimsy half-wall with three wide openings for the
inn's servers.
Everyone on the road to or from Hewlett seemed stranded in the
same inn. On my side of the half-wall, men and women were shoulder to shoulder
at the trestle tables. A few of the tables for the local gentry, or whoever the
privileged ones might be, had vacant chairs around them, but none of the tables
were unclaimed.
The Snug Inn, despite its name, was not
snugly built.
Uncle Sardit would have listed in detail
all the faults in the construction. While I scarcely had his experience, there
were some poor design features evident even to me. The outside eaves were not
long enough to keep the wind from blowing underneath and into the upstairs
rooms. Likewise, the stone facing of the front wall had been built for style
and was beginning to pull away from the heavy timbers that framed the side
walls. The curves in the rough beams that framed both side and front walls
showed that they had not been properly treated or cured.
Inside was worse. The hallway dividers
separating the common and gentry sections had been carelessly sawed and nailed
together with small spikes, needlessly splitting the wood. After my short
tenure with Uncle Sardit, I could have done better and probably done it quicker
than whoever had built them. The gentry's tables were square, sharp-edged, and
probably gave the inn's servants bruises. Again, a few minutes with a plane or
even a shaping saw would have produced a better and more serviceable table.
The common tables were green-oak trestles,
sawed or split before the wood had cured. With the amount of red oak, black
oak, and even maple available in Candar, I wondered why the tables were green
oak.
I looked over the mass of people, wincing
at the din. Though I had stood there for what seemed a long time, no one even
looked at me.
Finally, I made out a space on the bench
next to a man in a rough brown coat, halfway across the back of the commons
area. I edged toward it.
"Watch it ..."
"Young pup . . ."
"My apologies," I offered to the
man whose elbow I had jostled, even as I ducked past him. He glared over the
edge of the chipped ceramic mug he held to his beard-encircled mouth.
"Won't bring back the mead . . .
worthless time for a storm .. . Lass! More mead!"
From the smell, whatever mead was, I didn't
have any desire to taste it. Nor did I have much desire to stay in the Snug
Inn, except that I was hungry. Since I hadn't learned how to eat hay or oats,
that meant entering the inn.
I looked at the space beside the man in
brown, then shrugged and eased myself into place, wishing somehow I had brought
the staff, but knowing it was safer in the straw of Gairloch's stall. I still
didn't like leaving it.
"You?" asked the brown man,
bearded and hunched over his mug of steaming cider. From his muscles and his belt,
I would have guessed a carpenter.
Of course he didn't know me. I hadn't told
him. "Lerris, used to be a woodworker before I left home." All of
which was true enough.
"Woodworker? Too damned fair for
that." He glared at me.
I sighed. "All right, I was an
apprentice woodcrafter-never got further than benches and breadboards."
"Hah! Least you're honest, boy. No one
would admit that, weren't it true." Then he glared back at his cider,
ignoring me.
Left to my own devices, I waved at the
serving-girl. A black-haired and skinny thing, she wore a sleeveless brown
leather vest and wide skirts. She ignored me as well. So I began to study the
people while I waited for her to get close enough for me to insist on
something.
At the table closest the hearth sat four
people-a woman veiled below her eyes, wearing a loose-fitting green tunic over
a white blouse, and presumably trousers. She was the only veiled woman I had
ever seen. But if her lower face were unknown, her clothes were tight enough to
reveal that her figure, at least, was desirable.
Her forehead was darkish, as were her heavy
eyebrows and her hair, bound with golden cord into a cone shape. Over the back
of her chair was a heavy coat-of a white fur I had never seen.
Two of the other men were clearly fighters,
wearing surcoats I could not identify and the bowl-cut of hair worn under a
helmet. One fighter was older, white-haired and grizzled, but his body seemed
younger. His back was to me and I could not see his face, though I would have
guessed it was unlined, despite the white hair. The other fighter was thin,
youngish, with a face like a weasel and dark black hair to match.
Between them, across from the woman,
half-facing the fire, was a man in spotless white. Even from that distance,
more than ten cubits, I could see his eyes were old, though he looked more like
Koldar's age, perhaps a trace older, perhaps even into his third decade. But
the eyes had seen more, and I shivered and dropped my glance as he turned in my
direction.
The man in white smiled. His smile was
friendly, reassuring, and everyone in the dining area of the saloon relaxed. I
could feel the wave of relaxation, and I fought it off, just because no one was
going to tell me what to feel. Was he the one who rode in the golden coach?
"You in the back. I see you are cold.
Would you like some warmth?" I felt he was looking at me, but his fingers
pointed at three figures huddled against the timbered wall behind me and to my
left. The two men and the woman, all clad in the shapeless gray padded jackets
that marked them as herders of some sort, ignored the question and looked down.
"Fine," said the man in white.
"I can tell you have come in from the blizzard's chill. The warmth is on
me." He gestured, and in our corner of the long room, I could feel the
dampness and chill dissipate, though we were far from the fire.
The woman looked away from the wizard, for
that was clearly what he had to be, and made a motion, as if to reject the
heat. The two men looked down.
Me ... for the first time since Gairloch
and I had ridden out of Hrisbarg, I felt comfortably warm, as if the long table
where I sat were the one before the hearth, rather than the farthest from the
fire. Yet the heat thrown by the wizard chilled me as well, inside, and it felt
familiar, as if I too could have called it forth, though I did not know how.
Nor did I want to try.
At a small table in the corner nearest the
hearth sat another man, the only person in the crowded inn sitting alone. He
wore a dark-gray long-sleeved tunic, belted over similar trousers by an even
darker belt. A dark-gray leather cloak lay over the chair beside him.
His hair was a light brown that seemed
gray, though from my distance he did not appear old.
"The man in gray ..." I mumbled
to the carpenter.
"Arlyn, call me Arlyn." His eyes
were glazed, not with alcohol, but as if he had been looking somewhere else.
"Lass! More cider." Arlyn waved the brown mug in the air. Several
drops of cider splashed across my face.
After wiping off the cider with the back of
my hand, I asked, "Arlyn, who's the man in gray?"
"Justen. Gray wizard. Almost as bad as
the white one. Antonin. Antonin will take your soul and your body. So they
say." He waved the mug again.
This time the serving-girl turned toward
us.
"What's for a traveler?" I made
my voice hard.
Her eyes turned to me from the mug she had
lifted from Arlyn's hand, running over my dark cloak, sandy hair, and fair
skin. "Perhaps you should join the dark one, young sir."
Arlyn looked at me again.
"I doubt I could afford such
luxury."
The girl, for she could not have been much
older than I, actually flashed a quick smile before her face turned cold and
professionally false again. "Two pence for the fire, and five pence for
the cider. Mead is ten pence a mug."
"Food?"
"Cheese and black bread is ten pence;
cheese and bear and black bread is twenty."
"Cheese and black bread with
cider."
"Twenty-two pence." She paused.
"Now."
I
shrugged. "Half now, and half when I get the food. Someone will take the
cider."
Her face looked bored and tired already.
"Fine. Twelve now. For fire and cider. Ten when you get the bread and
cheese."
I fished twelve pence from my belt, glad in
this surly lot that I had managed some change in Hrisbarg. "You'll break a
traveler in this weather."
"You could stay outside." She
slipped the coins through a narrow slot into a locked and hardened leather
purse on an equally heavy leather belt, and handed me a wooden token. Then she
was picking up mugs and coins all the way along the table, passing out tokens
as she stacked the empty mugs on the heavy wooden tray.
The door behind me opened, and another rush
of cold chilled the back side of the common room again.
A pair of road soldiers stood there,
wearing heavy short riding jackets, swords, and carrying long-barreled
rifles-used in peace-keeping, not in warfare, not when the smallest of
chaos-spells destroyed their effectiveness.
A thin man, wearing a greasy brown apron
and waving a truncheon, waved toward the pair. "Areillas, Storznoy!"
The bigger soldier-four cubits tall, with
as much flab as muscle-jabbed the other, a man not much taller than the
serving-girl. Then the two walked toward the innkeeper and the kitchen.
Conversations dropped off to whispers, or
less, as the two made their way toward the innkeeper.
The heavier soldier said something to the
thin innkeeper, who looked puzzled. The soldier raised his voice.
". . . said . . . demon horseman seen
on the Duke of Freetown's deadlands . . ." repeated the smaller soldier.
The innkeeper shrugged. "Demon weather
anyway."
"Roaches . . ." mumbled Arlyn the
carpenter.
"Why?" I asked, wondering about
the demon horseman.
"Paid by the Montgren Council to keep
the road safe between the border and Hewlett. . . paid by the Thieves' Guild
for an exemption . . ." Arlyn looked for the serving-girl. "Where's
the cider?"
The road soldiers went through the wide
stone arch into the kitchen and the serving-girl came out, holding high a tray
of mugs, somehow not spilling a one. Vapor whispered from the hot cider as she
neared the chilly end of the common area where we sat.
Thunk.
Thunk. The dark-haired server avoided my
eyes as she set the mug down before me and the next before Arlyn.
Thunk.
"Look!" I yelled in Arlyn's ear,
pointing toward the wizard in white.
The carpenter started, and I switched mugs
with him.
"Look where . . . just Antonin . . ."
"He pointed this way," I tried to
explain.
"Yell not at me ... youth . . ."
Arlyn growled.
"I am sorry . . ." And I was, but
not because I had yelled.
Arlyn looked at the cider, but did not
drink immediately.
I took a sip of mine. "Oooo . .
." The searing of my tongue and throat explained why the carpenter had
waited.
A hush dropped over both the gentry and
common areas of the Snug Inn. I saw that the man in white was standing, looking
over at Justen, the gray wizard, whatever a gray wizard was.
"A deed more than a deed . . ."
said Justen, so softly that I could not hear all of his words.
"A deed is a deed. Do appearances
really deceive, Justen the Gray?" Antonin stood by his table.
The woman in the green tunic ignored Antonin,
her veiled face turned toward Justen. The gray wizard said nothing, nor did he
even stand.
"Actions speak louder than words.
There are those here who hunger. Will righteousness feed them? Will the
innkeeper feed them from the goodness of his heart and deprive his family and
kin?"
Justen seemed to smile faintly. "That
is an old argument, Antonin, one scarcely worth answering."
"Is it wrong to feed the hungry,
Justen?"
The wizard in gray shook his head, almost
sadly. I wondered how he would answer the white wizard's question.
"Is it wrong to feed the hungry,
Justen?"
Even the herders in the corner turned
toward Antonin.
"You among the herders-does one of you
have an old goat, a tired ewe that will not survive the winter? Come . .. two
silvers for such an animal. Certainly a fair price."
I found myself nodding. Even in early
winter, a fair price for an animal that might easily die in the frigid
eight-days ahead.
The wizard in gray shook his head once
more, then sipped from his mug, watching as Antonin beamed from where he stood
by the table.
"Innkeeper, for the use of your
serving table, a silver also?" The innkeeper, wiping his thin hands on the
greasy apron he wore, smiled briefly, not with his eyes, as he looked at the
crowd. "Enough, esteemed wizard, but I would hope in your charity that you
would make good any damages . . ."
"There will be no damages."
Antonin gestured toward the herders. "Who will take my two silvers?"
"Here, lord wizard." A bent man
shuffled forward, his curly and dirty gray hair springing wildly from his head.
His leathers were filthy, so battered their original color was lost beneath the
dirt, and so tattered that the yarn laced through and around them barely seemed
to hold either his vest or trousers together. Dirty raw wool poked from the
holes in trousers and vest.
"Bring me the animal."
"Will he slaughter it here in the
inn?" I asked.
Arlyn chuckled. "You'll see no knives
here, youngster. The one's a great wizard."
"Too great," mumbled the traveler
on my other side, who had said nothing since I had seated myself. He turned to
his companion, an older man dressed in faded green with a heavy green cloak
still wrapped around him.
A chill wind bit through my own trousers as
the herder left, though the doorway was open only an instant or so. Outside the
wind was beginning to moan, and the early dusk was nearly gone. I wondered how
much more ice would fall before I could leave the inn. Or would it be snow by
morning?
Arlyn's slurp reminded me of the mug I held between both hands. I
sipped the cider carefully, but could taste nothing foreign. Still, I waited
after my first sip.
Thunk.
"Ten pence." The serving girl
laid down two heavy slabs of black bread and a thin wedge of yellow cheese.
"And the token back."
I handed her the token and a silver.
Now I had the cheese and bread, and
wondered if I could eat it-safely.
As I glanced toward the gentry section, I
found the eyes of the gray wizard upon me..He nodded slightly, as if to say
that I could.
I looked at the cider mug between Arlyn's
hands. The wizard's face was unreadable, which was answer enough. But why would
he even answer my unspoken question? And why did I trust the man in gray and
not the one in white?
Taking a small bite from the tangy black
bread, I tried to figure out the answers. Tamra would have called me a fool for
even entering the inn. Sammel would have shared the stable with the animals,
and who was to say who was right?
The outside door opened, wider, and the
wind dispersed the lingering warmth that had grown from the body heat of the
crowd. I swallowed another chunk of the dry bread, washing it down with the
lukewarm cider.
Baaaaa . . .
The herder passed near the end of our
table, nearly brushing the man in green, as he carried a scrawny sheep slung
over his shoulder toward the wizards.
The inn door had shut, and the sudden odor
of filthy sheep and unwashed herder nearly choked me. Had I not escaped from
the ice and blizzard so recently, I might have been tempted to forsake the
stench of the inn for the clean cold! of the outside. Trouble was that the
outside was too cold.
"Watch . . ." hissed the man in
green to the traveler beside me.
Thump.
Arlyn's head dropped onto the table. The
cider mug was still half-full. I looked, listened, but he was still breathing.
"Your sheep, ser." The herder set
the animal in the space beside the wizard's table.
Splattttt . . .
The sheep repaid the warmth by defecating
on the rust floor.
The innkeeper looked nervously at the
wizard.
Antonin smiled, then gestured. Both soil
and odor vast ished, although the faintest odor of brimstone remained.
For a moment, everyone stopped talking,
even the gentry,'
Baaaa ...
"You . . . promised . . . two . . .
silvers . . ."
"You shall have them, my man."
Antonin drew the coins from his purse and laid them on the edge of the table.
. . . snaaaaath . . . snathh . , . Arlyn
the carpenter was snoring.
The herder pulled a small iron hammer from
his pouch and touched each coin with it. They remained silver.
"Stupid . . ." muttered the man
beside me.
The fellow in green nodded.
Stupid? To check the coins provided by a
wizard? I would have, but with Arlyn asleep, snoring on the table, there was no
one else I dared to ask why it was stupid.
Antonin stood, swinging his sleeves back to
reveal bare arms. Not heavily muscled, as I would have expected, nor thin like
a cleric's, but knobby like a merchant's.
"Before you go, friend herder . .
."
The herder turned back and looked down.
"You, my friend . . ." The
white-robed wizard gestured toward the innkeeper. "The two largest trays
you have."
"Long ones be all right?"
"Those would be best, friend."
If nothing else, the continued use of the
word "friend" was not just annoying, but boring.
With a sour look as he sipped from his mug,
the wizard in gray glanced from the sheep to the wall, then let his eyes pass
over me and along the common crowd.
In the meantime, the innkeeper brought out
two enormous wooden serving trays and set them upon the trestle table just
beyond the gentry's area. The veiled woman had turned her chair to watch, but
the older fighter at Antonin's table kept his back to me.
The tradespeople, including a woman tinker
with a broad face and muscles that would have exceeded those of either Koldar
or his stonemason wife-to-be, reluctantly shuffled off the benches and stood at
the end of the table away from the innkeeper.
Antonin stepped past two gentry tables,
both filled with travelers wearing fur collars on their cloaks-no women-and
approached the trestle. He motioned to the herder. "Pick up the animal and
put it on the table, right over the trays."
The herder did so, nearly effortlessly.
The table shivered as the sheep wobbled
there.
"Watch," hissed the man in green.
I was watching, as was everyone in the inn.
The wizard advanced; the herder stepped
back, his hand on the leather belt where he had placed the silver coins.
Antonin raised his hands.
I closed my eyes and looked down, not
knowing why.
SSsssssssssss . . .
Light like a sunburst flared across the
room with the sharp hissing sound.
Even with my eyes closed, the light had
hurt. I squinted, blinking. The tears helped, and I could see long before
anyone else could. Antonin had a nasty smile on his face, the look of a bully
pleased at a beating administered to a small child.
Justen had an even more sour look upon his
face, and the rest-from the commons to the gentry-were still blotting their
eyes, trying to see. Except for the veiled woman, who was looking at Antonin
from deep-set eyes whose expression was unreadable from where I sat.
". . . ooooooo . . ."
"Look at that . . ."
In my observation of the wizards, I had
forgotten the sheep. I tried not to gape with everyone else. But I did. The two
trays were heaped with succulent sliced and steaming mutton, with joints at the
edges, and with sweetbreads piled at each end. A sheepskin rug lay on the floor
beside Antonin, who was toweling off his forehead with the back of his wide
right sleeve. Outside of the joints on the tray, there were no bones.
Sweat suddenly poured down my forehead. The
common area felt like the kitchen when Aunt Elisabet baked bread for all the
neighbors at winterdawn.
I watched as the wizard in white smiled at
the innkeeper, then at Justen, the gray wizard.
"Meat. Honest meat for those who would
go without." Antonin turned to Justen. "Actions do speak louder than
words, brother wizard. Tell me that it is wrong to feed the hungry."
"It is not wrong to feed the hungry,
but it is wrong to feed their hungers."
I never liked obscure answers, and I didn't
like Justen's. If he thought that Antonin was a showman, he should have said
so. Or that he served evil by tempting hungry people. But he didn't. Justen
only smiled sadly again. Did the man ever do anything besides disapprove of the
white wizard?
Antonin the white wizard faced all of us in
the common area. "Come forward, those of you without a penny for food.
There is enough for a small portion for all who are hungry." His voice was
hearty and friendly, and the words sounded genuine, but the real invitation was
the smell of roast mutton.
First came a boy in a patched jacket, the
apprentice of some tradesman. After him came a thin girl in leggings too big
and an old herd coat too small. Before the shuffle of their feet had reached
the trestle table, half the commons were pressing after them. Only the
whiteness of the wizard kept the crowd in a line.
Arlyn snored on the table, but the man next
to me and his companion in green had joined the crowd. Tempting as the mutton
smelled, the odor repelled me as much as attracted me. So I munched through the
rest of the hard black bread and the thin cheese wedge while the others jostled
for the mutton.
The innkeeper emerged from the crowd
carrying the sheepskin, the one thing of lasting value, and disappeared briefly
into the kitchen with the prize, emerging quickly with a large truncheon and
another man with an even greasier apron and a larger club.
Antonin sat at his table and sipped from a
real crystal glass-wine, not mead or cider, glancing once or twice in my
direction. I tried to ignore him as I swallowed the last of the cider.
The gray magician-Justen-stood up and
pulled his cloak around him. Then he walked toward me. I stood, wondering
whether to meet him or flee. Then I shrugged.
"Let us check the animals,
apprentice."
I nodded, realizing that, for whatever
reason, he was offering some sort of protection, and followed him into the
blizzard that separated the inn from the stable.
Whheeeeeeeeee . . . The howl of the wind
was lower, only a half-wail compared to the shrieking that had forced me inside
earlier. The needle-ice no longer fell, replaced with fine white powder so
thick that it blurred like heavy sea fog.
"You near lost your soul there, young
fellow."
I wanted to leave him right then. Another
person knowing better than I did, ready to preach and not explain. But he
hadn't asked anything. So I waited to see if he would explain.
He didn't, just walked toward the stable. I
followed.
XXIV
THE
WOMAN IN gray watches the roadside from the bench seat of the wagon, holding
her staff tightly in one hand. She tries not to think about the similarity
between the rolling of the wagon and the motion of the cargo ship that had so
recently carried her to Candar.
On either side of the road, the dull
gray-brown of damp and rotting grass, interspersed with patches of black weeds,
stretches to the hills on the north and to the horizon on the south. Beyond the
southern horizon lies the Ohyde River, and the point where her journey will
end-Hydolar, where the road and the river meet.
Ahead on the road, she sees three thin
figures, their ragged and uneven walk like that of so many others that she and
the wagon have passed.
Crack!
"Hyah . . . hyah . . ." rumbles
the driver without looking at the whip he has cracked or the two draft horses
pulling the now-empty wagon that had carried cabbages and potatoes. He wears a
heavy belt filled with more than gold, and a cocked crossbow rests on a stand
to his right. "See anything, Maga?"
On the road ahead, the two younger men ride
a pair of rail-thin horses. The sandy-haired one bears a long rifle, good only
against the desperate, but necessary on the road they travel.
Beyond them, beyond the three figures that
the wagon lumbers around, she can sense only the emptiness of another set of
minds, trudging away from Freetown and the soggy desperation of too much rain
and too little sunlight.
"Nothing except some more hungry
people . . ."
"Good for us, at least," rumbles
the driver. "Never got so much for cabbages and potatoes."
She grips her staff and tries not to think
about either ships or the gnawing pains in the minds and bellies of the
vacant-eyed men and women and children stumbling along the road toward the
sunlight of Hydlen.
XXV
"SERS!
THE DOORWAY, please!" The pleading voice came from what I first took to be
a pile of rags and blankets. The stableboy had heaped a worn saddle blanket
over a pile of rags and burrowed his own tattered leathers underneath. He was
huddled in a nook where he could watch the big sliding door. Beyond him loomed
Antonin's coach, not quite lit by an internal flame.
"Of course," I found myself
saying as I quickly slid the heavy slab back into place and plunged the stable
back into gloom.
Whhhhh ...... thip, thub, thip, thub . . .
The doorway creaked and rattled in the wind.
The darkness didn't bother me, since I
didn't seem to need much light to see by any more. Turning toward Justen, I
found he had left and walked toward the stalls in the rear.
Gairloch was still double-stalled with the
other mountain pony, dark gray with a creamy mane.
Wheeeee . . : nun ...
"Good girl . . ."
I should have guessed. "Yours?"
Justen nodded.
"Gairloch's male."
"That won't matter for now. Rosefoot's
pretty tolerant. She likes company. Where did you get him?"
"Freetown."
Justen nodded again. "I thought so. It
would be odd for them to have a mountain pony, though."
"The liveryman led me to believe that
was why I could afford him. Mean-tempered. I rescued him from the
glue-pots." I shrugged. "That was what they told me, anyvway." I
shivered. The stable was cold. Not so bad as outside, but not a whole lot
warmer than an icehouse.
Justen climbed onto the half-wall that
separated the stalls. To our right was a tall mare who turned her head in our
direction, skittishly. A white blaze covered her forehead.
The gray wizard crouched on the stall
half-wall and eased toward the outside wall. Just above him was a squarish
opening partly framed with hay wisps. He stood up in the opening, his head out
of sight. With a sudden jump, he pulled himself up into the space above the
stalls. "Come on, youngster, and bring that staff you hid next to your
pony. They'll rest better, and so will you." He disappeared, and I could
hear the rustle of straw or hay.
"How . . . ?"
"Can't you sense it?" His voice
was muffled.
He was right, though. When I tried to reach
out and feel for the staff, like farseeing, it almost burned into my brain. I
grabbed the half-wall for support. After a moment, I reached down and reclaimed
the dark staff. To my hand, the wood held only a faintly reassuring warmth.
Wheeeee . . . Gairloch tossed his head,
more like a nod. It had to be coincidence.
"Are you coming, young man?"
With a second thought, I reached down and
grabbed my pack as well, brushing off the straw and slinging it half over my
right shoulder. I clambered up on the wall, then scrambled, far less gracefully
than the gray wizard, up through the square opening.
"Ac . . . chewWWWT
"The dust will settle shortly."
Justen had pulled off his boots and his belt and was piling more of the loose
hay into a bed.
"We're staying here?"
"You can stay where you want. I prefer
not to stay under the same roof as Antonin. I sleep better."
I sighed. There it was again. More
assumptions, more statements, and no explanations. "Could you explain a
few things to me?"
Justen stretched out on a cloak that
suddenly was more than twice it original size, and looked to be twice as thick.
"A few. If it doesn't take too long. I'm tired, and I intend to leave
early tomorrow. I'm headed toward a little hamlet called Weevett, and then to
Jellico. Jellico's the town where the Viscount of Certis reigns. Once upon a
time, Hewlett belonged to Certis, but nobody remembers. Back then all it had
was sheep, and no one really cared, even before the dead-lands. Now Hewlett
belongs to Montgren, and no one really cares except the countess."
I
frowned, trying to sort out my questions. Finally, I gave up. "You said my
soul was in danger from Antonin. Why? I mean, how could he have hurt me that
way?"
Wooooooooo . . . rat, tat, tip, tat. . .
Momentarily, the wind picked up and ice chunks rattled against the roof
overhead.
Justen wrapped the overlarge cloak around
himself. "Take off your boots. Your feet need the air." He shrugged,
trying to make himself more comfortable on the straw. "Antonin is the
strongest of the white magicians. A chaos-master, if you will. Wielding chaos
is extraordinarily hard on both body and soul, and most white magicians die
young. Powerful, but young. Antonin, and Gerlis, and by now I would suspect
Sephya, have attained the power to somewhat postpone their early demise, by
transferring their personality and ability to other and younger bodies,
preferably to bodies already equipped with the talent and unaware of their own
defenses. You fit the bill admirably. That's why I decided to move you away
from Antonin. He was preoccupied with Sephya and her . . . situation. He didn't
really sense you. Your innate defenses are good enough to conceal you from a
quick look."
I shivered again. "Thank you." I
struggled and eased off one boot, realizing that while the ice and rain hadn't
gotten through the thick leather, my feet were indeed damp. The second boot
came off easier, but my left foot was just a trace smaller than my right
anyway.
"Oh, don't thank me. I did it for me,
not you. None of us gray magicians could afford to have Antonin controlling a
body with your latent powers. His knowledge is already too great."
"What do you intend, then?"
"Not much. You can devise your own
hell once we're clear of Antonin. Tomorrow, assuming you're willing, on the way
to Jellico I'll teach you enough to allow you to block anyone from taking over
your body without your consent. Plus, if there's time, a few other tricks that
are pure black and won't prejudice your decision."
"My decision?" The words were
grunted as I levered off my right boot.
"Whether you intend to be a black,
gray, or white magician." Justen yawned. "I am tired, and so are you.
Get some straw together and go to sleep. Rosefoot will certainly let us know if
anyone tries to climb up here. So will your pony and your staff. Good
night."
He rolled over and left me sitting in a
pile of straw, my pack and boots by my feet, my head twirling with unasked and
unanswered questions, and my thighs aching still from too much riding.
For all the aches and questions, I was
asleep before long, listening to the wooooooooo . . . rat, tat, tip, tat . . .
of the wind, ice, and snow, even as I wondered who Justen really was and
whether I should trust him. But I slept anyway.
XXVI
WAKING
UP IN the Snug Inn stable was nearly the reverse of falling asleep, except
colder and noisier.
Whooooo . . .tip, tap, dick, clack . . .
The wind continued to blow, and my breath
was frost-steam in the chill air, so cold that even the dust seemed to have
been frozen out of the air.
Rrrruuuurghh . . . My stomach contributed
to the turmoil as well. With one eye open I glanced through the gloom toward
the other side of the loft where Justen had spread his cloak. I sat up
abruptly, nearly banging my head on the roof truss. The gray wizard was gone.
The straw had been pushed back into place as if the man had never been there.
I stretched, jerking myself out of the
warmth of my cloak, and brushed the straw off my trousers and tunic, bit by
bit, stepping from foot to foot on the cold rough planks. After getting a few
stray pieces out of my boots, I pulled warm feet into the cold leather, wincing
as I did so.
Scrambling sideways onto the planks by the
open bay to the stable below, I stood and stretched again. Then I glanced down
at the ponies. Both Rosefoot and Gairloch were chewing something more
substantial than hay.
Where had Justen gone?
To the inn? Or on some wizardly errand? Or
a more mundane bodily need-one that I needed to take care of as well?
Rrrrrrrrr . . . My stomach reminded me of
its very unwizardly needs . . . that, and the fact that I had yet to think
through my trip toward the Westhorns. I was still reacting. The last planned
step I had taken was to purchase Gairloch. After that, everything had been
reaction. Not one thumb's worth of travel food lay in my pack or in the empty
saddlebags.
"Stupid . . . really stupid, Lerris .
. ."
Somehow, things kept getting in the way. I
had forgotten to stop at the market square in Freetown because I had wanted to
get clear of the town. That decision had been sound, but there was no place on
the road to Hrisbarg, and I had been forced out of Hrisbarg and on to Hewlett.
Now I really didn't dare to go back into the inn ... not after what I had seen
of Antonin, and what Justen had said. Still, perhaps there was a general store
or something, among the buildings standing in the sea of frozen mud around the
inn, where I could buy some sort of provisions, including some blankets or the
equivalent.
I shook my head, then followed Justen's
example by shoving the straw back into place and by shaking out my cloak. My
teeth felt fuzzy, my stomach empty, and my muscles sore. I checked my pack,
then gathered both staff and pack for the descent to the stable.
Creeaaa . . . aaakkk . . . The stable door
opened, then slid shut again. I ducked back out of sight.
"Good morning . . ." Justen's
head popped through the opening from the stable. "Give me a hand, would
you?"
I was glad to, since he had two steaming
mugs, and a large platter, covered with a ragged cloth, which also steamed.
"I thought you might like something to
eat before we left." He easily sat cross-legged on the hard floor and
picked up one of the cups, easing the cloth off the platter and revealing four
large bran biscuits and a battered apple.
I sipped the cider, warm but not burning,
and overspiced with cloves. The warmth and the liquid helped ease the headache
I hadn't realized I had.
"You know, young friend, it would help
if I knew your name, or at least what you would like to be called." Justen
took a large bite from the biscuit he held.
"Sorry . . . it's Lerris," I
mumbled, trying not to lose any of the biscuit crumbs. While bran biscuits
wouldn't have been my choice for breakfast, my stomach received them
gratefully. "You're Justen?"
He nodded. "Otherwise known as the
gray wizard, that damned fool, and other less flattering terms." A deep
swallow from the battered earthenware cup followed. "The apple's
yours."
I didn't protest, and ate it right down to
the core, squishy spots and all.
"Antonin has been requested to assist
the new Duke of Freetown ..."
"Oh ... he told you that? But he was
already in Freetown."
"Does that matter? He serves whoever
pays," snorted Jus-ten. "He didn't tell me, though. He told one of
his guards, who told Fedelia, who told someone else." The wizard finished
his second biscuit and topped it off with the remaining cider from his mug.
Rather than answer immediately, I chewed
the last of my second biscuit. "The old duke's actions seemed designed to
anger many people."
"Particularly Recluce," observed
Justen dryly. He stood up and brushed a few crumbs from his cloak and trousers.
"What would Recluce do?"
"Nothing major-besides flooding the
duchy, ruining the fall hay, and ensuring that no major trade flowed through
Freetown until the duke's death. Nothing besides destroying-publicly, and with
a woman-his champion, and presumably using the same woman to assassinate him in
his own castle."
I shook my head. "All of that scarcely
seems possible."
"Not any more possible than an
untrained blackstaffer escaping the duke's guards, riding the deadlands
untouched, and avoiding the attention of the most powerful white wizard in
Candar."
I tried not to shiver at his matter-of-fact
words, instead following his example of standing and brushing away the crumbs.
"What next? Is there anywhere I can get some trail food and some blankets
and a waterproof travel cloth?" Justen shrugged theatrically. "That's
no problem at all. Expensive here in Hewlett, but . . . necessary."
"Why . . . why are you helping
me?"
"Who said I was? I'm more interested
in not helping Antonin. Doubt is a powerful weapon. Once he learns you were
right under his nose, that will create more than a little doubt, and he
certainly needs some doubt in his life right now." Justen looked below.
"Let's go. It's still early, and there's some snow falling, enough to make
farseeing difficult." He vaulted down onto the half-wall below, then
dropped into the stall next to Rosefoot.
Crack . . . thump . . . thud ... I
followed, not nearly so gracefully, banging the staff on the wall, dropping the
pack, and nearly losing my balance off the half-wall of the stall.
Justen said nothing as he began to saddle Rosefoot.
I looked around.
"There," pointed Justen.
He was right. Beyond the small door was the
outhouse. By the time I returned, Rosefoot was saddled, and Justen was checking
rather full saddlebags. The gray wizard said nothing as I struggled with
Gairloch, offering neither assistance nor criticism.
"All right," I mumbled, after
what seemed like forever.
He nodded and opened the stall door. I led
Gairloch out, and Rosefoot followed without Justen even touching her reins.
Like Gairloch, Rosefoot wore a hackamore, not a bit.
"Sers . . . ?" pleaded the ragged
stable boy as he eased back the sliding door.
I looked at Justen, who grinned, then
tossed a copper at the smudged face protruding from the assemblage of leather
and rags. The coach stood beyond, polished and waiting, but the horses were
still in their stalls.
"Thank you, gray wizard. Good
luck."
"Good luck, Gorling."
Creakkkkk ... I eased onto the saddle, my
thighs not protesting quite as much as when I had left Hrisbarg.
Feather-light and chill, the wind brushed
my stubbly cheeks, and like a gauze curtain, the light snow blurred the hills
beyond Howlett. For all the howling and rushing of the night before, the storm
had deposited only enough snow to provide a light blanket on the ground. Each
hoofprint showed the frozen mud beneath.
A single plume of gray smoke spiraled from
the main chimney of the Snug Inn, and flattened mud around the front doors of
the inn showed that even though it was far from even early mid-morning, many
had already left. Most of the tracks seemed to lead toward the road to
Hrisbarg.
Now that there was a new duke, the
merchants and traders were losing no time. I shook my head.
Justen eased Rosefoot closer to Gairloch.
"Do you want to bargain, or to let me do it as if you were my apprentice?
You're paying."
"What do I gain?"
"If I do it, everyone will link you
with me . . ."
"But if I do it, they give me greater
status and assume I'm the one who rode the deadlands."
"Perhaps not, but they will think of
you in individual terms."
"It could cost more if you purchase
things. You're a great wizard-although they won't cheat you on quality."
Justen smiled. "That covers it. It's
your choice."
I shrugged. "I'm not up to being a
hero this morning. I suspect I'll have plenty of opportunity in the days to
come."
"The last building on the right,"
said Justen. His soft voice carried, yet I had the impression that I was the
only one who could have heard it.
Built of the same wide gray planks as the
stable of the Snug Inn, with the gaps between the warped edges chinked with
dirty mortar, the one-story structure bore no sign, and only the planks that
approximated a walkway from a hitching-rail to the battered and red-painted
doorway indicated the possibility of a commercial enterprise. A single mule was
tethered at the rail as Justen eased himself from the saddle, stepped across
the frozen mud crests, and wrapped Rosefoot's reins to the post. I followed his
example, far less gracefully.
Crrrreeeaaaakkk . . . The three men seated
in wooden rocking chairs around the hearth on the left side of the room barely
moved, even with the alarm from the hinges of the ancient door. The fire in the
hearth, consisting mostly of red coals, barely flickered.
Heaped on four tables between the door and
the hearth were all manner of saddle-carried gear-blankets, hand-shovels,
hand-axes, canteens, saddlebags-and the majority were frayed and worn. To the
left, on five shelves, were arrayed an assortment of small packages wrapped in
oilcloth: trail food.
Justen stepped up to the first table.
"Another apprentice, wizard? Last
time, you said you weren't up to one more."
Justen gave the heaviest man a rueful look.
"And you said I wouldn't see you here another winter, Thurlow."
"What do you need?" Thurlow
leaned forward but did not leave the chair, spindly-looking to hold his bulk.
"Canteen, basic travel food."
"What you see is what there is."
I let my fingers run across the assortment
of bedrolls and blankets, stopping when my fingers recognized a certain tight
weave and waterproofing that matched my pack.
Justen nodded minutely, and I set it aside
for the moment, while he casually picked up a canteen and an assortment of
small oilcloth-wrapped packages.
"Got everything?" grunted the
heavy man as he levered himself from the chair and waddled toward the tables.
"Just a few things."
"How a,bout a silver?"
Justen shook his head slowly. "I'm a
poor traveling wizard reduced to taking apprentices, and you treat me like a
rich merchant."
The other two men, much thinner than
Thurlow, guffawed, but they had stopped rocking as they watched.
"Pretty young for an apprentice."
Thurlow's deep-set black eyes raked over me.
"Times are rough all over."
"Seven pennies, but that's because
you've always been kind to an old man."
"What about that bedroll-the brown
one?"
"That? It's Recluce-made, worth at
least five silvers. Something like that stays dry anywhere but the sea
itself." Thurlow's voice was indifferent.
"Some folks don't like Recluce
products," Justen answered.
"That's true, but they're good, you
have to admit."
"How did it end up here?"
"One of their kids-dangergelders, they
call them-sold it to someone I knew in Fenard. Prefect outlawed the sale of
Recluce-made stuff. So he sent it to Jellico, and I got it there. The viscount
doesn't care."
"One silver?"
"Not much good to me, but it is worth
more."
In the end, Justen paid not quite three
silvers for the bedroll, canteen, and five packages of food. I couldn't have
done nearly so well.
"Well, wizard . . . you won't see me
here another winter."
"And you won't see me with another,
apprentice," countered Justen.
They both laughed,.and we left with me
carrying everything.
Outside, the wind had picked up.
"Ah . . . hum?"
Justen raised his eyebrows as I laid the
bedroll over the saddle in order to pack the food parcels.
I looked back at him.
"Two plus nine," he reminded me.
His face was impassive, but I wondered if he were trying to hide a smile.
I dredged three silvers from my belt pouch,
noting that my funds were disappearing all too rapidly, and remembering that
the bedroll had belonged to a dangergelder who hadn't gotten very far before
he'd had to sell it. I shivered, although I wasn't even cold.
A few fine swirls of snow whipped past my
face as I packed the food into one saddlebag, and rolled the waterproof cloth
of the one-piece bedroll into a tighter bundle that I tied behind the saddle.
"We'll fill the canteen along the way,
in one of the cleaner streams."
I also agreed with that. Hewlett didn't
look as if it were the most sanitary of communities.
Without another word, Justen untied
Rosefoot and chucked the reins. I was still struggling with Gairloch when he
had reached the edge of Howlett and took the left-hand road. It took me almost
three kays to catch up because Gairloch insisted on an even walk, barely faster
than Rosefoot.
Even then Justen said little, though we
rode side-by-side on the crooked road.
XXVII
JUSTEN
REINED IN his pony.
I did the same, but Gairloch decided he
didn't want to stop, at least not there. First, I had to lean all the way back,
using all my weight on the hackamore, wishing for the moment that mountain
ponies used real bridles with bits, if only to get Gairloch's attention.
Then, .he stopped-all four feet instantly
frozen.
Only the stirrups kept me anywhere near the
saddle-that, and the fact that the stubby saddle horn had somehow grabbed my
belt and almost eliminated any future offspring.
"Uhhhmmmp," was all I could say,
spitting out horsehair as I disengaged my face from the now-immobile pony's
mane.
Justen managed not to laugh. In fact, he
didn't even grin. Just sighed.
Once I was generally back in position on
Gairloch, the gray magician inclined his head toward the left. At one time
there had been a crossroads, but the post showing the town that lay down the
narrow path to the left had been split by weather and the part with the name
was missing. The arrow still pointed through the gap in the brush, with the
notation "5 k." remaining on the bottom on the squarish pillar.
"To the left are the ... is the old
town of Fairhaven. I usually take my apprentices through there . . . but since
you aren't an apprentice . . ."
"Why?"
"Because it gives most of them a
unique perspective. Those few who totally failed to understand never became
masters . ; ."
No matter where I went, I couldn't get away
from it. More veiled messages. Do what you want, but . . .
I shrugged. "Fairhaven, if you don't
mind, then."
"It will add half a day or more to the
trip."
"Doesn't matter to me, but if you feel
we have to get somewhere quickly . . . you said Weevett is another day. There's
two days and more hills before we get close to Jellico."
"It's worth the detour ... in more
ways than one." Justen didn't seem to make a gesture, but Rosefoot began
walking the trail toward Fairhaven. Unlike most of the roads I had traveled in
Candar (except for the wizard's road leaving Freetown), the path, though
overgrown near the edges and far narrower than the twisting main thoroughfare,
was straight.
I swished the reins, but Gairloch didn't
budge. Flamed stubborn pony! Just as I was ready to jab both boots into his
flanks, he ambled forward after Rosefoot and Justen, as if he had intended to
do so all along.
The path seemed scarcely more than an
overgrown trail, if that, straight though it was. Though I scarcely qualified
as a tracker, I looked for traces of earlier travelers, without leaning too far
over in the saddle.
In the dried mud, perhaps half a kay from
the fork, I saw a series of widely-spaced deer-prints, but neither hoofprints,
wheel-ruts, nor boot-prints.
At one time, the road had obviously been
much wider, wide enough for four wagons abreast, if the regular line of trees
behind the low bushes and undergrowth signified the old road boundaries. The
trees were white oaks, their branches bare in the cold.
In places, leafless creepers now crossed
the track, positioned to assault the road in the spring. In less than a handful
of years, the brush would reclaim the trail entirely.
"Justen, does anybody still live in
Fairhaven?"
"I'm not certain. The last time I was
here, there were still a few . . . inhabitants."
"Wasn't it once an important
place?"
"Very important. You can see how straight
the road is."
As we approached the top of the gentle
grade, the trees seemed taller, and the wind picked up, with a hint of another
storm.
Looking back over my shoulder toward
Hewlett, and the not-so-snug Snug Inn where I had met Justen, I studied the
overhanging gray clouds. But they looked no different than they had that
morning-the almost featureless gray of winter, without the darkness that
usually signified approaching snow.
I sniffed at the wind, sensing a bitter
odor like ashes or slag, which blew from the direction of Fairhaven.
Had the once-prosperous town caught fire?
Straining in the saddle, I looked forward
as the trail crested.
Nothing. The road continued straight ahead,
straight down a gentle grade into a wide and shallow valley, dotted with small
hills and scattered trees.
I looked again, then at Justen, whose eyes
looked straight ahead, seeing nothing, or perhaps something I could not see
myself. Without realizing it, I shivered-not from the cold, but from something
else.
The taller trees seemed to form a pattern,
although I could not discern exactly what it was. All of the taller ones seemed
to be deciduous, and only a scattering of scrubby juniper brush showed green
against the browns and blacks of winter.
Closer at hand, about a quarter-day ahead
on each side of the trail, were two large hillocks, or heaps of white clay, or
...
"Justen . . . was this whole valley
Fairhaven?"
"As a matter of fact, it was."
Some recollection from somewhere tickled my
thoughts, but as I strained to remember, whatever it was disappeared.
"Those were the north guard
towers?" I pointed to the white heaps ahead.
"No . . . Fairhaven didn't need guard
towers. Those were the gates. They were always open."
By now I could see the so-called gates.
Under a light covering of dirt, the hillocks were a dead pure white. Nothing
grew on them. Nothing. As we rode closer, I realized why. Something had melted
the stone. Melted it like sugar candy at a carnival.
My
eyes flickered from the melted gates to Justen, who was sitting on Rosefoot
with his eyes closed, concentrating as his pony picked her way past the old
towers.
The odor of old slag and ashes was
stronger, almost overpowering, and a cloud of unseen darkness loomed ahead.
Everything looked normal for a winter's day in Candar: gray and brown, cold and
sere, with the northern wind at my back. Except for the dead whiteness of the
melted gates . . .
For some reason, I put my hand on my staff,
the one that marked me as different whether I willed it so or not. The black
steel bands at the top were warm to the touch, even through my gloves.
"Lerris." Justen's voice was low.
"There may be trouble ahead. Do exactly as I say."
"What?"
"Do what I say. Do not leave the road.
Hold your staff, but do not unlash it. No matter what."
His eyes were still closed, his features
expressionless.
OOOoooooooooo ...
At first, the sound recalled the wind, but
the breeze had disappeared once we passed the gates. Overhead the sky was
darker somehow, although the clouds looked the same as before, and it was not
even quite midday.
The odor of dead fires and slag was
stronger now, but there was still no sign of anything that had burned, not any
time recently.
The leafless bushes by the roadside seemed
somehow twisted, and the few leaves left hanging from the autumn before were
all white. So were the branches themselves-a near-shining white, although I had
never seen a bush with slick white bark. Even the bark of the birches was
off-white and rough.
OOOOOoooooooooooo . . .
I clutched the staff with my left hand,
gripping the reins even tighter in my right. Gairloch plodded on down the
gentle grade.
Ahead the road flattened and widened. Under
the dust and mud I could see traces of stone paving-blocks. Behind the bushes
now were roofless buildings, only a story high.
"This was the old town center, made of
solid stone. Granite, in some cases."
I glanced back from Justen, who still rode with
his eyes closed, to the ruins beside the road. The roofless buildings were more
intact than the gates. Except for the debris piled around and against them,
several looked as though a new roof and some interior work would make them
habitable.
OOOOOooooooooeeee . . .
"Ahead is the newer town center, where
the council held court . . ."
How anything in ruins could be called new
was beyond me, and I was getting nervous about the howling sound. Jus-ten
seemed to ignore it as he talked and rode, his eyes still closed.
Justen had to be looking at something. He
was a wizard. Antonin had said he was, and he had a number of apprentices who
had become masters, or so he had indicated.
OOOOOOOOOEEEeeeeeeeeeee ...
The sound was closer, on the other side of
the "newer" town center.
My left hand still on my staff, warmer to
the touch even through the leather of my gloves, I tried to study the ruins,
even as Gairloch and Rosefoot picked their way toward the howling.
The stone-melting that had destroyed the
city gates had struck even more wildly around, the "newer" square.
The ruined buildings were twisted as if they had been hot white wax flung
through a whirlwind and then stomped flat by a giant foot.
"This was built by the Magician's Council,
the old square by the Stonecutters' Guild." Justen did not open his eyes,
but, for the first time, his voice sounded strained.
I shook my head. Why bother with the
descriptions? The place was clearly dangerous. By now the smell of ashes made
every breath almost burn.
"Don't look at them. Just look
straight ahead. Recognition leads to fear, and fear increases their
power."
"Whose power?"
"The howlers' power."
I clutched the staff, ready to pull it
free, if necessary.
"Don't!"
I tried to relax my grip on the dark wood,
forcing myself to look straight ahead.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeee . .
.
From the corner of my left eye, I could see
a shape flicker, trying to grab my attention.
I glanced down at Gairloch's mane, and the
whitish shape disappeared.
"With each generation, they are
weaker. And with each person who passes successfully their powers are
diminished." Justen's voice was faint, but clear.
The road began to slope upward as we
continued southward.
"OOOOOOOOEEEEEEEE!"
I started, looked straight ahead at the
suddenness of the sound.
On the trail, standing on a liquid-white
paving stone, was a twisted and turned figure, white and streaked with red, but
shining.
I blinked, trying to look down, but the
figure seemed different . . . more human . . . almost as if wearing a
red-and-white robe . . . and the twisted white was more like a reverse shadow
cast behind him.
"Mine!"
The robed figure seemed to spring from the
pavement, which spread to resemble a wide avenue, along which tall oaks rustled
in the wind.
Mine!
As the second voice echoed in my thoughts,
I found the staff in my hand, up before my face.
The figure hit the staff as if to rip it
from my hands, which were bare against the wood. The impact rocked me in the
stirrups, jolted me back in the saddle . . . and it was gone.
"Accuuuuughhh . . . " I was
half-coughing, half-retching, surrounded by the foulest odor I had ever
smelted, a cross between rotten fish, wet ashes, and brimstone. The mist burned
my eyes, and I could see nothing except a tan blur that was Gairloch's mane.
Managing somehow to empty my stomach
without losing the staff or my balance, I teetered in the saddle, finally
straightening up.
Justen had said nothing. But I could tell
both ponies were moving forward, still on the old trail. By the time I could
see and breathe, I could also see why Justen had said nothing. He lay spread
over Rosefoot's neck, somehow in the saddle, but very still.
At the same time, the feeling of the white
oppression, more sullen than darkness itself, was gone, although the gray
clouds seemed lower than before, and darker. The darkness was that of an
approaching storm.
Swishing the reins, I tried to get Gairloch
to move closer to Rosefoot. Grudgingly, the pony obliged.
As I drew abreast of the other pony, I
could see that Justen was breathing. His arms were thrust into sheaths on each
side of Rosefoot's neck.
Mind-throwing? Had the wizard sent his
thoughts elsewhere? The sheaths indicated that he was prepared for his body to
be carried without his consciousness. And he was still breathing.
Still, I rode next to him, hands still on
the staff, feeling the warm wood against my hands.
Something about that bothered me, but I
wasn't about to sort that out until we were out of the valley, well out.
The Council of Magicians,
Fairhaven-something in my studies, something that Magister Kerwin had said, had
to do with this place.
OOooooeeee ...
The sound hadn't been a real sound at all,
only a sound in my mind. The howler hadn't been able to make a real sound until
I recognized him.
I let my thoughts seethe, took another look
at Justen-who was still breathing-and wondered what I should do.
Rosefoot kept stepping forward, and so did
Gairloch. So I waited, wondering where the magician's thoughts had gone.
Ooeee . . .
The cry had more of the feel of a mental
whimper, as if whatever cried were about to die forever.
How something that was dead could die was
beyond me, but that was the way it sounded.
Both ponies kept picking their way up the
long gradual trail, still heading straight south, until we passed through
another set of melted stone gates. The south set contained dark streaks
embedded in that dead white, as though they had burned and then melted.
The odor died down, and I finally put the
staff back in its straps. Justen still lay sprawled across Rosefoot-still
breathing-and the ponies kept walking.
Then I realized something. The palms and
the insides of the fingers of my gloves, except for just the fingertips, had
burned away; but there were no burns anywhere on my hands. Nor were there any
other burns on my clothes; just a line of charred leather, outlining the
missing sections of the gloves. It was a wonder they had stayed on so long. I
peeled them off, folded them, and tucked them into my belt.
The afternoon began to grow darker and I
glanced overhead, but the clouds were still about the same. The wind was
picking up, the way it often did in the late winter afternoons.
"Uhhhhh . . ." Justen started to
shake his head, then stopped as if in pain, as he slowly righted himself.
"Lerris . . ." he looked back
over his shoulder without finishing the sentence for a time. Then he spoke
again. "That should be the end of Frven."
"Frven?"
"That's what they called it at the
end."
This time I did shiver-shudder would be
more like it.
Fairhaven . . . Frven. The second name
should have been familiar from the first. City of the Chaos Council, brought
down in a hail of fire more than two centuries earlier. I shuddered again.
"You saw Frven . . . Fairhaven . . .
before it became the chaos-masters' city?"
Justen, still looking back, nodded absently.
"I was younger then."
I tried not to shudder a third time. Justen
looked about my father's age, and he had been alive two centuries earlier?
"You helped bring it down?" It
was a wild shot, but everything seemed strange.
"Two ma-magicians created another sun,
right above the city, so hot it melted everything like candle wax in a
furnace." Justen straightened in the saddle, and I noticed that the arm
sheaths had disappeared. "We need to keep moving, since it will be late
when we reach the main road." He shook his head to clear it. "I
should say that it already is late."
"How can it be late afternoon
already?"
"That's a property of Frven. It used
to be much worse."
Justen lifted his canteen and slowly
swallowed nearly all the contents.
The brush and trees beside the narrow road
were beginning to look more normal, with only traces of the shiny whiteness in
their stalks and trunks, but the way still looked deserted.
"Lerris . . ."
"Yes."
"You have a problem ... a real
problem."
I sighed. Now all I needed was someone else
to tell me that I had a problem-a real problem. But what was I to say to a
magician?
"Yes."
"You did two things wrong and one
thing right in Frven. You didn't listen closely enough and paid attention to
that soul-I think it was Perditis-and almost let him become real again. That
would have raised every magician in Candar against you both, because Perditis
would have taken your body and soul. You used your staff for defense. That was
right. But then you burned your gloves off to grasp the staff."
"Why was that wrong? The gloves, I
mean."
"Because you used destruction to
enable preservation. That very nearly cost you your soul again, and might have
if I had not been able to shield you."
"Shield me?"
Justen did not answer immediately, but
began chewing some travel bread, as if he were starving, while he rode.
Finally, he swallowed and spoke again, his voice dimmed by the faint whistle of
the wind and the clop, clop of hooves.
"I didn't intend staying in the second
plane nearly that long, but, since I was there, I decided to seal off most of
the rest of the lost souls. Should have done that earlier, I suppose, but it's
such work."
Justen was sounding suspiciously like my
relatives, not ever exactly answering anything while blaming me for my
failures. On the other hand, I had felt that howler or demon grasping at me,
screaming Mine! Besides, where had the day gone? We could not have lost five or
six hours on a less than twelvekay trip on a straight road, narrow though it
was.
I sighed again, swaying in the saddle.
Riding was still not natural to me, and my legs, though in shape, were still
not used to the pony.
"All right. Once again, I seem to be
missing something."
"Young Lerris," answered Justen dryly, "you also seem to
have forgotten a few other things, such as letting me know that you are
magister-born, that you carry the staff of a magister, and that you have not
chosen your path."
My mouth must have dropped open. I could
say nothing. Banister-born? Not having chosen a path? The staff didn't surprise
me, for some reason.
Justen shook his head sadly. "Once
again your origin burns through."
"But ..."
"Nowhere else do they send out their
best, untrained and untested, to find their way in a world that either ignores
them or tries to destroy them."
"Destroy?"
"Yes, destroy. You are from Recluce
the beautiful, the isolated, the powerful. The island nation that has humbled
every fleet sent against her, destroyed every challenge contemptuously, and
refused to take any real responsibility outside her own boundaries."
"But . . ."
"No . . . it's not your fault, not
yet, and I suppose that is why I will help you, young Lerris. Then, at least, I
will have someone to blame if Recluce continues to ignore the world. Not that
poor Justen can do anything about it."
"Wait a moment," I protested.
"You've been around two centuries, and you let Antonin do all his fancy
tricks and you never raised your staff, never said a word. Why not? How can you
blame Recluce? Or me?"
He just sighed. "So much potential,
and so much ignorance . . . where, oh where shall I start?" He eased
Rosefoot closer to Gairloch.
The road ahead seemed to merge into a much wider,
but heavily-rutted highway.
"Is that the main road?"
"It is, but the next decent place to
stop is about three kays farther along. So I'll try to answer your questions .
. . while I can."
This time I took a swallow from the canteen
attached to Gairloch's saddle, after looking in all directions. The main road
was empty, as were most roads in Candar late on a winter afternoon. I tightened
my cloak against the slowly rising wind. Most of the snow, small dry flakes,
had blown clear even before we had left Hewlett. In Eastern Candar, the snow is
light and seldom sticks, unlike the high ranges of the Westhorns, where winter
means snow upon snow until even the evergreens are buried to half their height.
"Even if you are from Recluce, you
know that there is order and there is chaos. Magic is either, or some of both.
White magicians follow chaos. Black magicians follow order. And gray magicians
try to handle the best of both, and are regarded with great suspicion by both
black and white."
"White is chaos, but why?"
"Lerris, do you practice being
obtuse?" Justen sighed. "White is the combination of all colored
light. Black is pure because it is absent all light."
That was something that, strangely, no one
had ever mentioned-not that I remembered, anyway. I nodded for him to continue
as we finally picked our way off the old road from Fairhaven, or Frven, and
back onto the main road. I could once again see dusty hoofprints, a day old or
more, in the chalky dirt.
"The problem with both white and black
magic is their limitations. Most white magicians are just a little bit gray. No
one can handle pure chaos, not anyone born since the Fall of Frven. There are a
number of black magicians. I can tell that from their actions, but a truly good
black magister cannot ever be discovered unless he or she wishes it."
I must have frowned.
"That's because of the limitations.
Look . . . think of it this way. Too much chaos and even the internal order of
your body becomes disorganized. That's what happens, in a way, when you become
old. White magicians all die young, and the more powerful die younger, unless
they switch bodies like Antonin."
"Switch bodies? But how?" I kept
sounding stupid, and I hated sounding stupid. But Justen was answering some
questions, more than old Kerwin had.
"He has worked an arrangement with . .
. several local rulers. He provides certain services, and he can have the body
of anyone condemned to die. He's in his fifth body now, but I doubt he can
survive more than one more transfer." Justen stopped speaking and looked
up the road, as if measuring the distance. He swayed a bit in the saddle, and I
realized he was pale as fresh-bleached linen.
"You see, young Lerris, with each
transfer it takes longer to rebuild his body image and energies because his
soul ages, even though his body doesn't. Chaos disrupts the soul itself."
I could see the peaked roof of a wayfarers'
hut and the cleared space surrounding it, as we plodded around a gentle curve-a
refreshing change from the deadly straightness of the road into and out of
Frven.
The hut looked empty, though well-kept.
Neither surprised me, for Justen had indicated Weevett was but a few hours'
ride ahead, and most travelers would prefer a warm inn to the best of huts.
"We should stop." Justen said
nothing besides the three words, and I realized that it took all his energy
merely to remain in the saddle.
Nothing more than four stone walls, two
shuttered windows, a door, a thatched roof, and a small hearth-but it was swept
clean and empty, for which I was grateful.
At the same time I wondered why some poor
soul had not tried to appropriate the place, since it was far more hospitable
than the ramshackle thatched wattle-and-daub dwellings outside Hewlett and,
presumably, Weevett.
Even though I half-dismounted, half-fell
off Gairloch, the pony remained fast as I turned to look after Justen. The
wizard in gray was gray all over. He said nothing as I helped him off Rosefoot
and onto the stone bench outside the hut.
With short gusts, the wind was picking up,
swirling scattered pieces of dried and colorless straw around my boots, puffing
dust and scattered snowflakes at Justen's face.
I found a short axe in Justen's pack,
poorly-sharpened but adequate, and carved out some shavings to start the fire.
There looked to be a small creek downhill from the hut, but Justen needed the
fire more than he needed the water.
The flint and axe-steel were sufficient;
but then, I've never had trouble starting fires.
Justen watched as I unstrapped a small
kettle from his saddle kit.
"Going to the stream."
He might as well have been asleep, for all
that he looked at me. For some reason, I stopped and took my staff from the
makeshift sheath on Gairloch. The pony tossed his head once, and chuffed. His
breath was like steam. I swung the kettle in my right hand and grasped the
staff in my left, though the water was almost within sight of the hut.
As I scrambled down the path, worn down by
years of usage, I felt watched. But then, one way or another I had been watched
all day.
Crack.
Thunk!
A figure in rusted armor lay at my feet,
between me and the stream bank.
The staff had moved in my hand, reacting
before I had seen more than a flicker of movement.
This time I studied the overhanging trees,
and the underbrush. But now there was a sense of emptiness.
Hssssssss . . .
As I looked back down at the fallen figure,
mist began to rise, slowly at first, then quickly, forming a small luminous
whirlwind. The shaggy, man who had been inside the armor was gone, and only the
rusted metal links and few plates remained. Then they began to crumble in on
themselves, and they too were gone.
For somebody who hadn't been sure about
magic, I was seeing a lot. Or I was losing my mind. I preferred to think that
magic was real.
Scooping up a kettle full of water, I
hurried back to the hut. Justen had straightened himself up a little, but still
sat in the chill outside, rather than by the small but bright fire.
I hung the kettle on the hook over the
fire, then I took Gairloch's reins and stood there, wondering whether I should
unsaddle him and let him browse or tie him near the hut. Finally I began to
unsaddle him, lugging the tack and saddlebags into the hut. I undipped the
reins but left the halter part of the hackamore in place.
Rosefoot whinnied gently, as if to ask for
the same treatment. I obliged her as well. By the time I finished, Justen had
dragged himself into the hut and onto the single rude bench inside.
"Any tea?"
"Bring me the reddish pouch."
"This one?"
He nodded, and I handed the pouch, more
like a small bag, to him.
"Here. Two pinches in the
kettle."
Using the wadded corner of the horse
blanket, I levered up the lid of the kettle and eased the black stuff inside.
It didn't look like tea, but within minutes the hut began to smell like senthow
tea.
I rummaged around until I found two tin
cups, and poured from the kettle.
Then I looked outside again, but both
horses were well within sight, grazing at a patch of grass sheltered by
grease-berry bushes. By now it was almost dark.
"The horses?"
"They will be all right now."
"Now?"
Justen sipped the tea from his cup. His
smile seemed lopsided. "That blow you landed on the warimage echoed enough
to warn off all but the strongest of white creations."
"Warimage . . . ? White creations . .
. ?" I shook my head. Again, I was sounding stupid.
"After you have something to eat,
young Lerris. I could use some sustenance as well." The pallor was gone
from his face now. He merely looked tired.
"What do you suggest?"
"Take one of the green packages and
empty it into the pot. You'll need some water. It makes fair stew."
After another trip to the stream, some time
heating the water, and some time waiting for the gooey mess to cool, I was
surprised to find it tasted like stew, and not a bad one.
Then I had to clean up the pot, and repack
all the packages. Justen watched with an amused look, almost relaxed in the
firelight.
As I finished repacking, I remembered some
of my earlier questions.
"You never did finish explaining that
bit about why Antonin couldn't grab another body."
"There is nothing else to explain.
Chaos corrupts the soul. The more corrupt the soul, the faster it ages a body.
Each transfer exhausts both body and soul. At some point, the soul cannot
recover enough from the last transfer before the next one must be made."
"Which body are you wearing?"
"My own. It's really much easier that
way, although it does create a number of limitations-as you saw today."
"You could have been killed."
"Only if you had been captured. That
was one reason why I had to keep shielding you and rending the revenants. You
beckoned to all of them, and you have very few defenses against . . . deep
temptations."
I sipped my cool tea. Justen had long since
finished his.
After saying nothing, I finally stood up
and added a small log to the fire.
"Did you mean what you said about
choosing a path?" I finally asked.
"You are magister-born, a born
magician if you will, like it or not, and all magicians must choose a
path-black, white, or, for a few, gray."
"Me? A magician? Hardly. Not a good
woodworker, and not a potter. But a magician? My mother's a potter, and my
father . . . well, I always thought he was just a householder."
This time Justen shook his head.
"Humor me, young Lerris, and you are young . . ."
- Humor him? Why should I? What did he expect,
insisting I was some sort of magician in secret?-
"... but you have to make a
choice."
"Why? I could refuse to choose
anything. Even assuming I'm what you think I am."
"Refusing to choose is a choice. In
your case, your choice is more limited because of what you are."
"Huh?" Justen squared himself on
the bench, looking more and more like Magister Kerwin, though Kerwin was
white-haired and frail-looking, and Justen was brown-haired and thin-faced,
with smooth skin. "If you choose the white, you can never return to
Recluce, for the masters bar anyone associated with the white from your island
nation. Second, your soul screams for order and explanation, even though you
want to reject it. And your desire for order would keep you from mastering more
than the simplest of chaos-manipulations.
"While you are now in effect stumbling
through the gray, in the end the conflict of balancing order and chaos would
destroy you. So ... you either choose the black, or risk destruction in white
or gray ... or you reject all three . . . and become a soul for a white master
like Antonin to feed upon."
"Wait a moment! Just like that? Thank
you very much, and I should become a black master on your say-so?"
Justen pulled his cloak around himself.
"No. You can do whatever you please. You are not my apprentice, only my
traveling companion. Doing the wrong thing will kill you; but then, doing the
wrong thing will kill anyone, sooner or later. You just have to decide earlier.
You can decide I am totally wrong. You can walk out of here tonight, and I will
understand.
"If you wish to travel with me, you
must decide on something. Because, undecided, you are a target for every free
spirit, and every chaos-master, in Eastern Candar."
"Where were they before?"
"That was before you used the
staff." Justen rolled over, and was asleep before I could find an answer.
If there was an answer. I looked at the
fire for a long time. Then I checked the horses, then the fire again. Finally,
I pulled my own cloak about me, determined that I could not sleep.
Once again, I was wrong.
XXVIII
THE MAN
IN white sits back in the light-colored wooden rocker. His eyes flicker in
concert with the flames from the fireplace, absently, as though he is unaware
that his room is the sole one in the inn with its own source of heat.
"What have you seen so far, lady, of the goodness of Recluce?"
She purses her lips, but says nothing.
He does not press her, instead remains
waiting in the chair, as if content to let her consider his question fully.
Her eyes slowly move from his
lightly-tanned face to the fire, and back again. "I have seen suffering,
but that scarcely can be attributed to Recluce," responds the woman in
gray leathers, the blue scarf setting off the brilliance of her hair and the
fairness of her complexion. Standing as she does by the low table, she looks
taller than she is. Her eyes turn momentarily toward the other woman, who sits
quietly in the ladder-backed chair to the left of the hearth.
"Have you watched the rains turn and turn again, soaking the life
out of the fields? Did you see any ships bringing foodstuffs into
Freetown?" His voice remains level, mild.
She considers the import of his words.
"You seem to indicate that the Masters of Recluce created the
suffering."
'I would think it was obvious, lady. But
perhaps you should take some more time to watch and reflect upon what you have
seen."
"I don't think that we need to fence
with words," adds the dark-haired woman. Her voice is throaty, but
businesslike. "You would like to learn how to wield your powers for good.
We believe that we can help you."
"What do you want?" asks the
redhead, still looking at the man in white. "You're not exactly offering
your help out of the mere goodness of your heart."
"I could say so, but either I would be
lying or you wouldn't believe me." The corners of his mouth crinkle, and
his eyes lighten for an instant. "You have noticed, I am certain, how
reluctant the Masters of Recluce are in using their powers for good beyond the
isle itself. And I am equally certain that you have asked yourself why they do
not help alleviate the suffering that exists. Why do they blockade
Freetown?" His arm moves languidly toward the darkness beyond the curtains.
"Such blockages seldom trouble the powerful. Only the poor, and those who
work, suffer the lost wages and the shortage of food."
The redhead shifts her weight from one foot
to the other, so slightly that she does not move. "You talk nicely, Master
Antonin, but what have you done to help the poor? Besides ride around in a
golden coach?"
"You saw me warm those who were cold,
and I have fed those who hungered."
The truth rings in each of his words like
silver, and the redhead steps back. "I need to think about this."
"By all means, but you are welcome to
travel with me to see first-hand what I do to lift the suffering imposed by
Recluce."
The redhead frowns, but says nothing.
XXIX
WITH
THE DAWN, Justen looked almost as young as he had when we had met at the Snug
Inn, except for the dark circles under his eyes and the tiredness in his voice.
He supplied the packages; I got the water
and cooked up some porridge that looked like mush but tasted more like a good
corn pudding. We drank some more of the senthow tea.
Justen made no effort to hurry, and that
alone told me the wizard was still exhausted.
As I rolled up my bedroll-much more
comfortable, even on the hard-packed clay floor of the wayfarers' hut, than the
scratchy straw of the Snug Inn's stable-I caught sight of the corner of a book,
its black leather cover worn from obvious use, protruding from the edge of
Justen's pack. While the volume bore no aura of either order or disorder, an
impression of great age permeated the leather and its parchment pages. My
eyebrows lifted, wondering what sort of book the gray wizard had carried for so
long, whether it contained spells, or procedures, or what.
Justen caught my glance, reached down, and
eased the book out. "Here. You can read it if you want."
"What is it?"
"The Basis of Order is what it's
called. All of the black magicians use it."
I tried not to swallow. "Is it that
important?" Justen smiled. "Only if you intend to become an
order-master."
"Is that an old book?" I was
trying to recover. "My father gave it to me when I left home."
"Where are you from, Justen?"
He waved me off. "No place I really
want to discuss. Do you want to borrow the book?"
"No . . . not right at the moment ...
I don't think . . ."
"Any time . . ." He lay back,
letting his eyes close, appearing, again, far older than the mid-thirties I had
first supposed. I looked at the ashes in the not-quite-ruined fireplace. The
age of his book and the white hair after fighting off the demons of Frven
showed Justen was more than he appeared, and far older.
The Basis of Order? Just what had my father
given me? Was Justen from Recluce, or from a Candarian family of order-masters?
Still tossing the questions around in my
mind, I re-rolled my bedroll and tied it tightly into its cover, setting it
beside my pack before heading into the morning to check on Gairloch and
Rosefoot.
Outside the air was chill, the dark
featureless clouds high overhead, and the wind out of the north. The sparse
fragments of brown grass crunched underfoot.
The two ponies had clipped the grass by the
greaseberry bush, as well as chewed some of the less-dried leaves from the bush
itself. Then they had moved toward some higher grass in a depression closer to
the brook, where they continued to browse.
After watching the two munch, and Gairloch
toss his head and amble to the brook for a drink before returning to eat more
of the long brownish grass, I finally walked back into the hut.
Justen's eyes opened. "Are you
ready?"
"To leave?"
"No. I'm not ready for that. I meant
ready to learn how to protect yourself from wizards like Antonin or demons like
Perditis."
"Fine with me." I just hoped it
wasn't too boring. Even if it were deadly dull, the alternative was worse.
Justen sat up, leaning his back against the
wall and ignoring the grime that touched his fine gray linen tunic. "All
it takes is practice. What you have to do is concentrate on being yourself. Say
something like, 'I am me; I am me,' over and over if necessary."
"Why?"
Justen sighed. "When someone wants to
invade your mind, they want to take away your ego, your sense of being a unique
individual. You have to fight that. And there are two steps to fighting. First
is to recognize that you are being tempted, and second is to assert
yourself."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll just have to show you." His
voice tightened as he looked at me. "Don't you really want to know the
real answers to things, Lerris? Why the masters forced you out without
explaining? Aren't you more than a little bit tired of being put off and told
to find things out for yourself?"
"Of course! Haven't I said so often
enough?"
"Then look at me. Look for the
answers." His voice shook, but he was offering what no one else wanted to
offer.
So I looked at Justen, watching as the
distance between us seemed somehow to decrease.
Now . . . just think about the answers you
deserve . . .
The words were gentle, and I did, wondering
why I had been thrown out before I even knew what I was.
Justen stood next to me. What wouldn't you
give to know the answers? Just reach out with your thoughts, not your hands,
and I will show you the answers . . .
My thoughts? Why not? Thoughts were just
thoughts, and I might yet find out . . .
I tried to cast my thoughts, like my
senses, toward the figure next to me.
White!
A white fog that curled around me so
tightly that I couldn't see. I couldn't speak-trapped somewhere in nothingness;
a nothingness bright enough to burn my thoughts.
Answers . . . answers . . . answers . . .
The words echoed without sound through my head, but I could not speak, could
not see.
Was I standing? I couldn't even see my
arms, or move, or even feel whether my muscles could move.
Justen? What had he done? Why?
. . . answers . . . answers . . . answers .
. .
In the white fog, that mind-blinding light,
were shafts of yellow, red, blue, violet-all spearing me, slashing at one
thought, then another.
. . . answers . . . answers . . . answers .
. .
Finally, I remembered what he had said
about insisting that I was myself. But had that been a trick also? Another way
to gain my confidence? To catch me in a web of white? . . . answers . . .
Was Justen really the one who needed the
new body? Why had I trusted him?
I. . . am . . . me . . . me . . .
Had the white retreated a shade, become not
so blinding? . . . answers . . .
I. . . am . . . me . . . me . . . Lerris .
. . Lerris . . .
I kept thinking the words, repeating them
until I felt myself come together somehow. I . . . am . . . Lerris . . . Lerris
. . .". . . Lerris . . ." The words stumbled from my mouth as I
crashed to the floor of the wayfarers' hut.
Thud. . .
This time, blackness reached out and
grabbed me.
When I woke, I was still lying in a heap on
the dusty clay, and it was well past midday.
My head felt as though each of the colored
light-spears had ripped through it trailing barbed hooks, and my tongue was swollen,
my mouth dry. Still, I slowly eased myself into a sitting position, wondering
what had become of Justen.
I looked over to the bench.
"Oh . . ."
The gray wizard lay there, his hair thin
and silver, wrinkles across his face; he was breathing unevenly. I glanced at
my own hands, but they were still mine, if shaking.
My legs wobbled as I half-stumbled,
half-crawled to Jus-ten's pack and fumbled out the red pouch. When I grasped my
staff to help me stand, the reassurance from the wood helped, and I tottered
out and toward the brook.
Wheee . . . eeeee . . . Only Gairloch
whinnied, but Rosefoot raised her head as well, and both watched me as I filled
the kettle, trying not to feel like each chill northern gust would topple me
into the water.
Justen was still breathing, but still old,
and unconscious, as I rebuilt the fire and heated the water.
Whatever the potion was that smelled like
senthow, it killed my shakes and returned me to the realm of the living-the
tired living. Then I eased a drop or two onto Justen's dried lips.
"Ooop . . ." His eyelids
fluttered.
Another few drops, and he was able to
swallow.
In time he croaked, ". . . some stew .
. . the blue pouch . . ."
So I made that. This time, hearing my steps
to and from the brook, neither pony even lifted a head from grazing.
After a mouthful of stew, which despite its
blue tinge tasted like a venison pie, I looked at Justen. "Did you have to
show me so convincingly?" He shook his head slowly. "Strength rises to
strength. If I had really tried to take you over, not just isolate you, one of
us would be dead." Some of the silver hairs had darkened and his hair
seemed thicker. A few wrinkles had eased, and the gray wizard merely looked
old, rather than ancient. "Did you learn?"
"Uhhh ..." I thought for a
moment. What had I learned? "I think so. That wanting something badly can
let someone else enter your thoughts or body . . ."
"Just your thoughts. Once they control
your thoughts, the body comes next."
I shivered. "Would I have stayed in
that white forever?"
"For a long time. An isolated
personality dies over time, or goes mad and then dies. The white wizards don't
talk about it, but it takes several years, and I once did restore someone. He
avoided me thereafter." Justen took another sip of the tea, followed by
the stew.
"Does insisting on being yourself hold
off that whiteness if you realize it soon enough?"
Justen frowned. "That depends on the
wizard. With someone like Antonin, you have to reject his temptations from the
first. Give him the slightest edge, and he'll manipulate your emotions like a
minstrel uses a song. With a less determined master, or one less skilled, you
can even break free from isolation if you were tricked into it. When that
happens the energy recoils, and the spellcaster gets it back negatively. That's
what happened to me. You were so interested in getting answers, so easily
manipulated, that I didn't see how much strength you had underneath."
I didn't know whether to be pleased at his
acknowledgement of my strength, or irritated at my gullibility.
"Will and understanding are the keys,
Lerris. Not just to mastering order, but to mastering anything." Justen
leaned back as he finished the cup of stew.
"I take it we're not going on to
Weevett this afternoon?"
"You'll collapse in three kays, and I
couldn't even get on Rosefoot. Does traveling seem like a good idea?"
Put that way, it didn't.
"Besides, you need to do some
reading." He was holding out The Basis of Order. "Trying to teach you
by showing you could end up making me permanently old, or killing you."
I reached for the book.
"After you clean up. At the least you
owe me that."
Back to the brook I trudged, still
wondering why I trusted the gray wizard. Every time I thought about that
whiteness where he had almost entrapped me, I wanted to shudder. Yet I could
tell that he hadn't particularly wanted to put me there. And he had paid a
greater price than I had-twice.
That left his reasons untouched.
No answers came as I used a damp cloth to
wipe the cups clean after having rinsed them in water so cold that it hurt my
hands to the bone.
Justen was stroking Rosefoot's nose as I
walked back to the wayfarers' hut, and providing the pony-both ponies - with
something they ate from his open palm. I didn't want to talk to him right then
and kept walking.
Inside the hut, I could see the book laid
on my folded bedroll, but I set the damp cups on one end of the bench to dry.
Then I put another log on the fire, picked up the book, and sat on the bench
where Justen had been.
With not a little resentment, I opened to
the first page.
Order is life; chaos is death. This is
fact, not belief. Each living creature consists of ordered parts that must
function together. When chaos intrudes . . .
Fine. That I knew, if not expressed
precisely that way.
Order extends down to the smallest
fragments of the world. By influencing the smallest ordered segments to create
a new and ordered form, an order-master may change where land exists and where
it does not, where the rain will fall and where it will not. . . . In contrast,
control of chaos is simply the ability to sever one ordered element of the
world from another . . . focused destruction . . .
My head was aching after less than two
pages, and I closed the book. How did the philosophy I had just read have
anything to do with escaping the whiteness in which Justen had attempted to
trap me?
Closing my eyes, I tried to reason it out.
First, when I wasn't thinking clearly,
either in Frven or when Justen offered me answers, I could be tempted. And
temptation meant letting my mind open to someone. Whoever controlled a body's
thoughts, then, must control the body.
But ... if that were so, anyone could take
over anyone else, and that didn't happen.
So ... it took talent . . . but that talent
could be blocked or thrown out . . .
I opened my eyes and looked for Justen. He
wasn't in the hut, but outside brushing Rosefoot. With a sigh, I closed the
book and trudged back outside.
The wind had died down, and a hole in the
clouds to the south let in a stream of sunlight on the hills to our left.
Justen had stopped brushing and was
watching the light play on the gray and brown and white of the hills.
"Justen, is self-knowledge the same as
stonework, good stonework, when it resists chaos?"
He nodded. "There are dangers."
I must have frowned.
"Not even Antonin can control a poor
shepherd who fiercely resists, but his power is great enough to destroy him or
her."
"But you said that Antonin could
control me?"
"Through temptation." Justen kept
brushing Rosefoot as he talked. The gray wizard's hair was now mostly dark,
with only traces of silver, and only a few wrinkles remained. "He would
take you as his apprentice, show you how order works, and how you could control
chaos. He would intoxicate you with the power of destruction-always for good.
Feeding the poor, clearing the roadways-until the internal conflict between
order and chaos built and destroyed your self-image. By then, you'd not want to
take responsibility, and Antonin would relieve you of that burden. Sephya and
Gerlis are more direct." I shivered, seeing for the first time, really,
what he had meant. And all that because of not understanding?
For the first time, then, I got angry,
really angry, so angry that my jaw clenched, and my eyes burned. So angry that
I felt the chill air around me as a relief from my own heat.
To avoid some minor chaos in Recluce, to
avoid a little unpleasantness, they shipped off me, and Tamra, and Krystal, and
all the others, without even spelling out the temptation problem, knowing that
all dangergelders were flawed, seeking answers or power or something. And that thirst
would leave us all potential victims of the Antonins of the world.
Justen watched, an amused smile upon his
face.
"What's so funny?"
"You. You've read a few pages, and
you're ready to tear apart all of Recluce." He kept smiling.
"How do you know?"
"I felt that way once, too."
"You're from Recluce."
"I didn't say that. I said that I felt
that way," he corrected me gently.
Wheeee . . . eeee . . . Gairloch jabbed his
nose into my shoulder.
I reached for Justen's brush-another item I
really needed if I were going to take care of a horse. Then I thought about my
dwindling funds and almost groaned. Everything seemed to cost something . . .
and far more than I had thought possible.
XXX
ABSENTLY
FINGERING THE green scarf at her neck before letting her left hand drop, the
redhead looks at the hearth where no fire burns.
Her thoughts turn, as they have so often,
to the unanswered questions. Why has the white wizard been so willing to share
his knowledge, to accept her as an equal, when the Masters of Recluce had so
grudged every speck of knowledge?
The staff warms under her palm as she
ponders, not really watching the white mage as he sits in the chair that is not
quite drawn up to the inlaid table. He frowns with perhaps the first frown she
has seen.
"Why frown?" she asks.
"These are certainly better quarters than the inn at Hydolar. It appears
that the viscount does provide for those who do good."
"You are still skeptical,"
comments Antonin, his mellow voice conversational. "What would it take to
convince you? Perhaps another technique you can use to improve your
understanding?"
Her lips quirk in an expression that is
neither smile nor irritation, but some of each.
"This one is simple enough to show
you, just as I showed you how to cloak yourself from the sight of those who do
not need to see." His voice assumed the tone of a patient master. "I
promised you that I would teach you how to reach your full abilities. Have I
not kept my promise?"
The redhead nods grudgingly.
Antonin sighs softly. "Then, perhaps I
should provide another lesson-one that will improve your understanding as well.
I assume that you would like to know why the Masters of Recluce hide such
simple techniques, and why the Brotherhood forced you out without even
bothering to acknowledge your abilities?"
The woman in the green scarf nods again.
"Haven't I said so?"
"You have. But you have also said that
mere words are not enough, that words conceal as much as they reveal, and that
you are more than a little bit tired of being put off." He sighs, again
softly. "You will have to concentrate. Put both hands on your staff, and
look down at the mirror here."
She frowns, for she had not seen the mirror
appear on the table, but she looks into the misty swirls that resemble white
clouds blocking the images that must exist behind the mists.
"Look deeply into the glass. Look for
the answers." His voice resonates slightly. "The mirror represents
the barriers in your thoughts, the barriers to full understanding. Think of
nothing at all, of silence, of stillness . . ."
Now . . . just think about the answers you
deserve . . .
The words hang in her mind, not in her
ears.
What would you not give to understand?
Reach toward the glass with your thoughts, just your thoughts, not your hands,
and I will show you understanding . . .
The redhead topples forward before the
dark-haired woman catches her shoulders.
"It took you long enough . . ."
"Sephya."
The coldness of her name stops the woman's
mouth.
"Now . . . before she can assert her
identity. Now . . ." His forehead is beaded in sweat, and fine lines seem
to have instantly aged his face.
The dark-haired woman grasps the hands of
the immobile and wide-eyed redhead and begins to turn the redhead's face so
that their eyes meet-lined dark eyes and clear blank eyes.
On the table the white mists swirl in the
mirror that reflects the struggle.
Shortly, only a pile of dust remains where
the dark-haired woman had been seated. As the redhead stands, the fire in her
hair flickers, then begins to darken.
"I never did like red hair . . ."
Antonin passes his hand across the mirror,
and the glass reflects the dark-beamed ceiling above. "The viscount will
be expecting us shortly. Wake me when the time is right." He totters
toward the expansive bed.
The dark-haired woman gestures at the dust
on the chair, which swirls, flares, and vanishes. "And she thought she
could trust you . . ."
The white wizard glares, but says nothing
as he stretches out upon the white coverlet.
XXXI
THE
NEXT MORNING, which was ushered in by bright sunshine and cold gusty winds,
Justen again appeared to be the not-quite-youthful gray wizard, up and saddling
Rosefoot while I was still rolling my bedroll and trying to wash and shave in
the icy brook water. The fallen leaves from the brush around the brook no
longer crunched underfoot, but neither was it warm enough for there to be the
moldering smell of spring.
Cleaner was definitely colder than having a dirty face and hands, but I
swore that Justen hadn't .winced when he washed. Did gray wizards use their
powers to heat cold water? Probably, but if it were a chaos-power, I'd forego
hot water through magic. The feeling of chaos-isolation was too recent.
I wiped off my trousers and cloak as well
as I could, wondering how Justen's light-gray clothes always looked so good,
when my own darker garb was beginning to look ratty. Then again, I wasn't
certain I really wanted to know.
Wheee . . . eeee . . . Gairloch pawed at
the ground, as if to indicate his readiness to take to the road and that he'd
had enough of old grass and greaseberry leaves.
So I strapped on my bedroll and pack and
climbed into the old saddle. "How far is it to Weevel, or whatever it
is?"
"Weevett. We should be there before
midday . . . depending on the road." Justen rode easily, not really using
the reins, nor lurching in the saddle the way I still did.
With the wind coming at us out of the west,
I could already smell the faintest hint of wood smoke, and over the low hills
before us rose only a single thin plume of twisted white or grayish smoke. The
valleys were either cleared for pasture or were natural meadows, with no sign of
crop fields or orchards.
Before we had gone much more than a kay, we
passed a rude hut set back from the road on the right and surrounded with a
split rail fence, behind which milled a few hogs. Someone in shapeless leathers
was pouring water into a long trough. Beyond the fence grazed several dozen
sheep.
"When did we leave Montgren?"
"Actually, we haven't. The countess
holds Frven, but that really doesn't count. Nobody wants that land. The border
between Montgren and Certis is on the other side of Weevett.
"More guards, I suppose?"
"No guard posts, just two stone
pillars. The countess is a realist. She just hangs or shoots those who
displease her, the ones her few soldiers catch. They don't catch too many,
since most of her modest guard is at Vergren."
Vergren was somewhere generally northwest
of us, according to the maps I had studied.
I hadn't traveled all that far, and here I
was about to enter the third kingdom or duchy or whatever. "Are they all
as small as Montgren?"
Justen shook his head. "Some are, like
Freetown. Hydlen and Gallos stretch over three hundred kays north and south.
Kyphros is even bigger, and it's the only duchy that actually would qualify as
a true kingdom. That has bothered the Prefect of Gallos ever since the previous
autarch carved out the realm from the surrounding kingdoms."
The names of Gallos and Kyphros were
familiar, but that was about all. There was something else about Kyphros, but I
didn't recall what at the moment.
We rode past a second rough hut, this time
on the south side of the road, again with a split-log fence enclosing another
wooden trough, and black-faced sheep indistinguishable from those behind the
fence on the north side of the road.
The tops of the gentle hills contained
ample trees to supply the rails for the fences, as well as logs in numbers far
greater than necessary for the few buildings likely to be found in Weevett or
those in Howlett. Even Vergren-the smallest capital in Candar, famed only for
the diversity of its wool products-would not have made a dent in the lumber
that could have been taken from the heights of the hills, especially since a
fair number of the trees were red or black oak.
In time, as we rode, the huts appeared more
frequently, changing from little more than log hovels into rough-planked houses
with thatched roofs.
By now the sun stood high and white in the
sky, but the ground remained as frozen as ever. While my breath no longer
resembled steam in the chill air, I alternated placing my ungloved hands under
my tunic to warm them.
Justen rode with his cloak open, without
gloves, and without any sign of discomfort. My buttocks were sore, my hands
chapped and chill, and my legs threatened to cramp, even with repeated standing
in the stirrups to stretch them.
As we traveled down another of the unending
gentle hills, the packed red road-clay merged, over a kay or so, into a packed
sand-and-pebbles surface frozen into shallow ruts. Gairloch's hooves clicked on
the smooth small rocks, and I worried about his catching a stone in a hoof.
The roadside lands bore the winter-stubble
of maize and the turned soil of recovered root crops; the farm houses came
closer together. In time we descended toward a small river, the first I had
seen larger than a stream since I had landed in Freetown. Though the river was
surrounded by some low brush, I could see no trees along the streambed either
to the north or the south.
Where the road flattened near the bottom of
the hill, it also straightened and ran arrow-like to an ancient stone bridge
across the river.
"The bridge marks the edge of
Weevett," observed Justen.
"Is that important?" I was bored
with the same-looking huts and houses, with the sullen people who looked away
from us, and with the rolling gray and brown of hill and valley after hill and
valley, sheep after identical and smelly sheep.
"In a way," answered the gray
wizard, "since the countess's soldiers do not have the right of summary
justice within the towns of Montgren."
Summary justice? Again, I nearly winced. Justen kept reminding me
of exactly how little I knew, and how many pitfalls Candar possessed.
Even before we crossed the bridge into
Weevett, the rank odor of concentrated sheep and wool wafted from the west to
greet us. That, combined with another ill-defined rancidity which I did not ask
Justen to explain, turned my travel bread breakfast into a leaden mass squarely
in the middle of my guts.
Uuurrrppp ... I winced at the burp, but
Justen didn't even smile; he was guiding Rosefoot around a small wagon pulled
by a mule. A woman in shapeless herder's gray trudged beside the mule, edging
toward the animal as she heard us but not looking up, not even as Rosefoot
delicately stepped around her.
Whujjjff . . . That from the mule as
greetings when we resumed the center of the road just before the bridge.
Beginning perhaps half a kay beyond the bridge, cottages clustered together on
both sides of the way.
"We're expected at the Weavers'
Inn."
"Expected?"
Justen smiled a thin smile and shook his
head. "Lerris. Contrary to what you must believe, gray wizards do not roam
the landscape and travel aimlessly from point to point. Like everyone else, we
have to make a living."
"In Weevett?"
"Just so." He reseated himself in
the saddle as Gairloch's hooves struck the granite paving-stones of the bridge.
Click, clip . . . click, clip . "May I ask what your commission is
here?"
"Oh, so delicately put!" Justen
laughed. He actually laughed, if only for a moment. "I don't believe in
glamor, just in a good job and money. Some years ago I struck a bargain with
the Count of Montgren. He wanted his duchy to be prosperous and famed for
something, and I wanted a more secure income. I made a proposal, and he nearly
threw me out.
"Then he thought better of it, but I
raised the price. After all, even gray wizards have some dignity. That's why
we're here."
"You haven't told me anything," I
noted. "The sheep," Justen added. "The famous sheep and wool of
Montgren."
"I know. They're famous. Even some of
the weavers in . . . some of the weavers I know . . . praise the wool." I
paused. "Are you saying you have something to do with that?"
"Immodestly, yes. That is why we are
here."
I shook my head.
"Since you are here, you can
help."
I didn't like the sound of that at all, but
I owed Justen. "How?"
"Don't worry. It's a menial job, but
purely one of order."
I waited.
"Healthy sheep bear healthy lambs and
good wool. Each year, I check the ewes and the breeding rams to ensure only the
healthy ones are bred,"' he explained. "That means four visits to
Montgren, and it takes several days. In the fall, I check the lambs as
well."
It couldn't be that simple, but I knew
little enough to question. So I remained silent and let Gairloch follow
Rosefoot.
The stone-paved streets of Weevett were
narrow, though the cottages were fenced and set far back from the main ways.
The town layout was simple. Two main streets-one north-south, one east-west-met
at a central square. There were no more than two dozen other streets, half of
which ran north-south and half east-west, creating a grid pattern.
On the south side of the town I could see,
over the low one-story cottages, what appeared to be warehouses or large
workshops.
"Carding houses," said Justen
curtly.
"For wool," he added even more
curtly.
I shrugged. The gray wizard's mind was
clearly somewhere else. So I studied the town itself, noting the plain-planked
cottages with their painted and opened shutters, colored-gravel walks, trimmed
waist-high hedges, and now-empty flower beds and flower boxes. Compared to
Hrisbarg or Hewlett, Weevett was indeed an ordered place.
In the center of the square was a stone
pedestal bearing the statue of a man on a horse; carved into the stone
supporting the statue were the recurring shapes of sheep. Around the pedestal
was a winter-browned lawn, except on the north side, right under the pedestal,
where rested a small pile of dirty snow. A low stone wall and a raised walk
outside the wall separated the green from the pavement.
Around the central square were ranged
half-a-dozen well-kept stores-dry goods, a wood-crafter, a produce market, a
butcher, a leather-goods shop, a bakery-and the Weavers' Inn, which from the
outside appeared nearly as ordered as the Travelers' Rest had been.
Across the square from the inn was a
two-story stone building, with a flagstaff from which flew a blue-and-gold
banner. On the blue triangular lower section was a golden coronet, while the
upper gold section bore a black ram.
Although a good score of people walked to
and from the shops and stores on the east and west sides of the square, no one
neared the stone building on the north side.
A single wagon waited in front of the
leather-goods store.
Justen and Rosefoot headed straight for the
equally orderly stable behind the Weavers' Inn, going down a narrow paved alley
beside the tan-painted plank siding of the two-story inn.
"Ser wizard . . ." the stableboy
greeted him.
Justen nodded, flashed a brief smile, and
dismounted.
"Are you a wizard, too?" asked
the towhead.
"I am what I am." I forced a
laugh.
Justen ignored us both,
uncharacteristically, and unfastened his saddlebags with quick deft motions.
By the time I helped the young ostler
settle both ponies in clean, adjacent stalls in the airy stable, Justen had
disappeared. Assuming he had gone to the inn, I followed and found him talking
to a man-presumably, the innkeeper.
"This is Lerris, my assistant this
time."
The innkeeper nodded politely, the pointed
ends of his bushy mustache hardly moving at all. "The room next to yours
is his."
That stopped me. No questions, no
problems-just mine.
The innkeeper glanced briefly at me as I
stood there holding my saddlebags and pack; then turned back to Justen. "I
thought you might bring help."
Justen nodded in return, his thoughts
clearly elsewhere.
"Would you like some dinner?"
"As soon as we . . ."
"Ah, yes . . . follow me."
Up the clean and well-varnished white-oak
stairs we went, and down a wide hallway. We had the two corner rooms. Or
rather, I had a nice room with a real bed, dresser, mirror, and wash table, and
Justen had a suite, or at least a bedroom and sitting room.
Since the gray wizard wanted to be left
alone, I went to my own room, washed up, and then headed downstairs to fill my
quite-empty stomach.
The only problem with the inn was that
although it was clean, somehow it still smelled faintly of sheep and wool. Did
all of Weevett echo the animals?
The innkeeper led me to a corner table,
warmed by a low fire and set with actual utensils and glass goblets.
By the time Justen arrived, I was drinking
redberry and working my way through cheese and a mutton pie, brought by a
pleasant-faced if heavyset girl who resembled the innkeeper too much for
coincidence.
Justen said nothing of a conversational
nature until after he had sipped a golden wine I did not recognize and munched
through a slice of black bread and a hard and pungent white cheese. Between
bites he gazed into a space I could not see. "You'll earn that room
tomorrow."
"Is that when we start work?" He
nodded.
I had questions, but the gray wizard wasn't
exactly encouraging them and I was still hungry. So I ate, and Justen nibbled
at his bread and cheese.
But there was one question that kept
nagging me; so I asked. "You said that the magicians built the new town
center of Fvren, as if that explained something."
Justen smiled faintly. "That's not
properly a question, but I understand the import." He took a sip of the
golden wine. "The older wizards of Fairhaven understood that chaos cannot
build structures which last-"
"What about the roads?" "The
roads are not quite the same thing. Chaos is quite efficient at removing rock
and stone. So long as it does not touch what remains, the roadbed is as solid
as the stone which is left. And the few black wizards used order-mastery, after
the stonemasons built the retaining walls and drains, but that was before . .
." He shook his head. "Sometimes I wander too much. You asked about
building. Stonecutters build better than chaos-masters. The old town center at
Fairhaven proves that."
I still didn't have the answer I wanted,
but Justen was staring into space, as if I had called him back into the past.
So instead, I finished my mutton pie and let him stare.
"Your meal is. paid for," the
gray wizard said sometime later as I finished a redberry pastry. He stood up,
pushing back the spoke-armed chair, and nodded! "I'll see you here at
dawn."
I nodded with a full mouth, but he was gone
before I could swallow.
There wasn't much else to do except finish
stuffing myself. Then I rose and walked out into the late afternoon, wrapping
my brown cloak around me.
Fewer souls were visible in the square, but
that might have been because of the thickening gray clouds and the few wispy
flakes of snow that drifted across the stones with the gray winds.
In time, I retreated back to my room and
lit the oil lamp.
With a sigh, I recovered The Basis of Order
and opened it again. It was still boring, or I was tired, or both, and I turned
out the lamp and climbed onto the bed for a nap.
When I awoke again it was pitch-dark, with
only a single street lamp visible through the window. I ignored the growling in
my stomach, and pulled off my clothes and climbed under the coverlet. Falling
asleep was still easy.
XXXII
SHEEP-I
HOPE never to see another sheep as closely as I saw the sheep of Weevett, nor
to smell them. By comparison, rancid butter smells better, at least if it is
not too spoiled.
Like Justen, I wore a borrowed herder's
jacket and trousers and boots, though I had to stuff some raw wool into the
toes of the boots.
According to the gia^ \vvzatd, what he was
about to do was pure order-magic. "Just because it's ordered doesn't mean
it's pleasant," he added. "That's why I'm free to do as I please most
of the rest of the time."
I followed him from the rough shed to a pen
or corral, where there must have been over a hundred of the black-faced
creatures.
Urrrr . . . uppp . . . My stomach
protested, although my nose was already numb, and not from the chill of the
wind. The sun beamed brightly but not warmly, and the wind whipped a thin
coating of snow across the ground, scudding it into piles here and there
against fence posts, in frozen ruts, and on the sheltered side of the empty
wool-sheds.
Briskly, Justen strode over to the gate
where a white-haired, lean, and tanned woman stood. Her hair was thick, nearly
as short as mine, and she smiled openly at the wizard. Her gray leathers were
clean, and half a step behind her stood a taller man, balding, wearing stained
leathers and holding a crook.
"Justen . . ."
"Merella."
Then I noticed the squad of crossbowmen
ranged along one side of the shed behind the woman. Glancing in the other
direction, I found a few other armed soldiers. My feet carried me after Justen.
"Who's the youngster?"
"My current assistant. This is
Countess Merella of Montgren. Lerris, who understands order but not
sheep."
The countess's smile became a grin.
"He didn't expect me. You never tell them, do you, wizard?"
Justen shrugged. "It works better that
way."
"Pleased to meet you, your highness." I inclined my head,
although I didn't know what you called a countess.
"It's good to see you, Lerris."
Then the smile was gone, replaced by a more businesslike look. "We lost
too many because of the duke and the rains. Is there anything . . . ? We
separated out the cripples and brought the least-damaged ones."
"We'll do what we -can." He
turned to me. "The ewes to be bred this year come through the chute here
one at a time. We check them to make sure they're as healthy as they look. If
you feel something . . ."
"I tell you?" I asked.
Justen nodded, turning to the countess.
"Lerris has a well-developed sense of order, and that will let me use my
energies, I hope, on the cripples and the problems."
"As you wish-so long as the results
stand." The countess's tone was neutral, although her voice was harder
than before.
Justen looked at the herder. "Send one
through alone first."
. . . Bheeeaaaa ... A black-faced
four-legged wooly heap bumbled down the chute-really, just two low fences set
three cubits apart-that led from a gate in one corral to a second empty corral.
I tried to feel the sheep, and the action
wasn't quite so hard as I had feared, since there was no sense of disorder, and
even a faint underlying sense of scheme and order. Looking at Justen, I said.
"She seems fine. No disorder, and a faint sense of order . . . health . .
."
He nodded. "Can you strengthen that
order just a bit?"
I didn't know how.
"Watch and use your senses."
So I did, and what he did to the sheep was
like smoothing the grain of fine wood to bring out its natural flow. That's not
quite right, but that's what it felt like.
"Send another one."
With the second, I was able to do what the
gray wizard had, with a little help, and by the fourth or fifth ewe I was
working alone, with Justen watching. Until a larger ewe, perhaps the twentieth,
came skittering down the chute.
Even before the animal got to me my stomach
turned, and the beast seemed to glow in a whitish-red fire underneath its wool.
"Justen . . . this one . . ."
Even the gray wizard seemed to pale
momentarily, but he just nodded to the head herder. "Pull this one out for
the white corral."
"Chaos?" asked the Countess. I
had forgotten she still remained, watching the procedure.
Justen nodded as another herder guided the
diseased, chaotic animal toward a smaller fenced area.
By then the flow of animals had increased,
and I was breathing sheep, tasting wool, and feeling ready to baaaa myself.
In some of the ewes, the underlying
order-flow was barely there, and those I strengthened as I could.
Black-face . . . baaaaa . . . oily
wool-taste coating my tongue . . . baaaa . . . splaaattt. . . "Fine . .
." Black-face . . . "Pull this one . . ." Sheep gas . . . dung ,
. . oily wool-smells . . . baaaa . . .
The parade of animals seemed endless-until
the corral was empty.
I looked up, somewhat dazed. The countess
had left somewhere in the middle of processing the first corral-when, I could
not have said.
"Over here," Justen said.
I thought I saw a few more silver hairs in
his head, but that could have been my imagination. I trudged in the direction
he pointed, my eyes burning, my stomach turning, growling and empty.
Across the field waited another large
corral of sheep.
I glanced upward. The sun had not even
reached mid-morning. "Oh ..." That was the way the morning went . . .
ewe after ewe, with Justen looking grimmer and grimmer with each chaos-disordered
ewe set aside.
By noon my eyes were blurring, and there
must have been close to a hundred of the chaos-tinged ewes crowded into the
white corral.
"Take a rest, Lerris." Justen's
voice was firm. "We'll get something to eat before we finish up here, and
then ride over to the southern gathering."
"There's more?"
Justen's smile was half-amused, half-grim.
"You've just begun. Two days here, and another two days at the gatherings
outside Vergren. There you don't get an inn the first night, just a pallet and
a tent."
I sagged against the split rails of the
corral while Justen approached the white corral, remaining propped there while
two herders funneled the ewes to him one by one. This time, he actually touched
each one.
When he was finished, about two-thirds had
been returned to the herd. The remaining animals milled around the corral.
With slow, measured steps, the gray wizard
moved back toward me. The sun glinted on hair at least half silver, though his
face seemed no more wrinkled, unlike the times after Frven.
"Why so much chaos?" I asked.
"How can you tell?" he responded,
steadying himself on one of the low chute-rails.
"You've been withdrawn for the last
two days, looking where only wizards look, and paying little or no attention to
anyone. I don't know you, but it seems more than work."
"You're right." He shook his
head. "Nature seeks balance, and Recluce went too far this time." He
frowned. "I hope," he added under his breath.
At the last words, I frowned. "You
hope Recluce went too far?"
"Not what I meant. I hope it is a
question of natural balance." He pushed himself away from the chute-rail
and began to walk toward the middle shed. "Let's eat. They're setting up a
table in one of the sheds."
Dinner was a hot soup, cold sliced mutton
and cheese, black bread and redberry preserves, and as much hot cider as I
wanted. Unfortunately, to me it all tasted like oily wool. The food steadied me
and stopped the protests from my guts. About the time I started to feel human
again, we trooped out to start all over with another bunch of ewes.
Then I climbed on Gairloch and rode to the
southern gathering grounds, where we worked until we could not see. I could
barely finish supper before collapsing.
The next day was the same, and so was the
day after, except that first we rode until nearly noon. On each day, the
countess appeared for a time, looking nearly as grim as Jus-ten.
The fourth day wasn't quite as bad,
although it was after dark when we returned to the Weavers' Inn.
"Just take the robe in your room and
follow me."
"What . . ."
"We're taking a bath."
And we did, in a small room off the
kitchen, with hot water and soap, and for the first time since leaving Recluce
I felt clean. We left the borrowed clothes there and wore the robes back to our
rooms, where I found clean sheets on the bed, my own clothes cleaned and
brushed, my boots shined, and a small purse with five gold pennies.
I thought I'd more than earned it.
By the time we actually dined the room was
deserted, the fire low. We were served by the innkeeper himself. The veal was
tender, the sauce succulent, and the golden wine like a fine autumn, perhaps
the first time I had really enjoyed alcohol. Neither of us felt much like
speaking until we had finished the main course and sat looking at a large
redberry pastry.
"You did well, Lerris."
"I see how you earn whatever they pay
you," I answered, returning the compliment as best I could. "That's
hard work."
"There hasn't been that much disorder
since near the beginning," mused the gray wizard, stroking his chin
thoughtfully.
"You mentioned Recluce. What did you
mean?"
"I'd hoped that the Recluce efforts
against the duke had rebounded, so to speak, but the signs aren't right. This
is all too recent, almost as if . . ."
"As if what?" I took a small bite
from the pastry.
He shrugged. "As if ... well ... as if
you had gone with Antonin."
"How could this happen? Does it take
as much work to sow chaos as it took for us to heal it?"
"Less work. That's the problem.
Destruction is almost always easier than construction. It's as though Verlya or
Gerlis were working together with Antonin and Sephya. Or Sephya has gotten much
stronger." He shook his head again. "But that's hard to
believe." He sipped the golden wine.
"Chaos-masters don't work
together?"
"Cooperation, beyond an
apprentice-master or a male-female bond, is almost a contradiction in terms for
chaos. Then again, the great ones seldom have to, since there are few to oppose
them."
"You oppose them," I ventured.
"Not directly. I'm not order-pure
enough for that." He set down the glass. "I'm tired, and tomorrow we
start for Jellico."
"Another commission? More sheep?"
"Actually, in Jellico, it's
seeds."
"Seeds?"
"Good seeds beget good crops, and
Certis grows oilpods, the kind they squeeze for the scented lamp-oil that Hamor
prefers ..."
I yawned. Some aspects of wizardry and
order-mastery were still boring. At least, though, the seeds couldn't smell ...
I hoped.
XXXIII
OFF TO
THE left was a line of trees that met the road about two kays ahead in what
looked to be a grove. Under the pale blue sky, warmed by the winter sun, the
frost and whatever snow might have fallen earlier had melted away from the
road, and the stubble of the fields and occasional meadows. . Now that we had
crossed the Montgren Gorge and passed into Certis, the occasional fenced-field
and extensive sheep meadows had largely given way to entirely fenced fields,
now covered with maize stubble or other grain stalks. The huts were larger, and
many even boasted woodlots back away from the road. But the landscape and the
countryside were boring. After all, how much creativity is there in fences and
huts? And how long can you pass them without being lulled into stupor by their
similarities?
Justen did not talk that much, and I did
not press the gray wizard.
Wheeee . . . uhhh . . . Gairloch tossed his
head, prancing for an instant, then slowing down.
Wheeee . . . eeee. Whatever it was,
Rosefoot agreed with Gairloch.
I looked at Justen.
"They're thirsty," he said.
"Is that a stream up ahead?" '
"I believe so. There is even a
pavilion of sorts there, if I recall."
"Pavilion?"
"A roof erected on four timbers,
nothing more than a rain shelter."
A rain shelter we didn't need, but it was
probably better than stopping by the roadside.
The pavilion was there, but a nearby oak
had pulled up its roots, toppled, and broken the ridgepole. Between the fallen
green oak and the collapsed pavilion, most of the travelers' area was unusable,
although a path worn by other travelers led down a drop of half-a-rod to the
stream.
At the top of the incline, I dismounted and
led Gairloch toward the water.
Whee . . . eeeee ... He tossed his head,
and I studied the trees that stood back off the watercourse. I saw nothing.
Then I tried to sense chaos. Nothing there either.
"Well . . . here you are . . . drink
what you can." I looped the reins over the saddle and got out my water
bottle.
Wheeeee . . . eeeeee . . .
"I know it's not a warm stable, but it
is decent water." Standing upstream from Gairloch, I smelled the water,
licked it from my hands, felt it with my mind. Nothing-just good cold water. So
I drank some, scooping it up with my hands, while trying not to slip off the
brown grass-tuft where I squatted. Then, after wiping my face on my sleeve, I
filled the canteen and replaced it in its holder.
Justen-where was he?
I grabbed for the staff, then eased up the
incline to the rest area.
The gray wizard was nowhere to be seen, but
a man in a soldier's vest and a chain-mail shirt appeared from behind the mound
of collapsed thatch, a plate skullcap secured with leather thongs. His sword
was unsheathed and pointed in my direction.
"Another pilgrim . . ." His voice
was raspy, his brown beard scraggly, and his step measured.
I could have outrun him, even to Gairloch,
but I didn't know where Justen was and who might be with the soldier, and
whether they might have a crossbow, a longbow, or a rifle. So I took an even
hold on the staff, arranged my feet, and waited.
"What do you want?" I asked. It
seemed like a fair question, even to a maniac with a glint in his eye and a
sword in his hand.
"Just your horse and your money."
"That's a bit much."
"Damned pilgrim. You're all
alike."
Whssm!
I let the first stroke pass by.
Whhsttt!
Thunk! Even I was surprised at how
unskillful he was, at watching his sword fly onto the hard clay.
I waited to see if he would go for the
sword on the ground or the knife at his belt.
His eyes darted from mine to the staff and
to the sword and back. Then he sighed. "Quarter?"
I nodded.
Click.
I ducked and turned.
Swish. The blade of the heavier man nipped
the edge of my cloak, and I wished I had discarded it as I staggered sideways.
Thunk.
Clank. His foot skidded on something, and
he stepped back.
I used the instant to duck out of my cloak,
regaining a balanced stance and concentrating on the unshaven and grizzled
veteran before me. His eyes were bloodshot, but his hands seemed steady enough.
His blade dipped, then turned.
I did not move, watching eyes and edge simultaneously.
He stepped back and sheathed the sword.
"Damned wizards. Begging your pardon, ser, but I didn't know which kind
you were."
I tried not to let the confusion show as I
looked from the one, who was trying to stand on a very sore leg, to the older
man who watched us both.
Both soldiers' leather vests had two
irregular light patches on the shoulders, with two small holes within the
lighter colored space. Wing-like insignia had recently been removed.
Their chain-mail shirts scarcely qualified
as armor, except to protect against spent arrows and weak slashes, but their
swords had been serviceable enough.
Neither one bore the taint of chaos.
Neither did they exactly. radiate order. Which left the possibility of
unpleasant mercenaries running out on their contracts and turning bandit. I
wished Justen were around, but the gray wizard seemed to have vanished.
"Wizard problems?" I asked.
"Just wizard problems?" I added.
The older man, mostly gray-haired although
he did not look much older than Justen, spat onto the road. The younger looked
at the sword lying on the frozen clay.
"You can get it, if it stays in the
scabbard." I did not relax my control of the staff until he sheathed the
sword. "You still have to explain why I shouldn't do something unpleasant
to you."
"Ha! Begging your pardon, young
wizard, but you can't." The older soldier spat again and looked toward
Gairloch, who had edged backwards, but otherwise made not a sound.
"That's not quite true, friend."
I smiled pleasantly. "I cannot do anything destructive, but what if I were
to decide that with each unpleasant act you do, your nose would grow a thumb?
Or that you would begin to grow again?"
"What . . . ?" asked the one I
had disarmed, looking toward me, then toward his companion.
The older man swallowed. "You're young
to do that."
I smiled again. "I don't know if I'd
necessarily do it right, but even a mistake wouldn't hurt me, so long as I
don't involve chaos."
He blanched. "We're hungry."
I nodded.
"That wizard, he didn't keep the duke
from getting killed. Or the rain from getting the crops."
"Why didn't you stay with the new
duke? Dukes always need soldiers."
The two looked back and forth.
I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the story,
but I shifted my grip on the staff.
Finally, the younger one swallowed again.
"Well ... it wasn't our choice. Grenter-he was the squad leader-sent us
out to round up some . . . pilgrims . . ." I must have raised my eyebrows.
The older man added quickly, "This was
under the old duke, you understand."
"They must have heard about us coming.
They were all gone from where they were staying."
"Where was that?"
"In Freetown . . . the Travelers'
Rest, it was called."
"Was called?"
"The wizard burned it. He had a hard
time, even with his helper. We didn't see that. Grenter sent us to find them
before they left the city." The younger ruffian looked around, then back
at me, and swallowed.
A thin cloud drifted across the pale sun
and the wind picked up, throwing a few dry leaves onto the roadway.
"We caught up, Herds here and me and
Dorret and Symms, with two of their women. Hard blond woman and a looker,
black-haired. I wish we hadn't found them. Dorret never knew what happened."
"What did happen?" I prompted.
"The blond put a throwing knife
through his throat so quick I didn't see it happen. He's down gurgling and
clutching at his neck, and Symms jerks out his blade and tries to spit her.
Except that the looker has a blade, and she makes him look like a
recruit."
The older man, Herris, coughed and spat.
I looked at him.
"Fydor has it right," he
acknowledged.
"There were still two of you."
Herris glared at me. "The nasty blond
had two knives left and she wanted to use them both. The other woman's a born
killer. She never raised a sweat, and she smiled when she killed Symms."
"So you let them go?"
They looked back and forth. Finally, the
younger one looked at the ground and said. "I yelled for help, and the
second squad came from the other side of the market, not all of them, but there
were three."
"Don't tell me that two women
butchered them, too?" I let my voice get sarcastic, even though I was
enjoying hearing how Wrynn and Krystal had mangled some of the duke's forces.
"Not all of them. One guy, Gorson, got
away with just losing his right hand and a shoulder wound. They killed the
other two."
"And you two just left them?"
They both looked down.
Finally, Herns spat again. "They were
witches. They were from Recluce. No way I'd go against devils like that."
"Where did they go?"
Fydor shrugged, his eyes avoiding mine.
"I'd guess they went to Kyphros. The autarch likes good women blades. They
didn't take this road, and that leaves the mountain road or the coast."
"Ser wizard, you don't look all that
surprised . . ." Herds still didn't look at me.
"I've crossed blades with the
dark-haired one."
"Blades?"
"Staff against blade."
Herris stepped back. "I'm real sorry,
ser. Real sorry. Wish I'd never met either one of you."
Fydor followed his example and backed away.
Then both of them were walking quickly,
almost running, looking over their shoulders as they headed back in the
direction of Weevett.
I watched them go, my mouth half-open.
"Very impressive, young Lerris."
Justen sat astride Rose-foot, next to the toppled oak, watching, as I suspected
he had been all along.
That he had left me to fight them alone
angered me, even as I was proud that I had managed it. But Justen wouldn't care
one way or the other. "How did you do that without the heat waves?"
Justen smiled. "That takes practice.
You could do it right now with the distortion lines, but you have to equalize
the temperature on both sides of the mirror to avoid what you call heat
waves."
"You didn't answer the question."
"I'll explain some of it while we
ride. The rest is in your book. Rosefoot had a drink while you were dispatching
that pair." Justen did not move the reins, but Rosefoot turned and carried
him from the clearing in the wayside grove and back onto the main roadway.
"My book?"
"Lerris, it doesn't take a mind reader
to see your thoughts. You're clearly from Recluce. You have the talents to be a
first-class order-master, and you were surprised-not curious, but surprised-to
see my copy of The Basis of Order" The gray wizard looked ahead, toward
the southwest.
I ignored him and went to get Gairloch, not
that I had far to go. He waited just at the top of the incline. I almost fell
off him, scrambling into place and trying to catch up with Justen and Rosefoot.
More smoke plumes rose into the pale blue
sky, angling toward the northwest. Behind the wind, I could see clouds building
again, over the hills in the distance to the southeast. With the warmth of the
sun and the southern air might come rain, or worse, sleet.
"How far to Jellico?" I asked as
we came abreast of him.
"More than another day."
"How many other towns are there along
the way?"
The gray wizard smiled faintly. "A
scattering, though few with inns, and fewer still even the size of Weevett or
How-lett."
We rode a time further before I asked
another question. "How can you hide in plain sight so that I cannot see
you or the heat waves?"
"That is the same question." The
gray wizard coughed and cleared his throat before continuing. "What is
sight?"
I tried not to sigh. I asked a simple
question, and, instead of an answer got another question. "Sight is when
you see someone or something."
Justen sighed. "What is the physical
process of sight? Did not anyone teach you that?" I looked as puzzled as I
felt, not understanding what he had in mind.
"Light comes from the sun, chaotic
white light. It strikes an object and reflects from that object. The act of
reflection partially orders the light. Those reflected rays enter your eyes.
What you see is not the object at all, but the light reflected from that
object. That is why you cannot see when there is no light. Now it really is not
that simple, but those are the basics. Do you understand what I mean?"
I wasn't that dense. "Of course, my
eyes see a reflection of reality, not reality itself. That means that when I
feel things, that feeling may be truer than sight?"
Justen nodded, without taking his eyes from
the road or looking at me. "Remember that some real things cannot be felt,
and many chaos-touched objects are not real but can hurt nonetheless. But you
are right." He cleared his throat again. "There are many ways not to
be seen, but they all involve two ideas. The first is touching someone's
thoughts so that they do not know they have seen something. That is the
chaos-way because it destroys a link between perception and reality."
"The way of order?" I prompted.
"That is much more complicated . .
."
I nodded at that. Anything involving order
was more complicated.
"Light is not straight like an arrow,
not exactly, but like a wave upon the ocean. Light can be woven with the mind,
although it takes practice, and you weave the light around you so that it never
quite touches you. Actually, it is not difficult as an exercise, but using it
can be very dangerous unless your nonvisual perceptions are
well-developed."
"Nonvisual perceptions?" Just when
I got the idea, he added something else.
"What you call feeling out things . .
."
"Oh ... but why?"
Justen shook his head, muttering something
about basic physiology and wave theory.
Finally, after we had ridden up a gentle
slope that overlooked a park-like setting, unlike the kays and kays of peasant
fields, hogs, and huts we had passed, I asked again.
"Lerris, why don't you use your brain?
It is meant for thinking, you know."
I waited.
"If you cut yourself off from light,
then your eyes don't work either. No more easy answers. You ask rather than
work things out, and then you won't remember."
So we rode on, and I ignored the continual
growling in my stomach.
XXXIV
JELLICO?
HOW DID it differ from Freetown or Hrisbarg or Hewlett or all the other hamlets
and towns masquerading as places of importance?
No expert yet at judging people or towns
(as I was becoming ever more painfully aware), I did observe that, unlike
Hrisbarg or Hewlett or Weevett, Jellico had walls. Those walls rose more than
thirty cubits in near-perfect condition, and the massive iron fittings of the
eastern gates were oiled and clean. The grooves for anchoring those gates and
the stones in which they had been chiseled were swept clean.
A full squad of men-twelve or more, in gray
leathers-patrolled the gate, inspecting each traveler entering, each occupant
or citizen departing.-
"Master Wizard, you've traveled our
way once again?" The serjeant's voice was firm, respectful, but not
subservient, matching the trim gray leathers of his vest and trousers and his
well-kept heavy boots.
Of the other soldiers, two were moving
bales and baskets in a produce wagon pulled by a single donkey, while a third
held the harness. Another was watching as a peddler emptied the contents of his
pack onto a battered pine table set by the edge of the gate.
On the wall overhead, barely visible behind
the parapet crenelations, a pair of crossbowmen surveyed the stone-paved
expanse outside the walls where the inspections occurred.
"Wizards do travel," replied
Justen.
"And this young fellow?" asked
the Certan serjeant, inclining his head toward me.
"Serving as my apprentice-for now, at
least."
"That wouldn't be an apprenticeship of
convenience, Mas-ter Wizard?"
Justen turned his face directly upon the
serjeant, his eyes weary with age, conveying experiences best left unrepeated.
That was what I saw.
The serjeant stepped back, then nodded.
"Sorry to bother you, gentlemen." His face was pale.
When I lifted the reins, my hand brushed my
unseen staff in its lance cup. Briefly marveling at my newfound ability to)
cloak small objects by wrapping the light around them, swished the reins and
Gairloch carried me up to the farm wagon.
One soldier had ripped off the wagon seat
and was lifting small bags from the narrow space underneath. The blond-bearded
young driver trembled in the grasp of the other inspecting soldier.
I glanced back at Justen.
"Hempweed." Flat, unconcerned.
"No!" screamed the man.
One of the guards looked at me and I
swished the reins again, letting Gairloch carry me past the granite walls and
into Jellico, then slowing to let Justen and Rosefoot draw abreast.
"Will they execute him?" I asked.
Justen eased Rosefoot along a narrow side
street bearing left from the main gate highway. "No."
Even less than fifty rods into Jellico, the
viscount's control was evident. No street peddlers, no beggars, no litter, no
refuse. While the streets were brick, they were level, even on the side street
down which we proceeded, even in the narrower alleyways we passed.
"What will happen to him? That
farmer?"
"He's no farmer, just a young idiot
hired to drive the wagon. They'll brand his forehead with an 'X'. The guards
turn back all branded people. If ever he is found within Jellico again, he will
be executed in the main square."
"Just for smuggling?"
Justen shook his head slowly. "The inn
is just ahead."
"But why?"
"For disobeying the viscount. Except
for beer and wine, drugs are forbidden. So is the practice of magic without the
viscount's seal of personal approval. So are begging and prostitution, or
selling goods without a seller's seal."
I looked at the space, where, with effort,
I could see the staff that no one but me or another good magician could see. I
shivered.
"We'll stable Rosefoot and Gairloch
first."
The Inn at Jellico-scarcely an original
name, but Jellico didn't seem a town for originality.
"What sort of magic gets the
viscount's seal?"
"As little as possible. Healers,
mainly of the orderly kind."
"There are white healers?
Chaos-healers? How could they?"
Justen shook his head, and even Rosefoot
tossed hers. "Healing takes two forms, Lerris. One is helping restructure
and re-order the body, knitting wounds and bones, using order to create natural
splints and heals, or strengthening the body's resistance to infections. All
that is order-based. That's basically what we did with the sheep. It's more
complicated, but pretty much the same process with people. Some infections can
be treated by destroying the minute creatures that create the infection. That's
chaos-based and can be very chancy if you don't know how to fine-tune your
destruction. Read your book. The theory is all there, and I shouldn't be
telling you any of this.
"Remember, Lerris, you don't have the
viscount's seal. Whatever happens, try to remember that. Being my apprentice
wouldn't help. Reading your book would."
At that point I was ready to take my
invisible staff and crack the gray wizard. Exactly when had I had time to read
anything? But what good would arguing have done? Juste would have asked how
long I had had the book, and then I have to admit I had had the time, until
recently. Of course it wasn't until recently that anyone had given me enough
knowledge and information for the book to make sense.
In the meantime, as Gairloch picked his way
across the brick-paved courtyard of the inn, his hoofs clicking ever so
lightly, I wondered why Rosefoot's steps were virtually silent.
"Why would some healers be licensed
and not others?"
"Money. A licensed healer pays a
percentage to the vis-count."
Once in the stable, Justen and I were left
to brush our mounts. Why was it that in the larger towns, the ones with walls,
the reputation of the mountain ponies was so fierce that no stableboy seemed
willing to handle them?
With considerably more practice, Justen was
finished long before I was, and suggested that I join him in the inn when I had
settled Gairloch and left my staff appropriately concealed.
Whheee . . . eeee ...
"Yes, I know. There's only hay and no
oats, but I'll see in a while, after I figure out how to untangle this
mess."
"Does he listen?" asked the
black-haired apprentice ostler from two stalls away, where he was grooming a
tall chestnut.
"He listens, but doesn't think much of
what I say." I didn't bother to gauge his reaction as I returned the brush
to the shelf over the stall and slung my gear over my shoulder.
The wind had dropped off, the sun had
reappeared, and the courtyard was almost pleasant as I walked the distance to
the inn.
No sooner had I walked inside than Justen
took my arm and guided me to a corner table in the public room. Most of the
tables-all red oak, if battered-were occupied, and the air was stuffy, the
warmth augmented by the flames of a large stone fireplace.
The dark paneled walls and low ceiling
added to the oppressiveness.
"A gold wine," Justen told the
girl.
"Redberry," I added. "What
do you have to eat?"
"Mutton pie, mutton chops, mixed
stew."
"Try the stew," suggested the
gray wizard.
I didn't need much encouragement, not after
the days in Montgren. Mutton was fine, but not every day, and not when
everything smelled like it.
"Recluce is trying something,"
said Justen flatly.
"What?" I sipped the redberry,
which helped ease a slight hoarseness, a leftover from breathing too much
sheep.
"I don't know, but you're part of
it."
I just looked at the gray wizard.
"Oh, not consciously. I suspect you've
been used. That pas an extraordinarily talented group of dangergelders that the
black masters dropped on Candar, talented enough to confuse any actions the
masters might otherwise have had in Bind."
I took another sip and waited.
"You alone radiate order wherever you
travel, yet it's hard to pin it to one person. That black-haired blade-she has
everyone talking, almost enough to make them forget the assassin who preceded
her. And the preacher . . ."
"What about the others?"
Justen shrugged. "You heard about the
blond with the olives, and you could probably tell me more about the
others."
I decided against it. If Tamra, Myrten, and
Dorthae hadn't been brought to the attention of the powers-that-were, there was
no reason for me to be the one to do it.
"Why do you think it was
deliberate?" I asked instead.
"I don't know, but you're really too
young to be here. That bothers me." Justen looked into his glass and said
nothing more, even after the two bowls of stew arrived.
In the end, I went upstairs early,
discovering that my legs were still not quite used to riding.
The single candle in the tiny room Justen
had procured, with two narrow beds not much more than pallets, seemed adequate
enough for some reading, and I pulled the black-covered book from my pack.
The introduction was as boring as I
remembered. I sighed then began to leaf through the pages, nodding as I saw
that] the last half of the book actually dealt with specific topics-aligning
metals (whatever that meant), detecting material stresses, weather dynamics and
cautions, healing processes, order and heat-based machinery, order and energy
generation.
At that point, I wasn't quite sure whether
to start all over! at the beginning, or to kick myself. For nearly half a year,
had been carrying at least some of the answers to my own questions in my pack.
Of course, that assumed that what was written down made some sort of sense, and
that you could actually apply it. But I neither kicked myself nor started at
the beginning. Instead, I started on the section on healing, since I wasn't
ready for more boredom.
Not only did the words make sense, but so
did the ideas, and I began to understand why what we had done with the
countess's sheep had worked and what Justen had alluded to in his remarks about
the importance of the body's internal order.
"So you finally decided to see if the
book made sense?"
I almost jumped off the pallet when the
gray wizard opened the door, realizing how late it must be by the fact that the
candle was near to guttering out, and how long I must have been poring over the
words on healing by the stiffness in my neck.
"You're that far?"
I shook my head. "Reading about healing
..." I confessed.
"You couldn't take the introduction, I
gather?"
"No . . . I've tried three separate
times, and after half a year it's still boring."
Justen yawned and began to take off his
tunic. "Go back to it when you can. I didn't, and I'm still paying."
He turned his back to me and pulled off his boots. "It's time to get some
sleep."
I closed the book and began to pull off my
own boots.
After the long days of riding, the
concentration on the book, and the comfortable bed, I thought I would drop off
to sleep. Lying there, exhausted, it shouldn't have been any trouble at all.
Except . . . things tingled at the back of
my mind. Like why Justen's explanation for his work didn't exactly answer all
the questions. Then there were Tamra and Krystal. I'd heard about Krystal, yet
Tamra should have been the more visible. Somehow, I should have heard something
. . . somehow . . . from her, or about her.
I couldn't believe tha^t she had just
disappeared, but news didn't exactly speed from one duchy of Candar to another.
Somewhere I finally fell asleep . . .
looking into the darkness . . . until I shivered with a deep chill, and tried
to turn over. Except I could not move. White!
A white fog curled around.me so tightly
that I could neither see nor move. I could not speak-trapped somewhere in
nothingness, a nothingness bright enough to burn my thoughts.
You promised. . . The words echoed without
sound through my head, but I could not respond, could not see, twisting as I did
within my skull. Yet the person feeling the whiteness was not me, for all the
familiarity of the feeling.
Was I dreaming? Or had Justen again
enslaved me in that white prison? I couldn't even see my arms, or move, or even
feel whether my muscles would move. Yet I wasn't in my bed-that I knew.
You promised to show me the way . . . the
way . . . the way . . . In,"the white fog, that mind-blinding light, were
shafts of yellow, red, blue, violet-all spearing me, slashing at one thought,
then another.
Then a door closed, and the whiteness was
gone. Sweat poured off my forehead as I sat up in the clean darkness.
"You promised ..." The unspoken
words echoed in my thoughts, an edge to them that was familiar. But I had never
said anything about promises. I hadn't thought about promise.
Then, I knew why the words were familiar,
and my stomach turned. I only hoped that it had been a dream, that Tamra was
not trapped in that same kind of whiteness that Justen had shown me. But I
wasn't sure. Not at all.
XXXV
WHEEBE
. . . EEE . . .
Gairloch was still protesting when I
checked on him after a breakfast of three overpriced and overbaked corn muffins
eaten next to two hung-over and scowling cavalry troopers. As usual, Justen was
nowhere around, having left with the dawn on some wizardly errand.
My haste in downing the leaden starch may
have contributed to the growls from my own guts that nearly drowned out
Gairloch's gut-level protests.
"Plain hay just not enough for you,
fellow?" I set the saddlebags on the stall barrier, checking to see if my
old saddle and the worn blanket remained where I had racked them. They were
still there, proof either that the inn was honest or that my gear was worth
less than that of other potential victims. My still-shielded staff remained
tucked in the stall corner, but I did not actually handle the wood, since the
shielding disappeared whenever my hands touched it-unless I cast larger shield.
"Better," was all that the gray
wizard had said about my concealment efforts, and that admission had seemed
grudging enough.
Wheeee . . . eeee ...
". . . oooo . . ."
Thud.
The soft scream from outside the stable
might have gone unnoticed between Gairloch's protests and my conversation
except for the sound of that impact.
With little thought, I grabbed my
no-longer-invisible staff and burst from the stable, looking around the
courtyard. Not only was the courtyard momentarily vacant, but I heard nothing
for an instant.
"Now . . ."
The voice came from the alleyway, and, like
many another perfect fool, I followed the sound until I came across two
well-dressed bravos two rods or so toward the town center, standing in the
morning shadows. Both looked up and toward me, the shorter one on the right
releasing a woman in ripped clothing, then pushing her toward the brick wall
behind him.
The taller one already had his sword out,
but he looked at me, and then at my staff . . . and laughed. "You're
already dead, boy." He gestured to his companion, the one who had held the
woman. "Let's go, Bildal."
Without even looking at me or the huddled
heap on the bricked pavement of the alley, the two strolled, almost arrogantly,
toward the far end of the alley, the end that opened onto some sort of square where
I could see wagons and horses passing.
Around where I stood, looking from the
backs of the departing bravos to the huddled and silent figure against the
bricks, the back walls and iron-banded rear doors of homes or businesses
remained steadfastly closed, the alley deserted.
I shifted my study to the woman, who looked
back at me blankly, unmoving, although her black eyes moved from my face to my
staff and back. Tears oozed from her eyes, and her lips were tight. A reddish
abrasion covered most of her left cheek, as if her face had scraped against the
rough brick walls. Her clean, white, and plain blouse had been ripped open
across the front, and she hunched her shoulders and crossed her arms as if to
cover her breasts, partly revealed by the treatment accorded her and her
garments.
Despite the gray streaks in her black hair
and the pockmarks on her face, the gaps in her garments showed more of a
slender and curved figure than she would have wished as she eased herself into
a sitting position without using her hands. Both wrists hung oddly, and the
tears continued to seep from her eyes, though her mouth was set firmly against
the pain.
"Do with me as you will, black devil.
Your days are numbered now."
I must have gaped. Here the woman had been
beaten, assaulted and nearly raped, and I had saved her from that and possibly
worse treatment, and I was a black devil?
"The viscount will catch you."
I shrugged, feigning a calmness I did not
feel. Since I might as well be hanged for a wolf as a sheep, I set down the
staff and gently let my fingers touch her wrists.
"Ohhhhh . . ."
What exactly I did, that I could not say,
except that with what I had learned from working the sheep and with something
from what I had read, my mind put enough of the pieces together. My thoughts
and senses touched the bones and flows and orders and disorders that wound
through and around her system.
"Oh . . ." she repeated more
softly, gazing at her straightened wrists.
"They're not fully healed, and I can't
tell you when they will be, exactly. Just be careful."
At that, or because of the sudden lack of
chaos within her system, she fainted, leaving me with yet another problem, and
probably the local witch patrol gathering to collect my scalp.
No one was going to be pleased, not the way
things were going. Not Justen, not the viscount, not the beaten lady, although
she would be younger and more attractive than she had been in years once she
healed, and certainly not me.
Even so, I couldn't leave her unattended in
the alley. That meant staggering back to the stable with lady and staff, and
hoping that no one saw.
"What have you there?" bellowed
the old and rotund ostler, appearing from nowhere as I crossed the courtyard.
"A lady of dubious virtue, and in the
morning yet!" chortled one of the formerly sour cavalrymen. "Share
your prize, young fellow?"
"First . . . have to collect," I
explained.
Justen appeared in the stable door, a
bemused expression on his face-bemused, until he saw the ripped clothes and the
bruised face. "A healer?" he asked.
I shook my head firmly. "Rest . .
."
Justen shook his head. "Bring her in
here."
"Not in my stable!"
A quick something passed from the gray
wizard to the ostler, who shoved the coin into his belt.
"I have to check on feed." He
grinned at me broadly as he headed for the main street.
The cavalryman half-grinned, half-scowled,
but made no move to inspect the "merchandise" as I stumbled into the
stable.
"What did you do?" hissed Justen.
"Nothing . . . much." I laid the
woman on a loose pile of hay, not at all gracefully, trying to talk and not to
gasp as I caught my breath. I felt drained, as if I had run a kay or so in
heavy sand.
"You idiot. You healed her. How many
people saw the staff?"
"Worse . . . than . . . that. Used . .
. staff. . . bravos . . . then she cursed me . . . healed' her anyway." I
began to put the blanket on Gairloch.
Justen turned to the stableboy, standing
there open-mouthed.
Without a gesture, the youth collapsed onto the straw.
"What are you doing?"
"Putting him to sleep. You'll get the
credit, provided you get out of here soon enough."
"Leaving before the viscount arrives
with the local witch patrol?" The gray wizard stared at me. "How do
you plan to get by the city guards?"
"Can they stop what they don't
see?"
Justen shook his head, then walked toward
his saddlebags. "Keep saddling."
I kept saddling. Gairloch didn't even
whinny.
"Here." Justen helped tie a large
canvas sack of provisions behind the saddle. Nothing special, just faded and
heavy gray canvas, filled almost to overflowing. The contents had to represent
a goodly portion of Justen's stocks. Then he concentrated, and the sack
appeared to vanish. "Remember to do that. It makes you less of a
target." Then he grinned. "I'll get your pack."
I finished cinching the saddle and put the
staff in place, then remembered to weave the light around the staff so that it
also appeared to vanish. It wasn't really weaving light, but changing the way
the light reflected from the wood and steel, and the steel was the hardest
part. A lot of steel, and you couldn't avoid the heat-wave effect-that was
clearly the case with the Brotherhood ships.
By the time I had Gairloch ready, Justen
slipped back through the stable doorway, carrying my pack and cloak.
"You'd better get moving."
"What will you do?"
He smiled sadly. "What apprentice?
You're a free wizard who deceived everyone."
"Thank you." I didn't mean for
disowning me, but he understood anyway.
"I just hope you've learned something
from all this. You're going to have to cross the Easthorns, but you should be
able to handle it if you take the south pass. That's the one that the south road
from Jellico leads to. Now get on Gairloch and make yourself unseen." He
shook his head again. "And don't let anyone touch you. If they have any
sense of order, it could unravel the reflective pattern. And please read the
introduction to your book before you try anything else."
Those were the last words from the gray
wizard as I sat on Gairloch and wove reflections around us.
Wheeee . . . eeee. Gairloch didn't like
being blind. Neither did I.
"Easy, fellow." I patted his
neck.
Wheeee . . . eeee.
I patted him again.
Sitting astride Gairloch was strange when I
could see nothing except a featureless black. Sounds penetrated, but not sight.
But we couldn't just sit there. So I nudged Gairloch with my heels and we
stepped out blindly into the courtyard, slowly, since I could not sense people
or objects unless they were close to us.
Click . . . click . . . Gairloch's hooves
sounded like thunder in my ears.
"Stableboy? Where's the stable lad?
The chestnut needs a rubdown . . ."
We
eased around the rotund porter, hugging the brick wall of the alley until we
were in the street, and I turned Gairloch southward, around where the central
square seemed to be. The eastern gate was the closest, but instinctively I felt
that we had more cover within Jellico, at least until they talked to either the
woman or the stableboy.
. . . click . . . click . . .
. . . creeakkkk . . .
"... hold that wagon . . ."
"... told her that young blade was no
good . . ."
". . . watch it!"
"Make way! Make way for the
guard!"
Feeling rather than seeing four mounted
guards trotting toward the inn I had just left was more than a little
unsettling, since my perceptions were not sharp, giving me only a rough outline
of bodies and objects.
Under my hands, the reins felt slippery . .
. and even with the wind-gusts ruffling my hair and the cold tingling at my
ears, the sweat dribbled down my face and my neck like icy trickles from a
glacier.
. . . Wheeee . . . eeeee . . .
I patted Gairloch again to steady him.
"... way for the guards ..."
". . . no horse over there . . . don't
care what you heard . . ."
At the first intersection, with no walls to
hug, and storefronts and doors opening on both sides of the road, I eased Gairloch
into the middle of the road, continually patting his neck with one hand and
straining to sense objects and bodies before they could collide with us.
". . . guard revolt in Freetown ..
shameful . . ."
"Did you hear about the autarch?"
"... in the market's scarcely worth
eating ..."
". . . swore I saw a horse there for a
minute . . ."
I wiped my forehead, glad that I was not
permanently blind, as we walked dick . . . click . . . clack . . . down the
stone-paved streets of Jellico toward the south gate.
". . . . way for the guard . . . make
way . . ."
". . .after someone . . . second
detachment this morning . . ."
Another five men clattered past as I edged
Gairloch toward the street edge.
. . . Whheeeee . . . eeee . . .
Then we took a wrong turn, leading back
toward the square.
". . . five pennies for a pound of
yams? . . ."
". . . try somewhere else, if you like
. . ."
I managed to get Gairloch turned around in
the narrow street without brushing into anyone, but began to wonder if I should
have stayed visible until I neared the gate. Of course, then someone would have
seen us disappear, and that would have been that.
I sighed-too loudly-next to an open window
of a house that projected too far into the narrow way.
"Who was that?"
Gairloch and I eased back southward. In
careful steps, we finally reached the southern gate.
From what I could tell, there was nothing
different occurring from the time when we had entered, even if it happened to be
another gate. Close to twelve guards were stationed around the area, but my
perceptions did give me a small jolt.
Shielded much the same way I was, on the
open ledge above the gate itself, rested a large caldron filled with oil. Under
it was a set of burners -not in use at that moment, thankfully-but I wondered
what else I had missed. That, and the fact that the good viscount used visual
concealment, sent another shiver down my spine.
Slow step by slow step, Gairloch picked his
way through the gate area. I kept patting his shoulder.
"... under that sack?"
". . . open the pack slowly . .
."
". . . blackstaffer loose in the city
..."
"Where's Jrylen?"
I didn't like the conversation between the
figure that seemed to be the guard captain and the messenger who had raced up
on foot, nor that Gairloch and I were less than a rod from the pair.
"... on the wing . . ."
"Get him here now. What does the
blackstaffer look like?"
I patted Gairloch again as we eased through
the open gate, slow step by slow step, and out onto the stone pavement leading
southward.
. . . click . . . click . . . click . . .
"GET HIM UP HERE!" The guard
captain's voice echoed out toward us. I shivered, and not from the wind out of
the north, though that was chill enough. Crossbows carried a long way.
". . . hold up here, mother. Them's
guards having a stew about something . . ."
We edged past the battered and narrow wagon
on which two thin figures, radiating the honest disorder that had to have been
age, sat and pulled a single mule to a halt.
"... keep moving, old farts . .
."
They didn't but we did. I had to force
myself to keep breathing with each step from Gairloch, to keep patting him and
sending reassuring signals to him. Without the pony I would have been wearing
crossbow quarrels.
The bitterness of frozen and rotted field
stubble swirled past me, and my legs seemed like they would knot into cramps so
tight I would fall from the saddle . . . and my throat was tight . , .
When we reached the crossroads a kay from
the gate I .began to relax, but did not drop the light-reflective shield. While
I was convinced we were too far for either an order-master or a chaos-master to
detect the shield, if we appeared on an open road in plain sight of the walls,
even a kay away, it would only be instants before a troop was dispatched. And
although Gairloch was steady, I doubted that he could outrun true cavalry
chargers on the road. In the mountains, perhaps, but not on the road.
So, cloaked from sight, I rode the south
road quietly, as the surface changed from stone to smooth-packed clay, angling
always toward the mountains I could sense vaguely in the distance until I was
certain that the walls of Jellico had vanished behind multiple rows of the low
rolling hills that seemed to lead toward the mountains.
Even past noon, even with the steady kays
we had covered, wagons passed. Horsemen passed, and two post-carriages. I even
had to ride around peddlers on foot, and a party of pilgrims, the one-god
variety.
First the hills were low and rolling,
covered in winter grass or crop stubble, the fields arranged in regular
patterns and confined by low stone walls, with occasional hedgerows. Those huts
close enough to the road for me to sense were ordered enough, if impoverished
and stark.
When we crossed another road, running
east-west-or so it appeared to my limited senses-I encountered no more wagons,
and but a single horseman, a post-rider, I suspected.
As the hills had become steeper, the
cultivated fields gave way to grasslands, separated from the road by a stone
wall whose maintenance was haphazard. The smooth-packed clay turned to mud
frozen in ruts, and Gairloch's pace slowed even more.
Very shortly thereafter, over the crest of
the second hill past the other road, beside a high tangle of brush in a dip in
the road, and after listening carefully for what I might not sense, I unwove
the shield.
The wind was chill by mid-afternoon, and
thick gray-roiling clouds had covered the blue skies of that morning when I had
left Jellico. For all that, never had the gray of the sky, the sere brown of
the grass by the roadside, the tan-gray of the stone walls at the field edges,
never had they seemed so vivid.
I dismounted and studied the brown tangle
where the hedgerow overtopped the wall, then glanced to the wonder of the
clouds, taking a deep breath of air that seemed fresher just because I could
see with my eyes again.
Near the top of the hill, further along the
crest and away from the road, grazed a handful of black-faced sheep. Even
seeing them was welcome.
I patted Gairloch. "You're one hell of
a pony."
He didn't even whinny, just accepted it.
I took a long drink from the water bottle.
My throat was dry. Not knowing what action might dissolve our cover, I had done
nothing but ride and had held nothing but the reins throughout the long
departure.
Thurummm . . . urummmm ... As if to greet
me, along with the thunder, light raindrops began to fall upon my upturned
face. At that moment, I didn't care.
XXXVI
BY
NIGHTFALL I cared a lot more. First freezing rain had come down nearly in
sheets, gradually turning the rutted road into a surface as treacherous as
glass. Like knives, the ice fragments slashed from the sky. The hills were
steep enough to make climbing impossible, but not rocky enough to contain caves
or outcroppings.
In the end, I figured out what to do. Under
a scrubby tree next to a stone wall, I created something like the
light-weaving, except that it kept out ice and water.
Easy? Hardly, and with each rumble of
thunder I felt more drained, though I forced myself to keep eating and
drinking, knowing that I needed the energy to hold together the weather-net
that sheltered Gairloch and me in a barren area, with but the marginal shelter
of the hedgerow and a short stone wall.
Whheeee . . . eeee . . .
"Easy ..." I patted him for at
least the hundredth time.
After the ice-rain came the snow, thick and
wet at first, then cold and fine. Keeping the finer flakes from us took less
energy, and by the time it was close to midnight the wind and snow had
slackened enough and drifted deep enough against the wall and brushy hedgerow
to provide a natural barrier. That let me relax my net and build a fire.
The warmth from the small blaze helped as I
continued to weave a shelter and climb into my bedroll. Gairloch's internal
order and appearance indicated he was far more accustomed to the hard weather
than I, and finally I let go of the weather screen and collapsed into sleep.
Whhheeee ... uh ...
The morning was gray, with windy gusts
blowing the lighter snow into the once-clear area and over all but the warmest
of the fire's ashes.
Yee-ah! Yee-ah! The shrill call of the
vulcrow jolted me full awake. Through a half-haze of fine snow-fog and sleep, I
lifted my head-and wished I hadn't, as a line of fire split my skull down the
middle.
"Ooooo . . ." mumbled a strange
voice that resembled mine. The pain eased, but did not cease as I let my head
rest on the quilted fabric of the bedroll.
Whhhssssssss . . . Even the whisper of the
snow echoed like thunder through my skull.
My arms ached more than in the first days
with Uncle Sardit, more than after Tamra's drubbing me, more even than after
Gilberto's hellish exercises.
". . . ooooo ..." I wished
whoever was moaning would stop, but that didn't happen until I realized I was
the one doing the moaning.
Yee-ah! Yee-ah!
Wheeee . . . eeee . . . whuff. . .
Between the damned vulcrow sitting on the
hedgerow and Gairloch suggesting that it was either time to eat or get up, I
eventually woke up and levered myself into a sitting position, not even high
enough to see over the wall and the snow drifted above it.
My cheeks tingled from the cold, and ice
crystals fell from the steam of my breath. The fire in my skull not only
burned; the bones surrounding my brain felt like a smith's anvil pounded by an
unrelenting hammer.
Thinking the water bottle might help, I
reached through the powdery snow for it, ignoring the minor arms cramps until I
had it ... and dropped it. Of course the water had frozen solid.
The fire was warm ashes, nothing more, and
light snow covered all but the center cinders. How long it took to get the fire
started, who could tell? My fingers nearly froze, since I had never replaced
the leather gloves I had seared apart in Frven. The branches I had broken and
set aside for fuel had frozen together.
Gairloch whuffed and whinnied, and each
whuff and whinny cut through my ears like a knife. My legs cramped at each
movement, and the wind blew out the fire three times, besides flinging dry
bitter flakes into my eyes whenever I really needed to see something.
Order-use magic was out-that is, if I didn't
want to finish destroying my body-and it seemed impossible to get enough warmth
to get some water and food into my system.
On the other hand, I somehow doubted that
much of a search for me was going on, not for a while. So, after much flailing,
the fire burned again, and I found a small package of pressed grain which I fed
to Gairloch. Except that I held it, half-leaning against him while he ate it.
In time, using the one battered skillet in
the sack, I melted some of the snow, _taking a few sips myself but letting
Gairloch have most of it.
Then I ate-what, I'm not sure, but it
didn't matter that much-and crawled back into my bedroll.
The fire was back to ashes when I woke
again, and the sky was still covered with the featureless gray clouds. The wind
gusted, and my head still ached and burned.
Wheeee . . . eeee
". . . don't like it, either ..."
I mumbled.
The flailing to re-establish the fire was
about the same, since I had to stagger through knee-deep snow down the hedgerow
to find enough branches and sticks for fuel. But I was getting somewhere.
Sitting by the fire, I ate some more, drank
some more, and felt the headache subside a bit more.
Clearly, we weren't traveling anywhere
quickly, and there was no point in trying, not when the road wasn't even
visible except in the higher and more exposed places where the wind had swept
the snow off in order to build waist-high drifts-if not higher-in the
depressions.
While I had no schedule to meet, we had not
even reached the true base of the Easthorns. Was there any chance of crossing
them?
My eyes traveled to the southwest.
Surprisingly, I could see the darkness of
conifers on the lower slopes, as if the mountains had received less snow than
the hills beneath them.
I shivered and forced myself to eat another
few mouthfuls of the travel bread. Then I told my reluctant body that it was
time to loosen up. The protests were monumental, enough that I nearly lost what
I had just eaten. So I leaned against Gairloch, my eyes damp in frustration.
So damned unfair . . . but fairness sure as
hell counted for nothing.
I kept moving, if more slowly, and melted
some more snow for Gairloch and gave him the rest of the grain cake. Half of
Justen's sack was for him, a division of provisions that never would have
crossed my mind.
As I struggled to lift the large canvas
sack of provisions back onto Gairloch, I wondered how long it would be before I
could see things in advance. I mean, there was nothing special about the
provisions, just that same faded and heavy gray canvas, still filled almost to
overflowing and representing a goodly portion of Justen's stocks. But, in the
instants while I was trying to escape Jellico, he had packed with more
forethought than I had since I landed in Freetown.
Justen-I already missed the gray wizard.
Now all the choices were mine, and it had already become clear just how little
I knew about the real world of Candar. At the same time, Justen hadn't been
that much better than my father, Talryn, Tamra, or the half-a-dozen others who
had more knowledge than I did-and refused to share it. Each of them had given
me just enough for me to know there were unanswered questions . . . and said it
was up to me to find the answers.
Yee-ah! Yee-ah! The vulcrow was back,
probably waiting for us to die, but I had a different idea.
Finally, sometime after midday, under the
featureless gray clouds that obscured the time, I swung up on Gairloch and let
him take his own pace through the snow. He avoided the wind-swept areas, still
icy, and made his way along the side of the road.
Unlike me, he seemed to enjoy the ride.
My guts ached, and while the headache had
diminished to a dull pounding, my eyes burned and my hands trembled.
Gairloch walked carefully and I hung on,
occasionally sipping from the water bottle I had tucked inside my cloak, now
containing half ice and half water.
Despite the gusts and the chill, I sweated
and the dampness froze on my forehead, then seemed to freeze-boil away.
By mid-afternoon, as the sky darkened, the
lower slopes of the Easthorns were closer and the snow was only ankle-deep.
More important, it had apparently not rained first, and there was little ice on
the open spots in the rutted road. Gairloch still preferred walking in the
lighter snow than on the frozen clay.
The sweats had left me, as had the
headache, replaced by a light-headedness and a feeling of weakness.
I kept looking for somewhere to stop, but
the hills had grown increasingly more barren and rocky as we trudged toward the
lower slopes of the Easthorns, which now seemed to get no nearer.
Meanwhile it got darker, and I peered
through the blowing snow as the wind rose, looking for another hedgerow,
another sheltered spot, at least one out of the wind.
Wheee . . . eeee ... "
"That goes for me, too." Night
had not yet overtaken us, and we could have traveled longer, but a darkish
shape not far off the road resolved itself into something-an abandoned hut, a
waystop. Who could tell? I wasn't sure I cared. I risked trying to feel whether
the place was disordered, and immediately recovered the headache I had almost
forgotten about. The hut was chaos-free, all four sides, and it had a roof of
sorts, made of slate shingles though half were missing, as well as an open
hearth beneath a hole in the roof.
With no door and two oblong holes where
shuttered windows had been it was drafty indeed, but the remnants of the door
and the shutters were enough for a small fire to warm the space occupied by one
tired young man and a strong pony.
We ate, and we both slept, and the next
morning was merely cold, with stray staffs of sunlight peering through the
breaking clouds, and light gusts of chill air.
Best of all, my headache was gone, though
my back was sore and my muscles ached. In the warm darkness, it looked as
though the Easthorns had moved closer, as though I could reach out and touch
the conifer-covered lower slopes of the foothills.
That wasn't exactly right, but we did reach
the road-marker noting the road to Fenard by mid-morning, and by then had
reached the edge of where the recent snow had fallen. While there was snow
under the trees, the occasional tracks on it, and the finger-width distance
between its white and the brown of the tree trunks told that the storm that had
attacked me had not reached the Easthorns.
I shivered again at that thought, looking
back over my shoulder, but saw no one and nothing on the road behind. I did
wish that I had possessed the ability to conceal Gairloch's tracks, but
surviving the storm and cold had been hard enough.
Not more than another kay past the
road-marker we passed a narrow stream that disappeared underground right to the
east of where we stood. Warmer than the air, a fog rose from the water, and I
let Gairloch drink as he would while I rinsed the canteen and washed my face
and hands in the pleasantly chill flow. Before I had finished washing, my
friend and companion found some tufts of grass still partly green to nibble.
For the first time since scrambling out of
Jellico, I could peer into the supply sack provided by Justen while there was
light enough to see. Even so, I almost missed the off-white square tucked
between two oatcakes wrapped in oiled paper.
Folded into a square the size of my hand,
it bore one word-"Lerris." My head was still swimming and I did not
open it, but tucked it instead into my belt pouch and continued to search for
another package of travel bread. I found it, and a small pouch of spiced dried
apples.
While I ate travel bread and dried apples,
Gairloch alternated slurps of water from the not-quite-underground river with
bites from the narrow stretch of grass nurtured by the spray from the
fast-moving water.
Glancing overhead, I realized that the
clouds seemed to be darkening and thickening once again. So I finished as much
as my stomach would hold without rebelling and climbed back into the saddle.
Then we started up the narrow road again,
winding in and out of ever-steeper hills, and at each turn I looked for a sign
of other travelers, or wayfarers' huts, or some shelter, with one eye checking
the sky visible in the space between the hills.
XXXVII
SURPRISINGLY,
AFTER ANOTHER ten kays or so of trudging, when even the untiring Gairloch was
flagging and I had dismounted to struggle alongside him on foot, the road began
to descend, not much; or perhaps it only leveled out.
We rested and shuffled on, and rested and
shuffled on, and I marveled, when I wasn't puffing and panting, at the
contradiction between the lack of any place to stop or even rest, and the
clearly maintained rock walls supporting the roadbed and the arched stone
bridges. Guard rails? There weren't any. Nor were there road-markers or signs.
But there was also no sign of chaos, only solid stonework.
Coming around a wider curve than I had seen
so far, the road opened into a small valley, leading through a snow-dusted
meadow of browned grass toward a group of three low stone buildings. Plumes of
smoke rose from two of the three, the two on the right. I climbed back on
Gairloch.
The stone road-marker at the edge of the
meadow read "Carsonn." No explanation, just the name. The faintest of
mists covered the valley, bearing an odor I could not place, not of brimstone
nor of fire. Finally, after weaving a shield around the big provisions sack but
not my saddlebags, I shook my head and chucked the reins.
A rail-thin man waited by the central
structure, under a peeling sign bearing a line drawing of a cup. "Welcome
to the Golden Cup, traveler." His voice was neutral.
The center building was entirely of stone,
even to the peaked slate roof, except for the roof beams, doors, and narrow
windows-built to withstand storms and a heavy winter. Yet the meadow grass bore
a touch of green, and the snows along the road, though it was still early
winter, had not yet been that deep.
I glanced behind the innkeeper to catch the
crossbow leveled at me from the stone embrasure flanking the closed double
doors of weathered white oak. "Not exactly the friendliest of
welcomes." I nodded toward the quarrel.
"Not everyone from Certis is friendly,
and not all travelers claiming to come from Certis are from Certis."
I ignored the veiled reference. "A
room and some hot supper?"
"Three golds for you, a silver for
your horse."
'What?"
"We have to bring the food either from
Jellico or Passera." The innkeeper shrugged. "You can travel on, if
you like. Or camp in the meadow for a silver." In my shape, and in poor
Gairloch's, the alternatives weren't exactly wonderful.
"For three golds, I'd hope for a hot
bath and the best of repasts. And more than hay for my horse."
The innkeeper finally smiled . . . faintly.
"Hot water we do have. Even real soap."
The stone-walled stable was almost empty,
though the stalls were clean. Two mules were at one end, next to a black mare.
A tall bay whuffed as I led Gairloch past him and two more empty stalls.
Tired as I was, I brushed Gairloch until
his coat regained some shine, letting the innkeeper, who seemed to double as
ostler, bring a wooden bucket of grain. He, too, for all his bluster, kept a
distance from Gairloch.
In the meantime, I racked the saddle and
tucked the provisions and my staff into a corner above the stall where,
invisible as they were, no one would likely run into them either. "Little
enough food there for you to travel another four days to Passera, especially
for your horse. There's not much forage."
"I might need to buy some grain cakes,
then ..." I suggested.
"Half-silver for two . . ."
I shook my head. Commercial extortion, or
so it seemed; but I wasn't thinking all that well and said nothing.
"Supper first," I indicated, "then a bath and bed."
"Whatever you wish, but we take payment
in advance." Most innkeepers made a pretense of affability, but not this
one.
Supper, taken alone in a smallish dining
room with a warm fire and only five tables, was provided by a plumpish woman
wearing a stained white apron. It consisted of spiced brandied apples, a thin
pepper-laced potato soup, and thick slices of tough mutton with even thicker
slices of brown bread. I ate it all, and drank three glasses of redberry.
"Quite a lot for a slender
fellow," observed the woman, whom I took to be the innkeeper's wife. The
innkeeper himself had vanished.
I shrugged. "It's been a long cold
trip."
"Mountain weather's been warmer than
usual."
"It was warmer than the blizzard on
the hills of Certisice, thunder, and snow up to my knees."
A puzzled look crossed her face, then
passed. "Would you like anything else?'
"Directions to my room, and then the
bath."
"The bath room is at the end . . .
that way." She pointed in the direction of the stable. "I'll show you
your room."
I barely glanced at the room, apparently
the smallest of a half-dozen, if the doorways and spacing between them meant
anything, and left only cloak and saddlebags there. My coins were in the
openly-displayed purse and in the hidden slots in my boots and belt. Then we
walked back toward the bath, down the stone-walled corridors. Even the interior
walls were of stone, saving the doors themselves.
Hot water they had, flowing from some sort
of spring. The stone-walled room had been built around the spring, clearly, and
the source of the faint metallic odor in the valley was definitely from the hot
springs, of which there had to be more.
Metallic-smelling water or not, bathing in
the rock tub chiseled from the stone was wonderful, loosening aches I hadn't
even recognized. I didn't leave that healing flow of heat and relaxation, and
dry myself with a thick brown towel, until I resembled a prune.
I also took the liberty of washing my
undergarments and wringing them out. After all, for three golds I deserved a few
extras, and neither the innkeeper nor his wife said a word when I walked back
toward my room barefoot and wearing just my trousers, with the rest of my
clothes draped over my arm.
The room, with a single narrow window
looking out on the back meadow that I could not see in the darkness, contained
a bed, a narrow wardrobe, and a candle in a sconce above the bed. The window,
two spans of real glass on a pivot frame, was wedged shut.
The bed, narrow as it was, actually had
sheets and a worn coverlet. I thought about blowing out the candle. Certainly
my eyelids were heavy enough, but the paper corner protruding from the belt
pouch recalled the letter or note I hadn't even read.
So I sat on the bed and unfolded the heavy
paper. The reversed images of some letters where the two sides had been folded
together told me that, despite the careful phrasing, the words had been placed
on the heavy linen paper in haste.
Lerris-
In traveling, even a wizard can be trapped
while asleep. Read the section on wards (alarms) in your book before you sleep
in strange covers.
Try also, for your sake, to take the time
to read the entire book before you make one too many mistakes. Spend some time
doing something simple and thinking. You can't think and learn if you're always
on the run.
Since the gray wizard had been right more
than once, I levered myself off the bed and pulled The Basis of Order from my
pack. Then I slowly thumbed through the end sections until I found
"Wards," taking several deep breaths to keep my yawns from
overpowering me.
I didn't quite understand the theory, but
the mechanics were less difficult than healing that damned woman or even
weaving my weather-net. The interesting part of the wards were that they would
work without my conscious direction. The bad part was that they didn't do much
besides warn.
I thought there might be more, but if so I
wasn't in shape to learn it. So I slipped the door wedge and bar in place, put
my knife under my pillow, and blew out the candle. My eyes closed before the
light died.
I woke with a jolt from a dream of endless
mountain trails. The room was dark, black, yet a ring of light from the wards
surrounded the door.
. . . iiiittt . . . chhh . . .
I tried to get the sleep out of my mind,
reaching for the knife, then almost laughed.
"Anything I can do for you?" I
called.
The sounds stopped but no one answered,
although I could feel two bodies on the other side of the rough plank door.
I waited, and they waited.
. . . iiiitttch . . .
"I really wouldn't, if I were
you," I added casually, wondering what I would do if they attempted to
break the door.
The prying noise stopped again, and I tried
to think, when all I really wanted to do was sleep.
The wedge wouldn't hold up long, not
against a determined attack. The whole sneaky effort meant the innkeeper was
only after the weak.
I walked across the cold stone floor and
let my feelings examine the door and the frame-solid oak set in stone, with the
hinges on the outside, swinging into the room.
Then I shook my head. Idiot, idiot . . .
the innkeeper didn't want into the room. He was placing a bar through the iron
handle on the other side to keep me from going out. The Stone walls, the narrow
window, all made sense. The innkeeper just didn't like direct violence.
I checked again. The two were gone, now
that they were convinced I was safely captured.
Lighting the candle, I stood up and walked
to the window. If the wedges came out . . . Finally, I nodded and began to
dress, wincing at the chill undergarments. They were still damp, but I could
only hope my body heat would take care of that.
Then I went to work on the window as
quietly as I could, -thanking Uncle Sardit silently the whole time. Not easy,
but the exertion warmed me up. The chill and heat had taken their toll on the
glues, and with a little help here and there, I managed to slide the whole
window into the room.
Out onto the frozen grass went my pack,
cloak, and saddlebags. If I had been a pound heavier I wouldn't have made it
through the narrow opening.
Getting the window back in place I cheated,
using some of the sense-weaving order-strength, but even by my father's lights,
using power to fix something wasn't tempting chaos.
Then, I walked slowly, cloaked in darkness,
to the stables. Gairloch was fine, munching on some sort of grass.
Setting another round of wards, I recovered
my bedroll and curled up on some straw in the stall next to Gairloch.
The first hint of light woke me, not the
wards, which I dropped. I saddled Gairloch, listening for the innkeeper and
hearing nothing. Then I used an old staff to pry open the storage closet and
took six grain cakes, which I stuffed into the provisions sack. I really wanted
just to take them just to pay the innkeeper back. Besides, with the provisions
from Justen, I wasn't even certain I would need them. But the Easthorns looked
cold, and Gairloch had saved my neck already and then some.
In the end, I left four coppers, probably
too much, but that was the least my wonderful innate and growing sense of order
would let me leave. After all, despite his dubious hospitality, the innkeeper
had bought them somewhere, and leaving the coins made me feel better.
After sliding open the stable door, with
the reflective cloak around us, Gairloch and I stepped out into the silence of
the winter dawn.
. . . thunk , . . thunk . . . thunk . . .
Less than a kay across the meadow, we came to a brook. I dropped the shield,
looking for signs of pursuit; but the inn remained dark, without even a plume
of smoke from the chimneys. After Gairloch drank, I replaced the cloak of
reflected light until we reached the road and the marker that featured an arrow
and the name "Passera." The edges of the road contained drifted snow,
often up to Gairloch's knees, but the wind kept most of the road clear, almost
as if it had been designed that way.
Still, more than once we had to flounder
through crusted and drifted snow gathered in the most sheltered elbows of the
road.
Not knowing who or what to trust, and how,
I avoided the next inn, instead finding a sheltered cleft up a canyon from the
road. Getting to the cleft and concealing our tracks was more work, in the end,
than fortifying an inn room would have been, but I slept more soundly, even on
the narrow, rocky, frozen ground out of the wind. And it didn't cost me three
golds or the equivalent duke's ransom, though I did wake up with the tip of my
nose nearly frozen.
Climbing the eastern walls of the Easthorns
wasn't quite as draining-not quite-as surviving the winterkill storm. While it
had taken two days to escape the storm, it took nearly two days more after
Carsonn just to get to the top of the southern pass. In that whole time, I
passed three other groups heading toward Certis, all of at least four riders,
and all heavily armed. They had made my passage possible, in one instance
having shoveled through a small snow avalanche across trie road.
They never saw me or Gairloch, not when I
heard them from a distance and removed us from the road and their sight.
The weather never changed-cold, cloudy,
with gusty winds sweeping in and out of the canyons and carrying fine dry
snowflakes. What's more, at the top of the southern pass, there wasn't even any
view, just a crest in the road that ran between two nearly sheer rock walls. At
one instant, I was riding uphill; and the next, downhill.
Not until I reached the top of the
foothills overlooking Gallos, another day, and another night spent under an
outcrop shivering even within my bedroll, did I find a view.
For nearly three kays the trail down was
nothing but an open ledge slanted against a blackish granite.
Halfway down I stopped, able to see anyone
approaching in either direction, and guided Gairloch into an alcove back from
the road. I climbed up to a flat overlook to look out over Gallos under the
first full day of winter sun since leaving Jellico.
Gallos didn't look much different from
above than I imagined Certis might have, just mixed and muddy browns, divided
by thin gray lines that had to be stone walls or fences, and infrequent
gray-brown and wider curving lines that were doubtless roads.
Down toward my right, to the north, where
the road broke away from the rocks and entered a line of forested hills that
separated the meadows and hedgerows and stubbled fields from the Easthorns, I
spotted an interweaving of smoke plumes in a cultivated valley. What I could
see of the valley looked small, in any case. Passera, I guessed.
Leaning back against the rock alcove with
Gairloch right below and with the afternoon sun warming the black slab behind
me, I finally re-read Justen's note.
I still hadn't had time to read the whole
book, and on the mountainside wasn't exactly the place to do that in any case.
But Justen had been right more than once . . . and that was more than enough
reason to think about what I was to do before I descended the rest of the way
into Gallos and Pas-sera.
Besides the simple matter of survival, I
had two problems-neither insurmountable, but both requiring solutions. First,
my supply of coins, not exactly large to begin with, was running short, even
despite Justen's provisions. The loss of nearly four golds for a short night's
lodging in Carsonn and the grain cakes for Gairloch had not helped in that
matter; although, balanced against the payment for the sheep-healing, I was
somewhat better off than I would have been, and a good hundred fifty kays
further toward the Westhorns.
Second, I still didn't have the faintest
idea of the problem or cause or whatever-it-was that I was supposed to resolve.
This business of blind traveling and quests was getting tiresome, if not plain
boring.
Whatever I didn't know, I did know two
things. If I kept blundering into towns and problems, sooner or later an unseen
crossbow quarrel or rifle shot would leave me in less than ideal shape, if not
dead. That assumed that Gallos would allow rifles; some of the Candarian
duchies classed firearms as chaos-weapons, rather than undependable heat-energy
weapons. But dead would be dead, one way or another.
I'd also realized from the unusual nature
of the storm on the hills of Certis, and from the unguarded look of the nasty
innkeeper's wife when I had mentioned the unseasonable storm, that the ice and
snow had not been entirely natural . . . not at all. It also meant that someone
hadn't exactly been able to locate me, with magic or otherwise.
Gairloch-the pony was another question I
had ignored, and kept ignoring. Why did he trust me, and a few ostlers only?
Had his presence in Freetown been coincidental? Or a matter of odds?
I looked away from the view of Gallos and
down at the not-quite-shaggy golden-brown of his heavy coat. No animal less
sturdy would have managed what we had gone through nearly so well.
With another sigh, I reached out with my
feelings . . . looking ...
. . . and came away shaking my head.
Gairloch was a mountain pony, but not just a mountain pony. Just as I had
strengthened the innate sense of order within the sheep of Montgren, so had
someone strengthened that order within Gairloch, to the point that the pony
would lash out or shy away from anyone manifesting disorder. That was all, and
yet ...
I shook my head. Someone, something, had thought
farther ahead than I cared to speculate. Even with my back against the warm
rock, I shivered.
I still wasn't thinking fast enough.
So I sat on the outcropping and tried to
think out what I had to do next. I had to learn what was in the book and to
apply it. I had to make a living of sorts with enough space and time to read.
And I had to avoid getting much notice. That was especially important,
particularly if my disappearance from an apparently locked room in Carsonn were
relayed to Antonin or whichever chaos-wizard was after me.
I didn't understand why, though. I wasn't
as dangerous as Justen, and Tamra was certainly as much a threat as I was. I
shook my head, wondering where she was and what she was doing.
Avoiding further notice meant avoiding
Passera. If it took a whole troop to cross the Easthorns, a single rider would
be seen as magician, or bandit, or common thief, and even given my recent
outlays, the amount of coins I carried would give full suspicion to one of
those assumptions.
All this led to the need to reach Fenard, a
town large enough for me to seek a woodcrafter who needed an extra hand without
raising too many questions.
I sighed. Every time I thought, the
problems got more complex and involved more than just me.
"Come on ... we've got another piece
to travel, and a few more nights on the road."
Click . . . click ... Gairloch's shoes
clicked on the smoothed stones of the highway as it descended down the long
slope to Passera, and, eventually, toward Fenard.
XXXVIII
THE
BLOND WOMAN juggles the knife as she rides, glancing ahead, then back at the
rotund trader perched on the gray mare that walks heavily beside the lead pack
mule. "No trouble yet."
The trader eyes the black-haired
woman-shapely, even in the faded blue tunic and trousers-on the scarred
battle-pony, who scans the road ahead.
The older woman, the black-eyed and
black-haired one, turns to catch the trader's appraising stare. She touches the
blade at her belt, and a faint smile crosses her lips.
The trader sees the smile and the hand on
the hilt of the blade and shivers. "See . . . anything?" he stammers.
"Could be ... there's a line of dust
headed our way. Only a single rider, though. No trouble there."
"You fixing to join up with the
autarch?" asks the trader, each word tumbling out almost before the last
is finished.
"Why?" asks the blonde.
"The word is that Kyphros needs
blades; the autarch doesn't care whether they're men or women, just so long as
they're good."
"I don't know . . ." The blonde's
voice is flat.
"We'll see after we deliver you . . .
and collect our pay . . ." laughs the older woman.
Her laugh is not a laugh, and the trader
shivers again. The blond woman rides further ahead, and the dark-haired woman's
free hand strays toward the hilt of her blade.
XXXIX
SKIRTING
PASSERA WAS easy enough, except for the river bridge that held towers and a
guard force. While the towers would hold against brigands, I doubted they would
stop even a few score of well-trained and armed men.
They didn't have to. The gate just had to
stop us. So Gairloch and I waited nearly till dusk, until I sensed the gate
about to open and slipped through going the other direction. They even left the
gate open while three of them checked under the bridge from the mountain side.
I didn't wait for them to finish, taking
Gairloch step by slow step across the stones, hoping that the gentle click of
his hooves would be muffled by the rush of the narrow river below the bridge.
All the practice had given me a fairly good
sense of place without seeing, but I still worried that someone could see
through the reflective shield. In a way, it was faith, sheer faith, to walk
beside an armed guard with a sword ready to use, separated from that violence
by the thinnest of light-curtains . . . and I couldn't even sigh.
Beyond the gate, Passera was open enough,
though Gairloch and I quickly left it well behind as we continued into the
forested hills beyond the town. I dropped the shield as soon as possible after
turning into the trees once the road curved out of sight.
From that point on, I would be a journeyman
woodworker, with only a horse left because of my unsettled youth and the
trouble in Freetown.
With each step toward the plains of Galios,
the hills became more gentle, the trees less frequent, and the air warmer, if a
temperature that left the clay of the road a cold gelatin rather than
stone-hard ice could be called warm. The rock fences by the road gave way to
rock posts and split rails, and these in turn were replaced by all-wooden rail
fences that seemed too spindly to contain stock or to hold up against a strong
wind.
The infrequent and clear brooks gave way to
half-empty or totally empty canals flowing in grids between ever vaster and
flatter expanses of stubbled fields.
After Passera, I finally stopped in a
crossroads with no name and slept in the stable with Gairloch. It looked
cleaner than the battered inn. Even so, the cost was three coppers for me and
two for Gairloch. I didn't ask about a room.
For breakfast, I paid another copper for
half a loaf-a small half-loaf-of brown bread, and a cup of redberry.
From there, another day took me into land
so flat and treeless that you almost couldn't tell where the horizon was. In
the middle of the treeless expanse flowed the River Galios, nearly a kay across
and less than a rod deep in early winter. Two side-by-side stone spans crossed
it, one for traffic in each direction, each one wide enough for the largest of
farm wagons. Another night in a stable followed, but the Prosperity Inn in
Neblitt offered edible food and a clean straw-pile for no more than the night
before.
The right-hand road out of Neblitt and the
end of the third day brought me to the low hills leading up to Fenard, and the
welcome sight of trees. Bare and leafless trees, not conifers, but trees
nonetheless.
It also brought the second guard station.
"Where are you bound, young
fellow?"
"Fenard."
"For the guards?"
I looked at the two brawny soldiers and
shook my head. "I don't know much about war. I'm just a journeyman
wood-crafter."
"Where are your tools?" the
narrow-faced one asked.
"That's my problem, ser. I was in
Freetown . . . and things changed rather sudden-like ..." I shrugged.
The two looked at each other. "Any
weapons?"
"Just my belt knife. I can hold my own
with it." The guards, veterans each, tried to hold back their grins. So
did I. I would have grinned in their place.
"You understand, young fellow, that if
you can't support yourself, you have to leave Fenard or join the guards?"
"I would?" I asked, trying to
look puzzled.
"You would."
Creaakkkkk ... A wagon pulled up onto the
stones behind me.
"Be on your way, fellow."
I flicked the reins, and Gairloch carried
me forward and up the slope. Three hills and a bridge later, and near supper
time and twilight, we stopped at the city gate. On the horizon to the north and
to the west I could see a glitter of light, presumably the not-too-distant
Westhorns.
Unlike Jellico, the wall around Fenard was
token, where it existed, and the gate was more of a formality than a real
check. A bored and much flabbier guard than the one at the hillside gate looked
at me and waved me on.
Once in the streets, I stopped a youngster,
round-cheeked and grinning, to ask for directions to the quarter with the most
woodworkers.
"Mills, you mean? They're out the mill
gate, not in the city."
"No, fine carpenters, crafters."
"The kind that make cabinets and
chairs?"
I nodded.
"That's by the mill quarter, straight
down the market street there, as far as you can go. A copper, and I'll show you
myself, take you right to the Tap Inn, where Masters Perlot and Jirrle drink. They
might be there now."
I tossed him the copper. "I can barely
afford that, boy."
The barefoot youth just grinned. "Come
on. Move that toy pony,"
I could have found the Tap Inn with little
difficulty, and even one copper was getting to be important. Sometimes you
guess wrong, and the youngster probably needed the copper more than I did.
At the crossing of the unnamed street to
the mill gate and the market street, also without a name written down anywhere,
stood a narrow two-story timber building. Only the hearth and chimney were
stone, although the street-level walls were a grayed plaster applied over the
old timbers. The roof bowed, and pigeons roosted under the eaves on the end
away from the hearth.
A portly and balding man stood, in a
leather vest and no jacket, levering a long pole into the street's single oil
lamp. As Gairloch skirted a tinker and his pushcart, the man coaxed the lamp
into light, even though the sun's red ball had not yet dropped from the
twilight sky.
Two middle-aged men, not quite stooped nor
erect, wearing dark cloaks, stepped into the narrow doorway on the market
street side. As the door opened, a burst of laughter escaped.
". . . scoundrels . . ."
". . . away from . . ."
My guide pointed. "That's the place.
The stable's in back."
"What's your name?"
"Erlyn. You can find me near the east
gate most afternoons." He turned and was gone, almost at a run.
The Tap Inn was mostly eatery and drinkery,
with five empty stalls that barely merited the title of stable, but there was
an overhead loft, and another copper gained me the privilege of paying three
coppers to sleep there and three more to stable Gairloch. The stablehand was
rushed, trying to get back to the inn, where-from his club, heavy arms, large
belly, and low voice-his job appeared to be keeping order while stuffing
himself from the kitchen.
"No trouble, boy! You understand? Keep
that mountain beast under control, and close that stall door."
I nodded and began to brush Gairloch.
Much as I needed to eat, and to listen to
the whispered soul of Fenard as unfiltered through loosened tongues, I was in
no hurry. I forced myself, after I had found some grain for Gairloch, to amble
into the Tap Inn through the same side door I had watched the older men enter.
Holding back, I winced at the din while I
let my eyes adjust. Half a dozen men gathered at the sole round table in the
room, each cradling a tankard-big earthenware mugs, really.
Four widely-spaced wall oil lamps and a low
fire supplied the light. Grease burning off a stove somewhere and green wood
burning in the fireplace supplemented the acrid smoke. Add to that the sourness
of spilled raw wine and cheap beer, the sweat of working men, and the combined
odor defined the Tap Inn. I preferred the stable.
Instead, I eased for a small corner
table-vacant, as I discovered, because it wobbled alarmingly on the uneven
plank floor.
"Wine or beer?" The serving-girl
had unruly black hair, a thin face and body, and a livid slash-scar from the
right corner of her mouth to her ear.
"You have redberry?"
"Costs a copper, just like a
beer." ."Redberry. Bread and cheese?"
"A copper gets you two slices and a
small wedge of yellow. Two, and you get four slices and a wedge of white."
"Two slices and the yellow." I
put two coppers on the table, then covered them with my hand.
She nodded and left. "Red stuff and a
small bread and cheese."
The six men around the center table were
joined by a seventh.
"Rasten! Always the last. Did your new
apprentice have to slaughter the horse for glue?"
"Double vine for the man!"
Thunk! Redberry slopped onto my hand, and
by the time I looked up the girl was flirting with the stooped Rasten. He
didn't seem to mind at all.
A pair, not much older than me, sitting a
table away began to talk louder, to be heard over the older center group.
". . . you think about Destrin? That
daughter . . ."
I "... she's nice enough ..."
". . . no future there . . ."
Seeing the serving-girl coming, I had the
coppers and my question ready. "Which one is Perlot?"
She jabbed a thumb at the seven, including
Rasten the latecomer. "Silver hair, thin guy next to the fellow nearest
the door. Want anything else?"
"Not now."
She was headed back to flirt with Rasten.
The bread was neither fresh nor stale, but
somewhere in the middle; but the cheese was sharp and cool, better than I
expected.
". . . benches for the pits . . . and
they wanted black oak, for that price. Can you believe that?"
". . . another wizard loose in the
Easthorns . . . walked through a wall . . ."
". . . just an excuse because the
fellow skipped and didn't pay, that's all . . ."
The pair nearest me got up and left. No one
took their place.
Sitting in the corner on the long bench, I
nursed one red-berry, then another, listening not only to the older group, but
to others scattered throughout the room . . .
". . . apprenticeship? With his
daughter? That's a prison . . ."
". . . he'd like those golden chains!
Wouldn't you, Sander? Wouldn't you?"
". . . frig out . . ."
". . . say some of the old duke's
guard trying to carve out their own place ..."
". . . Northern Kyphros . . ."
". . . wilderness . . ."
". . . autarch will show them
..."
". . . how you'd like her bed?
..."
"Let's have another round."
"Who's paying?"
Between the continuing smoke from the
kitchen, the pervasiveness of soured beer and wine, and the acridness of green
wood in the hearth, my eyes burned, but I kept listening, waving away the thin
serving-girl with the scar down her cheek, nursing my second redberry, and
watching . . .
Perlot pulled back his chair, and I started
to stand up, then sat down. Approaching a craft-master in a tavern was an
invitation to trouble. So I waited for him to leave before I made my way out to
the stable and Gairloch.
Although the air was cleaner and the stable
far warmer than the Easthorns had been, my sleep was restless, as if the
thunder of that sudden winter storm in Certis still echoed in my head, and I
kept hearing the phrase "another wizard in the Easthorns." In time I
did sleep, though I woke and washed in the trough before the stablehand
arrived.
He didn't know exactly where Perlot's shop
was, but pointed generally to the far side of the mill quarter, and I greased
him with another copper to leave Gairloch for the day.
"Before sunset, boy!"
I didn't grin, but we both knew that he
wouldn't touch Gairloch with even a pitchfork. All being late would cost me was
money, and I was losing that fast enough anyway.
Perlot's Grafting. That was what the sign
read. Under the sign was a display window with a cabinet and a wooden armchair,
both darkened red oak in the Hamorian style. The Grafting was better than
anything I had seen since leaving Uncle Sardit, and the cabinet might even have
gotten a nod from him.
Since the door was ajar, and no customers
were standing hi the waiting area, I stepped inside.
On the other side of the half-wall, the
craft-master was directing two others, a junior apprentice, and either a young
journeyman or senior apprentice slightly older than I was, They were discussing
the composition of an oil finish.
"You there. I'll be with you
shortly."
"Please don't hurry on my account,
mastercrafter," I answered, carefully inclining my head. Then I walked to
the back side of the display window to inspect the three-drawered cabinet,
comparing it more closely to my recollections of Uncle Sardit's work.
"What do you think?" Perlot's
voice was even more raspy in the morning.
I turned to face him.
"Well . . . you seem to know something
about woodwork. What do you think?"
I swallowed. "The finish is superb, as
are the proportions. The grain on the side panel is angled, not much, but
enough to detract. Since the joins are hidden, I can't say much about the
strength, but the mitering doesn't jam the wood or leave gaps."
"What about the wood?"
"The cabinetry is better than the oak.
The design would have been better in black oak, but that might have raised the
cost to more than most buyers would pay."
Perlot nodded. "You're looking for a
job, that's clear, and you know what's expected. That's clear, too. I can't
help you." The words rushed together, as if he wanted to be done with
them.
"I see." It was my turn to nod.
"Do you know any crafter who might be able to use a junior
journeyman?"
The mastercrafter rubbed his chin.
"Among the good ones ... no. We all have more relatives than work."
Then he laughed. "If you're as good as you talk, you might try old
Destrin. He could use the help, but . . ." The man shrugged.
"Where could l find him?"
"He has a place in the jewelers'
street, across the market square." The crafter looked over at the youth
and the young man, then back at me.
"Is this a hard time for
woodcrafting?"
"Not wonderful. Not terrible. I'm no
Sardit, but sometimes we come close."
I managed to nod without dropping my jaw.
"You ever seen his work, young
fellow?"
"Yes. I once saw a chest he made-black
oak."
Perlot pursed his lips. "Why do you
need a job?"
"I left home young. I didn't like my
apprenticeship. My uncle said I was too unsettled. So I headed for Freetown.
Then, what happened there forced me to leave . . . rather suddenly."
"It forced more than a few people to
leave." His voice was dry. "Well ... I wish you well. Try Destrin,
but I'd advise you against using my name. That's your choice, of course."
Before I had even reached the door, the
crafter was back among the finishes.
Gairloch remained in the stable while I
sought out Destrin, heading toward the jewelers' street and following the
sketchy directions provided by Perlot.
The structure itself, faced in dark-red
brick and sharing common walls on both sides with more recently-painted houses,
bore only a small sign above the shop door: Wood-
The house had two doors-one which covered a
stairway up to the second-floor quarters, and an open doorway on the street level
leading into the woodshop.
The wide shutters on the lone woodshop
window were open though a trace askew on their hinges, as if the pins were worn
down and had not been replaced in years. The blue paint on the window casement
and upon the shutters themselves had faded nearly to gray, where it had not
peeled away to reveal a battered and faded red oak beneath. From what I could
tell, there was a small attached structure in the back that might have once
housed horses. Certainly the other houses in the area had such small stables.
I stepped inside the open doorway and stood
at the edge of the workroom.
While the workroom wasn't a disaster, the
little signs of chaos were everywhere-the careless racking of the saws, the
sawdust in the chalk drawers, and the cloudiness of the oil used with the
grindstone.
"Yes?" A dark-haired man-slightly
stooped shoulders, thin-faced, and wearing a clean if worn leather apron over
dark trousers-^glared at me.
"I'm looking for Destrin."
"I'm Destrin." His voice was
thin.
"My name is Lerris. I understand you
might be interested in having some help."
"Hmmmmmmmm . . ."
"I'd be willing to work on a junior
journeyman basis."
"I don't know . . ."
Shaking my head, I let my skepticism show
through as I looked over the incipient chaos, saying nothing.
Destrin stood by a half-finished tavern
bench, backless. The seat was in place, and he had drilled the holes for the
pole legs. At a glance, I could tell it was made from three different kinds of
wood-scraps or castoffs, probably. Not quite a crude piece, but definitely not
up to the quality or the array of the tools, nor to the size of the workroom or
the house or the merchant's neighborhood.
"Well," he demanded in a thin and
testy voice, "can you do this kind of work?"
"Yes." I didn't feel like
elaborating.
"How can you show me?"
I glanced around. The bins were empty,
except for scraps. "I'll make something, and you can judge for yourself.
All it will cost is some scraps and the use of your tools."
"They're good tools. How can I be sure
you know how to handle them?" His thin voice degenerated into more of a
whine. "Acccuuu . . . ufffff . . . ufff . . ." His hand touched the
workbench to steady himself, but his eyes stayed on me.
"Watch me. Or work on your bench while
I show you."
"Hhmmmmphmm."
I took that for agreement and began to
rummage around. In the end, I found a piece of red oak with some twisted grains
at one end that could be turned to an elaborate breadboard, and some smaller
plank-ends of white oak that would make a small box, perhaps for needles.
That turned out to be the easy part. None
of the small saws or smaller straight planes had been sharpened in years, and
the peg plane was clogged with sawdust and chips in a way that indicated it had
been forced. So I cleaned it first, then oiled it and sharpened if. I managed
to do the same with the other planes, but the small saws were beyond my
ability, except to clean them.
Destrin kept looking at me as I cleaned and
sharpened the tools, and then as I cleaned off the second bench, re-racking all
the odds and ends into the old cabinets that seemed to have a place for
everything.
Only after I had done that, and I realized
it was well after noon, did I lay out the wood pieces for the box.
"Father ..." A light voice came
from the now-open door at the back of the shop, a second staircase to the
quarters. "I didn't know anyone was here." The girl was
golden-haired, thin like her father, and petite, although definitely feminine
in shape and demeanor. Her voice was thin like his, but not whiny, just thin,
or tired. Her face was not quite elfin, with a short but straight nose a touch
too long to be called cute, and her eyes were a brown-flecked green. She wore a
faded blue apron over calf-length brown trousers and an equally faded yellow
shirt. Her feet were in sandals.
"I didn't mean to surprise you. My
name is Lerris," I told her.
She looked from her father to me and back
again.
"I'm trying to persuade your father to
take me on as a journeyman."
"Hmmmmphhmmm," noted Destrin. He
coughed again.
I wondered if that were his way of avoiding
commenting on anything. Again, I said nothing as I finished measuring the wood
scraps.
"Would you like to join us for some
dinner?" she asked. "It's only soup with some fruit and
biscuits."
Destrin glared at his daughter.
"Neither one of you knows me. I
appreciate the offer, but, until I finish something of value for Destrin . .
." As I spoke I could see the woodcrafter relax.
"Let me bring you something to drink
and some fruit at least."
"I wouldn't object to that, mistress,
but I need to keep working."
She looked down, then retreated up the
stairs.
As usual, everything took longer than it
should. I had to readjust the wood vise, including a minor repair of the
fastening on the bottom plate, and the sawing took longer because the blades
weren't as sharp as Uncle Sardit's.
In fact, though I only took a few minutes
to gulp down the sliced soft apples she set out along with a battered blue clay
mug, it was nearly supper time before I finished gluing the last joins
together. The whole time, Destrin had "hmmphed" along with the bench,
barely finishing his by the time I put the little white oak box into the
setting clamps.
It didn't take very long to groove a
rectangle on the top and chalk out a simple four-point star, then carve and
chisel out the shallow design.
The box was good and workmanlike, not
exquisite, but better than much of what I had seen. "You know woods and
tools," Destrin said grudgingly. "It's nice," observed his
daughter.
"Better than nice, Deirdre. Fetch a
silver or two in the market." He almost smiled.
I shrugged, not wanting to correct the
older man. I didn't know Fenard, but I doubted that the box would fetch more
than a half silver. "Are you interested in a journeyman?"
"Can't pay much."
"I don't ask for anything up front.
You get half of what I can make and sell. I pay two coppers an eight-day for
room, and another two for food, but if I clean out the old stable I can put my
pony there."
Destrin's head jerked up at the mention of
the pony. "Where are you from, fellow?"
"Up the North Coast. I went to
Freetown, but I had to leave. There was no work after the black ones closed
down the port."
"You could afford a horse?" asked
Deirdre. "Hardly," I laughed. "He's a shaggy mountain pony, and
he doesn't eat too much."
"Another two pennies for the
stable."
"Two pennies, but only if I don't make
you a half-silver an eight-day." Destrin reflected, but not for long.
"All right. And you sleep here in the shop. There's a small room in the
corner."
That was all I wanted, for the moment. I
needed some funds, some time to think and to read The Basis of Order, and
somewhere to stable Gairloch.
"You have supper with us
upstairs," added the craft-master. He looked around the shop.
I understood. "After I clean up a
little."
He nodded.
Destrin was getting a good deal, but he
wasn't likely to ask the questions that the other crafters like Perlot might.
In the end, I didn't eat with them, instead
persuading Destrin to let me get Gairloch and work on the stable.
Unlike the shop, the stable had simply been
closed. Destrin had clearly never had enough extra wood to use it for storage,
and it didn't take long with the old broom I found to make one of the two
stalls suitable for Gairloch, at least for the night. Finding time to get him
exercise might be a greater problem, but that worry would have to wait.
XL
DESTRIN
HAD SO many problems that it was hard to know where to begin, and that didn't
even count Deirdre. Some of them were easy enough to correct, just given a
little time and effort, like reorganizing the shop back to its original and
functional pattern.
Some took my own funds, because Destrin
didn't see any use in them, like having the small saws sharpened by a good
tinker. For Destrin there wasn't any use. He knew he couldn't produce small
work-not good enough to sell in the market. But I could, and I needed to sell
things to avoid spending myself out of the last few golds I had.
Even though Deirdre looked longingly at the
little white-oak box I had made to show that I knew woods and woodworking,
Destrin agreed that I should sell it on the following eight-day's-end market.
I didn't intend to sell only one box. That
meant going to the mills to find woods, preferably scraps.
The first miller, Nurgke, was blunt.
"Scraps? Not even for sale, not to you or to Destrin. The scraps go to
Perlot or Jirrle. They're my best customers, and they need them for their
apprentices." He had silver hair and hard brown eyes, arms like
tree-trunks, and an open if unsmiling, face.
Nurgke's mill had two big .saws, run by
waterwheels from a diversion of the Gallos River. In spite of his bluntness,
his mill conveyed a sense of order. Even the stones in the mill-race were set
precisely, and the grease for the waterwheels was set in measured dollops for
application by his apprentices.
"Impressive," I told him as I
surveyed his operation. "You prize order highly."
"I praise profits, woodman. Order
brings profits."
I couldn't argue with that. "Who else
might have wood scraps or mill ends for sale?"
Nurgke pulled at his long chin, then
frowned. "Well . . . Yuril doesn't have any arrangements, but he does
mostly firs, stuff for poles and fences, farm uses, not much in the way of
hardwoods. Then there's Teller . . . but he's almost under indenture to the prefect.
You might try Brettel. He used to mill for Dorman." He saw my blank look
and explained. "Dorman was Destrin's father. Best cabinetmaker in Candar.
Some said he was as good as Sardit in Recluce, maybe better." The
mill-master shook his head. "Destrin's a good man, been through a lot, but
he doesn't have the touch." He looked at me. "Brettel might help you,
but don't sell him a song. He never forgets."
With Nurgke's admonition fresh on my mind,
I rode Gairloch back around the perimeter road of Fenard, the wide and cleared
granite-paved way just inside the fifteen-cubit-high stone walls, until I got
to the north gate and the north road leading out to Brettel's mill.
The wind whipped around us, and the light
dimmed as the clouds darkened. By the time we reached the mill, light crisp
flakes were falling upon the frozen ground, leaving a lacy finish over the
fields of stubble behind the wooden rail fences.
I had to wait for Brettel, who was
wrestling with the replacement of a saw.
So I studied his mill. Like Nurgke's, his
radiated order, but with an older and longer-standing sense of presence. His
mill-race was also perfectly stoned and mortared, but some of the stones had
been replaced. The stream dammed for his high pond had to be the one that joined
the Gallos River on the east side of Fenard.
The lumber and timber storage warehouse
radiated an age greater than the stone walls of Fenard, yet there was no debris
and the roof timbers were more recent and carefully varnished.
The warehouse was chill-no fires or hearths
with that much lumber around, but I wondered how much timber and how many
planks split because of the changes in heat and cold.
"You? Who are you, and what do you
want?" Brettel, like a broad and bandy-legged dwarf, stood shorter than to
my shoulder, and his voice was a clear tenor. For all the abruptness of his
words, the tone was pleasant.
"I'm a new journeyman for Destrin, the
woodworker. My name is Lerris."
"Destrin? What are you running from,
young fellow?"
I grinned. I'm not, at least not exactly. I
worked for my uncle, but he said I was too unsettled and told me to see the
world and to come back when I could settle down." I shrugged. "You
can't see much of the world when you run out of coppers. So I agreed to work
for Destrin as a journeyman. He supplies tools and lodging and gets a large
share of what I produce."
The mill-master looked me over. "No
sign of chaos. The worst you could be would be an honest scoundrel, and that's
the least of Destrin's problems. What do you want from me? My best-cut timbers
without paying a copper?" I shook my head. "I'm not that ambitious. I
prefer smaller pieces for now. Scraps and mill ends, if you can spare
any."
Brettel pursed his lips.
"I can pay a little," I offered,
not wanting to seem too eager, but not wanting to appear as a beggar, either.
He shook his head with a rueful grin.
"I don't know what you are, but you're neither a thief nor of chaos, and
anything would help Destrin, I think." Then he fixed his eyes on mine.
"But leave his daughter alone. She's my god-daughter, and while his pride
won't let me foster her, she'll have an honest man of Fenard for a
husband." The last words were like light iron, and I stepped back.
"I didn't know . . ."
He laughed, and the laugh was deeper, not
at all like the tenor of his voice. "You wouldn't. I wouldn't say
anything, except you're good-looking, probably talented, and will leave her
sooner or later. There are plenty of others . . . now, about the scraps . .
."
I waited, trying not to hold my breath.
"Follow me. You can take anything you
want from the burn bin, but don't leave a mess. The mill ends are in the other
bin. Those we sell. You get out what you want into a pile, then either
Arta-he's the" skinny fellow with red hair-or I will talk about how many
coppers it's worth."
In the end, I gathered one bag full of red
and white oak scraps, enough to do three or four small boxes, and enough mill
ends for three coppers to do a breadboard or two and a small chair.
Brettel watched as I carefully packed the
woods into the old basket I had taken from Destrin's stable.
"Good luck, young fellow. You seem to
know woods."
"Thank you. What I do with them is
what counts."
He nodded and was gone, and I chucked the
reins.
Wheeee . . . eeeee.
"I know. I know. You don't like
carrying wood. But if you want to stay dry and get fed, you're going to have to
carry wood."
Gairloch carried me out into the wind and
the swirling snow that had covered not only the fields, but the perimeter road,
with a light white blanket.
Destrin "hhhmmmmpphed" as I
brought in the wood and stacked it in the unused bins on what had become my
side of the workroom. He had a fire stoked in the side hearth and a ragged
sweater on under his apron. "What's that for, boy?"
"Some boxes, breadboards, and a small
chair."
"Do a good chair, and it will sell.
Boxes don't do so well these days."
"If they don't sell, I'll make other
things in the future." Deirdre just watched until I began to measure.
Then, as if the details bored her, she slipped through the back door and
upstairs.
The hardest thing was not to hurry. Even
though I knew nothing was going to happen immediately, I felt like every moment
counted, that I should be working all the time, and I did work under the lamp
some nights.
Destrin was wrong. I finished two boxes,
and with the white oak one, took them to the market on eighth-day. Getting in
cost me a copper, but I found a spot by the dry fountain, next to a flower
seller, and set out the three boxes on a tan cloth I had borrowed from Deirdre.
The snow had half-melted, half blown away,
but the wind still whipped in from the north, and less than a score of possible
buyers wandered through the square.
"Those are nice, young fellow. Where
are they from?" asked the rotund woman with the cut flowers.
"Here. I'm a new journeyman for
Destrin, the woodworker."
"You made those? You mean he actually
has someone who can make things like old Dorman did?" She leaned down and
studied the boxes. "Well . . . they're not as elegant as Dor-man's . . .
rather plain . . . but they look well-made."
"May I see the one on the end?"
interrupted another voice, that of a slender man in gray leathers.
I didn't like his narrow face or the cold
look in his eyes, but I nodded as I handed him the red-oak box.
The man studied it minutely, looking at the
joins, at the grain angles, and the fit of the top. Finally, he handed it back,
almost with a disappointed look on his face. "Decent workmanship. Fair
style." He nodded curtly and stepped away.
"I guess that means you're all right,
fellow."
"Who was that?" I asked.
"Some inspector for the local guild?"
"The prefect doesn't allow guilds. He says
they just cause graft and corruption."
"So who was he?"
"That's old Jirrle. He and Perlot and
Dorman used to fight over who was the better crafter. Now he does the fine
cabinets for the gentry, the big merchants, and the prefect."
"Can I see that box in the middle? How
much is it?" A woman in a shapeless gray overtunic that failed to conceal
her bulk jabbed at the white oak box.
"A silver," I responded.
"It's not worth more than a copper or
two . . ."
In the end, I sold the white oak for six
coppers, and the two others for five-just enough to leave me nothing after the
cost of entering the market, the cost of the wood and paying Destrin's share,
and my eight-day's lodging and board. That did leave the wood for the chair
paid for, but the lack of profit wasn't the most promising of starts.
XLI
OVER
THE NEXT few eight-days, my cash flow improved, and I stopped going to the
market, instead displaying my products on the stage in Destrin's window. With
winter full upon Fenard, mostly demonstrated with howling winds, and occasional
light snows, being able to sell without either paying the market fee or
shivering on the cold stones of the square was a definite improvement. The
first chair brought three silvers, although I ended up having to buy a finish
varnish for it and putting a satin sanded gloss on it.
Destrin "hummphhedd" and moaned,
but finally gave in when I insisted that his cut came after deducting the
expenses for materials, since I was the one buying them. Deirdre still watched
occasionally as I worked, and Brettel still let me have the small scraps free.
Even the larger mill ends cost but a few coppers.
Gairloch liked every opportunity to leave
the confined stall, and that was another problem. Stalls had to be cleaned,
something I had forgotten. Cleaning the sawdust and scraps from the shop, with
the fragrance of cut wood, was almost a pleasure compared to wielding a shovel
and slop bucket. Sometimes I even had to wash parts of the planking-and my
hands turned red from the freezing water and coarse soap-but something inside
me wouldn't let me not keep either the stall or shop spotless.
As I worked more with the tools, and Dorman
had left tools every bit as good as Uncle Sardit's, my hands became nearly an
extension of my thoughts, and I could almost feel how the grains and the
strengths and lesions in the woods flowed together. Sometimes it wasn't even
boring, and I could begin to understand how and why Uncle Sardit looked at
wood.
"What are you?" demanded Destrin
as I stepped back from the parlor chair I had gotten a commission for. It
wasn't perfect, not to Uncle Sardit's standards, but even he would have called
it a good piece. I had deepened and widened the seat grooves, knowing who would
use it, and the spools and braces were a shade heavier to bear the extra
weight, yet the proportions did not show that extra strength. "Acufff . .
. cufHf. . ." He reached out a hand to steady himself. His face paled.
I leaned toward him. "Are you all
right?"
"... Be ... all ... right . . . just
an instant . . ."
He wasn't. Even when he straightened up and
stopped coughing, he was pale. For the first time since I had come to Fenard, I
reached out with my feelings beyond the woodworking to touch Destrin . . . and
nearly recoiled from the impact. The threads of order within his body were
faded, dying a fraction of a span at a time. Yet there was no chaos, no tinge
of evil, just as though he were far older than he was, as if he were an
ancient.
Almost without thinking, I lent him some
internal order, a touch of strength.
"Who are you?" he repeated, as
though his coughing attack had never occurred, but he edged closer to the
hearth.
I wiped my forehead. "I'm
Lerris."
Destrin shook his head. "A master
trained you, Lerris. I'm a poor excuse for a crafter, and I know it, but I can
recognize quality and skill. Sometimes you look like Dorman when you touch the
wood, or just let the plane graze an edge. You are in a different world. When
you look at a piece of wood, you look like you see all the way through
it."
I did, but there wasn't any reason to tell
Destrin that. So I shrugged, and I was shrugging a lot in Fenard. "Like
you, Destrin, I'm trying to make a living."
". . . accuffff. . . acuuu . . ."
He waved me away.
This time, with what I had given him, he
recovered quickly.
"Damned chill . . ." he mumbled.
Then his eyes met mine, and, as if he recognized what I was, he shook his head.
"What will I do when you leave?"
I looked back at the chair. Destrin had
raised a real question. "You had this shop before I came," I said
firmly, but it was no answer, and we both knew it.
Outside, the wind whistled, shaking the
front shutters and rattling the display window.
"Are you ready for supper, Papa?"
Deirdre stood by the stairs, looking as petite and fragile as always, as if a
good breeze would carry her away. Yet there was iron behind that seeming
fragility, as I had discovered watching her negotiate with a merchant's wife
over some curtains she had provided.
"Good time to stop," agreed the
crafter.
While Deirdre served a barley soup, it was
a hearty soup, and the biscuits were fresh. Young or fragile-looking, she could
cook, and she always had a pleasant, if shy, smile.
That night, with my back against the brick
of the wall and my feet up on the pallet that served as couch, bed, and study
area, I eased out The Basis of Order. The cover was getting battered, perhaps
because I had read through the slim volume at least twice.
Reading didn't mean understanding,
unfortunately. Some things were easy enough, like the business with the sheep
had been. Or like helping strengthen Destrin's body to fight the wasting
disease. I could understand what the disease did to Destrin, but there was
nothing I could do. Oh, Destrin looked better after my intervention, and I
would do what I could, but slowly, slowly, he was dying.
Even the damned introduction to the book
didn't help: "Learning without understanding can but increase the frustration
of the impatient . . ."
Or how about "... All things are not
possible, even to the greatest . . ."?
Wonderful, just wonderful.
I closed the book and looked at nothing.
Too many questions kept nagging at me, even
as I continued to force my way through the damnable Basis of Order. At times, I
would sit there under the lamp, later than I should have been up, knowing that
my eyes would burn the next day, struggling with the conflicts and the
ambiguities.
I couldn't read the book from front to
back. That I had given up early. So I read the back sections first, the ones on
the mechanics of order, and I tried some of them out, like aligning metals to
strengthen them or change their characteristics. Those were easy, at least on
nails or scraps, after a little practice.
And, using a pot of water and a candle as a
burner, I could figure out how the weather modifications worked . . . sort of.
What scared me there were all the qualifications and warnings about large
storms changing harvests later in the year and creating droughts elsewhere. But
the pot of water and the burner weren't going to change anything except make
the air in the shop a little damper, and that didn't hurt the wood at all.
So I sat there, back against the wall, feet
up on my pallet, trying to make sense of what I had learned ... or thought I
had learned . . . and realizing that some things were not possible-even for the
order-master I wasn't.
A glimmer of yellow from the shadows caught
my eye.
. . . whhsttt... A whisper of slipped feet
followed.
Deirdre stood back from the curtains to my
alcove. How long she had been there, I didn't know, but her dark eyes flickered
from me to the book and back.
In my shorts and nothing else, I felt
undressed.
"You can come in, Deirdre."
She did, but not far, only just inside the
curtain that served as the doorway to my alcove. She wore an old maroon woolen
robe over a worn white shift, and her shoulder-length hair was tied back.
"Lerris?"
"Yes?" I turned and swung my feet
off the bed, setting them on the floor and sitting sideways on the pallet bed.
"Were you once a priest?" Her
voice was soft, as it always was. Not timid, just soft.
I did not answer her, and she said nothing,
finally sitting on the end of the pallet, the faintest scent of roses reaching
me.
"You couldn't sleep."
She shook her head. "I worry about
Papa."
"So do I."
"I know . . ." She edged herself
toward me. "He sees it, too. He won't say anything." She reached out
a slender hand and laid it on my forearm. Her fingers were firm and cool
against my skin, and I swallowed, fighting against wanting to hold her.
"Lerris . . ." She eased even
closer.
I tried not to shiver. It had been too long
since I had held a girl, far too long.
"Please . . . stay . . . whatever you
want . . ." Even though she had moved almost beside me, deep within she
was shivering, and not with desire; yet at the same time she was calmly
purposeful.
Taking a deep breath, I removed her hand.
"Deirdre . . . I will do what I can for your father." I took another
breath. "I want to hold you-really hold you-and more, but that would not
be fair to you or to your father." Then I smiled crookedly. "And if
you stay that close to me for long, it will be very hard for me to behave
myself." I wasn't kidding. She smelled warm and wonderful, and she brought
home how lonely it had been. But she didn't want me. She wanted me to save her
father.
She edged back, just enough to let me know
she was grateful, but not enough to make me think she found me that
unattractive-or something like that. I wasn't sure.
"Thank you." That was all she
said, but she meant it, and that was enough. She sat there for a time. Finally,
she asked, "Where are you from?"
"A place far away, so far that I may
never be able to return."
She looked at me, and I looked back, and
she opened her mouth and then closed it before asking another question.
"Why are you here?"
"You'd have to say that it's a
pilgrimage of sorts, a time for me to learn, and to decide."
"Have you learned things you didn't
know?" She wrapped the robe around herself more tightly, reminding me that
the shop was chill, that winter still held Fenard.
The cold didn't bother me as much as it
once had, but that was because I had begun to look at my own internal order, I
suppose.
"Some days ..." I admitted.
"I never seem to learn what I thought I was going to learn, though."
She nodded at me to continue.
"I left woodworking once, when I was
an apprentice, and I wasn't sure I'd ever do it again. It seemed . . . well . .
. ii was boring. Why would anyone want to care about whether the grains lined
up just right, or whether there was too much pressure on the clamps?" "*
"You seem to like it now . . . some
days I stand and watch you, and you don't see me, even when I'm almost beside
you Grandpapa was like that." I licked my dry lips, catching the scent of
her again, and feeling my heart beat faster. "You'd better go."
A faint smile crossed her face as she rose,
almost a grin, but touched a little with a sadness I could feel without
reaching. "Thank you."
She was gone too soon, and almost too late,
and I wondered what harm it would have done to have taken what she had offered.
But the words of my father, and Talryn, and the book hammered at me, and I knew
I had done what was best. Enjoying Deirdre would have been deceiving her, and,
more important, deceiving me. Yet my heart was still beating too fast, and my
body ached, and I dreamed of golden-haired girls, and a black-haired woman, and
even a redhead, and woke sweating and sore. But I woke knowing what I had to
do.
XLII
THE
SQUAD LEADER looks over her shoulder. "Tell Gireo to drop back another
hundred rods." Her body adjusts automatically as her mount starts down the
long slope that will lead to the Demon's Triangle-the mythical intersection
between Freetown, Hydlen, and Kyphros.
"A hundred rods?"
"Twice the separation he's got
now."
"But we can't reach him if they attack
from the rear . . ."
"We can. We're not his good-luck
piece. He's a big boy."
"But . . ."
Her hand touches the hilt of the blade.
"You replace Gireo." Her soft voice carries across the road, still
shrouded in the mist laid down before dawn. Under the cavalry cloak and hood,
her long hair is tightly bound up in black cords.
The man shakes his head, but turns his
mount back uphill.
In time, the trooper called Gireo urges his
gelding up beside the dark-haired woman who has shed the cloak and folded it
into a saddlebag. She wears the still-untarnished silver firebird on the collar
of the leather officer's vest.
Gireo's eyes burn as he takes in the
slender officer. On foot he would look down on the woman by more than a head.
Her eyes seem to look through the fog
ahead.
He opens his mouth.
"Quiet." The word barely carries
the distance between them, yet it arrives with the impact of a quarrel.
Gireo shuts his mouth, but his teeth grate
inside his cheeks.
"Gallian regulars," mutters the
squad leader. "Damned ghouls." Her eyes look again into the mists.
"Wizard . . . not this far from Gallos."
She unsheathes her blade, nudging her mount
into a quick walk. "Get the others to close up ... quietly."
Gireo drops back, but says nothing to the
two troopers in file behind him, as he glances from them to the squad leader.
The road flattens out as it nears the valley below, and the damp and packed
clay of the roadbed dulls the sounds of the Kyphran squad.
Ahead, a flickering pinpoint of light
appears, then disappears, shrouded and unshrouded by the ground fog rolling out
of the Little Easthorns.
Gireo looks back toward the squad leader,
but she has vanished into the mists. He frowns, but does not unsheathe his
blade.
The Kyphran squad rides downhill.
Whhheeee . . . eeeee . . . eeee . . .
. . . eeee . . . eeee . . .
Clink . . . clunkh . . .
The sound of a single set of hoofs thunders
toward the Kyphrans.
"Form up!" The single command is
snapped out of the fog like an iron lash, and even Gireo turns his mount.
The squad leader lets her charger carry her
past the first two files. "Move it!"
Almost reluctantly, the Kyphran troopers
urge their mounts forward into a trot.
Nearly a dozen Gallians are in the saddle
as the Kyphrans break out of the fog and lumber toward the invaders.
The squad leader has resumed the van, and
her blade flashes, though there is little light to reflect from the cold steel.
Whhhsttt . . . hhstttsss . . .
". . . damn ..."
"Your right, Gireo!"
". . . aiee! . . ."
All the sounds are from the Kyphran side.
The Gallians fight silently.
Whhsttt...
". . . you!"
". . . chaos . . . bastard . . ."
Whhssttt ...
In time, the Kyphran squad draws up not far
from the abandoned fire that still flickers through the morning fog. One mount
and man are missing. Another mount's saddle is empty. A dozen figures wearing
the purpled gray of Gallos are sprawled in and around the camp.
The squad leader reins up by the fire.
"Gireo, get the weapons and strap them to one of the Gallian mounts."
"Get them yourself."
The squad leader sighs, but the blade is in
her hands. "Do you want to die on your horse or on your feet?"
Gireo shrugs. "You couldn't win on
foot in an honest fight." He swings off the chestnut gelding.
She smiles and dismounts.
He leaps forward even before her foot is
clear of the stirrup.
She dives under his blade and emerges from
the roll with her own blade before her. Whhssskk ... Clinnkkk ... Whhhstttt. .
.
His blade slips from his fingers as the
blood fountains from his throat, as his knees crumble. "Bitch ..."
Even before he has finished dying, she has resumed her seat on the charger.
"Hyster . . . gather the Gallian weapons."
The thin bearded man looks from the giant
on the ground to the slender woman upon the horse. He swallows, then dismounts
without a word.
Two other men exchange glances.
". . . see how fast her blade is
..."
". . . kill you as look at you . .
."
". . . killed seven of the Gallians,
though . . ."
She lets the whispers continue for a time,
then clears her throat. "Let's go."
XLIII
SINCE
WHAT I had to do would further upset tradition in Fenard, I needed someone with
a personal interest, and Brettel was the only one possible.
I kept telling myself that as Gairloch
carried me out the north road to the mill-master's operation. Perhaps I had
just picked the day because the sun was finally out, and the wind down, and the
air so clean and clear that despite its bite on my face, I wanted to sing. I
didn't. That would have been inflicting too much on poor Gairloch.
The thoughts of song died as I neared the
mill and the gray stone warehouse.
"Lerris, what brings you here? Did you
finish that chair?" His silver hair glinted despite the afternoon
overcast, and his smile was welcoming.
"You gave me the order two days ago.
Good chairs take some time." I grinned right back at him, but I couldn't
sustain the expression.
His eyes raked over me. "Come on into
the parlor."
"Would that be all right?"
"I'll be there shortly. I need to tell
Arta about some cuts. If you want some redberry, Dalta will get it for
you." He was off, his short legs propelling the big torso and broad
shoulders toward the mill with a walk that would have been running for most
men.
Wiping my forehead, I dismounted and tied
Gairloch to the post, loosely. Although he needed no tying, there was no point
in advertising either his training or my abilities. I wondered if the people at
the Travelers' Rest had ensured that a mountain pony was always there at
Felshar's Livery when dangergelders arrived, or whether it had been specially
set up for me. Talryn, nursing a guilty conscience?
Although the afternoon was clouded, the
dampness and heat, and the lack of any breeze at all, created the feeling of
walking through a hot bath in winter clothes. My growing internal order-mastery
let me handle cold, but heat was another question.
At the long one-story house beside the
lumber warehouse, I lifted the brass knocker and let it fall.
A young woman opened the door.
I smiled in spite of myself. Seeing the
eyes as blue as the sky after a rain, hair as bright as spun gold, skin more
finely finished than the silk of white oak, and a figure like a temple statue,
I could have cared less that she came to less than my shoulder.
"May I help you? The mill-master is in
the main building . . ." Her voice was firm, yet smooth as a good finish
on black oak.
Gathering myself back together, I nodded.
"I'm Lerris, the journeyman for Destrin. Brettel asked me to wait for him
in the parlor." I paused. "Are you Dalta?"
"I'm Dalta." She smiled politely,
with a natural warmth that promised nothing while cheering the afternoon, and
for some reason I thought of Krystal, though I could not have possibly said
why.
"He mentioned redberry."
"I'll take you to the parlor."
She even provided me with a glass-a real
glass tumbler- of redberry, and I sat in a chair probably made by Dorman, since
it matched one I had seen in his plan book, and wondered what Brettel's consort
looked like to have produced such a daughter.
Then I wondered about Deirdre, and whether
what I was planning was fair. Recalling Talryn's acidic comments about
fairness, I ended up shaking my head.
"You look like hell, Lerris . .
." Brettel carried another tumbler, but his steamed. The odor of spiced
cider filled the room, mixing with the smell of burning wood from the hearth.
"That's about the way I feel."
"You look like you want to ask for
something out of the ordinary."
I nodded.
"Don't tell me you want to marry
Deirdre."
"No. That would be wrong for both of
us, but she's part of the problem."
Brettel sipped, delicately for such a broad
man, from the tumbler, waiting.
"You know Destrin's failing ..."
I began.
"He doesn't look well."
"I can't maintain the business too
much longer."
"I can't say I'm surprised." His
face darkened.
"Hold it. I'm not walking off soon . .
. but I need a favor, and not for me."
He took another sip as his expression
slipped back to neutrality. "Why are you asking me?"
I decided to blurt it all out. "I need
to train an apprentice for Destrin. He has to understand or feel woods, and he
has to be older than the normal apprentice, and I really want him to be
suitable for Deirdre."
"That's a big order. Who appointed you
Destrin's keeper?"
"I guess I did. No one else was
helping him. Now that I've made things profitable. I can't just leave it. But
the time will come ..." I shrugged again.
"Why can't you stay?"
"For now, I can. The time will come,
probably before too long, when . . ."
"You're awfully mysterious, Lerris.
Why should I do this?" The man was pressing, but he had been good to me,
and I could tell he embodied order.
I looked around the parlor, let my senses
expand. No one was within hearing distance. "What do you know about
Recluce?"
Brettel just nodded, not even looking
surprised. "There's always been something more about you. Are you helping
Destrin?"'
I knew what he meant. "As I can, but
there's nothing anyone could do."
"You'd do this for him?"
"He's a good man. Not a terribly good
crafter, but a good man. And he fights each day because he feels he can offer
Deirdre nothing."
Brettel scratched his left ear, then took a
long pull. "Do you have any ideas where such an unusual apprentice might
be found?"
"How about the younger son of one of
the woodlot owners or the farms where you log? You might have a feeling . .
."
"I might . . . does he have to be
older?"
"No . . . but not too much younger . .
. gentle at heart, but stubborn, if that's possible ..." I closed my
mouth, realizing I was revealing far too much.
"You worry about me?"
"A little," I admitted.
"You should." Then he smiled.
"But I told you I was Deirdre's godfather, and whether you came from hell
itself, something needs to be done. Let me think about it. There are a couple
of youngsters that just might do." He chuckled and added, "And their
parents would believe we were doing them a favor."
I finished the redberry while Brettel
thought.
"I'll get back to you," he told
me while ushering me out.
An eight-day later Bostric arrived.
So did a commission for a red-oak chest for
Dalta's dowry, with instructions to take my time and do it right ... as if I
ever would have done it any other way for Brettel.
Bostric was gangly, red-haired and
freckled, initially as shy as a spooked quail, at least when I was around, and
stubborn as a cornered buffalo. But he listened, and he could feel the woods.
In his work on the woodlot, he'd even used a saw and tried his hand at carving.
His figures of people and animals were artistically better than mine.
Destrin just humphed, between coughs and
when he had the strength to do so, and Deirdre made larger portions of the
ever-present barley soup. Boring it might be, but she smiled more, when she
wasn't fussing over her papa, and that was about all I could expect.
I still sometimes dreamed about golden
girls, and sometimes about a black-haired woman, and woke up sweating and
worse. I wondered why I dreamed of Krystal, but had no answers. All the time,
Bostric slept soundly in the pull-out pallet we had built for him in the shop.
XLIV
BRETTEL'S
COMMISSION GAVE me another idea. I decided to make two of the chests, keeping
the pieces for the second red oak dower chest in the stable when I wasn't
working on it. If I didn't do it, no one else would, and Destrin really never
looked at what I was working on until it was close to completion.
He was usually wrapped up in his benches
and plain tables and fighting out the coughing attacks. When he wasn't, he
worried about Bostric or me.
"He's all right, Lerris. He's just not
you." If I heard them once, I heard those words a score of times as the
winter drew out.
Bostric had more potential than Perlot's
Grizzard, of that I was convinced, but he still didn't have the confidence, and
only time would build that.
First, I made him work on breadboards, but
only a few, mainly to give him confidence. The market for breadboards was
limited, and designing and carving breadboards that didn't sell wasn't building
confidence. I called them display pieces, and two actually sold, right from the
window.
Then I talked to Wryson, who ran the dry
goods store off the jewelers' street, and persuaded him to commission a storage
chest, a simple piece but lined with cedar, to provide summer storage for
woolens.
Doing it took twice as long, because I made
Bostric do a lot of things I would have done.
"Why don't you do this, ser? I have to
struggle, just getting the lines right."
"So did I," I snapped. "But
will I always be here?"
"If you're not here, honored
mastercrafter, how will I learn?" He said it in a respectful tone with a
straight face. Only his eyes betrayed him.
"I'm not a mastercrafter. I'm just a
journeyman woodcrafter."
"I understand, ser."
He gave me that hangdog look, and with his
unruly red mop, freckles, and bushy eyebrows, resembled a sheepdog more than an
apprentice. Then, maybe the two were similar. Sometimes it was hard to remember
how frustrated and bored I had been, and how I would have liked to have said
what I felt.
"But, honored journeyman, I still
don't see what you want."
I couldn't help grinning. "Sorry . . .
you're right. It is hard to learn how to do." I took the calipers once
again and showed him what I wanted, then I watched and corrected him when
necessary, trying not to laugh.
In the end, on that piece, everything
worked out. Wryson was pleased, and placed an order for another chest, but not
until early in the fall, when he would be getting his last shipment of finished
woolens from Montgren.
Sometimes, it didn't work out so well-like
the chair for Wessel. Bostric had trouble with the spooling, and that was my
fault. He wasn't ready for it, and I had pushed too hard. We gave his effort,
sturdy enough, to the Temple sisters, and I completed the second one myself.
The bonus almost paid for the extra wood.
Deirdre turned out a matched cushion that
made the piece even more spectacular, and I made a mental note to have her do
more work like that in the future. She would be a real partner for Bostric.
After that, I suggested that Bostric try a
bench to match the ones Destrin was making for the Horn Inn, perhaps the
seediest drinkery in Fenard. At least, the breakage and Destrin's low prices
had given him a steady, if poor, income.
Destrin had hummphed at my suggestion,
coughed some more, but hadn't openly objected.
In the meantime, to try to upgrade
Bostric's finishing skills, I had sketched out a child's table for him, scaling
down a simple one from Dorman's incredible plan book. Once I had gone through
it several times, and explained the reasons for everything, Bostric finally
nodded. I could sense the understanding.
The table turned out well, although it sat
in the window for more than an eight-day before Wryson, the dry goods merchant,
paid two silvers for it and a matching pair of armless chairs. I think that was
because the weather had closed in, drifting snow over the roads toward Kyphros,
and an expected shipment of Kyphros silverware had been delayed until after the
holidays. So he needed a year-end present for his littlest.
I put my share into the hidden strongbox to
go with the dower chest, and Bostric bought himself a pair of boots, barely
used, but an improvement over his muckers.
Still ... the table had been an experiment
that almost hadn't sold, and that bothered me. We couldn't count on the weather
to save us every time.
I rubbed my chin, then looked at the white
oak I was working for a corner cabinet. White oak was so clean, but that meant
that any mistake was there where no one could miss it, at least no one with a
half-trained eye. Strangely, the same was true for black oak, but for the
opposite reason. Everyone scrutinized it so closely that inevitably the flaws
were discovered.
With a silent sigh, I looked over the boxes
and the side table on the display stage and out into the mid-morning . . .
gloomy as only a late-winter morning could be in Fenard.
Finally, I added another log to the hearth.
"I'll be back."
Destrin hummphed, hunched himself into his
sweater and looked at the square storage box on his bench.
Bostric, behind Destrin, raised his
eyebrows at the box, then looked to me. I glared, and he sighed. Destrin wasn't
always communicative, but Bostric was going to end up with everything, and the
least he could do was accept Destrin's faults.
"Do take care, honored
journeyman," Bostric called. His voice was mock-plaintive.
I swallowed another grin and drew my cloak
around me as I stepped into the chill on the street, making sure the door was
closed behind me. My steps carried me toward the market square.
As I stepped onto the sidewalk beside the
avenue, one of the few streets with an actual raised stone sidewalk separate
from the road surface, I could sense a tension in the chill and damp air.
Without even a hint of a breeze, the odor of wood smoke hung over Fenard,
imparting an acrid edge to every breath.
A tinker pushed his cart listlessly toward
the square. Behind him waddled a balding and white-haired man carrying a
satchel. Neither looked up as I skirted them.
Overhead, the sun was lost behind the
featureless gray clouds that appeared unmoving.
Clink . . . clink . . . clink ... At the
sound of the coach on the stones behind me, I stepped toward the bricks of the
shop walls.
. . . dink . . .
A glimmer of golden wood caught my eye,
just as the unsmelled odor of chaos gripped at my feelings, as the
chaos-master's coach rolled slowly by, drawn by the two oversized white horses
I had first seen on the road from Freetown the previous fall. Behind the coach
were the same two guards on their matching chestnuts, and the same dead-faced
coachman drove.
Outlined in the coach window was the
profile of a woman, the veiled woman I had seen at the inn in Hewlett. The
coach rolled down the avenue before I really cast my senses at the passengers.
Crack! The whiplash was metal, but I nearly
cringed on the street from the force of the reaction, and from the immediate
dull ache. Retreating behind the defenses Justen had taught me, I forced my
steps to remain even as I continued toward the square.
"Geee-haw . . ." The mechanical
voice of the driver echoed from the bricks and stones.
I did not rub my forehead, much as I wanted
to, wondering at the fleeting impression I had received of three people within
the coach. There had only been two, that I knew.
By the time I had passed by the square,
with the rusted open market gates patrolled by the prefect's guards, and was farther
toward the palace, I could see that the heavy iron gates of the palace had
already closed.
I shook my head slowly, turning back toward
Destrin's. Every time I acted without thinking, I exposed myself. Now Antonin
would know that there was at least one order-master in Fenard. The contact had
been so brief, and his response so automatic and contemptuous, that I hoped he
would not recognize me as an outsider or from Recluce.
I hoped, but there wasn't much else I could
do, except keep on woodworking and learning . . . and trying to think before I
acted. And all of that without letting my boredom push me.
Overhead, the clouds remained gray, but the
faintest hint of a breeze touched my cheeks.
XLV
PERLOT'S
CRAFTING-THAT was what the ornately-carved sign read. The chiseled letters, old
temple-style script, were painted black. A pale hard-finish coat that did not
carry the gold overtones of most varnishes let the warm red-oak tones shine
through.
As the morning mist beaded on my cloak, I
tied Gairloch to the post in front of the shop. The winter had dragged out
longer than usual, and when spring had come, the rains and the cold had mixed,
like in the downpour that flooded the stable because I had neglected to clean
the drainage gutters outside Gairloch's stall. Cleaning muck, and hay, and ice
chunks, with the rain sheeting across my neck and back-that had been a real
joy, and cleaning myself afterwards hadn't been much more fun.
"You must really like cold baths . .
." Bostric had observed with a straight face in his oh-so-respectful tone.
"Next time you can join me," I
had told him, but it had only stopped the banter for a while, until I was back
working in dry clothes.
Recalling Bostric's teasing, and glad that
spring had finally come, I studied the chairs in the window-drawn especially to
the sitting-room chair on the right. That design I had never seen, not even in
Uncle Sardit's sketchbooks. The curves of the legs were understated, minimal,
yet made the chair seem more delicate than it was.
"You!"
I looked up at the gruff voice.
A thin man, not much older than I was, a
thin film of sawdust stuck to the sweat on his forehead and wearing a tattered
gray shirt under his leather apron, glared at me.
I returned the look evenly.
"Yes?"
"Are you-"
"Invite him in, Grizzard," added
a raspy voice from within the shop.
Grizzard looked puzzled, and I just stepped
around him. Directly inside the shop were three chairs, elegant in the Hamorian
style, but a trace too heavy in the legs and squared cross-braces. Between them
was a low table, the kind whose use I had never figured out except as a place
on which clutter collected.
While all the pieces were good, they were
clearly high-class rejects, too expensive for the tradesman, and not quite good
enough for the gentry. Probably Grizzard's work, rather than Perlot's. Somehow,
Perlot never would have let a poor piece get that far.
Reddish coals glittered in the corner
hearth, with a warmth I could feel even from the doorway. Perlot stepped around
a bench and toward me.
I nodded.
"So we meet again, Lerris, or should I
say craft-master Lerris?" Perlot stopped behind the chairs, next to the
half-wall that separated the small waiting area from the workshop.
I bowed to the mastercrafter, and I meant
it. His work was good, some of it, like the chair in the window, not only as
good technically as Uncle Sardit's, but possibly even more inspired. "I
was admiring the sitting-room chair. It's possibly the best piece I've seen
like that."
The narrow craggy face creased as he
frowned, and the craft-master closed his mouth. Then he wiped his hands on the
underside of his apron. "Mean that, don't you?"
I nodded again.
"Grizzard, stop standing there like a
dolt. You still haven't finished the detailing on the chest."
"Yes, ser." Grizzard scurried
around us, the puzzle lines still graven in his forehead.
"Would you sit down?"
"Only for a moment, ser." I eased
into the chair toward which Perlot had gestured, and he sat down across from
me.
"Like to set things straight, young
fellow . . ."
"There's nothing to set straight,
mastercrafter. You didn't know me, and you had never seen my work. I could have
been a wood-grifter from Freetown or Spidlar-"
Perlot motioned me to silence, and I
stopped.
"You're not. I've looked at your work.
It's better than any journeyman's here in Fenard, and it's getting better. Some
is mastercraft level, like the chair you did for Wessel."
I must have lifted my eyebrows.
Perlot smiled. "He asked me for my
opinion. I told him that he stole it from Destrin, and that it was the best
single piece in his house, including the dining-room set I did last year."
"You flatter us."
"No. I don't flatter. It's not
Destrin, poor soul. It's you. What do you intend to do? Take over Destrin's
shop, and his daughter, and put him out to pasture?" The question was idly
phrased, but the dark eyes hung on me.
I shook my head slowly. "Sometimes I
wish that I could. It would be simpler that way. But that would not be fair nor
right. In too many ways, I am still a journeyman, with more than a little left
to learn."
Grizzard was trying to listen and
concentrate on the detailing, and both efforts were suffering.
This time Perlot nodded. "Bostric
won't ever be in your class."
"He will be a good craftsman, given
time and training."
"He might be." The mastercrafter
smiled. "Don't sell yourself short, young fellow. You've changed a lot in
the time since you came. Besides, there's a difference between the quality of
your cabinets and the quality of your soul." He laughed. "Poor
Destrin. First-class soul, but . . ." Perlot shrugged.
"I don't think you can craft good wood
without order in your soul," I added.
"Nor do I, boy. But an orderly soul
doesn't guarantee good work. Having an orderly soul and being an order-master
are two different propositions." He stood up. "What will you do about
that chair in the window?"
"Nothing. It's your design." I grinned.
"Now ... if I can find something as good-and different . . ,"
"You mean that, don't you?"
I nodded.
"Give Destrin my best, Lerris. Do what
you can while you're here." He stood up abruptly.
With that dismissal, I also stood, but did
take the time for a last look at the chair before stepping out into the spring
warmth.
Gairloch waited patiently, as always.
Wheeee . . . eeee . . .
"I know. You don't get enough
exercise, but I try, and one of these days, we'll take a longer trip. Just be
glad that you're not hauling wood for the mills. You could belong to a carrier
and not to a poor and impoverished woodcrafter."
Gairloch didn't seem impressed. So I patted
him on the shoulder after I mounted. He didn't flatter me, honest beast.
Perlot's comments about Bostric bothered
me. While I wished I could avoid it, before long I would have to talk to
Brettel. Destrin continued to fail, and nothing I could do would help but
prolong his failing.
XLVI
TEEEL .
. . LEEELL . . . AN unfamiliar bird warbles from beyond the olive groves.
Sccuuuffff. . . Soft steps cross the
graveled courtyard leading to the cavalry stables.
A single torch flickers in the holder by
the stable door, where a tired youngster wearing the greens of the autarch
snores softly.
As the steps pause, a woman with long dark
unbound hair looks down at the youngster. She wears a peasant dress, yet
carries a bulging field pack whose straps press into the lithe muscles of her
shoulders.
After a sad nod, she eases around the
sentry and into the darkness of the stable, counting the stalls until she
reaches the third.
Whuffllll . . .
". . . Easy . . . easy . . ."
In the darkness, the dark-haired woman
eases the pack off her shoulders and lifts the two soft leather bags, and the
heavy powder within each, out of the field pack she has carried from the
engineering barracks. Next she checks the empty set of saddlebags before
placing one bag of powder in each saddlebag, carefully fastening the clasps.
The map she leaves tucked inside the waistband of the skirt.
She walks through the darkness to the end
of the stable, where she eases the field pack into a corner. While it will
certainly be discovered in a day or two, how and why it was placed there will
not matter. Her squad will be leaving to face the Freetown rebels in the
morning.
Her steps, even more silently, carry her
back out past her mount and past the still-snoring stable guard. In time, she
slips into her own room, where she lights a single candle, ignoring the woman
on the occupied narrow cot. She rips off the peasant blouse and skirt and
immerses herself in the tub of chill water she drew after the evening meal.
"At this time of night, Krystal?"
asks a sleepy-eyed blond woman, sitting up and swinging her legs onto the
floor.
"Never . . . again ... no matter
what."
"What?"
"It doesn't matter." The
dark-haired woman jabs a hand toward her own cot. "See those
scissors?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Would you get them?"
"You're not . . ."
"I am. Like I said, never again, not
even for the best of causes." She has dried herself and is pulling on
bleached and faded undergarments.
"You aren't making sense."
"I am. For the first time, I am."
Her lips quirk into a genuine smile as the long black tresses fall away.
XLVII
WITH
THE FLOWERS in the street boxes in bloom, and a brisk breeze from the north,
the walk along the avenue was pleasant enough, even if I felt Bostric was
always about to lurch into me. His feet always threatened not to follow his
body- or the street ahead.
Destrin was back in the shop muttering over
a simple box-just a box for Murran, the wagon-master who carried spices and
silver along the north-south road from Fenard through Kyphros and all the way
to Horgland on the South Sea. He would probably still be muttering and coughing
when we returned.
No single street in Fenard bore sign, but
everyone named them-the avenue, the street of jewelers, the north road. I'd
learned the names of many just by listening, but as for the side streets, the
alleys, I doubted anyone who hadn't spent a lifetime in Fenard or a great deal
of time loitering would ever know all the names.
The names changed. I overheard Deirdre and
Bostric talking about when the grocers' lane had been the place of old inns.
But the avenue was the avenue, the only really straight and
perfectly-maintained street in Fenard. That might have had something to do with
the fact that it ran from the prefect's palace past the market square and
straight to the south gate.
Because the day was pleasant, and because I
wasn't in the mood for doing detail work on the writing desk, not with Destrin
in good enough health, temporarily anyway, and because Deirdre was sniffling
and sneezing from the early flowers blooming, I had volunteered to wander past
the market square to see if the cloth merchants from Horgland had arrived.
Bostric, of course, was happy not to be in
the shop, caught between Destrin's complaints and my demands.
"We're actually taking a walk, honored
journeyman?"
"Bostric. Enough is enough-unless you
want to stay with the honored shop owner and feed the fire."
"While feeding the fire would be a
great honor . . ."
"Bostric . . ."
"I'd prefer the walk."
Sometimes, I could see why Brettel had been
able to find Bostric so quickly. His humor wasn't exactly subtle, yet I had the
feeling there was more depth there, hidden behind the obvious and respectful
disrespect.
Clink . . . clink . . .
I nudged the apprentice, and we stepped
toward the shop fronts as the single post-rider trotted toward the palace.
"Wonder what news he brings?"
"He doesn't look happy. Perhaps the
autarch . . ." He broke off as a soldier in the dark leathers of the
prefect neared.
The soldier, shorter and squatter than
either of us, his eyes fixed beyond the street, plunged straight at us, as if
we did not exist.
I could sense an emptiness there, no aura
-at all, except for a faint white kernel deep within.
"What-" Bostric looked at me.
"What was that?"
I thought I knew, but only shook my head.
"He had somewhere to go. He's going to get there without taking a single
turn."
No one else on the street-not the man in
blue silks and leather with the long sword, nor the peddler woman with the
sack, nor the urchin with the missing tooth and red hair-not one even seemed to
notice the rigidity of the man's mission as they stepped or scurried aside.
Across the street, between two gray stone
houses, there were two boxes of early-blooming red flowers flanking a narrow
street, where with an almost furtive look the man in the blue silk shirt and
dark-gray leather vest stepped out of sight.
"What street is that?" I asked
Bostric.
"What street . . ." he mumbled in
return.
"That alley over there, between the
flowers. You seem to know all the streets."
"That's no proper street." He was
flushing.
"No proper street?" I teased him,
a little glad to have him on the defensive.
"Not a proper street . . ." His
words were dogged, and he didn't even look in my direction.
"What do you mean?" I glanced
toward the red flowers and the narrow alley-whose contents were lost in the
shadows.
"All right. I'll show you. You'll
see." Turning suddenly and stretching his long legs into nearly a run, he
crossed the avenue so sharply I was hard-pressed to keep up with him.
We were both past the flowers before I had
much of a chance to look around, or to react to the fragrances, a dozen or more
different odors-roses, nightfires, lilies, and others I could not recognize, so
many that my senses reeled.
Narrow the way was, not much more than half
a rod wide, and short, not more than a dozen houses on each side before curving
to the right and ending in a wall that seemed to separate the street from the
market square. The polished marble stones were spotless and bore no trace of
horses or coaches.
My eyes strayed up to a balcony not much
above my head. There stood a woman, how old I could not say, though she was
red-haired and older than I, wearing only a thin cotton shift so sheer that I
could see every line of her body and even the dark nipples of her breasts.
". . . two young gents . . ."
I swallowed. No wonder Bostric had flushed.
He didn't look at me, but his steps
flagged, and he halted. "Here. The street of ... ladies . . ."
"Street of harlots, young fellow ...
we know what we are."
I didn't see the woman whose hard voice
made the statement, since my eyes, in turning from the redhead on the balcony,
had fallen across a blond woman wearing nothing but a robe, unbelted enough to
show small high breasts quite fully and that she was a blond in all aspects,
and that those aspects were all well-formed.
I think I forgot to breathe; my eyes blurred,
and in shaking my head I looked down the way where a brunette, wearing only a
filmy skirt, was drawing the man in blue silk inside a doorway.
In the open and unglassed window of a house
closer than where the brunette had enticed the dandy lounged another
semi-clothed woman, this one with impossibly-formed breasts, also uncovered,
and with the tiniest of waists.
"Your pleasure here, young fellows . .
. two or more, if you wish . . ." That voice came from the left, where my
eyes flickered almost despite themselves, alighting on the low balcony opposite
the redhead. This one was black-haired, with long flowing tresses that swirled
over the creamy skin of her otherwise uncovered breasts and shoulders.
I swallowed again, feeling my trousers
suddenly far too tight, as I viewed that hair across the impossibly beckoning
breasts of the raven-haired harlot.
Bostric ... he wasn't as silent as I was
... his breath so loud that it penetrated my daze . . . partly.
". . . one of the woodcrafters ... I
think . . ."
The identification was so whispery I almost
missed it, but the words sent a chill across my neck, enough of a chill that I
sent my feelings toward the black-haired wench.
"Ohhh." The heavy and squat woman
beneath the illusion radiated not only chaos, but a coiled illness deep within,
like an ooze-green serpent. My senses shifted to the redhead above and caught
not only her scrawny leanness, but the long knife along one hip, and the vacant
smile. What my eyes saw, my senses refuted. My guts twisted, and I had to
re-swallow bile and whatever else remained from breakfast.
Underfoot, the polished marble turned into
rutted and cracked stone and clay, littered with certain items from the
interiors of sheep, as well as other items. The odor of flowers was overlaid
with other, less desirable odors.
Bostric stood like a statue until I jabbed
him in the ribs and took him by the elbow.
We both stumbled out into the avenue,
though he merely looked dazed. If I looked the way I felt, morning fog would
have looked more substantial.
"See . . ." Bostric said.
"See . . ."
I said nothing, just forced my feet to
carry me toward the market square, breathing deeply and trying to get the odor
of rotten roses out of my nostrils and my memory. Shaking my head and
squinting, and asking myself who had recognized me . . . and why.
I shivered, and reached out again, this
time to Bostric, recognizing the slender thread of suggestion planted upon him.
While it would have been the effort of an
instant to snap that thread, despite the ugliness of that tie, I could not. So
I infused Bostric with some additional order and let him shake himself free.
"Wheee . . . ewww . . ."
"Yes," I added. "Let's see
about that cloth."
"Cloth? You can think about cloth
after that?"
"It's a great deal safer." I
tried to keep my tone wry.
"Safer?" Bostric's eyes flashed
in my direction. "Lerris . . . ?"
I knew what he was thinking.
"Yes." My voice was tired. "I do like women. Healthy, young, and
unmagicked women."
"Unmagicked?"
I ignored his last question as we walked
past another half-living guard stationed by the gate to the market square. The
coldness surrounding him was hard to ignore, but I did, letting my eyes search
for the bright-colored banner that Deirdre had described.
Looking for cloth merchants was easier than
speculating on the magic behind the Street of Harlots.
Even past the empty fountain, halfway
across the paving stones of the square, past the potters' stalls, past the
split-wood baskets from the farms, past the red-and-gold patterned blankets
displayed by a twisted little man, there were no colored banners nor cloth
merchants.
Bostric shivered as we passed Mathilde,
older but still blond, if plump, and bulging out of unwashed brown trousers and
a tattered and open cloth coat. The flowers in her pots were already wilting
within from the chaos contained in her blood. No evil there, just honest
disorder.
For all Bostric's shivers, I would have
bedded a dozen Mathildes sooner than any of the ladies on the Street of
Harlots. The deeper I looked at Fenard, the less I liked it. But would that
have been true in any place where I stayed long enough to really look?
I didn't know.
What I knew for certain was that the cloth
merchants hadn't arrived, and that I had no intentions of going anywhere near
that narrow street again. '
XLVIII
CLING.
"Wonder who it is?" mumbled
Destrin.
I looked at Bostric. He stood there, plane
in hand. I looked at him hard and he jumped, setting down the tool and
hastening to the door.
Despite the late spring warmth in the air
outside, Destrin had the window closed, a low fire in the hearth, and an old
and raveled sweater on under his apron as he worked on yet another tavern
bench.
The work was going well enough, but every
time I patted myself on the back, it seemed like something like the stable
flood occurred. Regular storms I couldn't attribute to disorder or Antonin.
Even after my experience an eight-day earlier in the Street of Harlots, I
couldn't blame the weather on Antonin, and that was the problem. How could I
separate what belonged to Fenard from whatever the chaos-master was weaving?
The other problem was that there wasn't all
that much I knew how to do in working with order. Yes, I could provide support
for Destrin, reinforce Bostric's basic goodness, and help a few good souls
resist the twists of chaos sent forth by whoever was sending them forth. But
beyond that? I shook my head slowly.
"You all right, Lerris?" Destrin
bent toward me.
"I'm fine." And I was. Winter had
departed, and I enjoyed the spring, watching Deirdre, and visiting the market.
I just didn't enjoy the heat in the shop.
Wiping my forehead, I studied the grain of
the white oak, asking myself again why I had agreed to do a writing desk.
Without Dorman's faded plan book, I would have been in even bigger trouble.
Even so, it took all of my concentration to visualize the desk, to mentally
draw the pieces from where they lay buried in the wood, and try to fit them
together.
That sort of mental exercise helped, not
only in Grafting, but somehow in beginning to understand more of The Basis of
Order. I had read and re-read the slim volume, and half of it was still
unclear. As was the desk for Dalta, Brettel's daughter, the desk he wanted as a
wedding gift. That made the third piece he had commissioned, far more than he
needed to do even as a friend of Destrin's. Dalta would have an entirely
furnished house before long, and she wasn't even betrothed!
"Here, ser." Bostric handed a
fiat envelope to Destrin, then returned to smoothing the kitchen table we had
roughed out together.
I knew I was forcing the red-haired youth,
even more than Sardit had forced me, but how much time I had I didn't know,
certainly not enough, however long it might be, to carry him through a full
apprenticeship. Already his touch was defter than that of Destrin, and while
Deirdre was older than Bostric, a few years was not insurmountable, and he was
kind enough at heart.
I repressed a sigh. How had I gotten into
this mess?
"Lerris!"
I glanced up. Destrin had paled.
"Accufff . . . accuu . . ." He grasped for the bench.
Bostric looked to me.
"Just get the line right," I told
him as I walked around the end of the bench.
"Look at this." Destrin rasped,
thrusting the heavy paper at me.
I glanced over the announcement.
Be it noted that the Prefect must maintain
the defenses of the Kingdom of Gallos against the growing threat of invasion by
the Autarch of Kyphros, and be it noted that Gallos must combat the unrest in
the smaller eastern principalities of Candar caused by the actions of Black
Recluce. These demands on the Treasury require an increase in the quarterly
levy.
That was the standard language. Underneath,
a different hand had penned in darker ink, "Destrin the Woodcrafter,
quarterly levy, five golds."
Originally, the tax bill had showed three
golds, but the three had been crossed out and the five written above it. The
change bore the initial "J." A heavy blue-waxed seal had been affixed
at the bottom.
". . . can meet the first one . . .
but we won't eat much but barley soup. There is no way I can make the second
one, even at year-end. We can't afford the wood for the holiday buyers if I
have to pay five golds." Destrin leaned against his bench, his breath
coming more quickly.
Looking at the thin man, I could see the
distress. His system was wasting away, bit by bit, even with the order-strength
I had quietly added to his wasting frame. I didn't know enough to stop the
degeneration, only to give him energy and keep it at bay.
"We'll find a way," I assured
him, keeping my voice confident, even as I wondered how.
"But . . . how?" The old crafter
gulped for air. ". . . Accuuu . . . accc . . . aaccc ..."
"We'll find a way." I looked back
at my workbench and the white oak. "Starting with the desk for
Brettel." I wondered, though. Just as the shop was beginning to rise
significantly above the expenses, the levy went up. The last levy had only been
a gold and five silvers. It had been doubled, and then someone had added
another two golds-scarcely coincidental, I felt, but who was I to say?
Who set and collected taxes went beyond my
knowledge.
I was having enough trouble with
woodcrafting and trying to read and learn The Basis of Order.
"You need something to drink after
that," I added. "Come on. Let's see what Deirdre has."
Destrin looked puzzled, as well he might,
for I had not pushed him quite so hard before; but his face had gone beyond
pale into a grayish shade, before I added just another trace of order to his
struggling heart and practically took all his weight-not that he was that heavy
any longer-as I helped him up the stairs.
"I'm ... all right . . ."
I didn't say anything as he leaned on me
and crossed the room to his favorite chair.
Her face calm, Deirdre had set down the
cushion she was working on and crossed the large room to meet us. She said
nothing, just looked from Destrin, still clutching the tax bill in his clawed
hands, to me. Then she went to the shelf and poured a mug of redberry as I
eased Destrin into the battered armchair.
As the old crafter sipped the juice, I
nodded to Deirdre. "I've got to check Bostric," I explained as I
left. That much was true. It had to be. The more I learned about order, the
more fearful I was of self-deception, knowing that I practiced it all too often
anyway.
The other thing I was going to do was open
the windows so Bostric and I didn't die of heat poisoning.
XLIX
"CAPTAIN
TORRMAN WANTS you to take the hill path and hold it against the rebels,"
announces the messenger, spewing forth the words in one long burst before
taking a deep breath. The squad leader looks at the messenger. "When? Are
we expecting the entire army of the Duke of Hydlen to reinforce us?" A
bewildered expression crosses the youngster's face. "That was the order .
. ."
The squad leader takes a slow and silent
breath, then purses her lips. The wind whips her short black hair away from her
face, and the black eyes turn full on the messenger. "We have the
message."
The youngster shrivels under the darkness
of her gaze, then salutes. "Will that be all, leader?"
"Tell Captain Torrman that we will
accomplish his objective."
"What, leader?"
"Tell the captain that we will
accomplish his objective." Her soft voice is even colder, and the bells
that ring in it are the bells of a funeral dirge. "Provided he guards the
southwest road to Gallos," she adds.
"Provided he guards the southwest road
to Gallos?" The messenger repeats the words.
"That is correct. He must use the rest
of his forces to hold the southwest pass."
The messenger sits astride the pony, his
mouth not quite hanging open.
"That will be all," the officer
adds. "You may convey my reply to Captain Torrman."
The messenger looks from the cold-eyed
woman to the troopers behind her. One fingers a knife, and the messenger looks
back to the officer.
"That will be all," she repeats.
The messenger swallows and lifts the reins,
then nudges the pony back downhill.
The squad leader looks down at the valley
to the north, then at the folded square of the map she had needed and paid too
much for, for all that many others would have said she paid little indeed of
true value. She takes one breath, then another. Despite the cold bath of the
night before last, she feels unclean, as if she had not bathed in weeks. Her
hand touches the hilt of her blade. Her head lifts, and she studies the hills
to the east.
The trooper beside the squad leader
swallows as he watches his superior study the map. He edges his mount sideways
toward another woman, a blond woman with a pair of knives at her belt, the only
other woman trooper in the squad.
"She's not going to follow the
captain's orders . . ." he whispers.
"Look down there," returns the
blond, gesturing at the roiling dust rising from the road at the far end of the
small valley they survey. The packed figures of the soldiers are not visible,
but both know they are there. "Would you?"
"Torrman's killed leaders for less . .
."
"All right . . ." The woman
wearing the leather officer's vest looks at the two whispering subordinates,
then urges her mount to the east, not toward the hill path below, but along the
ridge line.
"That's not where Torrman ordered us .
. ."
The squad leader ignores the
not-quite-whispered statement drifting up from the third file as another
trooper grabs the protester by the tunic.
". . . remember Gireo, you idiot . . ."
The swallowed gulp almost brings a smile to
the blond woman's face, but the squad leader's eyes remain fixed on the space
between the hills.
". . . don't like this . . ."
". . . just shut up ..."
". . . Torrman's a mean bastard . . .
gut the whole squad . . ."
". . . she's right. Take the hill
path, and you won't have any guts left for Torrman . . ."
"... still don't like it . . ."
"... got any better ideas?"
Even with all the mutterings, the squad
follows the black-haired officer as she picks her way toward the combination
dam/levee that holds the irrigation water for the year's crops. The heavy-set
man, the one who had gulped, looks from the hill road below to the dust-cloud
heralding the advance of the Freetown rebels.
The officer's eyes flicker from the
dust-cloud at the northeastern end of the narrow valley to the trail before her
and to one of the aqueducts that carry the water beyond the valley and toward
the dry steppes of Southern Kyphros. One hand touches the thin oilcloth-wrapped
bundle behind her saddle, then strays toward the second and heavier set of
saddlebags.
The dust cloud has moved perhaps a third of
the way across the valley, another two kays, when the squad leader dismounts
under the iron-bound gates of the dam. The cold iron reinforces every joint and
every red-oak timber, bracing the iron-hinged floodgates closed.
Above her and to the south rise the stone
walls that contain the four aqueduct channels. An iron wheel rises above each
tunnel, but each wheel is locked in place with an iron bar and a double lock.
The locks are each the size of a farmer's fist.
The squad leader shakes her head as she
studies the floodgates and the iron-bound timbers that hold them closed.
". . . what . . ."
". . . shhh . . . knows what she's
doing . . ."
Finally she retrieves an iron bar perhaps
two-thirds the length of her arm from the oilcloth-wrapped bundle behind her
saddle, then a short, rough-toothed bow saw. She carries both with her as she
again approaches the water gates.
"The olive groves may suffer,"
she says to no one, "but if the autarch could do it, so can we."
After scanning the timbers, she begins to pry the iron edging away from one.
Puzzled expressions cross several faces,
but her squad remains mounted, waiting.
As she pries the edging away from the wood
and exposes the red beneath, she halts.
"Kassein."
The heavy-set man dismounts, handing the
reins to the blond woman. "Yes, sher?"
"Take this saw. Cut through this
timber as far as you can- until the saw begins to bind."
"Bind?"
"The wood will try to grab it."
She walks to another timber, and begins to pry.
The blond trooper hands the reins of two
horses to a third man, dismounts, and walks up to the leader. "I can do
this better."
The squad leader nods and hands the pry bar
to her. "I'm going up on top. I'll leave the second saw. Weaken as many as
you can." Five quick steps carry her back to her mount. "Darso, you
stay here and help with the sawing. Altra and Ferl will stand guard, just in
case. Take turns with the saw."
"I'm not . . ."
"I know. You're cavalry, not a
carpenter. But if you don't saw, you'll be dead cavalry. You can tie the horses
to that root there."
Back in the saddle, she nods at the
remaining five troopers, and all six begin to pick their way along the slanting
trail to the north, round and toward the top of the dam.
. . . creeakkkk . . .
When she dismounts at the top of the dam
and glances out toward the west, the dust cloud has almost reached the middle
of the valley. "Damn . . ." The saddlebags come off the horse, and
she forces herself not to show how heavy the bags are as she sets them down
carefully, well back from the lake. She then loosens one set of buckles, easing
the wax-impregnated and oiled leather bag containing the heavy powder out of
the stiffer leather of one saddlebag. The other saddlebag remains closed. With
a deep breath, she lifts the waxy leather container and walks out onto the flat
stone bulwark that holds the iron hinges of the floodgates, finally setting her
burden down with exaggerated care.
Creaaakkkkkk . . .
The dark-haired woman studies the gates,
trying to determine whether they have begun to bulge or separate. "How
many have you got done?" She leans over the stone wall.
"Five completed, maybe another five to
go."
The officer looks at the water, lapping
less than a cubit below the overflow spillway, then at the gates. Then she bends
over the wall again. "Finish up the ones you're on, and mount up. Follow
us up here."
"Those beams are solid ..."
"I know. I know." The woman with
the still-untarnished silver firebird on the collar of her green leather vest
straightens up and looks at the leather bag resting on the stone by her feet.
With a deep breath, she bends.
"One should be enough . . ." She
studies the dust cloud, and the ant-like horses that lead the more than a
thousand, renegade soldiers thrown out by the new duke.
Clickedy . . . click . . .
Below, the five troopers scramble onto
their mounts and guide the horses along the narrow path the rest of the squad
had taken earlier.
As the blond woman leads the remainder of
the squad upward and toward the top of the dam, the squad leader returns to her
mount and extracts a thin coil of waxed rope from her normal saddlebags. She
carries the rope back to the dam, where she studies the dark-green water behind
the main floodgates.
In quick sure strokes, she cuts four equal
lengths from the coil. Two she sets aside. One remaining section she inserts
through a plug in the coated leather before tamping wax around the edges. The
second section she ties to the neck of the bag. Trying not to hurry, she slowly
lowers the bag into the water, paying the rope-around which the fuse is
threaded-out slowly, until the bag rests four cubits down. She ignores the
puzzled looks from the mounted troops in the defile to the north of the dam.
At last she ties the connecting rope to the
nearest iron wheel, and threads the second rope through the wheel as well.
After retrieving the coil and the other two sections of rope and setting them
on a boulder beside where the blond woman now holds the reins to her mount, she
stops.
"All of you-back up and around that
corner."
Not waiting to see if her orders are
obeyed, she moves almost at a run to the dam, where she studies the valley.
Should she wait? The effect would be greater. But what if . . . ? She shakes
her head and eases the striker from her belt.
Scrtcccc . . . click ...... hhsssttttt... A
long spark leaps from the striker to the loosely-threaded rope fuse, followed
by a tongue of flame licking its way toward the water and the bag of powder
suspended in the heavy green below.
"... devils . . . she carried that all
the way from Kyphrien?"
"One white wizard ... all that it
would take to blow us all to hell . . ."
". . . demons protect their own . .
."
She sprints off the dike as fast as she
can, throwing herself into the saddle. For the first time ever that her squad
has seen, her booted heels spur her mount.
Once behind the rocky ledge with the rest
of the squad, she reins in and waits . . . and waits.
"Hell!"
She turns the horse, starting to edge back
toward the dam.
CRUUMMPPP . . . The blue-green water surges
up perhaps three cubits above the floodgates.
"Is that all? . . ."
Creeeaakakkkkk . . . snnaaappp . . .
SWUUUUUSHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHH. . .
As the gates buckle open, the spring's
accumulated runoff gushes forth down the narrow gorge, gaining speed as it
drops the nearly one kay toward the narrow valley floor.
"... gods have mercy . . ."
. . . wheee . . . eeehuunnn . . .
"... easy . . . easy there . . ."
"... now . . . you see why you never
cross her . . ."
The black-eyed woman, whose eyes are now
darker than the black of her irises, nudges the horse forward to the stone
wall, where she can watch the wall of water sweeping down on the unprepared
rebels.
At least one Kyphran banner flutters on the
high ground where the southwest road offers the only escape from the lake that
the grassy valley has become.
The olive groves will suffer, but the
autarch needs trained troops more than olives.
L
THE
DRAWING WAS simple enough-a wooden armchair, witr^ the five spokes supporting a
simple contoured back. Dor-man's tools, old as some of them were, were more
than adequate for the job, and in adapting an old Hamorian design in the faded
book, I thought Bostric and I could deliver the armchairs for less than Jirrle.
The dining set would have meant bidding against Perlot.
"We can do it," I said quietly.
The glint of gold from the back of the shop
told me that Deirdre was watching from the darkness pooled at the bottom of the
stairs that led up to the family living quarters. I almost sighed. She was
certainly pretty enough, and willing, but . . . somehow . . . that would have
been poor repayment for Destrin. I think both Deirdre and I knew what could not
be, not that either of us was totally happy about it.
"For eight golds or less?" asked
the crafter. He still had on the ratty sweater, and the rear window was open
but a trace.
I wiped my forehead before answering.
"With what I have in the stable, plus the logs-say four golds. Five or six
days' work over two weeks. We bid ten."
"If you can do it, then I'll mark the
bid," Destrin said slowly. His color remained grayish, despite all I had
done.
I didn't like doing work for someone like a
sub-prefect, especially in Gallos, but steady as the income from the benches
was, and despite Brettel's commissions and the work from Wessel and Wryson,
there wouldn't be enough coin to meet the quarterly tax levies. That left only
a few choices, like indenturing Deirdre to one of the local gentry, or a work
indenture for Destrin himself-not a personal indenture, but that of all his
output to the prefect or a local merchant. Destrin couldn't meet the terms of
an indenture, and the default would leave Deirdre penniless. As for indenturing
Deirdre- I shivered at that.
Since the bids were publicly opened, Jirrle
couldn't use whatever influence he might have to change the award.
Even if we were successful, that only
bought Destrin and Bostric time, perhaps a year. Unless the levy were reduced,
the shop would have to close. But in a year, a great deal could happen.
As for me, a lot of questions about the
prefect still remained unanswered. How could a ruler who opposed local
corruption so fiercely be so close to Antonin and his lady Sephya, who appeared
to be nearly as adept as the white wizard himself?
"You sure we can do this?"
Bostric asked yet again. Sawdust stuck to his forehead, glued in place by his
sweat. For once, there was no mock-respect, no banter, and that told me that
even he was worried.
I sighed. Doing the work was getting to be
the least of myproblems.
"Would anyone like some cold
redberry?" interrupted Deirdre. "Allys had a little ice left
over."
I nodded, wiping my forehead again.
"I'll take mine without ice,"
Destrin whined.
"Ice, please," Bostric added.
"I need to cool off even more now."
Both Deirdre and I ignored his added
comment. Destrin hadn't heard it.
Deirdre served me first, and I drained
nearly all of it in one gulp, trying to cool off from too much warmth in the
shop. Destrin was always cold, and while I could take the cold, adapting to too
much heat was far harder.
Finally, I wiped my forehead again.
"I'm taking a walk."
Neither Destrin nor Bostric said a word.
"Will you be back by midday for
dinner?" asked Deirdre from the stairs, where she had stopped.
"Probably. I just need some fresh air
and to think a while."
She nodded and was gone, her feet barely
whispering up the steps.
After leaving the leather apron in my
alcove and pulling on one of my two plain shirts, I stepped out onto the
street.
Left or right? To the left lay the square.
I turned right, taking a deep breath of the cooler outside air, avoiding a
puddle that still remained from the rain the night before. The evening showers
hadn't been as bad as the ice and rain storm several days earlier, but for the
past eight-day late spring fogs had clouded the streets in the early morning
right after dawn. Just as winter had been late in leaving, so too spring had
lingered.
Click . . . click . . . My boots rang on
the stones as I ambled down the street of jewelers and around the corner into
the wider street where the healers practiced.
Not all my time was spent in the shop, nor
in cleaning the stable, nor riding Gairloch, nor in obtaining the woods from
Brettel for our work. Besides my slow night-studies of order, and my cautious
attempts at applying them in small and hidden ways-like creating stronger glues
by working with the internal order of the broths-I also wandered through the
streets of Fenard, just somehow trying to understand why it felt the way it
did.
According to the book, feelings preceded
understanding. I hoped the understanding didn't lag too much, because I was
definitely having worried feelings, particularly after having seen Antonin and
Sephya entering the prefect's palace.
Even recalling her gave me a chill, more so
than seeing Antonin, or feeling him brushing me aside ... or walking down the
healers' lane.
Each healer had a different sign.
Rentfrew-Disease Casting. That one was in
white letters upon a red background, over a doorway that radiated, to my
senses, a dull white-red.
I forced my feet not to cross to the other
side of the pavement.
Clickedy . . . clack . . . clickedy ... A
black horse pulled an equally-black carriage away from an awning-covered
doorway further up the street, heading away from me.
Healing. The letters were etched into white
oak and painted green. No aura surrounded that doorway. Either simple physical
medicine with herbs and the like, or a pretender-or both.
Another doorway bore only the sign of a
snake twisted around a staff. Why, I had no idea.
A woman wearing a heavy cloak and a
broad-brimmed dark-leather hat with a black veil glided from a doorway almost
in front of me and back down the slanting pavement toward the street of
jewelers. The odor of roses upon roses told me more of what she was even than
the sickness buried within her- that disorder that had so wrenched my guts when
first I had sensed it in such profusion when Bostric had led me into the street
of harlots. Since then I had noted it within a woman peddling combs in the
square, and even in a lady attached to one minister.
Supposedly, a high chaos-master could
remove the disease, but the price was reputed to be more than most women would
pay.
I shook my head and kept walking.
"Love philtres . . . love philtres . .
." hissed a voice from the shadows, understandably enough, since street
peddling outside the square was forbidden. The woman's face was thin, scarred
on both cheeks, and pock-marked. The disorder within was worse, and I hastened
my steps.
Tenterra-Nature's Healer. A guttered-out
lamp, painted bright red, swung idly in the breeze beneath the sign. The
doorway was banded in cold iron and barred-a tacit announcement that chaos was
barred from Tenterra's. So, of course, was order; but who would know?
". . . love philtres . . ." The
words hissed up my spine even after I passed three more closed doorways and
reached the black awning. The door underneath was black oak, banded in black
iron, and bore no name nor any sign.
I could feel nothing, either of chaos or
order, and passed back onto the far end of the jewelers' street where it curved
around and led back toward the avenue. Even when you started in one direction
in Fenard, you could end up going somewhere else.
Did I want to pass by the palace gardens? I
shrugged. Even my simple shirt felt clinging and warm as the sun struggled to
break through the low clouds that had been fog at dawn.
Two guards, one by each side of the gate,
each bearing a halberd in addition to a short sword, watched as I walked toward
them. If I looked to my right, I could see the green leaves of spring just
barely blurring the outlines of the oak and maple branches extending above the
stones of the wall. On the other side of the avenue were the grand town homes
of the ministers.
"You! What are you doing here?"
The nearer guard lowered the halberd slightly, as if in threat.
"Just taking a morning walk."
"Not for the likes of you," he
growled.
As I drew nearer, slowing and stopping, I
could feel the incredible sense of chaos that enveloped him. Yet beneath that
disorder was a kernel of something else, as if the disorder had been dropped
upon him, and he had been too weak to resist, but too strong to surrender
totally.
Without thinking, I reached out and
strengthened his basic honesty and order, letting it push away the chaos as I
stood there. "You're right. I'll be going." As I left him standing
there, I could sense the honest confusion as he tried to recover himself.
Click . . . dick . . . The sound of my
heels on the polished stones of the street before the ministers' houses echoed
loudly in my ears.
". . . who was that?" whispered
the second guard.
Clink . . . clink . . . The sound of horses
and mounted men rebounded from behind me, and I stepped as close to the side of
the street as I could, looking back over my shoulder. A troop of fresh cavalry
rode in my direction. Standing aside in the shadows that had begun to appear as
the sun burned off the last of the morning fog, I watched.
The standard-bearer, younger than me, borne
by a chestnut, passed by with an impassive face and a reek of chaos, a reeking
disorder only compounded by the armed men who followed.
Clink . . . clickedy, click, click . . .
clink . . .
As I leaned back against the brick wall of
an unknown house, I slowly gathered my near-shredded senses back into myself,
marveling at the array of chaos-energy expended on the troop. Marveling-and
suppressing the urge to retch.
Antonin and Sephya-it had to have been
their work.
Why I didn't know, but Antonin's hands were
on it as surely as though he had signed the city the way Uncle Sardit signed a
chest with his maker's mark.
With the horses safely past, I eased my
steps back toward Destrin's. Had I been unwise in helping the guard struggle
against unwanted chaos? Probably. Would I have done it again? Had there really
been a choice?
I tried not to shrug as the sun ducked
behind another cloud and the shadows faded into gray again.
LI
PATTERNS-THERE
ARE patterns everywhere. That was what the book said, and what everyone had
tried to point out to me. Just by creating ice crystals too small to see, some
of the Masters of Recluce had started a change in climate that prostrated the
Duchy of Freetown.
People create patterns, too, and by
becoming Destrin's journeyman, my presence was changing the patterns in Fenard.
How much the order I had added changed things . . . who could tell?
Before I rode Gairloch out to the mill to
check the available black oak for the sub-prefect's chairs, I made sure to
cross the market square, stopping to buy a biscuit, nodding to the few people I
recognized or thought I recognized, and listening, always listening.
The high clouds were hazy and gray, yet the
day was humid, almost steamy, and sweat dripped from my forehead. The late and
short spring was turning to summer.
The market looked the same as always, a
scattering of small stalls, carts, and merchandise strewn across the open
expanse of granite, all of it able to be moved at day's end when the sweepers
pushed through their brooms and refuse carts and the open space returned to a
cavernous granite-walled emptiness.
The prefect was bright, or his advisers
were. Half a silver a day was what it cost to use the market if you had a
stall, a penny if you could carry your wares on your back. For that you got
guards posted at each street departing the plaza and guards who patrolled in
leather vests with clubs. You also got some guards who looked like merchants
and hangers-on. If you couldn't fit your goods in a single stall, you had to
find a permanent store or sell to someone who had one.
A fair trade, all in all. Sellers got a
place relatively free from theft and graft. The prefect got revenue and
information, particularly since his open market was one of the few in Eastern Candar
exempt from major corruption. Reputedly the autarch's markets were better, but
the prefect's border posts supposedly confiscated anything coming from the
south without the prefect's authorization.
I hesitated as I neared the fountain.
". . . did you see the golden
coach?"
". . . came through the west gate, as
if it had come from below the Westhorns ..."
The second speaker was Mathilde, the plump
blond flower lady whose flowers seldom lasted more than two days. People with
chaos in their blood should never handle living things, yet they seem to enjoy
plants and pets and delight in gossip. She bulged out of a long tunic and
stretched the seams of her faded purple trousers. Unwashed and gnarled toes
protruded from her battered sandals.
"Probably some retainer of the prefect's," I offered
gratuitously.
"It couldn't have been. There were two
armed guards and a blood-red banner on the coach staff. The prefect doesn't
allow mounted armed guards inside the city gates, saving his own."
"Maybe they forgot . . ."
"Young fellow, are you trying to
provoke me?"
I grinned at the flower seller. "Just
trying to be charitable to the poor guards that had to chase their boss across
the countryside."
"Poor guards, my trousers! That coach
was worth a fortune, and the geldings that carried those guards were a matched
pair. And I saw a veiled woman in that coach, the kind they sell in Hamor only
to the wealthiest of landowners. Not only that, but the coach was of wood and
leather, without a scrap of iron . . ."
I shrugged. "Some chaos-wizard, then,
on his way to help the new Duke of Freetown. That's where everyone is headed to
make their fortune. He just stopped to pay his respects to the prefect."
"Wrong again!" cackled Mathilde. "The
coach is stabled at the prefect's palace."
"Why does the prefect need a
chaos-wizard?" asked the peddler, as she unpacked and placed her crooked
pots on the ledge by the dry fountain that had not worked since before I came
to Fenard.
"The rumor is Kyphrien . . ."
hissed Mathilde.
Kyphrien? I almost stopped then and there.
Instead I looked at a particularly crooked pot, so ugly I could never have been
tempted to buy it. "Kyphrien? The autarch?"
"Why not?" asked Mathilde.
"The prefect and the autarch aren't friends."
I nodded and put down the pot, well-aware
that the ragged man edging up to look at the other pots on the lower step of
the fountain was some sort of spy for the prefect, and a chaos-tainted one at
that. "Do you think the autarch is planning something?"
Mathilde saw the ragged man in the tattered
brown leathers that were a shade too clean and shrugged. "Who knows what
rulers plan? I just sell flowers, like you work wood."
Looking at the flowers mock-regretfully, I
grinned falsely. "I'd buy some, but I'd better get to the mill."
"You still supporting that broken-down
crafter? Why don't you open your own shop?"
"I'd have little without him. Someday
. . ."
"Oh . . . it's the golden-haired
daughter . . . you want it all, you schemer . . ." She leered at me, and
the pot peddler looked at us both as if we were crazy, while the ragged spy
looked at no one.
Listening again, I stepped down from the
fountain and headed toward Fair Road.
". . . never see better-cured leather
west of Recluce . . ."
". . . only half a silver for this,
scabbard and all . . ."
"Fresh yams! Fresh yams!"
Wiping my dripping forehead with the back
of my short-sleeved working tunic, I saw another man in ragged leathers, not following
me, but watching the arms merchant and noting the blades.
". . . the finest in worked steel . .
. flexible enough . . . sharp enough to cut a spider's web . . ."
". . . finest Hamorian cotton . . .
cool to wear . . . the finest in cotton . . ."
"Winter-saved apples, order-spelled
and ready to eat . . ."
I shook my head at the fruit vendor's
outrageous claim. Winter-saved apples they might be, and even kept in the
coolest of root cellars, but order-spelling fruit took more effort than any
order-master in his right mind would ever want to do-unless you were talking
about killing off the vermin, and cool water and care did almost as well.
"... a half-copper for a tale of
adventure! A song of joy ..."
A thin woman in rags lingered around the
minstrel's corner. Her muscles were too heavy and her skin too smooth for her
to be the beggar she played.
I did not shake my head this time, but I
wondered what the autarch wanted to know, and why Kyphrien was important.
At the iron gates to the market square,
gates which were rusted open, I suspected, three guards watched the road and
the passers-by. Two in leathers, with their clubs and blades- and one posing as
a stonemason's helper. The mason was restoring a damaged arch leading into a
leather shop.
The shops on that unnamed street I never
frequented, not with my limited funds and disinterest in pure luxury.
My feet carried me automatically toward the
turn leading back to the alley behind Destrin's and the stable. Gairloch needed
the exercise, and Brettel's mill was far enough to make it better for both of
us if I rode.
Another reason for Destrin's problems-the
shop he had taken over from his father had catered to the personal needs of
merchants and their ladies, supplying a level of Grafting Destrin could not
match. Destrin's rough benches and chairs belonged in the trade quarter, but he
refused to move from the once-proud house and shop.
Again, I thought about the bid on the
chairs for the sub-prefect, wondering if it had been a good idea, even though I
could see no other alternative.
Gairloch could tell I was worried, and he
danced around a lot as I saddled him.
"Settle down!" I finally snapped.
And he did.
I kept thinking about the bid on the
chairs.
Compared to the work that would be involved in completing the
sub-prefect's chairs, getting the bid for them had not been all that hard.
Destrin had signed the paper, and I put it in the envelope. Then we all had gathered
on the steps of the sub-prefect's house the next morning.
"For a bid of ten golds, the
commission on the five matched chairs is let to Destrin the woodworker."
"What?" Jirrle had been on his
feet, his face purpling. But a younger man, with similar features, hauled him
back down.
"Bids were also received from Jirrle,
the woodcrafter, and from Rasten. If the chairs are defective, the bidder will
pay a default fee of one gold and the second bidder will be awarded the
commission."
I had winced at that, not that I expected
the quality to be inadequate, but was that phrase merely a way to get out of
the contract? I shook my head, not knowing what exactly I would do if that were
the case.
Although Brettel's mill was nearly a kay
farther down than anyone else's, he offered better prices, at least to me. He
also knew what was happening. Few of the other crafters talked to me, for I was
only a journeyman working for an excuse for a woodcrafter.
"Lerris! What now? Some seconds on
green oak? Perhaps some red oak limbs?"
"Actually, I was looking for something
else . . . green oak twigs for baskets!"
Brettel shook his white-and-silver thatch.
"That bad, now?"
I raised my shoulders. "Black
oak."
"So . . . the rumor was true. You did
underbid Jirrle and Rasten on that chair set. Jirrle was livid. He said that
Destrin couldn't make one straight spoke, let alone enough for a single chair.
I agreed." Then the mill-master grinned. "I didn't tell him that his
journeyman was probably going to do it all."
"Me? A broken-down excuse for a
woodworker?"
"Is that what he called you?"
"Not to my face . . ."
Brettel's face dropped the joviality.
"Black oak's expensive, Lerris."
"I know. We can cover it, and what
choice is there?"
"Didn't the tavern benches help? Those
were better than anything Hefton ever turned out."
"They helped, but the quarterly
assessment is coming due."
"Deirdre?"
"Unless we can deliver on the benches
. . ."
Brettel shook his head. "Old Dorman
feared this, but what else could he do?"
I shrugged. "I owe him
something."
"What if the prefect finds out you're
a craft-master?"
"Brettel. I'm scarcely a master. I
never even technically finished my journeyman training . . ."
Brettel's eyebrows raised, and I realized
my mistake.
". . . but there's no requirement in
Fenard for guild certification . . ."
". . . so that's why you chose Destrin
. . ."
"I had a problem with the
mastercrafter . . ."
The mill-master nodded to himself, as if I
had cleared up a minor mystery. "What do you need?"
"Black oak. I'd like to look at the
logs."
Brettel frowned again, but I couldn't help
it. I needed to see the wood before it was shaped. We couldn't afford any
wastage.
He turned and headed toward the racks at
the back of the brick stacking-warehouse.
I followed, glancing around and noting
again how orderly Brettel kept his milled timbers and planks.
"Here you are. Graded in size down.
The ones with the two red grease slashes are a gold per log, the single reds
are five silvers, the blues are two silvers, and the yellows are one
silver."
I'd figured it out already, how to use the
heartwood for the spokes and braces and the wood around the heart for the
backing and seat plates. Now all I had to do was find four logs that met the
measurements.
"How much more if I ask for the
cuts?"
Brettel shrugged. "Nothing, if you
stay and they're normal straight runs through the saw."
I began checking the blue logs, sensing
them as well as looking, but only two were right, and that meant I needed two
reds.
After a time, I pointed. "These two,
and this one."
"I'll give you the bigger one there
for five silvers."
I stared again, all too aware of my double
sight as I studied the log Brettel had fingered. On the outside it looked
generous, but the heartwood was not old and hard and dense, even brittle, but
soft and spongy. When you bought black oak, you were paying a premium for the
heartwood, so dense it rarely decayed, and so tough that the best in edged
steel was barely good enough to cut and shape it.
"That's not quite right," I told
Brettel.
"It's fine," the mill-master
insisted.
I shrugged. "It's not what Destrin
needs. Either this one-" I pointed to the smaller log to the right "-or
that one."
Brettel raised his shoulders, obviously
thinking I was crazy, turning down the larger prime log for the smaller ones.
"Then it's still five silvers each for the two single reds."
"That's what I'll need."
Brettel didn't quite shake his head as he
greased the stump end of the four trunks with Destrin's mark, a large
"D" with a half-circle over the top of the letter. "Who's
paying?"
"I'll take care of it." I had the
coins in my belt. While Brettel was honest, he wasn't about to cut black oak on
my word. I scrambled around to come up with the coins.
He checked them with the cold iron, just
out of habit. "You want to do the cuts now?"
"If you can."
"Things are slow today. With that
wizard at the palace, people aren't working. They're all afraid to do
anything." He trundled a work cart to the log pile, then unstrapped the
log clamps.
"They were talking about some coach in
the market . . ."
"Antonin's, I'd bet. He's often here
to meet with Gollard."
"Gollard?"
"The prefect."
"Does that have to do with
Kyphros?" I wondered how I could help Brettel with the heavy log.
"Gollard . . . wanted . . . the sulfur
springs back ... in the Little Easthorns." In between words, with the aid
of a steel bar and the clamps, singlehandedly the mill-master had levered the
first log onto the cart.
"Can I help?"
"Just . . . get ... in the way."
"Sounds like he wanted to make more
gunpowder." Why, I couldn't see, since anyone with the slightest hint of
chaos-ability could set the devil's brew off from a distance.
"Who . . . knows . . ." Brettel
was working on the third log. "The autarch's cavalry . . . carved up ...
Gollard's . . . elite troop. With raw recruits. Some wench . . . killed . . .
his son-in-law." Brettel stopped and grinned. "Not a few people
cheered that."
I shook my head. After all my time in
Fenard, I still didn't know why the prefect and the autarch were at each
other's throats. "Why?" I asked.
"Why what?" Brettel handled the
last small log as if it were a toothpick. I doubted that I could have even
moved it.
"Why are they fighting? The autarch
and the prefect, I mean?"
Brettel strapped the logs onto the cart
before answering. "Rumor has it that her mother was a wizard's daughter-"
My mouth nearly dropped. I had assumed the
autarch was a man.
"-And that the mother used her wiles
to split off what used to be Gallos south of the Little Easthorns. Then the
mother conquered old Analeria after the prince died. The daughter took over a
few years ago and added parts of the West-horns that Hydlen claimed, but never
really ruled. Gollard figured, in his best guess, that the daughter wasn't a
wizard. So he tried to retake Kyphros.
"He almost made it. Broke her army and
the cavalry, but the peasants rose and burned their fields and opened the
dikes. The cavalry couldn't maneuver in the mud, and some mistakes were made.
No one was clear how, but instead of a victory, Gollard lost half his army and
most of his officers.
"The autarch started recruiting women,
the best she could find." Brettel shrugged. "Now Gollard's troops
usually lose, but the autarch never enters his territory."
By now, we were approaching the saw; the
belts leading from the waterwheel were motionless.
"What cuts?"
Taking the grease pencil, I outlined what I
had in mind with each of the logs.
"Should have thought of that
myself." Brettel pursed his lips. "Need to set this up. I can make
these and deliver the planks and those square sections late this
afternoon."
"That would be fine." I took the
hint, and walked back to where I had tied Gairloch while Brettel began to set
up the saw.
Wheee . . . eeee . . .
"All right." I patted him on the
shoulder and pushed his nose away from my pockets, which were empty.
Kyphros versus Gallos-order versus chaos?
Or was it that simple? Woman versus man? The more I found out, the less I knew,
and I suspected I was far from the first man to realize that.
"Come on." I mounted my shaggy
beast and flicked the reins. "Come on."
Whheee . . . eeeee . . .
"All right," I said again.
So we halted by the bottom of the millrace
for him to get a drink of the cold water, and I even stopped by the granary and
bought a small sack of feed for Gairloch.
LII
AFTER
GETTING THE bid for the sub-prefect's chairs, and after getting exactly the
lumber I wanted from Brettel with a bit extra thrown in for no extra cost, we
still had to actually craft the chairs.
Besides worrying about the actual work, I
worried about a lot of other things. I worried that Destrin would get sicker
and die. I worried that Bostric would slip with the plane, or that I would get
careless.
I worried that Jirrle would somehow find a
way to attack me. I worried that Antonin would find out exactly who and where I
was and attack. Even though I ate, I felt harried and thinner.
"You look tired," Deirdre told
me.
Since I felt tired, I probably looked that
way as well.
Every night I set wards on the shop, but I
wasn't sure what good they would do, and I kept my staff close to my bed.
I used my senses to keep studying the wood
each step of the way, checking to make sure that no hidden cracks or stresses
would erupt to mar the wood or the finish. When I found two, both Bostric and
Destrin thought I was crazy for refusing to use sections of what appeared to be
perfectly good wood.
"It's good wood, Lerris."
"Not good enough. It's flawed."
"How? Where?"
"It just is." How could I explain
without letting them know I was a beginning order-master?
"If the honored craft-master who
claims he is only a journeyman says so, it must be so."
What bothered me most about Bostric's flip
comment was that he and Destrin both looked at each other, nodded, and didn't say
anything more.
I groused and I growled, and even Deirdre
stepped away from me at dinner and supper.
Not only did I do the smooth finish myself,
I even worked with the varnishes until I had what not only looked right, but
felt right all the way through. Then I spent time steeping the chairs in order,
reinforcing their strength with order and more order, until chaos itself might
have had a hard time sitting in them.
We got all five chairs done. And done well.
Brettel lent us his cart and Gairloch even
pulled it, with more than a few protests, to the same front steps of the
sub-prefect's house.
I hadn't planned on the welcoming
committee. Not only was a scowling Jirrle there, but Perlot stood at the back,
as did other crafters I did not know.
The sub-prefect was not there, but a thin
man in a uniform, some sort of functionary, was.
First they had us line up the chairs side
by side on the granite paving-blocks. In the morning light, the officer stared
and scowled. He looked under the chairs. He studied the joins, the finish. He
compared each chair with every other chair. He ran his fingers over every
exposed surface.
Bostric, standing beside me, began to
sweat, even though the day was overcast and the heat of the late summer day had
not yet arrived.
I pursed my lips, knowing that the
inspection was far from normal.
The one reassurance was Perlot's presence.
With each inspection, with each frown by the officer and each accompanying
scowl by Jirrle, Perlot's faint smile became more pronounced.
Finally, the officer turned to me.
"The chairs seem acceptable." He pulled out a long paper and a
servant proffered a pen. "Put your mark at the bottom."
I read the paper, but all it said was that
the sub-prefect had accepted five chairs for the sum of ten golds. So I signed
on behalf of Destrin, copying his mark as well for good measure.
The officer's eyebrows raised, but he said
nothing.
Jirrle edged forward to look at the chairs,
finally shaking his head and looking at me. For a long time, it seemed, his
eyes rested upon me. I just waited for the coins, which arrived in a leather
pouch.
Although I could tell they were good, I
checked each against the steel of my dagger, since no tradesman would have done
otherwise. The officer nodded, as if to himself, and seemed reassured.
Jirrle looked back at the chairs, then at
me, before walking back toward the avenue.
The other crafter I did not know also
stepped up to the chairs. Unlike Jirrle, he stepped up to me. "Good
work." He nodded pleasantly, and his whole manner inside and out was
honest, even if there were traces of chagrin beneath.
As the officer's servants began to carry
the chairs inside, the officer sniffed down his nose. "That is all,
tradespeople."
I inclined my head. "Thank you."
He ignored me and turned.
"Damned fine work there," rasped
another voice. Perlot stood by the cart traces.
Whheeee . . . eeee . . . Gairloch wanted
out of the traces - the sooner the better. Bostric looked at the pony
nervously, then back to me.
"Thank you."
"No. I mean it. Sedennial was trying
to find a reason not to accept them, and he couldn't."
I'd thought the same, but the chairs were
good. They should have been. I'd sweated enough over them.
"You underbid them-more than just a
little, given the quality." The craft-master's voice was wry.
"Master Jirrle seemed upset ..."
I observed in a neutral voice, checking the cart harness.
"He was, but he'll get over it. Good
day, Lerris."
Perlot smiled briefly, and stepped out into
the lane with his quick short steps, looking pleased with the world as he left
us with a restless mountain pony and an empty cart. Most important, we had ten
golds, five of which could go toward the quarterly levies.
"What do we do now?" asked
Bostric, wiping his forehead.
"We get out of here before they tell
us to, and we find some more work to do. Hopefully, something that you can do
more of."
Bostric swallowed. "I can't do things
that good."
"Not yet. That doesn't mean you can't
learn." I led Gairloch around to get the cart facing toward the avenue,
then climbed onto the hard board seat. "Come on."
Bostric scrambled up next to me, and we
headed out to return him to the shop and the cart to Brettel.
LIII
A FACE
IN the window caught my eye. What was Perlot doing at the shop? Destrin was
upstairs resting, and technically it wasn't my place to meet with another
craft-master.
Setting down the plane, I crossed the room,
sniffing at the smell of barley soup drifting down the stairs. We had eaten
earlier, but Destrin had not, and Deirdre was probably feeding her father a
late noon meal.
Bostric looked up.
"Keep at it," I told him.
"And think about where the grains will meet."
"It's just a tavern bench. But I heed
the words of wisdom." I just looked at him until he began to check the
lines of the grain.
Perlot had stepped inside the shop doorway,
and stood waiting. He wore his working leathers, but he had pulled on a rough
shirt and a vest.
"I apologize, craft-master. Destrin is
not available at the moment." I inclined my head.
"No apologies needed,. Lerris. Several
of us are gathering at the Tap Inn after the day ends. I was hoping you could
join us. Your apprentice would be welcome to sit with Grizzard and the
others."
I kept my mouth in place. The invitation
was serious, and, in effect, an announcement that the other crafters had
accepted me. Had that been Brettel's doing? "I thank you, and would be
honored."
Perlot smiled faintly. "I think we're
the ones who are honored. Destrin is fortunate to have found you. Until
tonight." He nodded and was gone.
Only after he had gone did I sigh. Perlot
himself had crossed the town and the square to invite me. Maybe, just maybe, my
plans might have a chance of working out.
Bostric glanced up from the bench as I
walked back, his bushy red eyebrows lifted.
"We've been asked to join the other
crafters for a drink after work."
Bostric just nodded, as if it were the most
natural thing in the world. For him, per,haps, it was. I had encouraged him to
spend his free time with the other apprentices, knowing that, if my hopes were
fulfilled, he would need the contacts in the years to come.
Picking up the plane, I studied the
internal framework of the chest for a long time, knowing that something was not
quite right. How long it took, I didn't know, but I finally ended up planing
and readjusting one of the drawer supports for the second drawer. From there it
got easier, as I entered the flow of the wood and the design. Part of the
problem was that the design was an adaptation of one of Dorman's plans, and
even partly original pieces were much tougher.
"Lerris . . . ?"
I shook my head, realizing more time had passed
than I realized.
"Yes?"
"Hadmit has closed," Bostric
noted tactfully.
The jeweler stayed open later than anyone
else. I began racking the tools, noting that Bostric had already been quietly
putting away Destrin's tools.
Before long, I had told Deirdre that we
were leaving; and we had washed up and were striding across the square. The
only thing that bothered me was that I knew I'd have to clean Gairloch's stall
when I returned, as well as get up early in the morning to ride him.
Clink . . . dink . . .
We had to hug the edge of the mill street
on the other side of the square as a troop of the prefect's cavalry rode in
toward their barracks. Three of the horses at the end were riderless, and a
dark splotch stained the leather of the last empty saddle.
The stink of sweat and blood hung over the
riders like fog, not obscuring the taint of chaos that also clung to them and
to the sabers they bore. To my senses, the blades shimmered like dull-red
embers.
Clink, clink . . . clink . . .
"Make way . . . make way . . ."
. . . clink . . . clink . . .
Neither prisoners nor bodies trailed the
empty horses.
Looking at Bostric once the cavalry passed,
I shook my head. "Bad news."
He nodded, and we kept walking.
The Tap Inn had not changed. Even without a
fire in the front hearth, the main room was smoky, as acrid as before.
"Lerris!" Perlot had been
waiting, and I hurried over, leaving Bostric to his own devices.
"Sorry. We worked a shade late, and
then we had to wait for the prefect's troops."
Perlot gestured around the table.
"This is Jirrle, his son Deryl, Rasten, and Ferralt. Usually, Hertol is
here." He put a hand on my shoulder. "This is Lerris, who has decided
to follow Dorman's tradition and give me a run for my money, or would if he
hadn't decided to make children's furniture better than regular pieces."
They all chuckled at that, and Perlot
pulled out a chair. "What will you have, Lerris?"
I had to grin sheepishly. "Just
redberry, mast-"
"Just Perlot, Lerris. Just
Perlot."
"What's this about troops?" asked
Deryl.
I shrugged. "Don't know, but about a
score of cavalry rode back in. They lost, it looked like. Empty saddles, and no
prisoners, and they looked tired. Some of the horses ..." I shook my head.
"Hell . . ." muttered the man at
the far side of the round table. "He's out squabbling with the autarch
again."
The same thin girl with the scar across her
face appeared next to Perlot. Her face was still thin, but a bulge below her
apron indicated she had been more than merely flirting with someone. "What
else, masters?"
"Redberry for Lerris, here, and I'll
have another beer." The craft-master handed her his heavy empty mug.
". . . the autarch's already proved,
after the way they dispatched those rebels from Freetown . . ."
"I take it that the prefect should
avoid trouble with Kyphros?" I asked politely.
Jirrle cleared his throat. "Gallos has
a proud history, and the autarch should honor that history and the natural
geography . . ."
"What he means," added the
balding Ferralt with a grin, "is that the prefect wants old Gallos back,
as well as some other territory . . ."
"Ferralt!" snapped the older man.
"I said what I meant."
"He's on the prefect's advisory
council . . ." whispered Perlot.
"Are all the autarch's soldiers
women?" I asked.
"Hell no," added Deryl, setting
his mug on the table with a thump. "Just the best ones."
Thunk! Thunk!
"Here's the red stuff and the beer.
Two, please."
I handed two coppers to the woman. Perlot
looked surprised, but did not protest.
"Women soldiers are uncivilized,"
added Rasten.
"What he means," explained
Ferralt, "is that they only fight when they know they can win."
"Like that one Torrman was complaining
about?"
"The black-haired one the autarch
promoted over his cousin?"
I swallowed a deep pull of the redberry.
"Could someone explain?"
Rasten glared at Ferralt, who grinned.
Finally, Ferralt shrugged. "Torrman is married to my sister. His cousin is
also Torrman, except he took service with the autarch because the former
prefect-that's a long story. Anyway, the younger Torrman was in line to be
sub-commander, except a new squad captain pulled some stunt with water and wiped
out the Freetown rebels without a single casualty.
"The autarch promoted her instead.
Torrman challenged her to a duel, and the bitch made him look silly. So he
played dirty and threw something in her eyes. That didn't stop her. Instead she
took off his sword hand-blind, he swears. The autarch gave him a pension-and a
warning."
"You believe that?" I asked. I
did, but I wanted to know whether Ferralt had something else in mind.
"It's true," interrupted Jirrle.
"The bitch is from Recluce. The autarch, damnable bitch as well, doesn't
care. She only cares if her troops are the best."
A momentary silence dropped over the table.
"Lerris, what brought you here?"
asked Perlot, almost desperately.
"Recluce, I'd have to say." I
took a sip from the mug, trying to figure out how to tell the truth without
being deceptive myself. "As I told Perlot here," -I gestured to the
crafter-"after leaving my apprenticeship, I was trying to make my way in
Freetown, when the old duke ran afoul of Recluce. The rains came and turned the
meadows to swamps. The clouds never left, and then the duke was dead, and
wizards were running all over the place." I winced inside at the slight
exaggeration. "So I took what I had and got a pony and left."
"Why did you come so far, and where
were you from?" asked Jirrle.
I shrugged. "As I told Destrin, I'm
technically only an apprentice. I don't have any guild certification. Hrisbarg
was too small to support another crafter, and," I raised my eyebrows,
"have you seen Hewlett and Montgren?"
That brought a chuckle from everyone but
Jirrle, and I continued before he could ask me again where I was from. "As
for Jellico, you can't walk the streets without a permit and a seal. So what
could a poor apprentice woodworker do? What would you have done?" I
addressed the question to Deryl.
"I guess I would have come to Fenard,
just like you did. How did you get across the Easthorns?"
"It wasn't easy. It was cold, because
I couldn't afford to stay in the inns there." And I couldn't, but not for
reasons of cost. Still, the misrepresentation hurt. "The heavy snows
hadn't fallen, but I had to wait until a caravan cleared one snowfall from the
road. I was afraid poor Gairloch would be skin and bones by the time we got to Passera."
"How did you get into Jellico?"
asked Rasten.
"Anything else around here?"
asked the serving-girl.
"Nothing for me," said Perlot.
"Nor me," I added.
"Another mug."
"Me too."
"Not here."
"I was lucky, ran into a healer, and
traveled with him for a while, but he had business in Jellico."
Jirrle frowned, even as he sipped from the
heavy brown mug.
"Where did you get that design for the
chair you did for Wryson?" asked Perlot quickly.
I looked through Dorman's plan book, then
just made some changes to make it more suitable for Wryson."
"He's a diplomat," chuckled
Ferralt. "Ingenious way of bracing it. Do you mind if I try that?"
"Not at all. You might find a better
way, though. I did that in more of a hurry than I would have liked." Or
than Uncle Sardit would have advised, either.
"Why the child's table?" That was
Rasten.
"That started out as a project for
Bostric. He's turned out to have a real feel for the woods, and I wanted to
give him something that . . . well ..." I finally shrugged, hoping they
would understand.
Even Jirrle nodded slowly, although the
frown never left his face.
"Maybe we ought to do more work like
that," began Deryl. "Some of the gentry pay well for garb for the
little ones. Why not furniture? I once heard about the miniature palace in
Hamor."
Thunk! Thunk! Thunkl Thunk! The girl
dropped the heavy mugs on the table like mallets, one after the other.
I glanced over at the table where the
apprentices sat. They looked more relaxed, which reassured me. Bostric seemed
positively loquacious.
". . . then ... he talks about grains,
grains, and more grains, about feeling the wood, like you could see right
through it ... but it's scary sometimes, because I get the feeling he can .
..."
"Hell ... all of them can . . . why
they're craft-masters . . ."
"One each, gents," snapped the
serving-girl, her tone crisper and shorter than the first time I'd been at the
Tap Inn.
"What other projects do you have lined
up?" asked Jirrle slowly.
"Not a lot. We're still scrambling.
There's a corner chest, and a dower piece, and another couple of benches for
the Horn Inn . . ."
"There will be more," added
Perlot, "with all the praise you're getting from Wessel."
"We do the best we can . . ."
As the door opened, I turned to look, and
realized it was pitch-dark out.
"What about . . ." began Ferralt
as he looked at Deryl.
"I'm going to have to leave." I
eased out of my chair. "Destrin's not feeling that well, and I never fed
the pony . . ."
"Won't you stay a little longer . . .
?' grumbled Jirrle.
I could tell his words were false, yet he
wanted me to stay.
"I wish I could."
"Perhaps we could hear more the next
time," added Perlot.
I just nodded. In no way did I want to tell
more than I had already. On the way out, I stopped by Bostric's group.
"You can stay a while." But I didn't wait for an acknowledgement.
". . . doesn't seem that scary
..."
". . . not all that old . . ."
As I stepped out into the night, I tried
not to sigh. Sooner or later, and probably sooner, the speculation would push
me into giving away too much. The afternoon clouds had cleared, and the stars
glittered, with the new moon just a crescent above the western horizon.
Further down the market street, the
lanterns from the Horn Inn flickered with the breeze that brought the scent of
cut hay from the fields to the north of Fenard.
Jirrle-the man bothered me, had bothered me
from the first time he had inspected my boxes in the open market.
Even as early in the night as it was, the
streets had cleared, the good and solid citizens for the most part having
headed home. In Fenard, work started with the dawn. I suppressed a yawn,
remembering that I had put off cleaning out Gairloch's stall.
I rubbed the end of my nose after the acrid
odor of burned grease left a lingering itch, then picked up my steps as I
passed the first cross-street toward the square from the Tap Inn.
Halfway toward the next cross-street, I
stopped, almost paralyzed by the feel of disorder ahead. After turning, I took
several quick paces back and into the shadows, wishing I had my staff with me.
Click . . . dink . . . The sounds were
faint, almost inaudible.
A cloak of reflection slipped around me,
and I hoped I was doing the right thing, that the danger ahead was merely that
of armed assassins, and not a chaos-master.
Two men appeared, slipping toward where I
had been. While I could only sense them, not see them, one was older, slighter,
tinged with the white-red fire of chaos. The other was just a hired blade,
faintly disordered, but not chaos-evil.
They searched each side of the street,
moving toward me. In turn, I moved from the shadows into the main street, where
they would only look, while they might concentrate and poke into the corners
and alcoves.
Click . . .
The second sound came from behind me, from
the direction of the Tap Inn.
I forced myself to breathe easily, standing
flat against a bricked wall between shops with their night shutters down,
feeling exposed and open, and relying only on a reflective shield. The knife in
my belt felt inadequate, especially against the drawn blades of the pair that
walked toward me.
From the inn came a second armed pair,
searching and moving toward me.
I almost held my breath as the bulkier
assassin walked right by me, holding a blade at the ready. As soon as they were
more than a few paces past, I took one quiet step, then another, edging toward
the square and toward Destrin's.
". . . disappeared . . ."
"... left the inn. I saw him."
"He's not here."
". . . in one of the houses?"
I let them argue, stepping quietly toward
Destrin's, not dropping the cloak until I was safely inside the stable.
Whheee . . . eeeee . . . eee . . .
"Yes, I know. Your stall is filthy. I
didn't ride you today, and you're out of food."
The food came first, and I brushed Gairloch
for a while, both to reassure him and to think. Then came the shovel and the
pail. No one had told me about the mess horses make, or the enormous effort it
took to keep one stall clean.
Late indeed it was by the time I got back
to the shop, and Bostric was pulling out his bed.
"How did it go?" I asked, washing
my hands again in the basin I had refilled.
"Fine. They say you won't stay here,
that you are a wandering type. Is that true?" Bostric had had more than a
beer. Otherwise, he would not have dared to ask the question,"not without
his more overly-respectful tone.
I shrugged. "Probably. Go to
sleep."
He did, and I thought about the armed men.
Clearly, Jirrle had known something about it, but whether he had just known or
actually put them after me was another question. The fact that all their swords
had felt the same told me that they were the prefect's men.
I was running out of time, but so far, no
one apparently wanted to move directly. That forebearance wouldn't last, and I
would still have to watch for the assassins.
LIV
I DID
NOT sleep well that evening, even after setting and checking the wards. I
tossed on the narrow pallet, sweating as I pondered what I knew. The
"J" on the tax levy had to have been Jirrle. Jirrle was some sort of
advisor to the prefect, and Jirrle did not particularly care for me.
Then, to make me even more uneasy, in the
night skies, thunder raged. Not the thunder of honest clouds striving among
themselves, nor the man-made thunder of gunpowder blasting. Not even the
illusory thunder of the wind created by chaos-masters bent on enhancing the
fears of an already too-ignorant population. Thunder such as this had I heard
only once before, on the plains of Certis, when the ice storms and the blizzard
had done their worst to destroy me.
So I tossed and sweated, and, on the other
side of my curtain, Bostric snored-loudly, and without any sense of rhythm.
In the end, I did sleep, and without dreams
that I remembered, which was probably for the best, since I woke with a start
just before dawn. I was soaked in sweat, though the night had been cool for
summer, even for a long summer that was drawing to a close.
After using the facilities off the alley,
little more than an outhouse that drained into a covered sewer, and washing in
cool water drawn from the covered tank in the back, I felt closer to human.
Some fruit and a biscuit from the tray Deirdre brought down helped more.
We could have eaten upstairs, but in the
mornings I never bothered, since I liked to get started early, especially in
the warm weather.
"Why . . .oh, why am I apprenticed to
a master who loves mornings . . .?" Bostric looked worse than I felt, but
the words were merely a ritual he intoned every morning. He splashed his way
through a sketchy wash, then wolfed down what I had left on the tray.
"They're all talking about you . . ." he mumbled.
"Oh . . . ?" I was checking the
chest against the sketches and the plan book.
"Jirrle thinks you're from Recluce . .
."
I swallowed a cold lump in my guts, saying
nothing.
". . . Deryl thinks you want Deirdre
and the shop, and Grizzard doesn't see anything remarkable in you and wonders
why anyone is making such a fuss."
Shrugging, I took a last sip of the
redberry and set the mug aside.
"Jirrle also told Deryl that the
chairs for the sub-prefect were going to cause trouble . . . but he wouldn't
say why."
Trouble? Chairs causing trouble? Then I
shivered, recalling the reaction of my own staff to chaos. Once again, in
pushing too hard, I hadn't thought through the consequences. And the chairs had
been black oak.
"Are you all right?" I shook my
head. "I'm . . . fine. I just realized I had forgotten something."
Although I knew I needed to talk to Brettel and I had finished the dower chest
for Dalta, I had held off on delivering it, perhaps because we had received so
much from Brettel. I didn't want to impose so soon again on the mill-master,
whether he was Deirdre's godfather or not. In addition, Bostric was not quite
ready. But now I would have to watch every corner for the Duke's assassins . .
.
Despite what I had seen, except for Jirrle,
nothing pointed toward me, yet I felt some greater force was rushing from
beyond my perceptions straight for me. Or was I just imagining things,
believing I could sense what I could not understand? The world of order and
thoughts just made life more confusing, not less.
Already, summer was coming to a close. The
grasses were browning, and the hand of the long hot summer pressed down upon
Fenard like an open stove. With the heat, the varnishes gave off more fumes,
even in the late mornings.
Although I tried to do the finish work
while Destrin took the rests that grew fractionally longer each day, sometimes
he persisted in tinkering with his benches, even as he coughed his lungs out.
"Ace . . . accc . . . cuufff . .
." No longer did he pale when. he coughed -he was pallid all the time.
"Let Bostric finish those joins,"
I suggested.
"I just came down. Are you trying to
push me out again, Lerris? I'm the shop-master. It's my business, and no
outlander will tell me how to run it." He glared at me, even as he had to
support himself on the bench. "Ace . . . accc . . . acuuufff . . ."
"I'm not trying to push you anywhere.
Bostric is your apprentice, and he's here to help you. If I can help him learn,
fine. But how can he help if you insist on doing everything?" I pressed a
touch more order upon his system, but only a touch. He was so fragile that
anything more would have done more damage than the coughing.
"Papa . . ." added Deirdre. When
she talked to her father, her voice was firm, gentle, no matter what the pain
she held inside.
"All of you . . . you all want to put
me away . . ." Even as he protested, Destrin let Deirdre lead him up the
stairs.
I laid down the plane and motioned to
Bostric as soon as Destrin was out of sight. We looked over the bench Destrin
had been resting against, rather than working upon.
"Can you clean this up and finish
it?" I asked.
Bostric studied the seat plate. "How
would you suggest I fix this?" He pointed to the beginning of an
off-center hole, probably angled when Destrin started coughing.
"You've got one or two choices-fill it
and reset. Or cut the size and redo the spokes. Make it more ornamental .
.."
Bostric licked his lips nervously.
"Go ahead. Destrin can't finish
it." I didn't know how accurately I spoke.
Whhssttt . . .
Deirdre stood at the stairs. "Lerris .
. . ?" Her voice was almost matter-of-fact. That she stood there at all
told she needed something. Resourceful in all things, from running the accounts
to developing her own cushioning business to running the shop and household
food budget, she had asked nothing-except once. Yet behind the quiet facade, I
had begun to understand, lay a strong will.
"I'll be right there." Catching
Bostric's attention, I said, "Destrin and I need to discuss something. If
a customer should show, just ring the bell, and I'll be right down." Then
I followed Deirdre up the stairs. If she hadn't been so upset, I almost would
have smiled at Bostric's hidden appraisal of Deirdre.
"Papa . . . he's moaning, and he
doesn't know who I am . .." The seaming work she did was neatly laid on
her table by the rear window. She probably earned more from the sewing than
Destrin did from his infrequent benches, and saved more than that from her
handling of his accounts.
Bostric would do better than he knew, and I
only hoped I had the time to help him be more than she knew.
Destrin lay upon the wide bed, eyes closed,
breathing raggedly and quickly, a bluish tinge to his fingers and a grayish
look to his face. His eyes opened. "Kyren . . . where's . . . girl"
"I'm here, papa." Her thin voice
was low. "Kyren ... so ... cold . . ."
As I reached into that frail and wasted
body, the burning, the pressure seared me, and I had to grasp the bedpost, even
as my senses touched the knotted heart, easing a cramp here, letting the blood
flow and strengthening what I could, the parts that had yet enough firmness to
strengthen. It took a long time, gently as I had to work, and I didn't remember
sitting down.
"Lerris . . . Lerris ..." A cool
cloth touched my forehead.
My head was not splitting, but a dull ache
and a great tiredness encouraged me not to move.
"Something to drink? Redberry?" I
asked hoarsely.
Deirdre brought me a cup. A few sips and I
felt almost normal, if light-headed. I eased myself out of the chair and
tiptoed over to the bed. Destrin's color was no longer grayish, only pale, and
he slept. I nodded, but wondered how much longer I could hold him together, and
whether I should, recalling the pain I had felt in touching him. My eyes
blurred for a moment.
"Lerris?"
I had forgotten Deirdre was standing beside
me.
"You saved him . . . again." Her
voice was neutral.
"Yes." I shook my head. "I
don't know, Deirdre. I don't know. He hurt so much."
She looked at me, questioningly, for the
first time with tears flowing from both eyes.
"I stopped the hurt, but for how
long?"
"Poor . . . poor papa . . ."
"Don't let him get up. Tell him he has
a chill."
"How long?"
I knew what she meant.
"If he rests, if he is quiet^ perhaps
half a year, but that's just a guess. He could have died today, but he doesn't
want to."
I "Poor papa . . ."
That afternoon, I paid Wryson two coppers
for the loan of his wagon and followed it, and the red-oak dower chest, out to
Brettel's house. In case it was to be a surprise, I had covered it with a
blanket.
On the way across the avenue and toward the
north road, we pulled up for a cavalry troop returning. A single prisoner,
blindfolded, hands tied behind her back, wearing green leathers, swayed on the
last horse. A dark splotch stained her short-cut blond hair. The prefect's
troops had left her an empty scabbard, perhaps because, disoriented and
wounded, she still radiated order.
The last four horses bore only empty
saddles, and the reek of disorder, of chaos, was faint, as if expended in
whatever battle they had fought.
"... make way . . . make way . .
."
. . . clink . . . dink ...
"Make way . . . make way . . ."
Sensing primarily tiredness and pain,
nothing resembling new-cast chaos, despite my awareness extension, I waited
until the troop had passed. Still, I was on edge until the wagon pulled inside
the big stone warehouse. The woman in green bothered me. She could have been
Wrynn or Krystal. She wasn't, but she could have been.
"Lerris, you're earlier than I
expected. I told you to take your time." He still grinned.
"Do you want to see it?" I
glanced around.
"Dalta's at the market square."
Using both arms, I moved the chest, still
covered, from the wagon.
"Here." Sperlin-Wryson's
driver-got a copper I couldn't afford. "Just go straight back."
"Thank you, ser."
Not until the wagon rumbled down the ramp
and back onto the north road did I turn back to Brettel.
"You're thinner, Lerris,
hunted-looking."
"We passed a cavalry troop . . . lots
of empty saddles." Brettel just shook his head. "Why? The autarch
isn't bothering him."
I didn't know the answer, either, except
there were more soldiers in Gallos.
"Do you want to see the chest?" I
changed the subject back to the reason I had come.
"Of course, of course."
After lifting the blanket gently, I waited,
watching his face.
He looked for a long time. Finally, he
turned to me. "I can't afford that. That's a piece worthy of Dorman or
Sardit- their best."
While it wasn't that good, the chest was
exquisite, and equal to the lesser but good pieces my uncle had done. But
comparisons weren't fair. I could see into the wood, and they couldn't.
So we stood there for a time, and Brettel
kept gazing at the chest. "She won't appreciate it."
"She will. Later, at least."
At last, he looked at me.
"Why are you here? Now?"
"To ask that you allow Bostric to
marry Deirdre."
"Why now?"
"Because Destrin is dying, and I have
to leave before it's too late, and before anything becomes too public. I only
hope I haven't waited too long."
"There's a problem, Lerris."
"I can see a number." My voice
was wry, even to my own ears.
"While Bostric has taken over the
bench work and the simple chests, and his work is better than Destrin's was,
you're still the craft-master ..."
"I'm no craft-master." I felt I
had to protest, but my guts turned at the thought that I actually might be
approaching that level.
"No . . . not if you compare yourself
to Perlot and Sardit. And Dalta's chest there even gives that the lie. If you
consider Rasten or Deryl or Hertol or Ferralt, already they can't compare. Not
at all." "Look," I said. "Deirdre's a good seamstress,
almost good enough to carry the household on her own. It won't be easy for
them, but she has a dowry-"
"She does?" the mill-master
asked.
"I made her a chest like Dalta's, not
quite as good, and she has a small dowry of five golds, not much . . ."
"Lerris . . ." He shook his head.
"I know . . . it's not really enough,
but-"
"Lerris. What are you? You're a
stranger, who has lived here little more than a year, who has held death at
bay, who has redeemed my god-daughter's hope and future, and restored her
father's honor, and provided a dowry. Would that my own sons would go so
far."
I was embarrassed at the tears rolling down
his cheeks. So I said nothing. After all, if I hadn't done what I could, who
would have?
"We need a wedding soon, while Destrin
can still appreciate it."
"Have you asked him?"
I shrugged. "No. I was afraid to upset
him."
"Let me come back with you. Better now
than later. Ask him while I am there."
Brettel washed the sawdust off his face and
uncovered forearms, changed from his leather apron into a linen shirt, and
mounted a black mare-all in the time it took me to drink a glass of redberry.
We rode back together. Thankfully, we saw
no more of the prefect's troops.
LV
DESTRIN
SAT IN the armchair, his face gray-hued under the pallor, but without the
deadly blue of the morning.
"I brought an old friend," I
said, but didn't get any further in my explanation.
"Godpapa!" Deirdre didn't quite
shriek as she saw the mill-master. "It's been so long."
"Here to pay your respects to the
deceased, Brettel?" Destrin's voice was waspish.
"No. I'm here to discuss my
god-daughter's future."
"You can't foster her. I told you
that-"
I touched Destrin's shoulder and tried to
calm him, both physically and by infusing him with a touch of order.
"That's not what he means . . ."
Destrin leaned back in the chair, but his
color was even a shade more gray.
Deirdre looked from me to Brettel and back
again, raising her eyebrows.
"May I sit down?" Brettel didn't
wait for an answer, instead lifting one of the straight chairs from the table
and setting in on the worn wooden planks directly across from Destrin.
"Lerris, get a chair."
So I did, and I got one for Deirdre, and
waited for her to sit down. It was her life we were talking about. She looked
from her father to Brettel to me once again, then licked her lips.
"What's this about my Deirdre?"
Destrin's voice remained sharp.
Brettel looked to me.
I swallowed. "I think that she should
consider a marriage proposal ..." I began.
"A master hand with wood you are,
Lerris. But would you do right by her?"
"No. I wouldn't. That's why I'm not
asking. My asking for her hand could lead to her death."
Even Brettel swallowed.
Destrin, surprisingly, didn't. He did look
at me, long. "You're honest, boy. I won't say much, but could you answer a
question for me?"
I shrugged. "If I can ..."
"I'll try to be indirect. Was your
woodcrafter master the only one Dorman respected?"
I had expected something along those lines.
Destrin was a poor crafter, but perceptive nonetheless. "If I understand
those involved, I think so."
Destrin sighed. "Had to be. So ...
you're proposing for Bostric?"
"Oh . . . !" Deirdre covered her
mouth, but I heard the dismay, and it ripped right through my chest, like one
of the prefect's chaos-swords might have.
"I don't have any better ideas. I can
add some to her dowry, and I have crafted a red-oak dowry chest for her . . .
Before long, I need to leave, or you all could be in danger. Between Bostric's
family and Brettel ... in the future ... I would hope that would provide . .
." My words trailed off. I hated making the case for Bostric, and there
were lumps in my chest and in my guts. My eyes were blurred.
Yet deep inside, I knew I was not right for
Deirdre, but that did not make my task any easier.
"Snnnffff." Deirdre was blowing
her nose.
"Hell of . . ." Destrin shook his
head. "You like her, don't you?"
"Yes. That's what makes it
harder."
"You'd outlive her?"
I knew what he was driving at, knew why he
was asking.
"Yes, if I survive the next few years.
Probably by a lot."
Brettel nodded, then added, "Why are
you asking this?"
"Because I care, and because it's the
only way I can try to protect her, to allow her as much of her own life as
possible."
Both older men looked at each other.
"We'd like to talk for a moment,
Lerris . . . Deirdre . . ." Destrin's voice was calm, almost relaxed.
Deirdre stood up as I did. "Papa,
Godpapa . . ." Her voice firmed. "I need to talk to Lerris for a
moment-alone. Please excuse us." She looked at me with a smile, extending
her arm almost like one of the ladies from the street.
Propped up as he was in his chair, Destrin
looked from Deirdre to me and back again. His brow mirrored puzzlement, and
Brettel just touched his shoulder and nodded.
I looked at Deirdre, somehow very regal in
that moment, even in her faded blue trousers and blouse and old white apron.
She seemed somehow relieved, yet, beneath the relief, I could sense the
tension, like a coiled spring, or worse. So I took her arm, and we walked
toward the far end of the main room. I stopped, but Deirdre eased me on into
her small room with the narrow bed, scarcely larger than the space I occupied
in the shop below, save she had a window overlooking the alley and the stable.
Her arm released mine.
Click.
"What . . ."
Her ringer touched my lips to stop my
words, and I could tell she was trembling.
"Lerris . . . ?" Her voice was
uneven.
"Yes?"
"I know you're some kind of wizard . .
. but . . ." She took a deep breath. ". . . would you ever hurt
me?"
"Of course not," I protested,
wondering where the conversation was going, and why she had closed the door.
That faint scent of woman and roses reminded me of a night too long before and
best forgotten.
"Not ever?"
"No. Why?"
Crack!
My head rang, and my eyes blurred from the
force of her open hand, and when I could see, I could see the tears streaming
from her eyes. "Why . . . ?" I shook my head.
She just stood there sobbing. "Don't
you understand?"
Whatever it was, I certainly didn't
understand it, but all I could think to do was reach for her hands. She let me
take them, and we stood there for a time as she sniffled out the sobs.
Finally, she swallowed. "I'm . . . not
. . . not a brood pony . . . I'll ... do anything ... for papa . . . and for
you . . . but you . . . could have . . . asked . . . You . . . could .... have
. . . asked . . ."
I was the one swallowing then, and finding
it hard to see. Good old stupid Lerris, working like hell to save the girl, and
not even asking her. But, even as I kept swallowing ... I realized the tension
within Deirdre was gone . . .
"Sorry. I just wanted to do
what-"
"Lerris?"
"Yes?" My voice was level, since
I didn't know what to expect.
"There's one other thing."
The one other thing was two arms around my
neck and warm lips on mine and a very feminine body pressed close against me.
Very close against me, and pulling me down onto her and the bed.
We lay there for a long time, only holding
and kissing. Then, slowly, before I lost total control, I let go of her and
rolled away.
She sat up on the narrow bed. "That's
what you're going to miss." She smiled sadly. "And what I'm going to
miss."
I just stood there.
"Thank you ... for me, for papa ...
for caring . . . and for being you . . ."
By then I couldn't see anything, but
neither could she. So we ended up hanging on to each other again, and I cried
as much as she did.
Thankfully, neither Destrin nor Brettel
interrupted, and, in time, we pulled ourselves apart.
There wasn't anything else to say, not
then. After we wiped our faces, she opened the door.
". . . just fine . . . Destrin . . .
too damned honorable . . ."
". . . so you say . . ."
". . . you know it as well as I do . .
."
Deirdre grinned for the first time, even
with the sadness beneath. "You are too honorable . . ."
I didn't have any choice any longer, not if
I wanted to survive. I still had to explain it to Bostric, although I thought
it was less likely that he would either haul off and hit me or kiss me. So I
left the three to discuss details and went down to the shop.
Bostric was working on the tavern bench,
and doing so quite effectively, having shortened the piece to cut out Destrin's
mis-drilling.
I pulled out the two stools and set them by
my workbench. "We need to talk."
Bostric could read when to tease and when
not to. He took one look at the side of my face, which was probably still red,
nodded, and set down the shaper.
"Sit down," I said as I pointed
to the empty stool.
"Is there a problem?" For once,
he looked worried.
"Yes. But it's more mine than yours.
Brettel says that your family has not arranged any future alliances-a marriage
or anything like that. Is that true?"
"That's true." His voice was
cautious. "I'm the fourth son, and my brothers are healthy. The land is
too small for me to inherit anything."
"What do you think about
woodworking?"
"I told you. I'll never be in your
class."
"Do you like it?"
The redhead nodded. "I like the woods,
and living in Fenard is better than the farm."
"What do you think about
Deirdre?"
This time his mouth did hang open.
"You . . . can't . . . she likes . . ." He shook his head.
"I take it that you find her
acceptable." I kept my voice dry.
This time he grinned.
"I have to leave before long. You know
I'm not from Fenard. Brettel and I did not want to promise you anything until
we saw-"
"-Whether I could be a
woodcrafter?"
I nodded.
"But?"
"Deirdre can almost take care of
herself, but without a husband in Fenard, she cannot hold the property. Destrin
can't last much longer, and I couldn't even marry her out of convenience."
I swallowed. Leaving Deirdre was going to be harder than I realized.
"You like her. A lot."
"Yes," I admitted. "But that
doesn't matter." And when my mind and heart were only sad, not rebelling
at the statement, I knew that what I said was true.
Bostric shook his head. "I don't
understand you. You're the finest crafter in Fenard since Dorman, and you will
walk away from fortune and a beauty who loves you?"
"I don't have any choice, Bostric.
Please don't ask." I cleared my throat. I was still having trouble seeing.
"I take it that your family won't object. Oh, and she does have a small
dowry."
"No. They'll be so happy for me, just
joyous that clumsy Bostric actually found a beauty with property-"
"Stop it!" I put an arm on his
shoulder. "One of us needs to be happy, and you and Deirdre can be happy
together."
"Yes, oh wizardly craft-master."
I punched him on the arm, but not too hard.
"And I'll . . . do something creatively wizardly if you ever do anything
to make her unhappy . . ."
He paled. "I think you would."
I shook my head. "Just love her."
What else could I ask? If he did that, most everything else would follow,
especially with Brettel's help. "I know it won't be easy-not with Brettel
looking over your shoulder."
He looked at me strangely before shaking
his head.
Then, for a time, I sat down in my corner
alcove.
LVI
DESPITE
MY RESOLVE and Destrin's agreement, nothing could be arranged as quickly as I
had hoped. There were banns to be posted, agreements to be formalized, and
parties to be attended-parties held by Bostric's parents, by Brettel and his
family. While I went, I stayed as much in the background as possible, hoping
that all the festivities would eclipse me. Everywhere I went, I watched,
looking like a wolf for the hunters. But I never found them, and with each
failure, my guts tightened, as I wondered whether the next instant would find
me in the sights of a crossbow. Yet until Deirdre was taken care of, I did not
want to leave. But my staying was stupid, and I wrestled myself night after
night.
As the fall waned, the sun dropped from the
zenith, the rains occasionally fell, and the grasses greened again, Destrin lay
stiller and stiller upon his bed, not even arguing with Deirdre, sometimes
unable even to eat.
Deirdre was quiet, though she still
sometimes favored me with a smile, and I smiled back, and both smiles hurt, and
I knew I should leave.
In the end, once again, I had no choice,
not if I wanted to live with myself. Each day, more soldiers rode out to the
slaughter, faces blank, and they were younger and younger. Each day, more girls
and women wept and damned the autarch. Only the conflict kept the assassins
from me, I suspected.
Antonin's strategy was working, working all
too well, fueled by the prefect's anger against the autarch. What could the
autarch do? Let the bloodthirsty chaos-ruled Gallian soldiers kill her people
and troops?
Still, I could not afford to take on
Antonin himself. Remembering the power he had displayed in sweeping me aside
earlier in the year, I wasn't ready for that. But I didn't think I had to, not
yet.
I pushed Bostric unmercifully, mindful of
Brettel's concerns, not daring nor wanting to leave Fenard yet, not until I
could be assured that Deirdre and Bostric would be all right, yet worrying that
my continuing presence might endanger them all.
At the same time, I was all too aware that,
despite my efforts to learn the knowledge contained in The Basis of Order, all
too many sections of the book I had merely learned by rote, without really
understanding what lay behind and beneath them.
There was no one to ask, especially about
the more cryptic phrases-the ones that seemed so simple, like the one that
read, "and no man can truly master the staff of order until he casts it
aside." Or the one about "love no one until you can love yourself,
for love of another is merely empty flattery and self-deception for one who
cannot accept himself without pretense." The second one sounded right
enough, but how honestly could a man love himself without pandering to his own
wishes to see himself as he wished?
Then there was the one that went:
"Order and chaos must balance, but as on a see-saw. The power of chaos is
for great destruction in a confined area, for order by nature must be diffused
over vaster realms. If you would battle chaos, or establish order, you must
limit the area and the time in which it must be balanced." While that one
really seemed simple, I didn't have the faintest idea of how to limit chaos.
Knowing I could not limit chaos did not
keep me from walking the streets more often. I finally had let Deirdre sew me a
set of clothes suited to holidays and relaxation -still of dark brown, but the
fabric was a close-woven cotton. When she refused to let me pay more than the
fabric cost, I put the difference in the hidden strongbox that would be her
dowry.
"Now you look the craft-master,"
Bostric had said, and I wished he had been joking.
I had just shaken my head.
The first real chill dropped on Fenard
early, even before the early melon harvest, although it did not frost. I ambled
through the market at midday, hoping to pick up some fresh melon for Destrin,
the honey-sweet kind that eased the dry-ness in his thin throat.
White clouds, tinged with gray, floated
above the western horizon, as if coming from the Westhorns, but the breeze was
light, and the warmth almost summery. I wiped my forehead more than once as I
looked for some of the light green melons.
Ahead was Mathilde, the flower lady, who
kept casting her eyes at the long wall, as if trying not to. That was where the
prefect displayed the results of his justice-the heads of those who displeased
him. Usually, the heads were those of common thieves, or a deserter from the
prefect's guards, or a murderer.
I looked up there. This time, there were
two heads. I could feel the chill in my guts and the bile in my throat as I saw
the woman's head, seeing the short blond hair-Wrynn? Then I looked again and
saw the dark splotch on the short-cut blond hair and the difference in the
shape of the face-recognizing the captive I had seen being brought back by the
prefect's soldiers. But it easily could have been Wrynn, and who knew where she
was?
Whispers went around the square, and the whispers
weren't for the Kyphran soldier, but for the other head-that of an older man,
who had clearly been blinded and tortured first.
". . . why . . ."
". . . devil chairs . . . someone said
. . ."
". . . killed the whole household . .
. the prefect did . . ."
". . . why the sub-prefect? . . .
don't understand . . ."
I did not run, but stood there, stone-still
behind Mathilde. The example of the sub-prefect left my guts churning. Because
the man had displayed something of order in his house, or because ordered
chairs had burned someone of chaos- that had been his fate?
The golden coach was gone, with Antonin in
it, and now I was out of time and out of excuses. No guards had yet moved
against Destrin or the shop, and none moved the streets while I stood in the
square, but that could change.
My head and then my feet turned toward the
avenue. I walked to the shadows by the palace and cast a cloak around myself,
letting my feelings sense whether a guard troop might be moving into the city.
First, there were the two guards by the
main gates. While scaling the wall looked easier, I had no idea what wards
Antonin or any other wizard might have placed there. Wards couldn't be used on
the main entrances, or they would be warning someone every instant, especially
during the day, since there were bound to be soldiers and ministers and horses
in and out of the palace all the time.
I just stood there beneath the wall, far
enough away so that my breathing would not be heard, and sat down in the shade
and waited.
Clink . . . clinkedy . . . dink . . .
The first horse passed by, heading for the
barracks, carrying another chaos-ruled killer.
I kept waiting, my heart still beating too
fast.
. . . clickedy . . . click . . . clickedy .
. . click . . .
The delivery wagon never reached the palace
gates, but turned at the sub-prefect's vacant house.
. . . click . . . click . . .
Another soldier, this one walking tiredly
toward the barracks.
I took a deep breath, trying to relax. The
relaxation lasted until the next sound of hooves.
Clickedy . . . click . . . clickedy . . .
click . . .
"Hold it."
Unseen, I eased toward the rider and his
horse, another one of the chestnuts.
"I'm Captain Karflis with a message
for the Military Council."
"Yeah, he's Karflis. He shows up the
day before the council meets."
Click . . . My foot caught on a curb my
senses hadn't distinguished.
"What's that?"
I froze, knowing they couldn't see me.
"Relax. It's broad daylight. There's
no one in sight."
Creakkkkk . . .
As the iron gates swung open, I followed
the good captain on foot, and not too close to the rear of his horse, but close
enough that any sound I might make would be covered by the louder impact of the
chestnut's hooves on the stone of the courtyard inside the gate.
I stopped as he dismounted, sensing almost
a fountain of chaos somewhere off to my left. The captain, however, turned
right, and I decided to go with him. Following the captain into the palace was
almost as easy, since he walked with a heavy tread and his boots echoed on the
marble floors.
From the courtyard, where he left the horse
with a military ostler, or whatever they were called, he passed another pair of
guards in the main hall. Then he bypassed the grand staircase and walked
through a small archway to the side, leading to a narrow corridor that opened
into another hallway at the back of the palace. After a left turn, he walked
through a red oak doorway with an elaborate stained-glass mural inset over the
open door. My senses did not distinguish the scene all that well, except there
was a lot of lead around the glass panes.
"Captain Karflis. You are expected.
The marshall is inside." Another pair of guards flanked the closed door to
the right of the desk where the other officer-I assumed that from the gold on
his shoulders-was sitting.
This time, I barely made it inside without
getting the door shut on me, and I actually brushed the captain, recoiling from
the swirling chaos locked within him as I did so.
He brushed at his coat. "Spiders ...
or something . . ."
"How goes it, Karflis?" The
marshall was thin, that I could tell, and his voice was flat and cold.
"The autarch refuses to attack until
our men cross into her territory. She has a new weapon that flings crossbow
bolts in greater numbers beyond the range of our wizards to detect them."
"How effective is it?"
As Karflis continued to stand facing the
marshall and to report, I studied the room, from the high and arched ceiling to
the cold, if large, hearth, from the table with four chairs around it to the
large desk behind which the marshall sat.
". . . not much more effective than
crossbows . . . really . . ."
"You have heard of her strike
here?"
Karflis bowed from the waist.
"Ser?"
"Devil-forged chairs, spells upon
once-loyal soldiers . . ."
Both men were filled with that tight and
coiled loop of chaos, but in the captain's case, the order beneath, that core
of honest blackness, still refused to submit, and I gauged the strength of the
chaos, then reached for the captain with my senses, making a change here and
there. Nothing that would be obvious for a while.
The marshall bore no trace of order, only a
white-red coil of disorder and evil. Since I could not destroy, not if I
understood the implications for myself, I just gave him some well-needed rest,
and he fell asleep on his desk. Within instants, he was snoring.
I would have liked to hear more, but what
he said would have made no difference, and attacking the palace, in my own way,
would force Antonin and the prefect to look within the palace, rather than in
Fenard-at least for a while.
Karflis looked around in confusion.
"Hersil!"
Click!
"He just fell asleep as I was
talking."
The two guards had crowded inside the room,
their swords drawn on the captain, and the officer who had been outside
followed, barely a step behind.
Like the marshal!, the two guards were lost
to order, and I put them to sleep as well. While it was only temporary, a
little confusion would not hurt.
The other officer gaped as his guards
sagged into sleep. "Wizardry! There's a wizard around here! Call
Tallian-"
Putting him to sleep took longer, because I
was already tired.
I sat down on the thick plush carpet whose
color I could not determine from my sense of place alone, and thought. What I
was doing wasn't going to work.
Out of five men, four were beyond
redemption. While I could easily have removed the chaos from their souls, that
chaos was so much of their being that they would have died, or been mindless
idiots. And besides, destruction was destruction, at least according to the
book.
I shook my head.
Karflis stood there, also shaking his head,
confusion over his own mental state warring with confusion over the collapse of
the marshall and the three others.
A thought occurred to me, and I let my
feelings reach for the sleeping young officer, trying to see if I could
determine the source of that chaos. Only a hint, but it pointed, if pointing
was the right word, to something else, that something I had sensed in entering
the palace.
I got up, as silently as I could, and
walked over one guard's sleeping figure and through the now-open door and back
into the outer office, leaving one still-puzzled captain behind.
Back down the marbled corridors, past three
or four sets of guards until I could sense that deadly fountain of chaos- a
tumbling stream of white. My hands were trembling ... so I sat down again in a
corner, where anyone passing would not trip over me, wondering what in hell I
was doing wandering the corridors of the prefect's palace.
After a time, and with a silent sigh, I
stood, feeling like a mouse in a house full of cats, or dragons, assuming such
beasts existed somewhere. Slow step by slow step, I neared the chaos pool.
Except it was just a fountain in the courtyard, a simple fountain to the eyes.
The courtyard was paved in granite and the walls just simple stone walls. The
fountain was a jet of warm water coming from a man-sized stone vase.
The courtyard was not even guarded, but
then again, it didn't need to be.
Even for me, it was like walking against
the ice storm on the plains of Certis, of battling the heart of a thunderstorm,
or worse.
A fountain of warm water, that seemed all,
but the warmth came from deep below, fueled by some sort of chaos, and twisted
by something beyond, like a mighty lock of something insubstantial.
With my thoughts I could trace the twisted
patterns, but that did no good, because they weren't patterns. They were chaos.
Each time I tried to follow a line of force, it seemed to dissolve.
Then, I remembered a passage from the book,
the one about bringing order from chaos-about creating a mirror of order. The
reflection of chaos as order would either order it or destroy it-if the mirror
of order were stronger than chaos. If not ...
I didn't want to think about the
consequences. So I summoned up my own strength and began to create a sort of
mirror around the fountain, a pattern like what I could sense, but ordered. I
struggled to reflect the odd twists, turning them into a deeper harmony,
substituting order for chaos, in equal shape and force, and it was strangely
like working out the pattern of a chest or a writing-desk.
My eyes blurred, though I could see
nothing.
My legs trembled, and I sat on the granite
stones.
My arms felt like water, and I let them
drop.
My head was throbbing, and splitting, and I
let it, but I struggled, fighting to reflect that fearful pattern, realizing
that I might well end in that white prison demonstrated by Justen if I did not
succeed.
My eyes twitched against closed lids.
My breath panted as though I had run uphill
for kays.
And I held the mirror pattern against the
fountain.
Clunk.
The blurriness was gone from the blackness
before my unseeing eyes, and my legs remained weak, but did not tremble. My
head ached-but both patterns were gone.
Only the splash of water remained.
". . . help . . ."
"... Tallian . . ."
I began to walk toward the other courtyard
and the gates, understanding that there would indeed be hell to pay, and before
too long, either.
"... wizardry!"
"Tallian says to check around the fountain!"
Two guards ran past me toward the fountain
courtyard I had left, one of them nearly hitting me as I dodged against the
wall.
In all the rushing, I just waited until the
gates opened. Then I walked to the market square area and reappeared out of the
shadows, not that anyone was watching, with the half-dozen horsemen speeding
from the palace.
I did not quite run to Destrin's, belatedly
realizing what could well happen. But I did burst in the door.
"Bostric."
"What . . . ?" One look at me and
his face was probably as pale as mine felt.
"How fast can you and Deirdre get to
Bread's?" The most-recent journeyman in Fenard gulped.
"Never mind. Just get Deirdre down
here. All hell is about to break loose."
"But . . ."-
"Do it." I gathered my staff and
pack, the book, and the small strongbox with Deirdre's dowry, before hurrying
out to the stable to saddle Gairloch. He didn't even whinny.
When I got back into the shop, Bostric and
Deirdre each carried a small sack.
Deirdre looked at me. "Papa ... he won't leave . . ."
I dashed upstairs.
Destrin sat in his armchair. His eyes were
clear.
"We need to leave, Destrin."
"No." He shook his head.
"You're right, Lerris-wizard, or whatever you are-but I'm not strong
enough to keep up with you young people. You can care for my Deirdre. I can't,
and I'll slow you down. And I'm almost dead anyway ." . . would have died
seasons ago without you."
"We can take you."
"I'll fight you, young wizard."
He smiled a yellow-toothed grin.
I could tell he would. "Good-bye,
then, Destrin. I won't be back."
"I know. Take care for my
Deirdre."
There wasn't much else to say. I reached
down and hugged the cranky old man, but my steps were heavy down the stairs.
"You . . . couldn't ..."
I looked at Deirdre. "He'll fight to
stay in his house. Trying to take him would kill him."
She nodded, but the corners of her eyes
were wet. Then she ran upstairs again.
I pursed my lips, wondering how soon the
soldiers would reach us.
"What are we doing, Lerris?"
"Going to Bread's."
It seemed like forever before Deirdre came
down, and her eyes looked back up the stairs. "He . . , said . . . he'd
scream and yell ... if I didn't go . . ." Destrin would be cranky to his
last breath.
Then I felt like hitting my head with my
hand. I tiptoed back up the stairs. With Destrin it was easier than with the
guards. Almost before I could react, he was asleep.
He weighed little enough, even for me.
Deirdre's eyes widened as I carried him
down.
"He's just asleep."
I put Deirdre on Gairloch, just so she
could hold the sleeping Destrin, and we started out, my feelings extended as
far as I could.
I didn't like what I was about to do, but,
again, there wasn't any choice.
"Bostric? Deirdre?"
They looked at me. "I'll be right with
you, but you may not be able to see me. If the guards see me, they might . ..
get upset ..." I finished lamely. What I said might be true, but I didn't
know. They might be more than upset to see me, but with Antonin off fighting
the autarch, I wasn't sure if anyone had actually traced back how the chairs
had come to the sub-prefect, or if anyone really cared.
I just couldn't chance it.
"If you say so, wizardly one,"
quipped Bostric.
Deirdre looked at me. "Whatever you
say."
Bostric frowned, but I'd be gone before
long, and he would have her all to himself, the lucky bastard.
So we set out toward the north gate. Even
carrying the staff that I had used so little over the past year, all I could
sense was a vague confusion in the direction of the palace, even after we
reached the gate.
The guards scarcely gave them a second
look, although I did weave a light cloak around the sacks and packs.
When we reached Brettel's I reappeared. It
was still mid-afternoon, with the dusty dryness that comes when the crops are
nearly all in and the grass has browned. In the unseasonable heat, I felt like
I had been up for two days straight.
"You were here."
"I said I would be."
"Lerris?" I turned to the
approaching mill-master, feeling my legs tremble, and sat down abruptly before
I fell, still holding the staff.
"You're hurt!" Deirdre exclaimed.
"Just tired." I glanced up at
Brettel, who looked like an angry giant from my viewpoint on the ground.
"I should have known." His eyes
were focused on the black staff.
"All hell is breaking loose," I
added. Not only was I exhausted, but my speech was getting repetitious.
"What did you do?" The mill-master
looked less than amused.
"Me? I just created a little
order."
Brettel snorted. "Get Destrin into the
guest wing, the bed in the small room." He was talking to Dalta, the blond
vision.
Enough energy returned to my legs that I
could stand.
". . . Bostric will stay in the mill
quarters with Arta, and Deirdre will sleep somewhere in the main house . .
." He turned to me. "What about you?"
I shook my head. "I need some food and
rest, but staying here is too dangerous to you. Even being seen here isn't
good."
"No one here will speak."
"No one saw me come here," I
affirmed, leaning on my staff.
He looked both worried and relieved.
I waited until the others began to follow
Dalta. Then I handed him what had been in the strongbox. "That's
Deirdre's."
He didn't insult me by insisting it was
mine or any such nonsense, just accepted it gravely. "Thank you."
"Thank you. I regret having to leave
so soon, but . . ."
"Now-" he began.
"Do you really want to know?" I
asked. My voice was hoarse and tired.
He nodded.
"Antonin set up a fountain of chaos in
the palace. They must have bathed the soldiers in it or something. That's why
..." I shook my head. I couldn't explain exactly why the fountain had
turned them into mindless creatures ready to follow any order, but I knew it
had. That was why the officers stayed away. They had to think. Besides, they
were already corrupted.
Brettel frowned. "You seem to think
Antonin is evil, Lerris."
Was a goat stubborn? "Yes."
"Does that make the autarch good? How
do you know she isn't worse?"
I nearly shivered right there, in the heat
and all. Given the history of Candar, the legacy of Frven and the White City,
it was a good question. And I didn't know the answer. Finally, I shrugged.
"If that's the case, neither one is going to be very happy with me."
Brettel smiled wryly. "I'm glad you
feel that way, but I'm also glad you refused Deirdre. You're either going to be
very powerful or very dead before long."
The sadness in his eyes told me which he
thought it would be.
I slept the rest of the afternoon, although
I had never been able to sleep in the light except when I was sick. But then,
I'd never melded chaos and order before.
Deirdre woke me. She did it with a kiss on
the cheek-a gentle one-then sat down at the foot of the bed-Brettel's bed. Who
his wife had been, I had never learned, except she had to have been beautiful
and special.
"Will you come back?"
"Not unless you treat me like Brettel."
"That will be hard."
We both knew that.
"Would anything else be fair to
Bostric? Or you?"
She kissed me again, lightly, as she stood
up. "Supper is ready."
By the time I washed, everyone was gathered
around the big table-Dalta, Deirdre, Bostric, and Brettel. Destrin, they said,
was still resting, but seemed fine, if pale.
The stew was good, the berry biscuits
better, and the conversation nonexistent. It was time to go.
Deirdre, Bostric, and Dalta stood on the
porch, waiting, as I walked to the stable with Brettel. Inside were two newish
saddlebags, stuffed, in addition to my own older saddlebags and bedroll.
"You didn't have-"
"Lerris." The tone was firm.
"You didn't have to do what you did. All I ask is that you do your best to
keep the innocents from getting hurt too badly."
"I'll do what I can." I knew
exactly what he meant. Whether what he wanted was within my power was another
question entirely.
I saddled Gairloch, then put the staff into
the holder, and added the saddlebags.
"Do you know where you're going?"
"Kyphrien first, to answer your
question."
"And then?"
"That depends on the answer. Probably
into the Westhorns to find something I've avoided."
Brettel pursed his lips. "Good luck."
He walked me part way to the road. Even
though she never left the porch, I could tell Deirdre was crying, and my own
breath was ragged. For some reason, as I turned Gairloch onto the north road in
the twilight and drew my reflective cloak around me, I thought of Justen, the
gray wizard, wondering how many good-byes he had said over the years, and how
many times he had returned to find only change and death waiting.
LVII
IN
ADDITION TO making my way to Kyphrien, that maligned capital of Kyphros, I had
one other little chore to attend to, one I wasn't exactly thrilled about as
Gairloch and I plodded back around the north road again.
This time I chose the east gate, not
because east was where we were going, but because the guards there were the
sloppiest. Nothing ever came from the east.
The main trade roads ran north and south,
and south was the road to Kyphros, which is where I was headed and where the
prefect's troops all rode or marched. The east road, as I well knew, only
straggled across broad farmlands from the Easthorns, and few traders or anyone
else traveled that route.
Sloppy or not, I stopped well beyond the
guards, listening behind my cloak of light, and checking the ramparts above the
gate. There were no bowmen on duty. The sun had dropped behind the city, and
the shadows were long.
". . . Rephren should be here . .
."
". . . bastard's late . . ."
Creaakkkk . . .
"Another damned farm wagon."
"It's your turn ..."
". . . lazy frigger . . ."
As they turned to the farm wagon, I dropped
the reflective cloak and let Gairloch walk toward the guards.
Click . . . click . . . click . . .
"Where he'd come from?"
The stouter guard turned to me. "Where
to, fellow?"
I gestured vaguely. "The mountains."
With mountains in three directions, it was an honest answer, especially since
it was true.
"What's that?" He pointed at the
staff, which I had purposely left unconcealed.
"That's my staff." I edged
Gairloch practically on top of the poor man, forcing him to back up.
"I don't know . . . wasn't there
something . . . ?" He frowned, looking at the other guard, who was pawing
halfheartedly through empty sacks piled around a few open sacks of potatoes in
the wagon bed. A grizzled farmer, clearly waiting to head home with what he had
not sold, watched silently from the wagon's bench seat as the younger guard
checked the produce.
"I'm sure there was, officer," I
said politely, "but since I'm leaving-it can't matter that much." I
flicked the reins and guided Gairloch around him.
"Wait . . . you!"
At that point I drew the cloak around us,
and spurred Gairloch down the stone ramp.
"Wizard! That fellow was a
wizard!"
". . . huhh . . . what fellow . .
."
I left them to sort it out.
Cling! Clang! Cling! Clang!
By the time the alarm chimes rang, I had
eased up on Gairloch and began to let him walk until we reached a narrowed
lane, which would, in time, wind its way back around Fenard to meet up with the
south road toward Kyphros.
Before long Antonin or Sephya, or both of
them, would be back. They could not have missed the change in the city's
order-chaos balance. Even now I could feel it, and I suspected a great many
illusions were wearing thin, perhaps even those cloaking the street of harlots.
Then again, understanding how even I liked to deceive myself about women,
perhaps not.
Gairloch walked on, his steps shorter, as
they always were when he walked blind, until we were shrouded by trees and
shadow, and I dropped the cloak. Night would be as good a cloak for a time.
Wheeee . . . eeee
I patted his shoulder. "I know. You,
don't like the darkness. Neither do I."
It was well past full night, and moonless,
before we turned onto the south highway. The section we traveled was empty, but
the dust bore the traces of horses-another cavalry troop, I thought, headed
toward Kyphros.
I did not see any trace of coach tracks,
nor sense any lingering odor of chaos, but I kept my ears open for the drumming
of hooves as Gairloch bore me southward, past farm cottages faintly lighted by
single candles or lamps, past darker clumps of sheep behind railed fences, past
the occasional howling dog.
Some sort of insects whirred and chirped
and buzzed. And I rode steadily onward into the night.
In time, we came to another river, spanned
by a stone bridge, a bridge well-mortared and solid, the sort of bridge that
would resist any chaos-master's efforts.
A thought occurred to me, and I grinned.
The bridge was solid, and over running water, which might help.
So while Gairloch drank, I studied the
bridge, finally drawing from the calmness around me a greater sense of order,
and of purpose, and infusing it into the stones. Lying there on the long fall
grass, I thought long and hard, trying to recall more from the book, knowing
there was more I wanted to do.
But I waited, letting my mind drift through
what I had learned until the knowledge returned to me.
Then I tuned the bridge to the order
underlying the superficial chaos of the river, and to the order of the deep
stones underneath.
I almost whistled as I remounted Gairloch,
except I was tired again. Using order was work. The hard white cheese that
Brettel had packed helped restore me, as did the water from the canteen I had
filled at the river.
That bridge was going to cause Antonin, or
at least the prefect's chaos-washed troops, some trouble.
By the time the crescent moon had appeared,
both Gairloch and I were tired, and took refuge in a copse of trees-a woodlot,
really-not too far from the road. I did set wards before I collapsed on the
bedroll.
Again, I dreamed of a black-haired woman,
but the details eluded me, and that bothered me. Were my dreams pushing me
toward Krystal because she was from Recluce, or for better reasons?
A bright gray sky woke me, sunlight
diffused through high thin clouds. That, and the extraordinarily cheerful sound
of some bird I did not know and wanted to strangle.
After stowing my bedroll and saddling
Gairloch, I rode until we crossed another stream, where we had breakfast. By
now we were in the flattest of the low rolling hills between Fenard and the
Little Easthorns, that not-quite-mountain range that ran nearly three hundred
kays north and south to connect the Westhorns. with the proper Easthorns.
In her generally boring lectures on
geography, Magistra Trehonna had noted in passing that the Little Easthorns
were contrary to normal geology and might well represent a very early attempt
at geological chaos-mastery. If so, the perpetrator probably had not survived
the attempt, one way or another.
I doubted the theory, especially
considering the effort it took me to accomplish generally minor tasks like
neutralizing chaos fountains and order-trapping bridges.
Theory or not, we had another day or two of
travel and more than a few bridges to cross before we reached Kyphros .. . and
I had more than a few questions I needed to ask myself. More important, I
needed answers for myself, and I was the only one who would find them. That was
all too clear.
LVIII
AFTER
TWO DAYS of riding through the boring rolling hills of Southern Gallos, two
days of avoiding towns, and two days of dried fruit, travel bread, and hard
cheese, and stream water, I was ready to leave Gallos.
Only twice had we had to leave the road to
avoid the hard-riding troops of the prefect. In both cases, the cavalry
detachments were headed toward Kyphros, not back to Fenard. On one other
occasion, we caught up with three wagons filled with supplies and had to sneak
around them.
Except for that time I rode openly, without
shields, feeling that the locals wouldn't care who rode by, and that using
order might call more wizardly attention to me than necessary.
Late on that second day we came to the
first bridge over the Southbrook, a structure half-timber, half-stone, which
required three spans to cross the slow-flowing water. But it was past
mid-morning the next day before we reached the second bridge-a single stone
span.
With that second bridge over the Southbrook
came the reminders of war.
The odor of smoke drifted toward me first,
faint, like the leftover burnt wood smell in an uncleaned fireplace that has
stood unused over the summer. Acrid, like charred leather, like the hides left
from burning diseased animals. Pervasive, like the unseasonable clouds and fog
that had clung to Freetown.
Wheee . . . eeeee . . . Gairloch tossed his
head.
"I know. If it smells that bad to me,
it's worse for you."
His steps clattered on the paving-stones of
the bridge, echoing into the morning. The echoes rebounding from the stone
walls of the bridge were the only sounds. Even the insects were hushed, and not
a single birdcall warbled or whistled through the air.
I shivered.
Beyond the bridge, the road began to wind
and climb toward the not-so-distant hills beneath the Little Easthorns.
Everything was relative, I supposed. Without having seen the Easthorns, I would
have found the dark slopes on the horizon impressive. Now they just appeared as
another barrier.
The hills belonged to the autarch, which
meant that we were nearing the border between Gallos and Kyphros.
With the wind from the south came more of
that lingering acrid-sweet odor of ash and charred hide. Gairloch whuffed again
as he carried me southward over the stone bridge and onto the packed-clay
highway heading uphill. The browning grasses beyond the road edge were damp,
and not with dew. Gairloch's hooves left clear imprints in the dark-red clay of
the road. Whatever rain had fallen the night before had not carried much beyond
the Southbrook or the hills of the Little Easthorns.
The sky was a crystal blue and cloudless,
promising one of those late fall days that reminded me more of summer than the
approaching winter.
Yee-ahh! Yeee-ah! The distant call of the
vulcrows echoed through the stillness of the morning. Ahead and slightly to my
right, over the crests of perhaps three hills, circled two of the black birds.
My hand edged toward my staff, which I had
not bothered to conceal. The sun was a white-yellow point in the sky, somehow
not really connected to the damp road clay, the circling scavengers, or to me.
Gairloch was thirsty, and I pulled up on
the reins and guided him back off the road and down toward the shore of the
placid river, stopping on a sandy stretch not much wider than Gairloch's
length. From a half-submerged log, a small turtle glared at us, then scuttled
off his perch.
Ploppp . . . Only a faint rippled pattern
even marked that the turtle had been there.
I dismounted, looping the reins over the
saddle, and let Gairloch do his own drinking.
Yee-ah! Yee-ah!
My eyes returned to the vulcrows circling
in the distance, but the calls had come from closer birds. Closing my eyes to
what I could see with my eyes, I cast out for the vulcrows and the source of
their interest.
With my still-sharpening sense of place, I
could sense Gairloch placidly chewing leftover green grass by the river bank,
and almost could I feel the color of the grass. Then ... it could have been my
imagination.
Beyond Gairloch, beyond the near hills . .
. someone . . . something . . . was out there. I tried to project my senses
beyond Gairloch, beyond the river, more toward the hills ahead, in the direction
of the vulcrows' calls.
. . . darkness, and shiny brass, and blued
steel . . .
The prefect's soldiers. Waiting ahead.
Turning my attention behind me, back into
Gallos, I searched . . . and found more darkness, more brass and blued steel,
riding up from behind me on the road that would lead them and me onward into
Kyphros and into more death on both sides. Wonderful! I had the prefect's
troops in front of me and behind me.
I opened my eyes and looked back across the
bridge toward the rolling brown plains that I knew remained behind me, behind
the hill, then eastward at the light dusting of snow on the very tips of the
uncovered rock of the Little Easthorns. Further to the west, to my right, just
barely visible, a hint of gray clouds had begun to billow, as if to represent
the chaos of the wizard who resided in the rocks of the unseen Westhorns that
lay beneath or beyond those distant clouds.
The Westhorns, and Antonin, would have to
wait, at least for a while, until I had seen enough of Kyphros and the autarch
to ensure the answers to Brettel's questions and my own doubts.
While it was just past mid-morning, the
menace that awaited me lay some distance ahead, and like Gairloch, I was
thirsty. Hungry or not, I also needed to eat.
The river water was cold, cold enough both
in drinking and in washing the grime from my face to encourage my appetite, and
to open some trail bread and dried fruit from two packages near the top of the
saddlebags provided by Brettel. Being able to perceive what was inside closed
sacks had some advantages in the dark and when you didn't want to open sealed
provisions. I grinned, thinking how I had wondered how Justen always knew where
things were.
Still munching on the bread, I wondered
about the soldiers ahead, and about the vulcrows, the ones I had not seen, only
felt, over the next hill, and those circling further away.
The breeze from the south increased, and
with it came the odor of ashes and charred hides. I had to concentrate to
finish the slice of the second dried apple. After filling my canteen and taking
another long swallow of cold river water, I reclaimed Gairloch from his
browsing.
"Come on. It's time to figure out
what's ahead." Whuffff ...
Gairloch's steps became more skittery as we
neared the top of the hill beyond the bridge. Yeee-ahh, yeee-ahh, yeee-ahh . .
.
Just before the crest of the hill at the
right edge of the road was a square limestone marker, no more than knee-high.
Only two words-"Kyphros" set above "Gallos," with a line
separating the two. But someone had tried to scratch a skull next to the
"Kyphros."
Casting my senses ahead of me, I could feel
nothing living . . . except for the vulcrows perched in a barren low tree just
beyond the hilltop. Whuffl. . .
We passed the marker and continued over the
crest, the odor of ash even more pronounced in the light breeze. ". . .
uuugggghhhh ..."
My guts nearly wrenched out of my body, and
I swallowed hard to keep the just-eaten bread and fruit within me.
Except for the two vulcrows perched on the leafless trunk of a white
oak, nothing lived.
Except for the road, which only bore a
white dusting, thick white ash covered the entire hillside nearly a kay in
every direction, so white that it first looked like a blanket of snow. Only a
few blasted tree trunks, all white oaks, poked through the calf-deep ash.
Yeee-ahh . . .
The pair of vulcrows flapped into the late
morning sky, heading south toward those circling the higher hills. Wheeeeeeee .
. .
I didn't blame Gairloch as he pulled up
short of the ash. "Easy . . . easy . . ."
There was nothing there. My staff was cool
to the touch, and nothing lived. Nothing.
But I knew that the white ash represented
the remains of men, women, horses, grasses, trees, birds, insects, and even
fall flowers.
My guts twisted again. Wheeeee . . . eeeee
. . .
"Easy . . . easy ... we have to go
on."
More than ever I had to go on, deeper into
the war zone that was Northern Kyphros, deeper into the destruction that seemed
so unnecessary to me, and so critical to Antonin and the white wizards.
"... come on ..." I patted his
neck and flicked the reins.
Skittish step by skittish step, Gairloch
carried me straight down the ash-dusted road.
At the bottom of the hill the ash ended,
almost as though a line had been drawn, and the fall grasses and the scrub
brush resumed. The road clay was again damp, and I wondered if the rain had
been created to damp the ash into place.
I shook my head. Who knew why the
chaos-wizards did all that they did?
Yee-ah . . .
The echoing cry of the vulcrow reminded me
there was more of the same-or worse-yet to come.
At one time, the hills had been farmed. The
stone pillars of fences remained, as did a few rotting split rails. Every so
often, we passed a chimney emerging from a thicket of bushes or even standing
alone and rising out of a hummock of grasses.
The hills were not wild again, nor were
they tame, but somewhere in between. Abandoned apple trees still ran in orchard
rows with gaps showing those that had died and not been replaced. Taller blocks
of mixed oaks and conifers outlined old woodlots, while scrub oak and redberry
meadows indicated once-cleared fields.
With each hill, we neared the circling
vulcrows, and an underlying sense of white menace.
Yeee-ah, yee-ah '. . .
To the west, the clouds kept building. My
stomach continued to churn.
Finally, I put a shield around me. Not one
that would just keep me from being seen. Like me, any chaos-wizard could have
seen through a visual reflective shield. This shield would keep someone from
throwing energies at me. Light is energy, and if I could keep light from
touching me, I ought to be able to keep from being turned into white ash. The
only problem was that I still couldn't see with my eyes because the shield kept
light and energy from touching me.
I wondered why I didn't cool off, but my
body did generate heat. That brought up another question-like why my body heat
didn't fry me inside my shell-but I let my thoughts work on the shield . . .
and the shield let energy escape.
Could I build a shield that worked both
ways-letting no energy enter or escape? Probably, but for what reason?
Wheeee . . . eeee
Yeee-ah . . .
By now it was early afternoon, and we had
nearly reached the top of a particularly long hill. From what I could tell, the
vulcrows were circling over the next hill.
I cast out my senses.
The fight was over, for the soldiers were
methodically moving on foot, their horses tethered or picketed.
A point of white resided there as well, a
living point of white, a chaos-wizard.
There was no point in trying to avoid the
soldiers, not with more than a score of them plus a wizard who could track me.
But I didn't like it. I had no desire to be any sort of hero. I just had less
desire to be run down until I was too exhausted to fight. Besides, the soldiers
couldn't fight what they couldn't see.
The wizard was another question.
Still ... I looked behind me, as far as my
senses would carry me.
I wished I hadn't.
Wheeee . . . Gairloch tossed his head, as
if in warning.
More than twoscore cavalry had passed over
the South-brook bridge and now trotted onward, less than two long hills behind.
Behind them . . . much further behind, I could sense a rolling wave of chaos;
and I couldn't tell for sure, but would have been willing to bet that it
centered on a white-gold coach and Antonin. Where he had been when I disrupted
the prefect's chaos-fountain, I didn't know, but he was definitely on my trail.
All of this had developed because I'd
wanted to do something to repay Destrin for his support and to ensure a future
for Deirdre. But given the results, and Justen's warnings, and Antonin's
meddling in the war between Gallos and Kyphros ... it wasn't as though I had
much choice. Someone thought there was a real wizard loose, and all my actions
had pointed to me-and I scarcely knew what I was doing.
So they wanted me, whatever the cost. All
too predictable.
I glanced back over my shoulder.
Wheeee . . . uhhhh . . . wheeee.
Gairloch's protest jerked my head back
toward the crest of the hill before us.
Right-handed, I chucked the reins.
"Come on, old fellow. We can't exactly turn back."
Whheee.
"No, we can't. The prefect might let
you haul baggage carts, but I'd end up at the festivities in his central
square. The central attraction, you might say." I extended my left hand
toward the staff, still safe and waiting in the saddle holder. "Oooo . .
." The subjective heat flashed to my fingers even before they reached the
black lorken of my staff.
Something was definitely waiting over the
crest of the trail, where those soldiers and their attendant wizard waited.
I shrugged. What choice did I have? A few
worn-out soldiers and a less capable wizard ahead, or fresh troops and Antonin
behind?
The choice was clear enough. I just didn't
like either alternative.
I wiped my forehead, even though I knew
neither the sun's heat nor glare had reached through my shield.
Wheeee . . . eee . . .
"I know. There are evil types behind
us and worse in front of us. But you're going to have to give up the idea of
hauling baggage for the prefect."
Again, I tried to sense what lay over the
hillcrest before me, whatever it was that Gairloch disliked. All I could feel
was a sense of heat, of the fire that was the chaos trademark.
Wheeee . . .
"I know." I chucked the reins
again. Then I grabbed for my staff.
Tra . . . tra, tra, tra. The faint sounds
of a horn echoed from behind me. Just wonderful. On a beautiful, sunlit fall
day in Candar, I was sitting in the middle of a road between Gallos and
Kyphros. A wonderful day for a picnic or even a ride. Too bad there were
bloodthirsty Gallians behind me and in front of me, and a wizard with each
troop.
Wheee . . .
"I know. It wasn't exactly my idea,
either."
So we crossed the hillcrest and started
down.
Clink . . .
Downslope, more than a score of armed
troopers were mechanically looting what had to be bodies. The mechanical nature
of the movements told me that the victors-this time-had been the prefect's
troops.
"Harmin! Form up your squad! Wizard
says there's an armed man coming."
In spite of myself, I grinned. Me, an armed
man? With a small knife and a staff that was only defensive?
"Deres, Nershal, move it!"
Five mounted figures drew together and
began walking uphill.
Clink . . . clinkedy . . . dink ...
"How far?"
"Right at the hilltop!"
"There's no one there!"
Nerve-wracking as it was, I guided Gairloch
onto the side of the road, into the grasses, gambling that the scrunched sounds
of damp grass would be less obvious than hoofprints suddenly appearing on the
clay road.
The nearest rider passed less than two
arm-lengths from us as the five men headed up the road.
"Check the road for hoofprints!"
Somebody was thinking-unfortunately.
We kept moving toward the troop. The
wizard, a blob of white mounted on a horse that was probably also white, waited
in the shade of a tall pine downhill from the man who shouted the orders.
Wheeee . . . eeee . . .
"What was that?"
"Quiet," I whispered into
Gairloch's ear, patting his neck. "Quiet . . ."
We had to get closer to the white wizard,
but not seem as though that were my purpose. So I kept Gairloch headed
downhill, paralleling the road.
"He's past you! You idiots! Turn
around! Look for hoof-prints! Marks in the grass!"
By then we were nearly abreast of the heavy-set
officer who bellowed. Beside him were two other mounted men, plus two prisoners
on horseback-at least they were blindfolded and had their hands tied behind
them. And I was powerless to do anything to save them-not with my own order
powers, at least.
Still ... I found myself turning Gairloch
across the road, straight toward the officer.
"He's headed toward you." The
flat voice carried uphill from the shaded wizard.
"He's headed this way!" The
officer yanked his sword out, as did the pair beside him.
Hsssss ...
"Aeiiii . . . damned ..."
Hsss . . .
Clang ...
"Harmin!"
Wheeee . . . eeeee . . .
Almost easy, it was. Just a quick blow with
the staff to the wrists of all three men-who still couldn't see me. So chaos-filled
were they that the mere touch of the staff was agony. And I encouraged their
horses to run-after knocking the reins of the two captives' horses from the
hands of the third man.
Then I jammed the staff back into the
holder and used my knife to slash at the bonds of the prisoners. That took too
long. Trying to cut through rope from pony-back isn't easy.
Whhhhsttt!
A bolt of pure chaos-fire licked around me,
and I expanded the shield around the two.
"Hold still!" I hissed.
"Mmmmmppphhhh . . ."
Gagged, of course, and probably telling me
to get on with it.
"Harmin! Get the bastard!"
Whhhsssstttt . . . Another sheet of flame
cascaded off my shields.
I cut the woman's wrist a bit, but finally
severed the heavy cord, and pressed the knife into her hand. "You'll have
to free your friend!" I snapped, reaching up and yanking off the
blindfold. "Don't scream. You can't see me!"
". . . not a silly bitch like . .
." she muttered as she used her other hand to rip off the blindfold and
the gag.
Gairloch wheeled away from the two
captives. While I would have liked to run like hell, unless I kept the wizard
busy there was nothing to keep him from frying the captives.
So we charged, as much as a mountain pony
and an idiot woodcrafter with a little ability with order-magic and a good
staff could charge.
Whhhssstttt . . .
The heat and force nearly collapsed my
shields in on me, somehow drawn to the staff before me.
Thumpedy . . . thump ... Gairloch's hooves
actually drummed on the meadow turf, and I grabbed for my staff again, hoping
my trembling knees could hold me in place on the suddenly very unsteady
Gairloch.
"They're escaping!"
"Who's escaping?"
Whhhsttttt!
The staff deflected the fire, but that was
all it would do, gathering some and letting the rest sheet off, almost as if I
were fighting with it, rather than with the other wizard.
Whhhssttttt!
"You see that?"
"Forget the wizards! Get the
captives!"
"Where are they?"
Whhhstttt!
Gairloch and I half-tumbled, half-thundered
downhill toward the wizard on his white horse.
Whhhstttt!
"Just keep going ..."
I got the staff ready.
EEEiiiii! . . .
The white horse turned.
WHHHHSSSSTTTTTTTTTTTTT!
"Aeeeeeiiii . . ."
"Ouuufffff . . ."
Staff and firebolt had met at the white
wizard's fingertips.
For a long instant, I sat there,
momentarily near-deaf with the hissing still crackling in my ears . . . shaking
my head . . . before realizing that the white horse had reared, and that a dead
man lay on the turf, still dressed in white. Even as I watched, his face turned
to ashes and bones, and then the bones began to disintegrate . . .
"There he is! Another wizard! A black
one!"
My shields had gone with the clash, leaving
me in full sight of too damned many Gallian soldiers.
"Jernan! The captives!"
Shaking, head splitting, guts turning, I
nudged Gairloch past the heap of ashes that had been a white wizard, and back
toward the road.
"Use your bows!" bellowed the
heavy-set officer. "Your bows, idiots!"
Somehow I gathered enough of a light shield
around us, just enough to cloak us for a while as we both staggered away.
"He's gone!"
"Guess where he is!"
I don't know what they did-except that if
they shot at us, they missed. I did know that I was now in big trouble. Antonin
wasn't about to overlook the killing of another white wizard, however
accidental it might have been.
And the autarch's troops, assuming the
captives made it back safely, wouldn't be thrilled about a black wizard running
around loose, either. While I wasn't a black wizard, that was bound to be the
way I would be described.
My head ached. My buttocks ached. My eyes
burned. My ears kept chiming in discordant minor keys, and there was a taste of
bile in my throat. I'd played hero, and rescued two whole captives-maybe-and
alerted every white wizard in Candar.
Whheeee . , . eeee . . .
"Yeah ... I know . . ."
Somehow we tottered along through the afternoon,
at least long enough that the simmering disorder that represented Antonin and
the mess I had made disappeared behind us.
In the meantime, the clouds from the west
rolled in.
Thurrrummmm . . .
The hills became more than hills and less than
the East-horns, and the road stopped rising and falling and turned into a
near-steady grade.
Long before sunset, I turned Gairloch up a
deserted arroyo that had tufts of grass and a clean, if narrow stream. There
was an overhang sheltered from both the road and overhead observation.
Then I unsaddled Gairloch, stacked the
saddlebags, unpacked the bedroll, and collapsed. I did manage some silent
wards, and a type of shield I'd read about but never tried. It didn't make us
invisible, just reduced the level of order that escaped from around us,
something not very useful in hiding from bandits, but very useful in hiding
from Antonin. The problem was that you couldn't do both at once. At least I
couldn't, and Antonin was the bigger problem in the dark.
Wheeee . . . eeeee . . .
Slurrrrppppp ...
A wet tongue woke me into near-darkness.
Thurrummmm . . .
Despite the thunder, no rain had fallen.
The ringing in my ears was gone, but not
the shakiness in my hands, or the splitting headache that felt like thunder
between my ears.
After crawling down to the brook, dunking
my head and drinking, the shakiness subsided to an occasional tremble, and I
realized my crawl had covered my trousers with mud. I also realized that
Gairloch was hungry.
"Good horse . . . good pony ..."
I patted his neck, but he nipped at me just enough to indicate words weren't
what he wanted. Two grain cakes took care of his problem. He was a pig, but
he'd saved my neck too many times to count. So I munched on travel bread,
ignored my headache for a time longer, and brushed my four-footed savior.
Then I had some fruit and more bread and
went back to sleep.
In the morning, I washed the mud off my
trousers and laid them in the sun to dry. We both ate again before I washed
myself up and even shaved. I was in no hurry. Antonin clearly hadn't followed
me, since I was still alive, and there was no point in heading into more
trouble immediately. There was also no point in malingering.
So, slightly after mid-morning, I resaddled
Gairloch, packed up the gear, and headed back to the road.
In one thing, I had been wrong. Coach
tracks marked the cracking clay of the road.
I shivered, but there was nothing else I
could do.
LIX
IN A
WAY, following the coach tracks was a relief. At least, I knew that Antonin was
not tracking me directly. But then, I wasn't sure that he even knew that
I-Lerris-existed. The other thought, even more disturbing, was that he didn't
really care, that nothing I had done mattered. Even worse was the thought that
perhaps my actions actually benefitted the white wizard.
I frowned at the thought. Antonin had only
seen my face once, in a crowded inn, and he had never heard my name. There
would have been nothing to connect me to the ordered woodwork or even to the
disasters I had created in Fenard. So all that he probably knew was that
someone was working order in Gallos and Kyphros-someone strong enough or lucky
enough to destroy a white wizard .
That destruction I still did not understand
fully, except how close I had come to being destroyed myself. Nor did I
understand why Antonin had not immediately set out after me. I could only shake
my head and press on.
Gairloch dutifully carried me onward until
we were clearly into the tree-covered rocks of the Little Easthorns, steep
hills I would once have considered mountains. But then, the way I viewed a
number of things had changed.
Around midday, when I was looking for
another stream or at least a shaded place, we came down another incline into a
small dry valley. Gairloch skittered slightly. Underfoot the surface seemed
flatter, and I looked around. On the right was a thick grove of scrub juniper
bushes. On the left was a large and whitish boulder. I reined Gairloch to a halt.
Whheeee . . . eeee . . .
My spine tingled as I studied the rock that
looked no different than any other rock along the dusty road. I glanced toward
the scrubby off-green of the junipers, felt the same way. Something . . .
I closed my eyes and concentrated on
sensing what was really there.
Or, as it turned out, what was not there.
Neither the juniper nor the boulder was really there-just the semblance of
each. Behind the semblance was the flat white surface of another wizards'
road-one that flew as straight as an arrow down a narrow valley that appeared
to stretch east from the Westhorns all the way to the Easthorns.
How many of the damned roads had the old
chaos-masters built? Was that how they had held together their evil empire? How
had the illusion lasted so long?
Then I felt stupid as I thought it out. The
road was old, but not the illusion. Antonin and his coach-they used the road.
No wonder he seemed to be everywhere. Then I began to look at the coach tracks.
There weren't any. Something had smoothed them over. None ran down into the
valley, and none ran out. But they had led to the crest of the hill behind me.
So the chaos-master didn't want his secret
roads noticed. I smiled briefly and flicked the reins. "Let's go."
Before riding on, I noted where the road
ran for future reference. The road wasn't evil-just its uses.
We spent another night in the Little
Easthorns, up another narrow canyon with a stream that did not merit the name,
and even less grass. Gairloch had almost finished off the last of the grain
cakes, and I began to worry whether I would have the coins necessary for food
once we reached the more inhabited sections of Kyphros.
I washed out one set of underclothes and
laid them on the rocks, wringing them dry, wondering as I looked at the
overhead clouds of gray whether I should have done so.
After sunset, the thunder rumbled like
coach wheels down a canyon road, like Antonin riding forth and sowing
destruction across the Vale of Krecia. I thought that was the name of the place
where I had met the white wizard, and if it weren't . . . well . . . one name
was as good as another. The flashes of the lightning hid behind the clouds in
the northern half of the sky, back-lighting those dark sky-mountains.
For all the thunder in the heavens, the air
remained warm enough that the light breeze was welcome. I ended up tossing off
the cloak and lying on the bedroll barefoot, sleeping in just shirt and
trousers.
The rain promised by the thunder did not
arrive, and, in time, the clouds overhead vanished and the stars shone like
tiny lamps in the sky, clearer than I had seen them since I had landed in
Freetown, and nearly as clear as on a midwinter night in Recluce.
Dawn crashed down on me like a tide of light,
or so it seemed, with the red ball of sun bursting from a dark sky within
instants.
With no reason to tarry, Gairloch and I
headed onward and downward. Being on the southern side of the Little Easthorns
made a difference in one respect. Kyphros was warmer, a lot warmer, and drier.
Even with just a shirt and no tunic, I was sweating-and it was well into fall.
What the place would be like in the summer,
I wasn't sure I wanted to find out.
Each step Gairloch took on the hilly road
toward Kyphrien raised a reddish dust. Orchards seemed to prevail on the
hillsides-orchards and grapes. The trees were of two kinds-gnarled olive trees
with small pale green leaves, and some sort of fruit with which I was
unfamiliar. There might have been several related types or different varieties
of the same type. Whatever they were, the greenish fruits all grew on low
spreading trees with dark-green leaves that might have been shiny except for
the autumn dust. Some of the green fruits seemed to have an orange color mixed
with the green, but since none of the trees were that close to the road, I
really couldn't tell.
Unlike the stone and red-oak houses of the
more northern principalities, the houses of Kyphros were white; but it wasn't
the white of chaos, just a soft off-white painted over timber and stone and
plaster. The roofs were mostly of red tile.
Wheeee . . . eeee ...
"It's hot, and you're thirsty. So am
I."
We kept riding, but only. until the next
crossroad, which consisted of half-a-dozen houses and a small building with a
shaded porch. By then it was near midday.
I wiped my forehead as I dismounted in
front of the building.
"Could you tell me where I might get
some water for my horse?" I asked a tanned youngster with shaggy black hair,
a boy who might have reached to my waist.
"We have some. You will have to lead
your . . . horse . . . around the back." He pointed around the left side
of the building. "Barrabra! A traveler!" Then he was gone.
I scratched my head, itchy from the sweat
and heat and dust, before taking the reins and trudging toward the corner.
I stopped suddenly. Around the
white-plastered corner of the building were several men armed with swords,
waiting, and the fear they would have denied boiled from them. I didn't want to
fight, and I didn't want to run. So I stood there, reins in hand, wondering
what I would do next.
Finally, I reached back and took my staff.
That was all I had. I'd never gotten my knife back from the Kyphran soldier in
all the confusion with the white wizard.
I spoke loudly. "If I really meant you
harm, don't you think I would have fried you where you stood?"
Two of them dropped the swords and ran. One
shook his head. The biggest charged around the corner waving the blade in a way
that showed he had no idea of how to use it.
Thunk.
Clang. The sword banged against the wall
and dropped into the dirt.
"Just leave it there," I said
tiredly. "All I wanted was some water."
"But . . . you're a wizard . . ."
He was dark-haired, well-muscled, and wore faded white trousers and a
sleeveless shirt. On his feet were sandals, not boots.
"Says who? You made enough noise to
warn an army."
"What are you?" He looked past me
to the other man creeping up behind me.
I half-turned in order to watch them both.
The man who had come from the rear did wear
boots, the same pale-green uniform, including the green leather vest, that I
had seen on the prefect's captives, and the way he carried the sword was more
professional.
"Who are you?" asked the soldier.
"Me? I'm a woodworker at heart, who
happened to displease the prefect of Gallos."
"Likely story."
He was right, unfortunately. In his
position, I wouldn't have believed me either. I shrugged. "All right. I'm from
Recluce, and I created a little too much order in Fenard, partly through
woodworking, and now I seem to have every white wizard in Candar after
me." *
"That's not much better." He
waited, however, probably for reinforcements.
So I wove a shield and disappeared. Then I
knocked his sword from his hand while he was gaping.
While he was meditating on that, I
reappeared, presented the sword back to him with my free hand. "It happens
to be true, and I'm getting a little tired of playing games."
He paled slightly. "What do you
want?" He sheathed the weapon.
"I'm trying to see if someone I once
knew ..." I raised the staff.
For the first time, he actually looked at
the staff, realized that it was black. So help me, the man turned even whiter
than the wall. He swallowed. "Why . . . ?"
"I need to know."
"Is she a black-haired blade that can
destroy any man?"
I hadn't thought of Krystal in quite that
way. "One of them was black-haired and a master with almost any kind of
blade. Black-eyed, pale-skinned-"
"Hell . . ."
I turned on the other man, who had edged
toward his sword, still lying not that far from my feet, "Just hold it
right there."
Footsteps thudded on the ground.
"Do I have to disappear again?" I
asked the young soldier.
He shook his head. "No. No, ser. We're
supposed to bring anyone from Recluce in to see the sub-commander. Those are
the standing orders. I should have remembered. The sub-commander was-"
"The sub-commander?"
"She's in charge of training. She does
many other things, and she's also the autarch's champion. Perhaps all that is
not so wondrous to a magician like you, but she is famed and fabled . . ."
It didn't surprise me-not after recalling
the shy lady who had dismembered the apples so quickly, or the woman who had
been pressing Gilberto by the time she left Recluce.
"He's going to Kyphrien to meet the
sub-commander. I will be the one to carry out the standing orders and to convey
him there, for has he not found our waystation? The way-station of Pendril and
Shervan . . ."
The others stood back, and that was how I
met Shervan.
"You water your horse, and Barrabra
will fix you something to eat. Then Pendril and you and I will saddle up, and
we will depart for Kyphros," Shervan announced after ushering off the
half-dozen armed and able-bodied citizens of the little crossroads.
"That's not a problem?"
Shervan shook his head. "I must only
apologize that we did not recognize you. It has been so long . . ."
"So long?"
"We used to receive the pilgrims from
Recluce, but seldom do we see them any more."
I nodded, knowing why-Antonin.
Whuuuffff. . . interrupted Gairloch, as if
to ask about the water I had promised.
"Ser?" called a strong feminine
voice from the covered portico. The shade kept me from seeing more than an
ample figure.
"That's Barrabra," explained
Shervan.
"I need to water my horse . . ."
"That's a horse?" asked Barrabra,
still shrouded by the portico.
I smiled. "He's enough of a horse to
have carried me through the Easthorns and the Little Easthorns."
Shervan looked toward the portico with a
look I could not quite decipher, but would have said embodied the concept of
"I told you so."
I took the reins and led Gairloch around
the building to the watering trough. Shervan followed, still talking.
Unlike some towns I had seen since leaving
Recluce- places like Hrisbarg, Freetown, Hewlett, and Weevett, to name a
few-the rear of the whitewashed stone or brick buildings was as clean as the
front, and similarly shaded by the protruding tile roof. The housing design
confirmed my feelings that in the summertime Kyphros was hot indeed.
". . . and the Gallians, they just
keep coming. We never fight unless we have the advantage, and we must kill
three of them for every one of us they get. Having the hills and the mountains
there helps, but just two eight-days ago some of them got as far as
Sintamar." Shervan grinned. "They didn't get back."
I watched as Gairloch drank from the
trough, carved roughly from limestone, glancing back toward the north and the
clouds that were again building over the Little Easthorns. They didn't look
natural, but who was I to say? "Those clouds-"
". . . and the only other one was the
knife-thrower . . . such a-"
"What knife-thrower?"
"You were asking about the clouds,
ser?"
"Later. What were you saying about the
knife-thrower?"
"I have never seen such a
knife-thrower. Never. No, ser, the clouds, we did not used to have clouds such
as those . . ."
"What about the knife-thrower?" I
interrupted.
". . . not since the days of the Great
White Wizards, they say. You were asking about the knife-thrower. Yes-that was
the best. The cowardly Gallians-that was before they became the mad dogs they
are now-they ran from the black horse, anywhere to escape the knives and the
sword. Such a pair they were! Never had we seen such a pair!"
I was getting ready to strangle the
cheerful Shervan, especially since Gairloch had finished drinking.
Whheeee . . . eeee . . .
I fished out the remaining grain cake from
the right-hand saddlebag provided by Brettel.
"How-how did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"That food for your horse. You made it
appear out of thin air. Never have I seen that. Not even the Great White Wizard
could do that, I would bet."
I sighed. I'd totally ignored the shield
around the second set of saddlebags, that minor bit of order-control that left
them out of sight. Now Shervan would be telling the world about my marvelous
food creation. "No . . . no. I didn't make it. There's a hidden sack
there. That's all."
"Hidden sacks! What will they think of
next?"
"When will we leave for
Kyphrien?" I asked desperately.
'Tendril has to get his horse, and you need
to eat, and we need to put your horse with his hidden sacks in a shady place to
rest while we eat. Then we will go."
I didn't quite roll my eyes. "Let's
eat, and you can tell me about the marvelous pair and the knife-thrower."
"Shervan! Stop flapping your tongue
and let the poor wizard have something to eat. The rest of us would like to
talk to him, too." Barrabra stood on the raised step that led from a
narrow archway in the back of the structure. Her figure was as ample as I had
guessed, but her hair, unlike Shervan's short and coarse black strands, was
nearly white-blond and shoulder-length, swept away from her broad face with
green combs set above each ear.
"Yes. Yes. You see why Barrabra is the
one who runs the store. She keeps her mind upon what is important."
"Shervan!"
The young man shrugged at me and smiled.
I shrugged back. "About my
horse?"
"Ah, yes. This way."
The side of the structure that we had not
yet been to was the stable, empty except for a single palomino. Inside the
heavy walls and through the wide circular archway, the air was cool and still.
"You may use any of the stalls, but
Pabblo does not like all horses ..."
I took the hint and put Gairloch in the
stall farthest from Pabblo. I did not unsaddle him, nor did I close the stall.
If I had to leave quickly, I certainly wanted to be able to do so.
"It's about time," observed
Barrabra as Shervan led me into a long dim room dominated by a long polished
red-oak table. On each side was an equally long and backless red-oak bench. At
each place was a large and empty bowl with an equally-proportioned spoon.
At the table sat another youth older than
the boy who had greeted me, a girl with golden hair like Barrabra's but barely
coming into womanhood, and just showing curves under her maroon shirt; and two
men even younger than Shervan, but wearing the same uniforms.
A woman easily three times my age sat in
the middle of the side of the table opposite the door where I had entered. Her
gray hair was worn in combs like Barrabra's. Like Barrabra, she also wore
three-quarter-length trousers with wide legs, and a loose shirt with sleeves
that ended above the elbow. While the younger woman's garments were a dark
green, the ancient's were a pale yellow.
Click . . . click . . . My boots clattered
on the tile floor.
"He doesn't sound like a wizard,"
complained the old woman.
"Grandmere!"
"He doesn't."
"I saw him pull a cake for his horse
out of thin air!" announced Shervan.
"You're calling that pony a
horse?"
"He's cute," added the boy who
had first greeted me. "I wish I could have a-little horse like that."
"It's time to eat. It's past time to
eat. So sit down. No, not there! You give the wizard the chair."
Shervan bowed and gestured to the chair at
the head of the table. I supposed I should have refused and offered it back to
him, but the confusion of the conversation was disorienting.
I sat. The place on my right was empty, and
the blond girl was seated on my left.
The room was suddenly silent. I swallowed,
and it seemed like an eternity before I realized, silently thanking Magistra
Trehonna as I did, that Kyphros belonged to the one-god believers. I swallowed
again as everyone looked at me.
"In all times ..." I began
slowly, and as I began I could see the tension on the other faces ease.
"In all times, there has been disorder. It is the job of right-thinking
people to bring order from chaos . . . may we have the will to bring that
order. May we have the strength to resist evil and do good."
I bowed my head, since I had no way to end
the prayer, not that I could voice.
"Peace under God . . ." added
Shervan.
"Very nice ... it was strange, but
nice . . ." said one of the other soldiers.
"He sounds like a wizard," added
the old woman who had just said that I didn't sound like one.
"Where's the food?"
"I'm getting it, I'm getting it!"
An aroma of spices and meats entered the
long room even before Barrabra arrived with the tray, bearing a huge casserole
which she set in front of the older woman before heading back to the kitchen.
One saving grace was that I wouldn't need the knife that I didn't have. I
fingered the empty sheath, wondering if I had really wanted to carry the knife
at all. But that was silly. At least, I thought it was silly, but I still
wondered.
"Spiced lamb chili, my favorite! You
remembered."
The second tray held two enormous
freshly-baked loaves of bread, and that was followed by a pitcher of something
and a tray of battered mugs.
With that, Barrabra plopped herself onto
the end of the bench next to me and looked at me, face to face. Her breath was
like cloves, strong, but not unpleasant. "Do you have a woman,
wizard?"
I swallowed.
"I don't think so, Barrabra."
"Well, do you or don't you?"
"Pass the chili!"
"Just take a chunk of bread, and send
the loaf to the wizard."
"My name is Lerris, and I'm-" I
was going to say that I wasn't a wizard, but the words stuck in my throat. That
scared me, the thought that I was even partly maybe a wizard.
"He says his name is Lerris."
"That's better than calling him
wizard. He's too young to be called wizard, even if he is one."
"I want the chili!"
I looked frantically at Shervan, but he
just grinned and plunged his spoon into the bowl of chili, whatever that was.
In his other hand, he held a large chunk of bread.
"About your woman? Is she young? I'll
bet she's thin and harsh-tongued. She probably would starve you to keep her
looks, just like a northern woman." As she talked Barrabra ladled her bowl
full of the spicy mixture from the casserole and began to fill my bowl.
"Here! You need some teekla."
Those words came from the other side, from the blond girl who looked like a
younger and thinner version of Barrabra.
My eyes darted from one to the other. At
that point, the bread tray was thrust under my nose, and I broke off a large
chunk. "Barrabra, he can't have a woman. I'll bet he didn't even have a
sister. Did you?"
"No," I admitted, taking a
spoonful of the spicy mixture and swallowing it.
"Oooofff. . ." I swallowed again
and grabbed for the mug. Hot? Spicy? Neither was an adequate description of the
chili. It didn't burn; it seared my throat all the way down.
"Not the teekla, silly. You eat the
bread. That's the way you do it," advised the girl, her tone patient and
condescending simultaneously.
Since the teekla, with its unknown fruity
taste, hadn't eased the fire in my throat and stomach, I chewed off a large
corner of the chunk of bread, swallowing as evenly and quickly as I could.
With the back of my hand, I wiped the
sudden tears from my eyes, but the burning had in fact diminished.
", . . the post-rider said the madmen
lost one of their wizards . . ."
". . . Haylen's cousin said a wizard
freed him . . ."
"Ha! He didn't want to admit he got
careless! That's all."
"Some more chili, please."
"When are you going to take me to
Kyphrien, Shervan? You promised . . ."
Amid the friendly chaos, I took another
spoonful of the chili, the stew, whatever it was-a much smaller spoonful,
accompanied by a much larger mouthful of the heavy bread. The combination
seemed to work. Only my forehead broke out in sweat this time.
"You never answered about your woman,
wiz- ... I mean, Lerris."
I took a small sip from the mug.
"Right now ... I don't have one. It's not wise-"
"I told you, Barrabra! He doesn't look
like he knows women."
In that, certainly, the girl was right.
"Hush, Cirla." Barrabra held her
hand up. "Not wise? Is it wise to be tempted by every pretty face?"
"I have a lot-" I struggled with
both her question and another spoonful of chili.
She shook her head. "You men. You
think that women are fragile, that only men can do the great deeds."
"I never said that . . ."
"It is not what you said, but what you
thought. Would you rather live in Kyphros under the autarch or under a madman
like the Prefect of Gallos? Great deeds . . . phewwww . .. dreaming of great
deeds only leads to great evils, and too many men dream of great deeds. Give me
a solid man any day, one who loves an orchard."
I thought about woodworking, but decided
against arguing my case. She would have found something else to throw against
men. Instead, I struggled with the chili and listened.
". . . their soldiers are younger each
season . . ."
"And so are ours. We're all bleeding
to death . . ."
"Pass the bread."
". . . we'll stop in Meltosia. Even
from there, it's a good day's ride."
Barrabra stopped talking and kept
exchanging glances with the girl Cirla. I ignored both, trying to pick up on
what Shervan and the other two soldiers were discussing, but there were too
many interruptions. So I ate, slowly and carefully, wondering exactly how badly
my stomach and guts would torture me in the days ahead.
The midday meal ended as suddenly as it
began.
"Enough!" announced Barrabra.
"You all would sit here all afternoon if you could. The wizard must go to
Kyphrien, and Saltos and Gerarra"- she pointed at the other two soldiers-
"must take the watch station from my Nicklos and Carmen."
"So soon?" pleaded the youngster.
"So late. Shush! Clear off the table.
Out to the kitchen."
I retreated to the stable with Shervan.
"Your sister?"
"How did you guess?"
"A look, and the mention of her
Nicklos."
Shervan began to saddle Pabblo. I rummaged
around and found what looked to be a short stack of grain cakes.
"If I could purchase some of these . .
."
"No ... no ... they are yours. We have
fresh grain and grasses."
"I can't just take them."
Shervan shrugged. "Then . . . someday,
sometime, make us a gift. Make it for Barrabra."
I thought I understood. "I will."
Another obligation, but what other choice was there? Gairloch needed travel
food as much as I did. Maybe more in the dry Kyphran climate.
Clinkedy . . . clink . . .
"Pendril is here."
The other trooper was heavier than Shervan,
older, with a flowing black mustache. "Come on, Shervan. You want to get
to Meltosia before Parlaan's closes? He's riding that pony? Ah well, wizards
will be wizards . . ." Pendril shook his head.
Shervan winked at me.
I didn't shrug, but I felt like it.
Instead, I flicked the reins, and Gairloch carried me out into the full
afternoon sun.
The road out from Tellura and toward
Kyphrien was the same as the road that had led me into the little crossroads
town-hot, dusty, and up one rolling hill and down the next.
Shervan rode his palomino Pabblo, and the
other trooper- Pendril, who had not been at the noon meal-rode a
black-and-white spotted gelding. Both horses reminded me exactly how small
Gairloch was.
"He moves quickly for a pony,"
said Pendril.
"And the wizard rides well for a
wizard, too."
"Are you sure he's a wizard?"
"Am I sure? Let me tell you . .
."
In the first five kays we traveled, Shervan
must have told how I disarmed him and how I had made a grain cake appear from
thin air in at least three different ways.
By then, the sun had touched the clouds in
the west, and the unseasonable heat began to dissipate. I wiped my forehead and
began to enjoy the ride, noting that the hills were flatter, not quite so
barren, and that some fields held goats- but only in the fenced fields.
"Ah . . . yes . . . the autarch. Any
unfenced goat is considered a game animal that anyone may kill or
capture-unless it is branded. But if it is branded, the owner must pay two
coppers to ransom it back."
I frowned, but I didn't need to. Shervan
kept explaining.
"The goat, you see, it will eat
anything, and if it eats everything, then the desert will come. We need the
goats, but we need the trees, especially the olives and the lemons and
oranges." He shrugged. "We also have a lot of good goat
dinners."
"I haven't seen any buffalo."
"Kyphros is too hot for them, except
under the West-horns," explained Pendril. His voice was lower and slower
than Shervan's. "Few of us would live near the wizard mountains,
especially now."
"The wizard mountains?"
"That is where the clouds that bring
lightning and fire come from, where the white wizards live, and where too many
people have disappeared. To go to Sarronnyn, it is better to go south first, to
use the southern passes, or to go north of even Gallos. Going north is not
possible any more, either . . ."
"My father said that Sarronnyn was
bright, with grassy hillsides, not as cold as Gallos, and not as hot as
Kyphros, and the women were always friendly, and they liked strangers. That's
what he said." Shervan looked ahead at the dusty and hilly road, then
continued without a break. "My father, he used to drive a road wagon for
Wistar, but that was when the middle road was open to all, and it took only
four days to Sarronnyn, not an eight-day and more like now. That road wagon, it
took four horses to pull it, and it glistened like red gold. I remember when he
put me up on the seat and let me hold the reins."
Shervan looked back behind us. No one was
there. I had already checked. Although we had overtaken a small wagon loaded
with covered baskets and had passed a post-rider headed back in the direction
of Tellura, the road was lightly used. "I see no one. Do you think we will
see one of the Finest?" asked Shervan.
"Here? So far from the hills?"
"But the wizard should see some of the
Finest."
Suspecting I had seen a few of the Finest
as captives in Fenard, I let the two talk as the horses carried us down the
road and further into Kyphros.
Meltosia was nearly a repeat of Tellura,
except that, instead of just five or six buildings, it had nearly a dozen, one
of which was a long house that took in travelers. Mama Parlaan's house could
not have been called an inn, not even in comparison to the Snug Inn in Howlett.
But the rooms were cool and the pallets on the hard wooden bedframes clean. The
evening meal was another spicy casserole-goat, I gathered, but I didn't ask.
Breakfast was hard rolls not much after
dawn, and Shervan woke as talkative as he went to sleep.
"A wonderful morning to be alive. Look
at the pink above the hills, and the dew like pearls upon the yucca. A good day
for a long ride, and it will be a long ride to Kyphrien, but a sunny one. Don't
you think so, Pendril?" Pendril earned my gratitude by grunting. The
midday meal was in a barracks of road soldiers in a place whose name I never
learned, distinguished mainly by the fact that the small post controlled the
bridge over the first river I had seen in Kyphros-a snaking tongue of water no
more than fifteen cubits wide and less than a cubit deep.
"But when the spring floods come, then
the waters sweep everything before them and the land is underwater for kay upon
kay."
I hadn't asked, but Shervan answered the
questions I might have posed, and all too many even I wouldn't have considered.
That was how we reached Kyphros.
LX
"THIS
IS AS far as we go," Shervan had told me as he and Pendril escorted me to
the low walls around the guard complex.
"Why?"
"Our job is just to get you here. We're
outliers, and we're not allowed within the walls. That is, unless we are
mustered in for training or for special duties, and that does happen." He
shrugged, almost dropping his reins, "As for us, we keep the waystation
for stray wizards and let Barrabra tell us what to do. What else can we
do?" He smiled apologetically.
I smiled at his expressive face. Since I
knew but half the story, I couldn't say whether the restriction made all that
much sense, but who was I to quibble? "So what am I supposed to do?"
"You stable your pony in the main
stables. You just ride right through the gates on the left. Then you go to the
building with the green flag and ask to see the sub-commander. They will mumble
and mutter, but you just tell them everything and insist on your right to see
the sub-commander. Just insist on it. I'm sure you'll find some way to convince
them."
Both men laughed at that.
Their confidence was touching, if
misplaced. And I couldn't deny that it had been a relief to ride the last day
without having to weave shields or worry about being denounced as a wizard or
keep hiding from everyone.
So I rode up to the gate, where the guard
looked me over, then back at the pair of outlier soldiers. "What did you
drop on me?"
"Orders! He's supposed to see the
sub-commander." Shervan didn't exactly keep a straight face. Pendril
looked in the other direction.
"One of those?" The gate guard
shook his head, then looked at me. "The stable is on the left. Once you
get your . . . horse . . . settled, go straight across the yard to the main
building. Don't go anywhere else, or someone's like to draw before they ask
questions."
The stable was right where it was supposed
to be, a solid red brick with a slate roof and a slight but not overpowering
odor of horse manure.
"Official business?" asked the
ostler, practically running me down even before I had both feet on the ground.
I nodded.
"Sign here." He handed me a flat
square of parchment and pointed to a line under the words "stable
permit." He stepped back. "If you can't sign, use your mark. Get an
officer or a serjeant to chop this. Otherwise it's a copper a day. If you lose
the permit, it's two coppers a day." He looked at me and at Gairloch.
"Mountain pony?"
"Yes."
"If you want to stable him, you can
have the last stall on the right."
Since it wasn't really a request, I led
Gairloch to the last stall and unsaddled him. I did shield the saddlebags, just
as a matter of habit. But I brought my staff with me.
The ostler looked at it with respect.
"Seeing the sub-commander?"
"That's what I understand."
"Good luck! Tough lady. Go to the red
archway, over there, under the green flag."
With that I walked less than a hundred
cubits, where I found another guard, standing beside the doors under the
red-painted archway. Then I looked at the young redheaded guard. "I need
you to take a message to the sub-commander."
"The Sub-Commander of the Guard-a
message from a . . . what are you?"
"A woodworker, among other
things." And I was, more of a woodworker than an order-master, when you
got right down to it.
"A message from a woodworker?"
The youth in the worked leather-and-brass vest shook his head in disbelief.
"She wouldn't even bother to look at you, fellow."
The wooden beam framing the open door, the
beam against which, he leaned, scarcely looked able to support him, let alone
the archway, what with the cracks and the age of the dusty structure. At the
moment, I was tempted to dip into chaos and age him and the structure further,
but . . . trusting in Justen and the book, I only sighed. "A wager,
perhaps?"
"Ha! What would you have to wager,
except your hide?"
"Say a couple of silvers that you
can't touch me with that fancy sword-my old staff against your new sword."
I placed my hand on the staff.
He didn't even seem to notice its
appearance, so surprised was he with my suggestion. "That's dangerous,
fellow. I might take you up on it. It's a crime to strike a member of the
autarch's guard."
"Is it a crime to strike your
weapon?"
"No." He looked puzzled.
"Well, that might make it harder. Say
a gold and you carry my message to the sub-commander."
"And when I win?"
"You have at least some of my blood
and a gold penny."
"How do I know you're honest?"
I sighed. "Because the penalty for
being dishonest would likely be my head."
"You don't sound like a woodworker . .
."
The youngster was sharp, almost brilliant.
"I never said that's all I was."
His small eyes looked me over, and I could
see the scheming beginning.
"I wouldn't, if I were you. The
sub-commander already knows where I'm from, and there's not one of you that
could best her blade." The words didn't come out quite right, but he
didn't seem to notice.
"How would you know?"
I managed to keep my face impassive.
Sometimes, I actually can.
Then he swallowed. It took him a moment,
but, like I said, the young man was almost brilliant, at least for a Candarian.
"You put your staff against her blade?"
"That was some time ago. Doubtless she
has improved."
Improved or not, he suddenly realized how
close he had come to disaster.
"I could just take your name . . . and
leave the decision to her . . ."
I inclined my head to him. "That might
be best. My name is Lerris." Of course, that was all that I had ever
wanted, but nothing anywhere was straightforward, and for whatever reason, I
really hadn't wanted to demand to see Krystal. Call it stiff-necked pride . . .
whatever. I still had some.
Still shaking his head, the redheaded young
trooper yelled into the barracks. "Bidek! Get on up here."
As soon as another young buck, this one
heavier, sloppier, and darker, as well as more disapproving, appeared, the
nameless young guard marched across the open courtyard-one of the few in Candar
that was actually paved with level and solid stones-and disappeared into a
granite three-storied building.
While I waited, I made a few more mental
measurements of the area around the doorway, mainly to test the age of the
wood, since I had an idea for my defense that would not violate the rules of
order, since it was strictly creative.
Using it wasn't necessary, since three
guards marched from the wing of the structure into which the young guard had
disappeared. He followed behind them a moment later. All four stopped short of
me.
The center guard, wearing clean green
leather and a blade that radiated effectiveness, looked at the staff and
nodded.
"The sub-commander bids you welcome, order-master.
Would you be so kind . . . you are most welcome . . ."
He definitely wasn't used to inviting
guests into the guard's domain. I smiled pleasantly. "I appreciate your
courtesy and would hope you would be so kind as to lead the way."
". . . order-master . . . oh, shit . .
." Both the nameless young guard and Bidek looked as white as the face of
chaos as I saluted them with the staff and followed the three troopers into the
granite building and up three wide flights of stairs. The door was bound in
solid iron, and the knocker would have waked the dead.
The dark-haired lady opened it herself, and
her eyes did not even flicker as she silently stepped back and let us enter.
Krystal's quarters were almost lavish for a professional soldier's base, with
two large rooms, a conference room with a large rectangular table and heavy
wooden armchairs which opened into a covered and railed third floor balcony,
and a bedroom/study, although I only glimpsed her more personal quarters as I
stood in the conference room.
A large and sturdy oak beam stood behind
the door from the main hallway to her quarters.
"The order-master, commander."
"Thank you, Statcha. You may leave
us." Krystal wore green leather trousers, tighter than in Recluce, with a
short jacket over a green leather tunic. The jacket was ornamental, not
designed for battle, and bore gold braid across the left shoulder and matching
four-pointed silver stars on the narrow lapels.
I could feel Statcha's eyebrows rising.
Krystal laughed, although she had not yet
even turned her eyes to me, and her laugh was more musical and more relaxed
than I had heard it. "You know I have nothing physical to fear from one
man. And an army could not save me from a chaos-master or an order-master put
against me."
All three men backed away, as if they had
been lashed, yet her words had been gentle. As she talked, I let my feelings
reach out to her blade-surprisingly, that same blade I had bought for her on a
day that seemed almost part of another life-and found . . . that the unordered
steel had assumed a rough order. As had Krystal. I shied away from reading her
feelings, knowing I was afraid to find out how she felt.
Clunk.
"Lerris." Those black eyes turned
on me, damping the fire of instinctive command that I had suspected, but never
seen. "You look older, wiser."
"I doubt that I'm much of
either."
She smiled. "That alone says you're
both. It's good to see you, although I didn't doubt I would sometime."
I raised my eyebrows.
"You don't belong in Recluce, and
sooner or later . . ." She shrugged, then looked squarely at me. "Why
did you come?"
"I needed to find out about the
autarch."
"Then why did you ask for me?"
I admired the directness. She was still
gentle, but the gentleness had been reinforced with steel.
"Because ..." I took a deep
breath, then shook my head. "I don't know. It seemed the right thing to
do, and I'm glad I did it. But I can't tell you why." My pulse seemed to
race, as though I were somehow lying to myself, and that bothered me.
"You don't like not being able to
answer my question."
I grinned, sort of. "You're right. I
don't."
Her eyes brushed past me, then centered
back on my face. "Stories about you are circulating all across
Candar-except no one knows who you are. When I heard about the black-staffer
who dared the deadlands, it had to be you. When I heard about the gray wizard's
apprentice who healed a slut in Jellico and disappeared in plain view . .
."
My stomach twisted a little. If Krystal
knew . . .
"Were you the one who destroyed the
white wizard near the Vale of Krecia?"
"That was an accident," I
admitted.
The sub-commander shook her head.
"Still the same combination of confidence and modesty."
"Modest?" She ignored my protest,
looking at the doorway, then back at the desk in the bedroom/study. "Will
you stay?"
"No. Not for long, not if I'm to help
you before it's too late. To undo what I may have done." At that moment, I
wanted to stay, to watch her smile and hear the musical tone of her voice, but
the order within me refused to lie to her or to me. "I'm not yet the
order-master you called me, and I may never be. I haven't finished what I
must."
She shook her head, and I realized that the
long black hair was gone, that her hair, rather than being bound up with silver
or gold cords, was scarcely longer than mine. "I would like you to stay
for dinner."
The words were not a request, simply a
direct preference, but Krystal no longer had to ask for anything.
I thought. Leaving tonight wouldn't solve
anything, and Antonin did not know who or where I was-yet. Certainly he would
within days, but I had to sleep somewhere, and a good night's sleep with the
autarch's guards, even in a dusty barracks, would beat another night holed up
in a canyon or a thicket. "Yes."
"Let's sit on the balcony for a
moment. I need to be at a meeting with the autarch before too long. After that,
we can really talk." She walked toward the shaded balcony, where she took
a padded chair, and gestured to the one across the small table from her.
"I'd offer you something, but I'll have to leave before it comes. I'd
rather hear from you-what you are doing, and why you wanted to see the
autarch."
"I'm here to warn you, assuming you
haven't heard. The prefect has decided to throw in with Antonin. I made the
mistake of taking on one of his ... I'd guess I'd call him an ally, if the
chaos-masters have allies. That was the white wizard I ran into."
"Antonin?" Her face reflected
puzzlement.
"The most powerful of the
chaos-masters. He did something to Tamra and seems able to defy the Masters of
Recluce-at least for now." I paused.
"Have you seen Tamra?"
My guts twisted again. "I haven't seen
her face, but I've seen traces of her. She's tied up somehow with Antonin, I
think against her will."
"Against her will? I can't believe
that. Are you sure?"
What could I say to her? The silence drew
out, and I looked out onto the paved yard, noting that the afternoon shadows
cast by the building in which we sat enshrouded the stables and the front gate.
Outside of the footsteps and a few voices, the yard was quiet, orderly.
Krystal waited, with the same grace I
recalled, but with that added strength, almost like a cat that could spring
from total relaxation into an attack.
Finally, I tried to explain. "Chaos is
... different. You can't use chaos even for the best of reasons without risking
being trapped by it. People told me that, but I wasn't sure. They were right,
and I was lucky to meet a friendly gray wizard before finding too much
trouble." I forced a laugh. "By then soldiers in only two
principalities were looking for my head."
"How did you escape from
Freetown?"
"I bought a horse and rode out."
Krystal chuckled. "It wasn't that
easy, knowing you."
"It wasn't." I didn't elaborate.
"What about you? I understand they burned the inn where we stayed."
"I claimed to be from the north and
took on the local blades. That included a few of the old duke's bravos. Then I
waited in the hiring hall until the new duke took over and agreed to terms with
Recluce. That got me a contract with the first road-merchant to visit. When he
reached Jellico, we had enough to buy nags for the trip over the southern
passes to Kyphrien. I hired on with a freelance arms-master who trains
bullyboys for the merchants, learned what I could. He suggested the autarch,
who likes having women soldiers. Kasee liked me, and I started with a western
road patrol. There were a lot of casualties. When the Duke of Freetown's
defectors tried to carve out that abortive duchy . . ." She frowned.
"You were the one? I've heard stories
about you for nearly half a year." I'd guessed she had been the road
commander who had opened the reservoir gates on the supply train, effectively
ending the siege of the border fort taken by the defectors. I'd meant to ask
about Wrynn and about the incident with the Duke's troops.
Krystal actually flushed, although the
paleness of her skin had been replaced with a faint golden tan. "What
about this Antonin?"
"He's the one who's turning the
prefect's troops into chaos-tinged maniacs. That's why they never surrender,
always fight to the death."
She pursed her lips, nodding slowly.
"We'd thought it was something of the sort. There are no order-masters in
Candar, not that we can find." She looked up. "I can't stay now. I
really don't have time to get you settled. Would you mind waiting here for me?
You could wash up, and there's some fruit over there."
Again, her request was not a request.
"How long?" I saw her face
stiffen. "I didn't mean that. I just worry about Gairloch-my horse . . .
and I'm not exactly presentable."
"Oh . . . I'll be back well before
dinner."
I shrugged. She was the sub-commander,
gracious as she had been. "I'll be happy to wait." Surprisingly, I
was. I needed time to think. About a lot of things.
"You're certain?" She stood.
So did I. "As certain as I am about
anything these days."
Then she leaned forward and gave me a
friendly kiss. "I'm glad you came. Relax if you can."
The kiss was just friendly, but as she
turned and left she smiled, and I wondered.
Besides wondering, I washed my hands and
face, trying not to use all the water or make too much of a mess. Although
curious, I did not look at any of the papers on the desk in her bedroom.
Instead, I sat down on the long couch,
except that I was tired, and I was not sitting and thinking for long.
Click!
"I see you waited." Krystal's
voice was cheerfully brisk, but I had trouble appreciating it, since I was
trying to wake up from the afternoon nap I hadn't expected to take, realizing
that it was nearly twilight.
"Long . . . meeting ..." I yawned
between words and struggled to my feet.
"There are too many long meetings
these days. Will you be all right for dinner?"
"I just have to wake up. I sat down
and . . . then you were back here."
Her lips quirked, and I could see a few
gray hairs among the black as she stepped nearer. "Lerris . . ."
Then, she shook her head. "Later. I need to change, and you need to get
into something-"
"A little less travel-worn?"
"Do you have something?"
"It's plain, but I left my bags in the
stable."
"I'll send-"
This time I shook my head. "They won't
find them."
"I see. You have learned a few
things." Her tone was light.
"So have you, lady, I expect."
"Herreld is waiting outside. Have him
escort you there and back. We'll worry about a bed for you later. You can change
here for dinner, if that's all right."
The word "dinner" disoriented me,
after more than a year of hearing dinner as the noon meal, but I recovered and
nodded. "No. Whatever's easiest."
Krystal was already heading for the door,
and I followed, and just kept going, straight for the stable to recover my pack
and better clothes, such as they were.
LXI
"THIS
DOORWAY." KRYSTAL inclined her head toward a carved entrance flanked by
two green-clad guards. She wore her sword. She probably slept with it.
Only the guards' eyes moved, checking me
out, but I had left the staff in Krystal's quarters. I decided to wear the
empty knife sheath, since in some principalities, failure to wear a knife
carried certain implications. I didn't remember if Kyphros were one, but if it
weren't, no one would care one way or the other. If my pack and staff weren't
safe in Krystal's quarters, they weren't safe anywhere in Kyphrien.
"This is a small dinner. The autarch
wanted to hear of your adventures." She guided me into the room.
A state dining room it was not. The
imperial-style black-oak table was covered with a green linen cloth bordered in
gold. The utensils were silver, and the plates were of a china nearly as fine
as my mother's best. The "informal" dining room was not much bigger
than my parents' dining room, nor much larger than the dining area of the
waystation where I had eaten lamb chili two days earlier.
A good dozen wall lamps provided a
brightness not often seen at an evening meal in Candar. I supposed the autarch
could afford the extra lamp-oil.
We stopped almost after entering the room,
and well short of the six people who stood talking by the bay window on the
other side of the table, a window that overlooked Kyphrien and the scattered
lights of the lamps and torches of the city.
"Krystal." The woman in the green
silk jumpsuit with black hair shot with gray spoke.
Krystal inclined her head.
"Honor."
"Would you introduce your
friend?"
"This is Lerris." Krystal named
the six. "Her Honor the Autarch; Guard Commander Ferrel; Public Works
Minister Zeiber; Liessa, sister to Her Honor; Finance Minister Murreas; and
Father Dorna."
"Honor," I murmured to the
autarch. "I am honored to meet all of you." In a way, I was.
"Krystal said you were young,"
observed the younger woman who looked like the autarch, except her black hair
was without the graying streaks. "I wouldn't have guessed from her
description." The comment was made with a smile.
The Public Works Minister, thin and
white-haired, only nodded, as did the Finance Minister, a heavy-set woman with
square-cut short white hair who wore an ornate green tunic over equally ornate
trousers.
"Peace," was the only word from
Father Dorna, a functionary in the religion of the one-god believers from his
aura and garb of black, who radiated neither order nor disorder.
Krystal still wore green, a plain green
silk blouse with no frills and a high neck, the same green leather vest, and
matching green trousers-cotton, I thought. She wore no jewelry, no rings, and
she looked professional, like the autarch's champion. She walked the same way,
her eyes never quite at rest.
The only one dressed more plainly than
Krystal was me. My best clothes were the dark-brown cotton tunic and trousers
made by Deirdre. Good as they were, certainly not of the quality of those worn
by Krystal or the autarch.
"We should be seated." The
autarch simply pulled out the chair at the head of the table, then pointed at
the chair to her right. "Lerris, if you would."
Krystal took the seat across from me, and
Father Dorna sat on my right. At the end of the table was Liessa, the only
woman wearing a dress.
I attempted to seat the autarch, but she
avoided the question by seating herself before my hand more than touched the
back of her chair.
"No ceremony here. My name is
Kasee."
I just nodded, not certain exactly what to
say, as mixed greenery was placed on the plate in front of me.
"Krystal says you know something of
the reasons behind the apparently senseless attacks by the Gallians."
"Some few things," I said,
"and some few thoughts as to why." Since the autarch began to
question me before taking a bite of the greenery on her plate, I decided that,
informal dinner or not, the main course was information, and the chef was a
young man named Lerris.
I looked at Krystal. While I thought I saw
a momentary twinkle in her eye, her expression was polite and impassive.
"Does the name Antonin mean
anything?"
". . . devil . . ." That came
from my right, from the priest.
"He is reputed to be a white wizard
who lives in the West-horns," responded the autarch. I didn't think of her
as Kasee then, no matter what she had said.
"He is a white wizard. He has allied
himself with the prefect, or spends so much time in Fenard that he might as
well be allied."
"What does he supply, exactly, to this
alliance?" asked Ferrel, the white-haired Guard Commander, whose words
were as precise as her plain green tunic. She and Krystal were the sole diners
visibly armed.
"Chaos . . ."
"In what form, if you will? What does
he gain from it?"
I took a deep breath. "I don't have
all the answers . . . but ..." I continued before the Guard Commander
asked yet another question, "he opened a chaos-fountain in the guard
quarters in Fenard. The fountain had the effect of submerging reason, since
reason is a function of order. The fountain made the soldiers more obedient to
commands issued with a-I guess you'd say-chaos-link. I mean, they're more
likely to fight and kill blindly."
I could feel Krystal's concern behind her
impassive face.
"How did you discover this?"
After forcing myself to take a sip from the
crystal goblet and discovering it contained redberry, I answered. "I felt
it from where I worked in Fenard. So I-well, it's really not that simple. You
see, if Krystal hasn't told you, I left Recluce as a dangergelder. My charge
was to reach the Westhorns and to make a decision as to whether I would serve
order or chaos blindly. I had a ... few problems . . . along the way . .
."
No one commented. So I kept going.
"When I got to Fenard, I needed time to think . . . and money. That was
why I took up woodcrafting again while I tried to work things out. The chaos in
and around Fenard kept increasing, not so much that it was that noticeable at
first. Antonin-his coach began appearing at the palace more and more. More and
more cavalry troops were raised and sent against Kyphros. The quarterly tax
levies were raised, doubled in fact." I stopped and took another sip from
the goblet, then used the fork on the greenery. Everyone else was eating. I
could as well.
"Could you explain the form of the
chaos this . . . Antonin . . . used?" asked Ferrel.
"I don't know that I could name it,
but it feels white with an ugly red core." I sipped the redberry again.
"And it chills me right through."
"You can feel it?" the priest
demanded.
"Any order-master could. That's how
strong he is."
The servant I barely saw began removing the
empty salad plates. Mine was still mostly full. I took another bite.
"Why is this any more dangerous than
any other weapon - or the fires that the white wizards throw against our
troops?" The Guard Commander was persistent.
"Because it will destroy you from
within," I snapped, angry at her apparent denseness.
"Ser . . ." Her voice hardened.
"Ferrel." The autarch's voice was
ice. Even I shut my mouth. She looked at me. "I suspect I know what you
mean, order-master, but would you explain your last statement."
I swallowed, wondering if I could really
put what I felt in words. "All right. Please excuse me if I'm not clear.
You have to understand that much of this is new to me, and that very few
masters this side of Recluce have been permitted to learn it . . ."
"Permitted?"
I ignored the question from the Finance
Minister, figuring that only the autarch counted. "The strength of chaos
is that destruction can be focused. Order cannot be concentrated in the same
way. Likewise, order is a passive defense, in that chaos cannot destroy
absolute order. Absolute order precludes chaos, but only by restricting its
presence from where there is already order."
"... gobbledygook . . ."
I ignored that also, trying to find the
words. "What Antonin is doing is creating a greater potential for chaos in
both countries. By sending out Gallian troops to their deaths, he increases
anger in Gallos, both at the prefect and at Kyphros. He increases anger and
disorder in Kyphros. By increasing disorder, he makes more people susceptible
to chaos and less willing to abide by the rules of order, more willing to
become part of the killing. I don't know the complete link, but as the disorder
increases, so do his powers." My stomach twisted as. I began to realize
what part I had unwittingly played in Antonin's game.
"I see." The autarch's voice was
cold. "If you are correct, we cannot win. If we defend ourselves, we
increase the disorder, and if we do not, we perish, and our suffering and
deaths will thus increase the disorder."
I wished she had not put it that way.
"Why has not mighty Recluce opposed
this great white wizard?" asked Liessa, her voice cutting.
Krystal looked at me. "Do you
know?"
I thanked her with my eyes for the direct
question. "I do not know for certain the answer to that question. I do
know that Recluce seldom meddles with nations other than the coastal trading
powers." Even that evasion turned my guts again.
I was reprieved, momentarily, from more
twisting by the arrival of the main course-skewered and highly-spiced lamb.
"You are saying that this wizard has
no real military aims at all, then?"
"His aims are power for himself, and
the white wizards who follow him. He would destroy both your countries, I think,
to increase those powers."
"All of this is very theoretical and
philosophical," interjected the Public Works Minister. "Could you
tell us what, specifically, you have done against this danger? If you have done
anything besides observe, that is."
Instead of snapping at him, I chewed and
swallowed the lamb cube in my mouth. If I were paying this highly for my meal,
I deserved to eat some of it. The only problem was that no one else talked
while I ate, and the silence was leaden. I ended up opening my mouth again
after several more bites. "I have done what I could. I destroyed the
chaos-fountain, and, although I did not mean to, also created the events that
led to the death of a score or more of the prefect's more chaos-ridden troops,
including the sub-prefect."
"You did not mean to stop chaos?"
demanded the priest in a high voice.
I sighed. Explaining the intricacies was
getting more and more dangerous, and I knew none of the people except Krystal.
While not a one manifested chaos or disorder, they could easily order my death
for less fantastic reasons.
"You sound almost exasperated, young
order-master," observed the autarch. "Perhaps you could explain your
feelings first."
Shrugging, I turned to her. She was the
judge, anyway. "You have to understand that I am not from Kyphros, nor
from Gallos. A crafter in Gallos took me in, and enabled me to learn more of
both order and woodworking. The disorder threatened his family. I employed
order to strengthen honestly his business and his health. I also, being what I
am, could not but help embody some order in the chairs and cabinets and tables
I produced." I turned to Krystal. "Would you recall what occurs when
a black staff strikes chaos?"
She did not quite frown, but paused.
"Doesn't the staff burn someone possessed of disorder?"
I nodded, then I grinned, looking around
the table. "My first mistake was to craft some black-oak chairs for the
sub-prefect. My second error was to make them as perfect as I could and to
infuse them with order to strengthen them."
They all looked puzzled.
"What do you think happened when the
chaos-tainted advisors of the prefect sat in those chairs?"
"Ha!"
"Ohhhhh . . ."
I nodded. "That meant I had to leave
Gallos, but I could not leave the crafter unprotected. After all, the chairs
would be traced in time to his shop. So I entered the palace in an attempt to
do something-what, I was not sure. That didn't work out because I found that
attempting to force order on anyone unwilling to receive it is difficult at
best. I "did neutralize the chaos-fountain and turned it back into mere
decoration. Then I left Fenard and came to Kyphros."
"Did you have anything to do with the
death of the white wizard?" That question came from Ferrel. She sounded
vaguely amused. Why, I couldn't imagine.
"That was a lucky accident." I
tried to stuff another lamb cube into my mouth before answering another
question.
"Accident?"
"Well , . ." I mumbled, before
gulping the piece of lamb. The meat burned and scraped all the way down my
throat. "All I wanted to do was to let the two Kyphran captives free. But
the wizard kept throwing white fire at me . . . and his fire and my staff
collided too close to him."
"How did that happen?" Ferrel was
almost smiling, I could have sworn.
"I charged him . . ."
"Do you have a warhorse, order-master?
A charger?"
"No. Just a pony."
Someone sniggered.
Ferrel glared at Liessa, who paled. That
surprised me. Then she turned to the autarch, who looked amused, rather than
surprised, and added, "It sounds fantastic, but it happened that way.
Except for one detail. No one saw our friend here. Is this yours?" She
held up my belt knife.
I nodded.
"The unseen wizard who defeated the
white wizard cut the bonds of my lieutenant, left the knife in her hands, and
told her to cut the other captive free. She did not see the charge, but she did
hear the white wizard screaming about an unseen armed man. She also saw the
fire bolts striking against something until one exploded right in front of the
wizard. Our friend here-or someone dressed exactly like him and riding a pony
exactly like his-appeared for just an instant."
She handed me the knife, which I quickly
replaced in the empty sheath.
"You didn't tell me all of that,"
Krystal added dryly.
I think I flushed. "It seemed pretty
dumb. I never meant to take on a full white wizard. It just happened."
"What are you intending to do
next?"
"I don't know. I just don't
know." Except I did. So, of course, I had to tell them, or suffer
indigestion. "I don't have much choice. I have to go find Antonin."
"The Great White Wizard?"
"Yes."
Ferrel looked at the autarch, and the
autarch looked at Krystal. After that, they let me finish my dinner. I mean,
what else was there to say? They did talk, finally, among themselves.
"Has he always been this modest?"
Ferrel smiled as she asked Krystal.
"He was never boastful, but he seems
more quiet."
"I still don't understand about
Recluce." The voice of the Finance Minister was sharp.
"Perhaps the sub-commander or the
order-master could answer your question," suggested the autarch.
"Krystal? We ought to let our guest have a few moments' peace."
A wry look flashed across Krystal's face before
she spoke. "Recluce is governed by the Brotherhood. They are black
order-masters. Recluce has always let chaos rule in any area outside Recluce
unless the Brotherhood feels that chaos threatens or hurts Recluce. Anyone they
think might ever create disorder must either leave or undergo a trial by exile
to prove their commitment to the absolute order of Recluce."
"Everyone? Surely the children of the
powerful . . ." questioned Murreas, the heavy-set Finance Minister.
Krystal and I exchanged glances, an
exchange noted by Kasee, although she said nothing.
"No," responded Krystal after a
brief hesitation. "They are true believers. I know of a case where the son
of one of the highest of the Brotherhood was exiled years earlier than any
other child would have been, perhaps to prove that no one is above the
law."
Liessa looked at me from the other end of
the table and nodded nearly imperceptibly.
Hell, all of Kyphros would know my history
before I ever got out of Kyphrien, the way things were going, and there wasn't
much I could do about it.
After the dinner came small cups of a hot
mulled cider, along with a nut-filled pastry soaked in honey. It took my best
behavior not to use my fingers to wipe up the last of the honey from the plate.
I didn't want to disgrace Krystal, but I'd had few sweets since leaving home,
and hadn't realized how much I had missed them.
". . . will you be staying long?"
I'd missed the first part of Minister
Zeiber's question, but the intent was clear.
"No."
"And what are your plans?"
I shrugged. "To do what has to be
done."
"This is rather ambitious. Also,
rather vague."
"It is vague," I agreed
cheerfully, with a growing awareness of the man's underlying venality.
Krystal's face was impassive, but I could
sense the humor beneath the facade.
"I am afraid tomorrow will come
early," announced Kasee the Autarch. She rose from her chair.
"Krystal, thank you for sharing the order-master with us. And you,
Lerris-we appreciate your candor and your willingness to enlighten us."
The ruler nodded toward the Guard Commander.
"Thank you, order-master," added
Ferrel, "especially for your rescue attempt and the 'accidental' charge.
You saved a good score by taking out that wizard. I enjoyed returning your
knife, and I won't disabuse the guard by revealing the 'accidental' nature of
your success."
"I appreciate your kindness, and your
retrieving my knife."
Ferrel nodded and followed the autarch out.
We were right behind, but, outside the dining room, in the wide red-oak paneled
hallway, the autarch and Ferrel headed right. I followed Krystal to the left,
down the dimly-lit halls, feet echoing in the hushed corridors.
In time, we reached Krystal's quarters,
where the faithful Herreld waited. He had the door opened even before we had
finished turning the last corner.
"That will be all, Herreld."
He looked at me and back at Krystal.
"If I need anything, I'll ring the
order desk." Her smile was pleasant, but formal. "Good night."
"Good night, commander."
Thunk!
Krystal dropped the heavy bar in place with
the ease of long practice.
"He wasn't too pleased to see me come
in."
Krystal didn't answer the question, instead
unbelted her sword and carried it into her bedroom.
Thud . . . thud . . . The "thuds"
came from the heavy boots, not the sword.
She returned barefoot, still wearing the
blouse, vest, and trousers she had on at dinner. "Let's sit on the balcony
for a little while."
Outside, a cool breeze caressed my face.
Krystal took the right-hand chair and seated herself in the darkness. I sat and
looked over the railing. There seemed to be more lamps in the guard yard below
than in what else I could see of Kyphrien. Even the area below seemed dimly-lit
for the guard force of a capital city.
"People go to bed early."
"The price of candles and lamp-oil has
doubled since midsummer."
"Oh ... the war?"
Krystal snorted. "Oil comes mainly
from Spidlar or Certis, and the prefect won't let the merchants cross Gallos to
reach us. He also has an agreement with the Viscount of Certis. Between the two
of them and the merchants' greed . . ."
"Food?"
"We eat a lot of goats, cheese, and
olives these days. And beans. We mustn't forget the beans."
"You sound tired."
"I am tired, Lerris. We all are. Me,
Ferrel, Liessa, and especially Kasee. She's aged ten years in the past year.
Dealing with Murreas alone is no banquet, but we need her as much as the
Finest." She leaned back on the balcony chair in the darkness, her voice
low.
"Obtaining the best troops money can
buy?" That had to be the strategy. While Kyphrans like Shervan and Pendril
were fine people, they didn't make the disciplined force necessary to pick off
Antonin's madmen one at a time.
"It's getting harder and harder, and
we're paying three times what the new Duke of Freetown offers. Right now the
Finest are two score short."
I didn't know what to say. Instead, I
reached over and squeezed her leg, just above the knee, trying to send a little
order and strength her way.
"Thank you. Sometimes ..."
I wished she had finished the sentence.
There wasn't enough light to see her face, and my order-senses didn't read
facial expressions well. Only a faint wistful longing surrounded her.
"You wish what?" I finally asked.
"That some things had been different.
That I were younger. Or . . ."
Again, she left the sentence unfinished,
and I didn't ask.
"Sometimes, I do too," I found
myself answering.
"You need to find some answers inside
yourself first, I think."
She was right. Until I dealt with Antonin,
or he dealt with me, there would be no answers. I sighed.
"Hell, isn't it?" Her voice was
dry.
I had to chuckle. I wasn't quite up to
laughing, but her tone was so wry I couldn't help it. It was hell. Sitting on
that cool balcony in pitch dark overlooking a city whose streets I had never
walked, I talked to Krystal, the sub-commander, the autarch's champion. I
looked at a doorway that had once been open, a door through which I had not
dared to walk.
Why? I couldn't say. Would that door be
open to me again? I didn't know that either.
"I wonder if Kyphros needs another
good woodcrafter . . ." I mused instead of confronting myself.
"There aren't many good woodcrafters
anywhere. There aren't many masters at anything anywhere, though."
Again, that lingering silence fell, and I
heard a single set of footsteps on the stones below. In time, they died out.
"Do you like being a master of the blade?"
"Sometimes. When it's used for
good."
"And the other times?"
I could feel her shrug, though she did not
move from the chair. "You try to do as little damage as possible. You
can't support the best of rulers without some injustice. Wrynn never understood
that."
"What happened to her?"
"Nothing. Not that I know of. She
didn't stay with the Finest long. She headed toward Sarronnyn through the
southern passes, looking for a place where the people were strong and
fair-minded."
"Poor Wrynn." I felt sorry for
her. Wherever she went, she wouldn't find what she was looking for, just like I
hadn't been able to find the clear answers I so desperately wanted.
"She won't find them," Krystal
confirmed, almost reading my thoughts.
"Did you find what you were looking
for?" I asked, not quite idly.
"Part of it. I'm doing what I'm good
at, and it has some value."
I didn't ask about the rest. One look
around the dinner table would have been enough to answer that. Instead, I
looked out at Kyphrien, noting that the candles, lamps, and torches were fewer
now, as more and more citizens went to bed, stopped carousing, or whatever.
The breeze had picked up, bringing the
first hint of chill since I had crossed the Little Easthorns. The faint smell
of smoke came with the breeze, the smoke from torches and ill-adjusted oil
lamps. Unlike Recluce, Kyphros and indeed, all of Candar, did not use coal-gas
lamps.
Krystal's chair creaked.
"Lerris?"
"Yes."
"I need some sleep." She stood up
and stifled a yawn.
It wasn't a question, and it wasn't an
invitation.
"Oh . . . sorry. I'll get my
things."
"You can stay here. If you feel
comfortable about it." Then she added, and I could hear the smile in her
words, "That's just for sleeping."
Lonely as I felt, and much as I would have
liked to hold her, and be held, she was right. Not that I liked it, but she was
right. I had too many unanswered questions I had not even faced.
"Besides," she added with a short
laugh, "it will add to my image,"
"What? Having a poor woodworker stay
overnight? That will improve your image?"
"Come on inside. You were never a poor
woodworker."
"I was a terrible apprentice." I
followed her in, letting her close the door. A single lamp burned in the main
room.
"That was then." She gestured.
"You want the bedroom or the couch? It's long enough and firm
enough."
I opted for the couch, ignoring the
possible play on words. The quarters were hers, after all.
"Good night." She did close her
door, if gently.
Despite my unanswered questions, the couch
was comfortable, and I slept more soundly than I had since leaving Fenard. I
did not dream, nor wake with cold chills, nor hear the sound of coach wheels in
the sky.
I did wonder, before drifting off, what had
happened to the lady who had once wanted me.
LXII
I WOKE
UP early, in the chill winter grayness before true dawn with the blanket
actually around my shoulders, looking at the ceiling and wondering. I had been
drawn to Tamra and later to Krystal-but for different reasons, very different
reasons. Krystal was my friend, yet my dreams of her were far more than
friendly. And Tamra was a spoiled bitch, yet I still dreamed of her, though
less frequently of late. What had changed? Or had anything? Or did I dream of
Krystal because she seemed more attainable? Or ...
"You're a confused mess, Lerris
..." I muttered under my breath. Acknowledging it didn't solve my
confusion, but it might lead to more useful thought on the subject-assuming I
had time to think about it.
As silently as I could, I sat up, glancing
through the single window. A few thin wisps of smoke already rose into the
cloudy sky outside. Krystal's door was shut, but she was awake or just waking
up.
I stretched, knowing that going out and
achieving the impossible by defeating Antonin still wouldn't resolve the
questions whose answers I had sought. Was I going after Antonin in search of a
glorious defeat in order to avoid admitting that there were no clear answers,
or that they weren't what I wanted?
I shivered. That might be part of my
problem, but it wasn't all of it. After all, Justen had mucked around the edge
for centuries, probably watching white wizards like Antonin burn themselves out
one after the other. That was fine, if you were after a long life, but more
than two centuries after the fall of Frven, Candar was still a conflicted mass
of warring duchies.
I stood up, letting the blanket fall, and
gazed out at the eastern horizon, a faint red pink that subsided back into gray
as I watched. Just in shorts, I wasn't even cool, not once I was awake.
Click.
Krystal stood behind me, but I didn't turn
immediately.
"Good morning."
"Good morning." I left the study
of Kyphrien and turned toward my hostess.
"Woodworking must be good for muscular
development." She wore a once-green scuffed leather tunic over a faded
shirt with green leather trousers and battered boots. Some of the tiredness was
gone from her eyes.
"You're ready to go," I observed.
"Some sort of hard work." She grimaced. "Training."
Another set of pieces clicked into place in
my thoughts. "You're trying to buy time while-"
She nodded. "It's not working. The
losses are too high."
I understood immediately. With Antonin's
chaos-support, the prefect didn't need extraordinarily well-trained soldiers.
The autarch did, and after a time the numbers who could be bought shrank, and
only so many had the inclination and talent, and even fewer could be trained at
any one time.
Krystal presented a wry smile that held
little amusement. "We do what we can." She looked at me again, and I
felt embarrassed. "Much as I like the view, you need to get dressed. We
eat together with the guard in the morning."
I put on my traveling clothes, including
the knife that Ferrel had returned at dinner, as quickly as I could. Krystal
was doing something at her desk when I peered in, staff and pack in hand, ready
to go.
"Records, papers, and accounts,"
she explained as she pushed back the chair.
"Surely you don't have to do the
accounts for the guard?"
"Chaos, no! But what tactics you can
use depend on your equipment and your supplies. Not even the Finest can fight
without horses or food." She kept talking as she belted on the sword and
pulled on the short jacket with the braid that served as her emblem of office.
"Certain tactics cause a higher death rate for horses, and mounted troops
need reserve mounts. While we have a grain levy, there's a tradeoff between
increasing the levy and taxing something else to buy the grain . . ." She
shook her head. "I'm just beginning to understand a few of the
complexities. Sometimes, fighting is the easiest part."
I nodded, thinking as we walked out the
door and past the near-permanent sentry guarding her quarters. I ignored his
hostile look, reflecting on what she had said. Certainly, money was important
to something like woodworking, but I really hadn't thought about it as the
basis for fighting and warfare.
In that light, what Antonin was doing made
even more sense-unfortunately.
"You're quiet," observed Krystal,
not slowing her steps one whit as she took the wide stairs down toward the
ground level of the building.
"Thinking . . . Almost every day I
learn something new, and it seldom answers the old questions. Just adds to the
unanswered questions." My guts twisted slightly at my overstatement, and I
added another few words. "That's the way it seems, but I guess that's
because the answers you find seem simple compared to the new questions."
In turn, Krystal was silent.
The low-ceilinged guard mess hall contained
space for more than a dozen-score guards at the long tables. Not quite half the
seats were filled as we entered. Only a handful of heads turned, mostly of younger
men, as Krystal marched up to the serving table.
She took a single slice of thick bread, a
scoop of some sort of preserves, a slice of hard white cheese, a boiled egg,
and a steaming cup of a tea so bitter that I could smell it without even nearing
the huge teapot.
The cheese and egg were beyond me. I had
two slices of the warm bread with the dark preserves, a battered apple, and
tea.
Krystal sat at a table in the middle of the
room, alone except for me. As I sat down on the worn red-oak bench next to her,
I caught sight of Ferrel leaving the mess, also wearing battered leathers.
"You'll pardon me," Krystal said,
with her mouth full. "I'd like to eat before business begins."
I frowned. Business?
"Any guard can approach me now, ask
questions, or make suggestions. They may not be quite as forward with you here,
but there will be some." She continued to munch slowly on the bread she
had spread thinly with the preserves.
Me, I had slathered my bread with the sweet
preserves, enjoying each bite after my days of travel. Belatedly, I realized I
did not remember much of what I had eaten the night before. I had eaten, that I
recalled; but besides the salad and the lamb, I didn't recall what had been on
the plates.
"Commander?" ventured a
hard-faced woman wearing a single thin gold stripe on the shoulder of her vest.
"You sent for me?"
I almost choked, wondering when Krystal had
sent for the woman, wondering if she ever slept.
"Yes, leader Yelena. Would you be
interested in an escort mission?"
The sub-officer's eyes flicked from Krystal
to me. "I'd like to know more."
"Where are you going, Lerris?"
I had to swallow several bites of apple and
swig the too-hot tea. I didn't know exactly. What I wanted was to find the wizards'
road that ran down the Little Easthorns without retracing my route from Gallos.
"I'd like to see a map," I began,
"but, in general, along the old road to Sarronnyn, the one that no one
uses now."
"The chaos-road?" suggested
Yelena, her voice fiat.
I shrugged. "I don't know what it's
called. But that's where he is, beyond the point where the hidden wizards'
roads connect."
Both Krystal and Yelena turned to me.
"Explain," demanded the sub-commander, her voice as hard and
authoritative as I had ever heard it.
"There are hidden wizards' roads
throughout Candar. Sometimes the current roads are built right over the old
roads built by the white wizards, but many of the old roads are hidden. There's
one that runs, I think, the length of the Little Easthorns. It crosses the road
from Gallos to Tellura somewhere after the top of the pass."
"Why didn't you mention this
before?"
I was more than a little puzzled at her
coldness. "First, you never asked. Second . . . oh, shit ... I see what
you mean ..."
Now it was Yelena's turn to look puzzled. I
thought Krystal had softened slightly.
"Logistics?" I asked. "Troop
travel?"
Krystal nodded.
"I don't think it will help, but, if
you get me a map, I'll show you where it goes." Another thought struck me.
"But unless you have another order-master, it won't help. Where it
crosses, the road is cloaked with illusions. Antonin hasn't shared the roads
with anyone, but I think he uses them to let everyone think he is everywhere."
"He's been successful in that,"
snapped the sub-officer. "I'll get a set of maps."
Once she was out of earshot, before anyone
else neared, I looked at Krystal. "I'm not a military strategist, and I
don't appreciate being accused, even silently, of incompetence. I admit it. I
don't know your business. Don't expect me to." I tried to soften my tone.
"I know you're against the wall. I can see it. I'd never withhold
information or help, not knowingly. But I'm still having trouble learning my
own business, let alone trying to understand yours."
Krystal pursed her lips, then met my
glance. "I'm sorry." Her tone was still flat.
"Krystal . . . the first time I could
have told you about the road was last night. Could you have done anything about
it any earlier? Besides, I didn't even know there were any wizards' roads in
Kyphros until I found that one, and I came straight to Kyphrien."
The stiffness finally receded. "I am
sorry. It's just . . ."
"It's that bad?" I asked.
"Yes. It's that bad. Maybe worse. Look
around."
I did. For a long time. Then I swallowed.
Fully a third of the guard were bandaged or otherwise disabled or
incapacitated. Most of the sub-officers and officers were women, and most of
the men were scarcely older than I was.
I
should have seen it. No matter how good she was with a blade, no matter how
smart and mature, a woman would not have ended up as the number-two officer in
a kingdom's military force in little more than a year unless the losses were
horrendous or the talent pool small. I suspected both.
"I'm sorry. I'll do what I can."
I meant that not just for Krystal or for me, but because of what the people
around us represented-the struggle against an old chaotic rule and an attempt
at ... I didn't exactly know how or why, but what I saw accorded with my idea
of what order should be, not necessarily what Talryn or Recluce thought of as
order.
"Thank you."
"Commander, why were the road-patrol
rotations changed yesterday?" asked a young man with a scraggly yellow
mustache.
"That's because . . ."
"Commander, will there be additional
mounts . . ."
"Commander, how do we get the duty
rotation . . ."
"Commander . . ."
I edged away, letting Krystal deal with the
guards who approached, marveling at her patience and understanding.
Yelena walked in carrying a long leather
tube. I gestured to her, and commandeered a near-empty table.
"Do you have one that shows the border
beyond the Southbrook?"
After sifting through the parchments, she
laid an older map on the table, smoothing it out. Some of the mountains were
named, and the road line matched what I remembered, but the pattern of the
peaks was not complete.
I measured roughly, thought, and measured.
Finally, I noted an area. "In this
area, and it runs due east and west ..." I tried to describe the thin
valley that she should be able to see beyond the illusions, and what the road
looked like, and how the long-gone wizards of Frven had planed off the sides of
mountains to build their roads. But they had used order as well, somehow. Chaos
to destroy the mountains and to create the hidden road valleys, and order to
reinforce the stonework and the bridges.
"Can you pass that on to someone
else?" asked Krystal.
I hadn't realized she had stood behind us.
"I think so," responded Yelena.
"You still want me to escort the order-master?"
"If you would find that
acceptable."
Yelena nodded. "How many, and when do
we leave?"
"Two plus yourself." Krystal
looked to me for the second answer.
"Shortly. The sooner we leave, the
sooner ..." I didn't know what would be sooner, or even what exactly I
might discover, but all of us were running out of time.
"Where are we headed?" asked
Yelena.
Explaining that took a bit longer, and more
struggle with the maps, but there was an old road that looked like it went
where I wanted and, if the maps were correct, joined with the old main central
pass road that led to Sarronnyn. That was the road that no one took any longer
because they never seemed to arrive on the other side of the Westhorns.
Finally, I looked up. "That's the best
I can do."
"Yelena?"
"It will be interesting,
commander."
Interesting-that was one way of putting it.
"Well ... I guess I'll get Gairloch."
"What ... do you have a mount?"
"Oh . . . Gairloch is in the stables
by the gate."
"We will meet you there." Yelena
inclined her head to Krystal. "Honor, commander."
"Honor, leader."
I followed Krystal from the mess into the
main guard yard, where we stopped in an open space.
"Make sure you're doing this for
yourself, Lerris."
I shook my head. "Nothing's that
simple."
"I guess not." She smiled with
her mouth, not her eyes. "Then, try to do it mostly for your
reasons."
"I'll do what I must, and we'll sort
out the reasons later. All right?"
She nodded. "Fair enough. I won't say
to take care. But ... do come back to sort out those reasons."
I wet my lips, feeling the cool wind chill
them as I did. With all that I felt, there was little to say. "Until
later."
"Until later."
I looked down, then back into her black
eyes, seeing the tiredness again.
She raised her hand in a gesture that was
part benediction, part salute, and I inclined my head to her, then turned while
I could. I did not look back, but kept my eyes fixed on the building that was
the stable.
Yelena and two others waited, already
mounted, as I walked up with my staff and pack.
"Where's your pass?" demanded the
ostler.
"Oh, hell ..." I had never
bothered to get anyone to sign the damned parchment square. "Just a
moment."
"Leader Yelena?"
"Yes, order^master?"
"I forgot to have the sub-commander
autograph this pass."
"Autograph?"
I kept from shaking my head at the
brown-haired sub-officer with the long nose and square chin. "A pass to
release my horse."
"Pheww on a pass! Get your
horse." She rode into the stable in front of me.
". . . on official business for the
Sub-Commander. None of this crap about passes!"
The ostler was backing into a corner as
Yelena threatened to ride him down.
I ignored them both and quickly saddled
Gairloch, recovering my saddlebags in the process.
The ostler swallowed as I rode out.
"Good . . . day . . . order-master . . ."
"Good day." My tone was not
totally cheerful. I hadn't wanted to pay for the stable, since my stock of
coinage was scarcely deep, and having to ask for Yelena's assistance bothered
me.
"That's a horse?" asked the
sub-officer.
"No, this is Gairloch. You don't think
I could really ride one of those monsters you use, do you?" I grinned at
the dour officer.
"Glad you recognize it,
order-master." I almost fell off Gairloch when she smiled back.
The other two looked at each other and kept
their mouths closed as we rode out through the gates into Kyphrien.
Even in the gray drizzle that had begun to
fall, the city was light-whitewashed walls, red tile roofs, and limestone- or
marble-paved streets. People talked, like a city of hundreds of Shervans.
". . . best breads in Kyphros, by
exclusive patronage of the autarch . . ."
". . . and you could have crossed the
river barefoot, he drank so much. Never have I seen an animal drink so much,
and beyond that . . ."
"Your fortune, not even a copper! Who
will grudge a mere copper for knowing all that will befall you."
"Hezira, I said, there's to be none of
that. No, none of that, Hezira-that's what I told her, but, of course, she
didn't listen. Why would she listen, with her high house and her silk gowns? .
. ."
I eased Gairloch closer to Yelena. "Is
it always this noisy?"
"No." She shook her head.
"It's usually noisier. This is early. It gets louder later."
"Look at the pony! See the pony,
Berrna! He must be a northern pony. He's so shaggy . . ."
Outside of the autarch's walled
residence-not really a castle or even a palace-and the associated guard area,
Kyphrien was an open and unwalled city, where the houses and businesses
scattered farther and farther apart as we headed north and west toward the
Westhorns I could not see. There never was a point at which I could have said
Kyphrien ended and the countryside began, but we were on another gently rolling
road even before mid-morning.
The drizzle had damped the dust, but not
yet turned it into mud. Gairloch matched the pace set by the brown gelding
carrying Yelena without seeming to strain, and we traveled through the morning
without talking, which was fine with me, especially after the hubbub that had
been Kyphrien.
Yet I liked the country, found it friendly,
even if it were not as lush as Gallos or even Recluce. The spareness of the
colder and rolling hills, which steepened within kays to the northwest of
Kyphrien, appealed to me. I even noted several locations that would have been
ideal for setting up my own woodworking-with streams high enough for a water
supply, not far from the road, and with ample and varied timber within carting
distance. I shook my head-planning to be a workworker, still? Uncle Sardit would
surely have laughed. How well he had wrought he did not know. Or maybe he did,
and I was the one who didn't know.
Thoughts of working wood would have to
wait. If I could deal somehow with Antonin ... if ...
I cast my thoughts back over my last encounter-the
one with the white wizard-recalling how I had fought with the staff to control
my defenses and my energies. What had that meant?
There had been something in the book . . .
something . . . I could not recall it, but made a mental note to look it up.
Midday found us halting beside a stream
that bordered the road, but we did not actually cross it.
"That's not really a bridle,"
noted the young man who had followed behind me. "How do you control him in
a pinch?"
"I never thought about it." I
pulled out some hard white cheese and offered him a piece.
Wheeee . . . eeee . . .
Yelena was watering her horse, and,
deciding that Gairloch was thirsty as well, I looped the reins over the saddle
and thwacked him on the flank, watching as he ambled into the water ankle-deep.
The soldier had taken the cheese, but he
looked away suddenly as Gairloch left me.
The other trooper, a woman probably my own
age, with short sandy hair and green eyes, surprisingly dark skin, and a ragged
scar running across most of her right cheek, stepped closer.
"Cheese?" I offered.
"Thank you." Her voice was
simultaneously grave and cheerful. "Are you . . . the . . . order-master?
. . ."
I grinned. Why not? "I'm Lerris. Yes,
I'm the one from Recluce who knew the sub-commander. She's my friend."
Her eyebrows rose, and I could imagine the
stories already circulating through the guard.
"In addition to being a
blademaster," I added, "she is also a lady. And my friend."
"I didn't mean ..." I waved her
apology off. "Rumors are rumors. I care for the lady a lot, but that's all
until we have done what has to be done. Then we'll see."
"Are all the men from Recluce like
you?"
". . . Aaaccccuuu ..." I almost
choked on the cheese. ". . . No. Probably none of them are as dense as I
am."
"The order-master is joking,
Freyda," interrupted Yelena. Her voice was cold, but her eyes were
smiling. "You'd better water your horse. We're not stopping that long.
You, too, Weldein."
When the two were out of earshot, the
sub-officer looked at me. "You're more dangerous than you look." But
she was almost smiling.
I shrugged. "I can't not tell the
truth, and that makes it difficult."
"You can't?"
"Not without paying for it
somehow."
She was the one to shake her head.
"I'm glad I'm just a leader."
As I reclaimed Gairloch and fed him some
corners of a grain cake, I thought about what she said. I had to agree with
her. The more I learned and the more I could do, the more complex it got.
LXIII
KYPHROS
WAS BIGGER than I thought. The way the West-horns angled westward as they
marched south meant that we had to ride two days to reach the foothills that
almost matched the Little Easthorns in size.
I had guessed that at some point the road,
since it was an older road, would cross the wizards' road for which I searched.
I didn't know that, but it seemed right.
The first night we actually stayed in a
small inn in a town-Upper River. Why it was called Upper River, no one knew,
and Yelena's maps showed neither Lower River, nor even a stream called Upper
River. The inn was clean. That was about all. Dinner was overcooked goat steaks
smothered in a strong cheese. The beds sagged, and I shared a room with
Weldein, who by then was scared stiff of me, although I had said nothing, and
who snored loudly.
The second night we stopped in a place
called Quessa. Lodging was in one of the soldiers' way stations there, but
staffed only by a couple. I could guess where the soldiers were. The dinner
meal was another spicy casserole, followed by a huge fruitcream pie-much better
fare than at the inn at Upper River.
Quessa itself was fair-sized for the
relatively isolated area in which it stood, with more than a score of houses
and stores serving the surrounding farms and orchards. The people were still
what I thought of as Kyphran stock, with dark skin, darker hair, and broad
smiles. They also talked and talked.
I retreated to the large guest room, the
one that Telia and Bardon insisted I must have, and closed the door. The lamp
by the double-wide bed was bright enough to read by, and I had some reading to
do.
It didn't take long, and all that I found
was what I had remembered, a single paragraph, not even a long one. The key
words were simple: "Order cannot be concentrated in and of itself, not
even within the staff of order, and no man can truly master the staff of order
until he casts it aside."
Except the words were wrong, somehow. No
matter where my staff was, it still gathered order and repulsed chaos. For a
long time, I looked through the pages of the book, but nothing else shed light
on that paragraph.
After I replaced the black-covered and
well-thumbed pages in my pack, I stared into emptiness. The pieces were there-
that I knew. How they fit, I didn't. The white wizard had died when my staff
had touched his fingertips, or at least when it had gotten close. The staff had
been nearly as close to other sources of chaos without that violent a reaction,
and if a simple staff could destroy a chaos-wizard someone would have gone
against Antonin long before. Unless there were reasons to maintain chaos . . .
I didn't like that thought at all.
So I tried to sort out my feelings about
Deirdre, Krystal, and Tamra, but the thought of sorting out those three was
enough to exhaust me on the spot, and I blew out the lamp and slept, sort of,
until the gray of dawn crept through the window.
The next day brought more talking over
breakfast. The trip carried us into wilder countryside, with the end of the
orchards and fenced fields. The clouds had dissipated, but the chill remained,
and we rode in a bright chill toward the unseen Westhorns. By mid-morning, the
road straggled through underbrush that had begun to reclaim the less time-trampled
edges of the road, and the lands beyond the road that had once been grazing
lands were dotted with mature trees and scattered brush, including thickets
upon thickets of wild redberries.
A sense of unease lay over the road,
growing as we climbed each of the ever-steepening hills.
Yelena's face grew tighter with each hill,
and the bigger horses strained and began to puff. On a particularly high
hill-crest where the road was wider, perhaps because the hummock of stones and
fallen timbers looming in the brush back from the north side of the road might
have been an inn or roadhouse in times past, I motioned for the sub-officer to
stop.
For the first time, looking to the west, I
could see the white-tipped dark bulk of the Westhorns. Even from where we had
halted, still a good thirty kays from the foothills beneath those massive
slopes, I could also see that they were indeed impressive, and that at least
another day of riding lay before me.
"We're getting close, I think. I can
feel chaos ahead."
Yelena squinted against the cold bright
sunlight. "We're still quite a ways from the Westhorns."
"I can make it from here. You're
needed against Gallos."
Yelena shook her head. "Order-master,
what would happen if I had to tell the sub-commander that we left you this far
short of the Westhorns?"
I sighed. She was right. "All right.
Let's go. But if there's too much chaos ahead, I want to be able to send you
back."
"Why?"
"Because I might have trouble
protecting you." I laughed harshly. "I might have trouble protecting
myself."
The chaos I sensed seemed to recede as we
rode westward. Either that, or it was stronger and more distant than I had
thought.
By nightfall, we still seemed scarcely
closer to the base of the Westhorns, although we could see some of the nearer
peaks, their ice-covered spires glinting rosy in the sunset.
We camped in another long-deserted farm,
sheltered by a single standing stone wall. I set wards, but nothing woke me,
and the fourth morning of the trip dawned as gray as the morning when we had
left Kyphrien.
I wondered how many more had died on the
hills of Northern Kyphros while I rode on my fool's errand toward the
Westhorns. Then, again, what else could I do? No warrior, I could but try to
bring order where I might.
In a way, that was similar to woodworking,
except in craft-ing I built upon the natural order, whereas in order-mastery- I
thought-I tried to strengthen natural order to repulse an unnatural disorder.
"Cheese?" I offered some to
Weldein, absent-mindedly.
He took it, equally abstracted, as he
looked from the hillside, where we had camped not far from a small brook,
toward the mountains. Then he looked at the white cheese, as if wondering how
he got it.
"Eat it. It's good cheese. A
mill-master gave it to me."
"Why?" asked Freyda.
"Because I helped his
goddaughter."
"Was she pretty?" Weldein
inquired. His tone was polite.
"Very. Unfortunately," I added.
The two exchanged glances, and, for some
reason Weldein blushed.
"She didn't like you?" That was
Yelena.
She did like me."
"If she was pretty . . ." Weldein
sounded confused.
I really didn't want to explain, but I
sighed and went on. "I found her attractive. She was capable and bright.
That just made it worse."
"So you left her for duty?"
Yelena asked. "How noble . . ."
"No." My voice was cold, but I
couldn't help it. "I left because I had a job to do, and because I
realized there was someone else still in my heart, and because ..." I
broke off. What I would have said would have sounded unforgivably pompous. So I
shut up. It was probably true, but it was arrogant.
This time all three exchanged knowing
glances, and things were even worse.
"What about the goddaughter?"
"I found her a good-looking and
talented husband who loved her, and provided a dowry, and we both cried like
hell."
That shut them up, but I felt petty about
it as we packed the horses for the coming day's ride. Finally, I stepped over
to Yelena. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . ."
She smiled, as softly as I had seen her
smile, and touched my arm briefly. "Don't be. It's good to see that great
order-masters are human, that they love, and make mistakes."
I shook my head. "I'm not a great
order-master."
Yelena swung onto her brown gelding.
"Then there are none."
I pondered that as I climbed onto Gairloch.
Perhaps that was the problem, that there simply were no great order-masters to
combat the great chaos-masters like Antonin. Then I frowned. A simple solution,
too simple. And simple and easy answers were almost always wrong.
By mid-morning, the feeling of impending
chaos was stronger, much stronger, and not receding.
The road had not been used in some time,
except for a single rider whose prints appeared now and again in the sheltered
spots in the clay. How long since the prints had been made, I could not tell.
Nor could Yelena.
"We have not had a great rain since
summer." She pursed her lips.
I could feel the energy ahead, perhaps as
near as over the next hill-crest.
Overhead, heavy gray clouds rolled.
Thurummmm . . .
No rain fell as we rode up the
especially-steep hill.
"Stop," I said, feeling the chaos
pressure. "There's something ahead."
"Armed men?"
"No." I sent my perceptions
forward, but could only detect a small hump in the road, somehow tied down with
chaos. Nothing else. "I think it's all right for now."
The hump was a body, or what was left of
it.
Yelena rode almost up to the figure, then
dismounted, standing back from face-down remains. "Outlier's belt."
"Careful . . . there's chaos
there."
The sub-officer nodded. "I know. We've
seen this before." She drew her sword and touched the body. A bright blue
spark flashed against the steel. She glanced at me. "That's another trick
of the white wizards."
Even from where Gairloch and I had stopped,
the heat from the spark momentarily warmed the chill noontime air.
She used the sword to lever the body over
onto its back. The Kyphran soldier's face was a charred and shattered mass-the
target of a fireball thrown by Antonin or Sephya or some other chaos-wizard.
I could guess what happened. The outlier
had been lured or charmed this far out and then destroyed.
"Chaos fed on him. Too bad we can't
feed on chaos. We'd never go hungry any more." She motioned to Weldein.
"Let's take care of this. Not much time, but there are stones there."
In the end, all of us created a cairn by
the side of the deserted road.
As we remounted, Yelena's remark got me
thinking. In a way, chaos fed on chaos. The stronger Antonin became, the more
he could destroy, which increased the amount of chaos in Candar. In the whole
world, really. If the old masters were right, increased chaos had to be
balanced somewhere with increased order.
I swallowed hard. If what I thought was
true was in fact true, Talryn and the Brotherhood had a lot to answer for, one
hell of a lot.
That didn't resolve my particular problem.
While I was getting stronger, Justen had been right. It was a slow process.
Antonin could literally tear holes in mountains and buildings and infect whole
cavalry troops with chaos. It would be years, if ever, before I could confront
Antonin directly-and that wouldn't help Krystal or the autarch, or the people
of either Gallos or Kyphros.
Justen's method was clear. He kept
reinforcing low-level order everywhere around Antonin, from healing in Jellico
to sheep-ranching in Montgren. That order limited the indirect spillover of
chaos and protected most of the innocents. Just as clear was the fact that
Antonin was willing to let all of that low-level order build up, because it
allowed him to increase his powers. Which, in turn, let Justen exercise his
powers . . .
I rubbed my temples with my fingertips. Was
the whole thing an exercise in circles? Was any wizard, white or black, really
being honest about it? Was this the reason why no one had answered the
questions behind my questions?
"What now, order-master?"
I understood. Now she had the reason to be
dismissed- and Krystal needed them in the Northeast more than I needed them
here.
"This is as far as you go,
sub-officer. This is where chaos starts."
"Are you sure?"
I nodded, wanting to ensure that all of
them carried the same message back. "I can't protect you and search for
the white wizard, not without endangering us all. I thank you for the escort,
for the company, and for your understanding."
"Thank you, ser."
"Thank you . . ."
Yelena held back a moment when the other
two turned their mounts. "We'd like to see you again, ser." Then, the
hardness returned to her face, as the discipline reasserted itself.
I watched the three until they were out of
sight, checking to make sure no chaos waited for them, but I could detect
none-not in that direction.
Toward the Westhorns-that was another
question. Supposedly, the old road should cross the wizards' road before too
long. Supposedly . . . but things never quite turned out as they were supposed
to. And when they did, I was finding that I wished they hadn't.
A cold wind blew from nowhere, almost more
in my mind than across that high slope where I began the last, solitary part of
my quest-if quest were what it was. Why was I traveling a near-abandoned road
toward a wizard who had swatted me aside like a fly the last time we had met?
What did I think that I could possibly accomplish when Talryn or Justen had
been able to do nothing?
Then again, had they really tried? Who was
telling the truth? Or was anyone?
I shivered, but Gairloch lifted his head,
as if to say we should get on with it.
LXIV
ANOTHER
FIVE KAYS beyond the hill where I had helped bury the unnamed and unknown
Kyphran outlier and where I had separated from my escort, barely into the edge
of the foothills, the old road crossed the wizards' road.
I didn't even have to look for illusions. I
did cast my perceptions around and found traces of older chaos, indicating
that, at one time, some magic had been cast to cloak the road. That had been
seasons, if not years, earlier. I shivered. That Antonin saw no reason to hide
his road was chilling in itself.
The unnatural valley ran straight east and
west, and the trace of coach wheels ran straight and true down the center of
the road. Hoofprints, recent ones, flanked the wheel traces.
I took a deep breath. Suddenly, I had to
ask myself what I was doing in the middle of a wilderness looking for a
chaos-master. I didn't have an answer.
Instead, still damning myself for a fool, I
turned Gairloch onto that clay-covered and white-paved road and threw my senses
ahead of me. Then, remembering what I had done earlier, I used the shield that
reduced the ability of a chaos-master to discern the order I represented. That
shield left us fully visible, but the greater danger was from white magicians,
not from ordinary or even chaos-touched soldiers.
In the distance, actually into the
Westhorns themselves, there was another lurking mass of chaos energy, but
nothing nearby. Nothing-not wild pigs, not goats, and definitely not people.
About what one would expect around an isolated wizards' road. For now, that was
fine with me.
Even on Gairloch, as opposed to a coach,
riding on the even surface was considerably speedier than on the old road from Kyphrien.
Despite what I recalled from my conversations with Justen, I found it hard to
believe that the wizards' road could have lasted so long. Then again, only the
road and the heavy stone bridges had really endured, and Justen had said that
the construction had been done by honest stonemasons reinforced with black
order-masters, before . . . something had happened.
Once again, I hadn't quite gotten the whole
story.
By twilight, we had traveled nearly into
the lower reaches of the Westhorns themselves, and those lower mountains loomed
so high into the western sky that we had ridden the entire late afternoon in
shadow. Their distant pinnacles glittered with reflected light, a cruel white
that made the peaks a fitting home for chaos.
Not that I had wanted to ride poor Gairloch
as long as I had, but it was twilight before there was a canyon away from the
road that had water, and was passable enough for us to get well clear of the
wizards' way itself.
We struggled up a rock-and-grass slope, around
a bend, and behind another boulder before I felt we were removed enough from
casual scrutiny.
Whheeee . . . eeee . . . Gairloch was
nuzzling at the saddlebags even before I had them off. His nose was wet-and
cold from the brook water that felt like liquid ice.
"Don't drink any more," I
snapped. A lot of really cold water wouldn't do him much good.
I even touched him and let my feelings run
through his system. He either hadn't drunk that much or could handle it. Still,
I worried; but then, I was worrying about everything.
He took the grain cake as soon as it
appeared, almost including my fingers in the first greedy bite.
"Gairloch!"
He didn't pay much attention, but I hadn't
really expected that he would.
After dried fruit, travel bread, and the
last of the white cheese, I laid out the bedroll under an overhang. The sky was
clear, the stars sparkling like faraway lanterns in the blackness; a chill wind
whistled down the canyon. I slept inside the bedroll.
The stream gurgled, and I slept-in a way. I
dreamed that I was refereeing a fencing match between Krystal and a white
knight, except that the white knight was Antonin, and he kept throwing
fireballs at me, and laughing. Every time he threw a fireball, Krystal looked
at me and stopped fencing, and he would slash her on her blade arm, until her
arm was dripping red. The dream seemed to last all night, and I woke in cold
sweats, although the dawn was filled with ice. Frost covered the grass, and a
thin layer of rime ice covered even the fast-moving waters of the brook.
The season wasn't quite winter, and in the
low Westhorns it was colder than the coldest of days in Recluce, or most days
in Kyphrien, I suspected.
Wheeee . . . Gairloch's breath was a white
cloud.
"I'm getting up."
When I started moving, I was warm enough,
though.
After giving Gairloch a little grain and
letting him graze on the sparse grass, I did my own munching on the remaining
dried apples from Brettel. My supplies were low, probably less than an
eight-day of trail food, but one way or another, I wouldn't need more than
that.
The apples weren't enough, and I opened the
wax on the last package of cheese, a brick yellow cheese harder and less tasty
than the white. The trail bread helped, but I limited what I ate and repacked
the rest.
Then-carefully-I reached out with my senses
to the wizards' road. It was as deserted as the night before, with no sign of
use.
Long before the sun cleared the hills
behind us, -Gairloch and I were riding deeper into the Westhorns, deeper along
the narrow and artificial valley.
In time, having seen nothing unusual, and
having sensed nothing beyond the traces of chaos on the road, we began to near
the mass of chaos-energies I had first sensed the afternoon before, somewhere
on the other side of an even narrower gap in the huge rock wall that,, except
for the path of the wizards' road, seemed to block any westward passage.
Wheeee. Gairloch tossed his head, as if in
warning.
Ahead, the pass opened wide in the morning
sun, the sun that warmed my back, grassy slopes rising gently, then ending
abruptly on both sides against the rock and crags that distinguished the
Westhorns from the lesser mountains of Candar. The pass was avoided by almost
everyone-that much was clear from the gravel and clay that held only the traces
of Antonin's passage. A few low thornberries and scrub ash bushes grew
alongside the road, with its unvarying width of more than fifteen cubits.
In casting my perceptions ahead, I could
sense nothing. Nothing. Not even rock, or trees.
"Hellfire ..." I muttered,
realizing what that meant.
Antonin couldn't distort what I saw, but he
could prevent my sensing anything at all, except for the feel of chaos itself.
That meant there was something to sense.
Just for the hell of it, I would have liked
to create a good .solid thunderstorm, but with chaos ahead, using the energy
wasn't a good idea. Besides, while I still resented Justen's comments about
frivolity becoming chaos, I had listened. And I couldn't think of an orderly
reason for the rain. Had there been an artificially-caused drought, use of my
talents to create rain might enhance order. Maybe.
Wheeee . . . uhhhh . . . wheeee . . .
Gairloch's protest jerked my head back
toward the road that slowly rose before us for perhaps another kay. Studying
the few trees, scraggly conifers and pines growing at helter-skelter intervals
from out of the knee-high mountain grass, I could see nothing lurking around or
behind them. Nor was anything visible on the upslope before us.
Right-handed, I flicked the reins.
"Come on. We really don't have anywhere else to go, old fellow."
Whheee.
"No, we don't." I extended my
left hand toward the staff, still safe and waiting in the saddle holder.
"Oooo . . ." The subjective heat flashed to my fingers even before
they reached the black lorken of my staff.
Something was definitely waiting over the
crest of the road.
I wiped my forehead, suddenly sweating in
the cold glare of the winter sun.
Wheeee . . . eee . . .
"I know. There are evil types in front
of us."
Again, I tried to sense what lay over the
hill-crest before me, whatever it was that Gairloch disliked. All I could feel
was a sense of heat, of the fire that was Antonin's trademark.
I glanced at the hillside to the left and
right of the road. Did I really have to keep to it?
A quick survey answered that question. All
those short and gently-sloping meadows ended in piles of jumbled rock at the
base of rocky slopes that would have taxed a mountain sheep.
I looked again, realizing belatedly what
had happened, shaking my head as I did. Once the pass had been a standard
narrow gap-or just a solid wall of rock. Then, someone, something, a long time
ago, perhaps as far back as when Candar had been united under the Wizards of
Fairhaven, had .blasted through. Not only had they built the wizards' road, but
they had rearranged the entire geography.
Maybe, just maybe, Magistra Trehonna had
been right. I definitely didn't like that thought.
With the help of the weather and time, the
sheer facings had crumbled, leaving what seemed a narrow natural ravine running
into the Westhorns. But any crumbled rock had been periodically removed from
the road surface. Under Gairloch's hooves was the same white road surface-the
same wizard-stone-that paved the streets of Frven.
Not that any of that exactly helpeo"
as Gairloch and I proceeded toward the crest of the pass, toward that narrow
gap in the sheer stone wall that towered hundreds of cubits upward.
Wheeee . . .
On the edge of the hard surface lay a
brownish square, the tattered remains of a pack or something, and, in the
higher grass behind . . . fragments of white. I swallowed.
Wheeeee . . . eeeee . . . Gairloch's steps
skittered.
"I know." I chucked the reins
again and looked up.
Ahead, arrayed a half-kay ahead, blocking
the entrance to the narrow pass, was a troop. A white-clad, white-faced wizard
troop of warriors . . . soldiers ... at least they all had weapons that glinted
in the near-noon sun.
I wiped my forehead again with the back of
my sleeve.
In front of the silent, ghost-white
apparitions rode a knight on-what else-a white horse. The horse, over four
cubits at the shoulder, stood there in the sunlight. Neither the horse's metal
breastplate nor the knight's unburnished plate armor reflected the sunlight.
Knights had never enjoyed much success, except in service of chaos, because
that much plate was a wonderful place in which to concentrate fire. Of course,
this knight had probably served chaos far longer than he had ever wanted to.
A damned knight. In more ways than one, I
knew. Behind him waited a pack of armed figures, not exactly men. Unhappily,
each of those figures carried a sword which glinted and looked razor-sharp.
The knight's helmet visor was down, and he
carried a lance pointed in my direction. The lance looked to be a solid pole
with a glistening white tip-chaos-tipped, if you will.
Ml of the predictability of Antonin's
tactics did not make them less effective.
The white horse lifted one hoof, then
another, carrying the silent knight toward me at an even pace, no spring in his
steps, and no wavering. The knight said nothing.
"Easy ..."
The white-haired, white-faced,
white-clothed figures began to walk also, their armor creaking like unoiled
doors, without rhythm, without order, their swords almost flapping to an unseen
and unheard breeze.
Wheee . . . Gairloch kept moving, if
slowly.
"I know. It wasn't exactly my idea,
either."
Farther ahead in the grass to the right of
the road were some more white fragments. I glanced from the ghosts to the bones
and the tattered leathers. My eyes scanned the rest of the high grass,
glimpsing a few other remnants of other travelers.
The bones were real. So not all of the
figures could be illusions; but were they all real? My senses didn't say,
because the blankness that enclosed the pass ahead foiled that. Still ... I
grinned, half-scared, half-elated, and flicked the reins, then dropped them on
the saddle, grabbing the staff with both hands as Gairloch trotted toward the
knight and I bounced along with him.
The knight's lance came up slowly, almost
as if drawn toward the staff, the white tip glinting in the light, red behind
the white of chaos.
Whhhhsttt... A line of fire flew toward me,
spattering off my staff.
Thumpedy, thump . . . Gairloch carried me
toward the lance.
Whhhhsssttt . . . The second fire-line
curved toward us, again spraying around me.
Thunk . . . thunk ... I knocked the
slow-moving lance aside, then struck the rear flank of the white horse.
Hssssttt. . .
Holding the staff in my left hand, I
grabbed the reins and yanked Gairloch to a halt. Like a snuffed candle, the
other white apparitions had vanished, leaving only the knight and horse-which,
as I watched, sagged into a heap on the road, dwindling in size until only a
pile of copper armor remained; that, and a long wooden lance with a
still-sharpened tip.
The dead zone remained, and I could sense
nothing, except with my eyes. Nor could I hear anything, no bird calls, no
whistle of the wind, not the slightest of insect chirps or whines.
"Come on ... let's get moving."
Gairloch didn't object as we rode into the
narrow space. My eyes flicked from one smooth wall to the other, from the
smooth stone in front of me to the cliff edges above, to the sky over that. All
it would take would be one large falling rock-there was nowhere to go.
Then, again, if Antonin blocked the road,
he would only have to unblock it, and who but an idiot would challenge the
ghost horde?
I looked back and shivered. Slowly, a mist
was building around the copper armor.
"Let's keep moving."
A lot of energy had been used to set up
that defense, and all I had done was to bypass it; not even contain it, just
get through it.
Once the high rock walls dropped away on
each side, so did my inability to sense what I might not see. Gairloch had
carried me nearly a kay further into the Westhorns.
Again, I glanced back, but the knight was
out of sight. So was the white horde. But they were waiting, mindlessly, for
the next travelers.
The beauty of the defense was that what
happened didn't matter. Some people died. Some escaped, but the deaths and the
tales of those who did escape added to Antonin's strength and people's desire
to keep as far away from the haunted road as possible. With war between Gallos
and Kyphros, who was about to send enough talent and force to clean up an
unused wizards' road?
Yeee-ahh . . .
The vulcrow's ugly call reminded me to stop
woolgathering and start concentrating again.
I did. That was a mistake, because I asked
myself what I was doing on the road in the first place, or the second place,
for that matter. Antonin had brushed me aside like nothing. And if my dreams
were to be trusted, he had even trapped Tamra, who had been far warier and more
capable than I. So what was I doing riding toward his stronghold?
"What am I doing?" I repeated out
loud.
Wheeee . . . uhhh . . . That was Gairloch's
only reply, but he kept putting one foot in front of the other, as if he had no
choice.
Maybe that was the answer, the only answer.
With all the deaths, and all the sacrifices, maybe I really didn't have much
choice either. I didn't like that thought, either, since it made my stomach
tighten up, and that meant I did have a choice.
Some choice-cut and run like all the other
black masters had for so long; or, probably, get incinerated by the greatest
white wizard in generations. That was a choice of being a live hypocrite like
Talryn or a dead hero like that poor Kyphran outlier.
"Wonderful choices ..." I
muttered under my breath.
Yeee-ahh . . . answered the nearby vulcrow.
I glanced up.
In the cloudless winter blue sky north of
where I rode, two other vulcrows swept in slow wide circles.
Once again, the road stretched ahead down a
narrow valley, straight for at least another two kays before it began a gentle
turn toward the right, northward.
The mountain grass beside the road was all
brown, but I saw no more horses as Gairloch carried me toward the wide curve
and I followed the grooved coach traces back toward Antonin.
Mid-morning came and passed. I rode silently
along the slowly-rising road, a road so dry that only a few stunted bushes
and-patches of mountain grass grew. A road so silent that the occasional
screech of the single vulcrow that followed us, and the sound of Gairloch's
hooves, were the only sounds echoing between those rocky walls.
The pair of vulcrows remained circling
behind us and to the north, but the one continued to follow us. I knew why, but
doing anything about it would have been stupid. The less capable Antonin
thought I was, the better.
Before noon, I stopped at the first water,
a brook barely a cubit wide. Gairloch appreciated the water, cold as it was. I
did also, and fed him some grain cake, not much, and let him browse on the
scattered roadside grass. I appreciated the yellow cheese and travel bread,
though they were sustenance and not much more. Eating beat starving. I threw a
morsel toward the vulcrow that perched on the rocks on the far side of the
road.
For a time, the bread lay on the grass
untouched. Then, with a rush, the scavenger swooped down and bore it back to
its rock perch.
After saluting the black-feathered
creature, I continued slicing and eating cheese. I'd never been the type to
tear it right off the block.
The silence continued, and I wanted to talk,
even to the vulcrow. Instead, I packed away my remaining travel food, filled
the water bottle, and climbed back on Gairloch.
The rock walls flanking the road seemed to
get whiter and deader, and the silence increased. Not even insects chirped, and
the only living things were a vulcrow, a pony, and a damned idiot. In the high
distance, the cold reflection of the high Westhorns glittered.
I kept riding.
Until I found the gates.
At first glance, the valley continued as it
had for all too many kays, long, narrow, straight, and dry, the clay-covered
white pavement stretching out before me. On the north side, there was a dip in
the high rocky walls, and the grassy stretch that led to the near-sheer rock
was nearly flat.
I blinked and looked again, sensing the
illusion. Behind the apparent grass and rock lay another narrow passage. Unlike
the road, the rock walls of this entrance were not timeworn and smooth, but
sharp and clear, and the imprint of chaos was far more recent.
As Gairloch stood there, reined to a halt,
I studied the reality behind the image, wondering if anything created by chaos
could be said to represent reality.
The passage through solid rock was not that
long, perhaps fifty cubits, and the rockface through which it had been cut was
far shorter than most of the valley walls, less than thirty cubits above the
road at the highest. Still, to destroy that mass of rock was impressive.
Midway into the passage were two heavy
white-oak gates, their hinge brackets mortared into the rock itself. Both gates
were closed.
Blocking the illusion from Gairloch, I
nudged him forward. To any bystander, we would have appeared to walk into solid
rock.
No chaps-forces touched the gates
themselves, save for a thin link across them. A heavy but simple latch kept
them closed. While I could have rerouted that thin link and opened the gates
without breaking it, I did not. After all, what simple blackstaffer would have
known that?
As I opened the latch, a spark flew, but
nothing else happened.
Gairloch and I rode through, and I
dismounted and re-closed the gates. Simple courtesy.
Once through the passage, the road ran
between two treeless and rocky hills, then sloped down to a rock-strewn plain
stretching for half a kay toward a towering and shimmering white cliff that
held swirling chaos-energies, and glowed even under the noon sun. Beneath the
cliff was a castle, composed of a stone house and a wall. The white stone
house, barely visible to me even from the top of the hill, must have stood at
least a full three stories high, with a white tile roof. Around the house ran a
wall of white granite, merging with the cliff at each end.
I shivered. I really wasn't sure I wanted
to be there. In fact,.I knew I didn't, but I'd backed myself into my own
particular corner. How could I not try to stop Antonin after all I had said and
seen? How I could possibly succeed was another question.
After another shiver, I looked down at the
castle.
No doubt about it-the structure was impressive,
but it was small, smaller than I would have thought for a chaos-master of
Antonin's standing, and simple. No towers, just a sheer wall jutting out from
the flat cliff rising behind it, pierced by a single visible gate. A narrow
ravine, too deep to see the bottom from the entrance road where I sat upon
Gairloch, and too raw to have been naturally caused, separated the castle and
its walls from the more recently created wizards' road that I had followed from
the original wizards' way.
Beside the newer road that led from the
sharp-cleft rock passage and the castle gates ran a narrow brook, and a few
patches of grass sprouted here and there. I dismounted, not wanting to bring
Gairloch into that castle. Again, I could not explain why. I did not unsaddle
him, but left him free to browse in the shaded area by the brook.
Then I took the staff and began the walk
along the sunlit road between the two hills and down toward the castle.
Once I was halfway down the hill, I could
see a simple railed and wooden span crossed the ravine, a span scarcely more
than a rod in length. It was not a drawbridge, but a plain wooden structure,
probably of heavy pine that could be easily fired with chaos-energies.
The castle itself could have been taken
within a few days by a competent army-provided the castle's master were not a
chaos-master, and provided that any army could have been coaxed into the
Westhorns to begin with.
I shivered. The whole place was even more
forbidding than Frven, more desolate than the patch of desert created between
Gallos and Kyphros by Antonin's reckless use of chaos supposedly on behalf of
the prefect, but clearly for Antonin's own benefit.
Not a single banner flew from the white
castle. Not a single plume of smoke drifted from the eight chimneys, yet the
heavy white-oak gate was open and the road ran straight from the gap in the
hills to the ravine and the bridge to the castle.
Like a perfect painting, the castle sat
framed by the high cliff and the ravine.
I shivered again, wondering why I was even
trying. Then I thought of the nameless outlier, with her blasted face, and the
beheaded blond soldier on the prefect's wall, the fountain of chaos, and, more
important, the smugness of the Brotherhood, building isolated order, using
Antonin as he used Justen.
There was one other factor-I had been used,
just as Jus-ten had. It was the only thing that made sense. By fighting the
prefect, my attempts at order had led to greater disorder and greater conflict
between Gallos and Kyphros. No wonder I had been unmolested until I left. I had
done exactly what Antonin wanted. I almost retched right there on that dry and
barren road, wondering at the same time why I had to have been so damned slow
and stupid.
Instead, I straightened my steps and
marched onward toward the ravine and the bridge across it, guessing that the
longer before I had to raise a shield, the better. I did let my perceptions
sense the area around me, to alert me if Antonin should begin to mass forces
against me.
I had thought about ringing the castle with
a balance barrier, but traveling the ravine and climbing the hill would have
been difficult without using order-mastery to bridge some of the gaps, and that
use of order would have spelled out my presence like fireworks in the night
sky. Not to mention my abilities. And even had I been able to create that large
a barrier, it would have failed my purpose.
I needed to get to Antonin face-to-face,
and I suspected that he would let me, if only to get an explanation of how I
had eluded him thus far. That was a gamble, but not a big one. Besides, I
really didn't have much choice.
So step by step I walked downhill, further
from Gairloch with each stride, closer to the hidden fires that shimmered
behind each stone of the white castle, closer to the fears that threatened to
paralyze my spine.
LXV
NOT ONE
SOUL-not even a demon-looked from the empty parapets as my feet scuffed the
white stone of the road that arrowed straight for the white-oak bridge and the
open gate beyond.
With each step a puff of white dust rose,
then fell, in the noonday stillness. Not a breath of air carried down that
narrow valley, and the winter day felt like a bone-dry summer afternoon. The
ice- and snow-tipped peaks of the Westhorns glittered like glass on their
heights to my left, as indifferent as to what might happen as they had been to
the rise and fall of Frven or the honest and deadly strategy of Recluce.
Thud, My first step on the wooden span
reverberated like muted thunder from the narrow ravine below, all red rocks,
needle-pointed and razor-edged. At least there weren't any bones, not that I
could see.
Tharooom . . . thud . . . tharooom . . .
Walking the white fir was walking across a massive drum. Antonin's coach must
have vied with the real thunder when it rumbled across his bridge. . . .
Tharummmm . . .
Creaaakkkkk . . . The heavy wooden gate,
set on massive bronze hinges, eased open even more widely as I watched.
No one appeared. No thing appeared, either,
but I could feel the creatures of chaos beyond that open gate-red-sparked and
dead-white beings that made the lingering demons of Frven seem merely
plaintive.
My fingers were slippery on my staff, and I
wanted to wipe the sweat off my forehead. Not all of that dampness was from the
heat.
Tharuum . . . thump, thuuuud. . . The drum
echoes of the bridge told me that my steps were not exactly even, or ordered. I
repressed a laugh, but why I thought it was funny I couldn't say.
Creakkkkk . . . The solid oak gate opened
wide to the courtyard beyond the wall, and to the main floor windows, all
casements, and all open to let in air and light. No figures appeared anywhere,
even as my feet again touched the solid white stone beyond the bridge and outside
the gate. Again, I could feel the unseen chaos-energies swirling around the
courtyard.
I swallowed and stepped up to the gate.
"Hello the castle." The stone
swallowed my words, rather than echoing them.
No answer.
I looked around the gate, let my feelings
sweep the courtyard, but the space was vacant. Not cloaked, the way the white
knight had been, but vacant. I took one step up to the gate, and another around
it. My feet carried me past the gate, and I looked back. The heavy oak structure
remained on its hinges-open.
The white-paved courtyard, less than thirty
cubits square, was empty and bare, except for a mounting block designed for a
carriage, and a carved design above the doorway of the carriage-entrance. The
open windows were hinged open slightly beyond the roof line.
Like the castle gate, the doorway above the
carriage steps beckoned.
Both of its unadorned, gold-varnished
double doors stood ajar. A glint of bronze told me that they, too, were set
with bronze hinges.
Even with my feelings extended, I could
sense nothing living nearby, just the swirling chaos-energies, a deeper
underlying chaos, and a greater and a lesser concentration of living white fire
on the floor above. That fire had to be Antonin-and some other white wizard.
Thrap! Thrap! I banged the heavy brass
knocker far harder than necessary, and the sound echoed into the corridors
beyond the doors.
This time I waited. One did not enter the
domain of chaos totally uninvited. Standing there-staff in hand, shifting my
weight from one foot to the other-I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the
back of my sleeve, still marveling at the unseasonable heat, and wondering if
the castle were an extension of chaos, or of the demons' hell itself.
I swallowed, then began to examine the
stone around me, and the wood of the doors outside which I waited.
Uncle Sardit would have frowned. Even
Bostric would have frowned. The mitering on the panel edges was rough, with
gaps big enough to slip a knife through. The spaces between the frame and the
stone were even wider, as if hurriedly installed, or by poor crafters indeed.
The golden varnish had been slopped on, in some places actually showing where
raised globs had dried, without even a sanding or a second coat.
Although I did not know stonework, the same
careless finishing was evident there as well, with blocks joined and held in
place by mortar of differing thicknesses, rather than having the mortar as a
sealant for solid and well-fitted stones.
Thrap! I knocked again.
Click . . . dick . . . click . . . The
steps were slow, like water dripping from a leaky shower. Had I even seen a
shower since Recluce?
. . . click ...
A thin footman not much taller than my
shoulder stood and opened the left door fully, stepping back as he did so. His
hair and skin were white, as were his jacket, boots, and trousers. The whites
of his eyes were reddish-tinted. Only his pupils were black.
"The master bids you welcome."
Hoarse and mechanical, his voice sounded as though I were the first person to
whom he had spoken since he died. Then again, maybe he only looked dead.
Although he might be alive, he bore no energy save chaos, and without it he
would have ceased to be. That in itself was another paradox-pointing out that
even chaos-masters had to use some order.
"I would like to see him."
Without another word, the white footman
turned and started down the wide white marble hallway and toward a set of
circular stairs.
Click. Behind us, the doors closed.
I grasped the staff, knowing its comfort
was short-lived, and followed the footman to the grand staircase.
Once more I was disappointed in the
workmanship, especially to see such a well-proportioned and superior design
flawed in execution, with columns more than fractionally off-center and stone
joints with thumb-width gaps instead of hair-thin lines. Everywhere lingered
the hint of a white haze, a dust not quite dust that did not exactly settle on
the unevenly-polished marble floors.
Another lack bothered me, but not until I
was halfway up the circular staircase did I observe the lack of wall
decorations-no paintings, no wall hangings, not even any carpeting.
The whole castle reeked of being
unfinished, clearly finished as it was. The lack of order? I wondered, but kept
pace with the silent footman.
At the top of the staircase, he turned left
for several steps before stopping at a closed doorway that seemed to lead back
toward the front of the castle.
Creakkkk . . .
Oak doors should not creak, not well-made
doors, but those of the white wizard did. I shook my head, then followed the
footman inside.
As I entered, I glanced up at the vaulted
ceiling, supported by white oak timbers set twice as close together as would be
needed for a normal structure. A faint smile tugged at my lips.
Like the rest of the castle, the great room
was white-white marble floors, whitened granite walls, and white-oak framing
and doors. The inside wall-the one containing the poorly-fitted double doors
through which I had been conducted-was of white-oak paneling, and not the best,
either. Even without looking closely, I could see the small lines showing that
the mitering and joins were often not flush.
My nose tickled, perhaps from the white dust
that my boots had raised as I walked into the room. At the north end of the
room towered a whitened granite chimney, fronted by a white marble hearth. A
small pile of ashes lay on the stones, but there were no andirons, grates, or
screens, and the ashes were cold.
The inside wall, the one of white oak, bore
no pictures, no decorations save the paneling itself, although a half-dozen
wall brackets bore unlit white-brass lanterns. Identical lanterns were affixed
between the casements of the long floor-to-ceiling windows that punctuated the
outside wall. Each window, composed of perhaps twenty diamond-shaped leaded
panes with an amber tint, opened on pivot bars hidden in the top and bottom of
the white-oak frames. Even with all the windows open to the air, the amber tint
of the glass cast a golden glow on the room. Despite the open windows, the air
bore a hint of ash.
At the south end of the room was the only
furniture-a modest circular white-oak table about four cubits across,
surrounded by five matching chairs with golden cushions. Against the wall were
two serving tables of white oak. The left one bore a tray of covered dishes.
At the table sat two figures.
The silent white footman marched until we
were almost at the table, bowed, then departed, leaving me standing there,
staff in hand. With his reddened eyes, his gaunt and pallid face, his lank
white hair, and his jerky gait, he looked like a marionette-the white wizard's
puppet.
Antonin and the dark-haired
woman-Sephya-looked up from the table, the ever-present white oak under a
golden varnish. Steam rose from their plates.
"Would you care to join us?" His
voice was pleasant, as if I were an old acquaintance making a social call.
I smiled politely, just as I had been
taught to do, but my stomach twisted at even that deception.
"Not if phrased quite that way, most
accomplished of white wizards." I bowed. Bowing didn't bother me. He was
accomplished-no questions about that.
"The young fellow has respect, Sephya.
You must permit him that." Antonin took a bite from his plate after he
spoke.
"He has manners, my lord. Those are
not quite the same as respect." Her voice was deferential, not subservient
. . . and vaguely familiar.
I turned toward the woman, studying her directly.
Apparently-dark hair, but not even shoulder-length, eyes whose color seemed to
shift between gray and blue, and a pale complexion. Beneath that ... I
swallowed, and forced my thoughts elsewhere.
One problem at a time.
"He is also perceptive." She took
a sip from the glass goblet. "A shade dangerous. He might even have been a
worthy adversary, were he not so impetuous."
I swallowed again, realizing that she was
delicately trying to get me angry, in such a way that I wouldn't realize exactly
what she was doing. "You do me too much honor, my lady."
"She is known for that," added
the white wizard. His voice bore an edge. "You haven't exactly explained
why you marched down my roads and up to my doorstep. Or a few other minor
inconveniences, either." He arched one eyebrow-the right one-and I had to
admire that little trick.
I shrugged. What could I explain? That I
had decided to destroy him? I decided to say nothing.
His eyes seemed to grow whiter as he
watched me, but I looked beyond him, trying to measure the chaos that centered,
as much as chaos could center anywhere, within and around the room.
"You've provided an interesting
puzzle, blackstaffer. You could be rather helpful in some ways." The white
wizard smiled and lifted his arm. A small fireball appeared between the thumb
and forefinger of his right hand. "Perhaps you would like to learn the
workings of fire? Bringing greater knowledge to mankind?"
My skin itched, and the room felt darker,
though the sky outside was as blue as ever and the golden light still filled
the room.
"To all people?" I forced a
laugh, which was hard, because my throat was as dry as a desert.
"You came to me. You are seeking
answers, after all." The fireball vanished as he lowered his hand, pushed
back the chair, and stood.
I did not smile, but took a deep breath.
Antonin was not quite as tall as I was, and his arms were still the knobby arms
of a merchant. I stepped back and looked toward the wall of windows, wondering
absently if Gairloch were still waiting patiently beyond the two rocky hills
that flanked Antonin's private road. "I did," I finally admitted.
"For what? The answers that frightened
Recluce refuses to share? Or the power that belongs to all true seekers of
knowledge?" His voice had softened, mellowed, filled with the sound of
reasonableness.
"Recluce has no fear of you, or of
me." As I said the words, the chill I felt from their truth, from my
stomach not turning, almost had me shivering.
"Indeed? Then it must be true, if you
say so. Yet you hesitate in joining us in the search for the answers that
Recluce hides from all the world?"
"I'm not sure that a wizard's seeking
answers entitles him to receive them, any more than a ruler's starting a war
entitles him to victory." My words were a stupid response, tumbling out
almost thoughtlessly.
Antonin frowned. He had moved a step or so
closer as we had spoken.
"He seems somewhat reluctant to pledge
his service to you." Sephya's laugh was hard, and the sound tore at my
chest. "Or even to carry out his own quest for answers."
I nodded toward her, trying not to take my
eyes from the white wizard.
"Do you wish to enter the white
fellowship?"
"Hardly." I laughed, except the
sound resembled choking because my heart was pounding and my mouth dry.
"He is brave, Sephya," the white
wizard announced. "Brave, but not terribly bright."
I agreed with his assessment-completely.
"So-. . ." Antonin raised his
arms. "Let me show you some answers."
Whssstttt...
A cascade, of fire streamed from Antonin
toward me.
Instinctively, my staff blocked the torrent
of flames that cascaded around me, blazed blackly.
Antonin smiled. "A good staff there.
But a staff cannot answer your questions."
WWWWWHHHHHSSSTTTTTTTTT!
Fire flowed everywhere, and my ears
whistled and rang from the blaze that surrounded me.
"A very good staff." He raised
his arms once more.
The theatricality of the gesture irked me.
He scarcely needed to raise his arms. Chaos and order are molded by the mind,
not the hands.
UWWWWWWWHHHHHHHHHHHHHSSSSSSSSSSTTTTTTTTT!
The force of the fire nearly knocked me off
my feet, driving me back away from the table, leaving me tottering above the
stone flooring.
"Are you sure about your
decision?" Antonin asked, his voice once more reasonable, as if he had not
just attempted to incinerate me. His hands remained poised. "Knowledge
belongs to those who seek it, not those who deny it or flee it."
At that point, I acted on faith, not quite
sure why I did what I did. Straightening up and taking my staff in both hands,
I brought it down across my knee. It bent, but did not break, and a sharp pain
ran up my leg.
"That's hardly the way," said
Antonin mildly. "Just set it down." He pointed to the stone tiles by
my feet. Fire surrounded him, an unseen white blistering flame, and cold red
hatred, even as he stepped toward me yet another pace.
Casting the staff aside wouldn't be
enough-that would just divide what order I possessed. But I had not been able
to break it and my leg throbbed from my failed attempt. The lorken was tough.
And it was finely crafted-Uncle Sardit's best. Yet I knew that the best of
tools could be a crutch, even if a finely-crafted crutch.
"Just set it down. The staff hinders
your search for answers." Antonin's voice was friendly, persuasive.
I gripped the lorken more firmly. Mind over
matter? Was that the answer? Whatever it might be, that seemed the only hope.
BREAK-that was what I willed as the hard
black wood came down across my knee again. BREAK . . . BREAK . . . BREAK!
Crackkkkk . . .
That black lorken that had turned swords,
resisted stone, and stopped iron bars-that iron-bound and indestructible
staff-cracked as easily as though it had been a softwood stake. Coolness -a
black coolness that quenched the burning with which Antonin's flames tried to
bathe me-flowed from the broken ends of the wood, settling in and around me.
Without a word, I cast both pieces of
iron-bound black wood at his feet.
Even Antonin's mouth dropped open
momentarily, before he danced back from the cold iron on the black wood.
As he gaped and dodged, I stepped forward,
drawing a reflective shield around us, except this one was inside out,
directing outside energies away from us.
His mouth continued to sag as I turned
toward him.
"You . . ."
IWWHHHHHHsssss ...
His fire trickled away against the black
coolness I held around me, and his hands dropped to his waist.
He tried -to raise one hand, again, but
that shiny dark hair had begun to silver, even in the instants since the
reflective shield had isolated us.
Whhhhssssttt!
Another blast of fire slashed at me from
Sephya, spraying away from the shield I had thrown around Antonin and me.
Click.
Antonin had a short bronze sword in his
hand, although wrinkles were appearing on his face. Behind Antonin, Sephya drew
a thin blade. She edged toward us.
I dropped down and dived for the floor,
grabbing one half of my broken staff and flinging it at Sephya.
Clunk!
"Ohhh . . . shit . . ." The staff
fragment dropped inside my own shield's edge, bouncing on the white marble,
stopped cold by the tiniest residual order it bore.
Give me your energy . . .give it to me. . .
Antonin's thoughts clawed at me, demanding the sense of self I had wrapped in
the blackness I held.
Now . . . give . . . give . . .
Like a vise, his thoughts encircled me,
within the circled shield I held.
I am Lerris ... I am me . . . me . . . Just
as Justen had taught, I hung on to myself.
Whhsstttt. . . Antonin's fire was barely
more than the fireball in his fingertips earlier, but it burned at my face, and
I squinted.
Sephya advanced slowly, as if unsure
exactly what to do.
Thwick!
Antonin sliced at me with the short sword.
I rolled away, getting my feet under me, concentrating on keeping the shield
around us both.
Give! Give! . . . Like a white hammer, that
demand pounded at me.
I circled away, concentrating on being Lerris,
holding that barrier tight around us.
The chaos-master's hair had turned totally
white, and began to fall like snow.
Hsssttttt! I reeled backwards, a searing
pain across my shoulders, feeling like I had been slashed from behind.
Clank!
"Oooo . . ." Sephya exclaimed. The blade she had held lay on
the floor, white-hot from trying to pass the shield I held.
Thwick.
I skipped sideways, losing part of my tunic
to the copper blade as Antonin used my lapse of attention to strike.
GIVE . . . give . . .
Thwickkk!
I dodged again.
Twickk!
. . . and again . . .
". . . think . . . smart . . ."
mumbled Antonin. "You'll never go home now . . . you know too much . .
." His words slurred, and his hands were shaking, and the short sword
dropped as if it were too heavy to hold.
Give . . . The last thought was nearly
plaintive. Whhhssstttt!
Still another of Sephya's firebolts flared
against the shield.
Clunk ...
Antonin lurched toward me again, after
dropping the now-too-heavy sword.
I dodged, but not quickly enough, as his
fingers ripped at my forearm. Each fingertip felt like a brand across my arm,
and I forced order at those chaos-dripping burn wounds, shoving Antonin back at
the same time.
". . . damned . . ."
I gulped as I looked at the white wizard.
The hand that had clutched at me-burning three white scars that still
smoldered-that hand shriveled into ashes. And the black imprint of my hand on
his shoulder burned through the white robes. As I gaped, the white-clad figure
staggered, shriveling and collapsing onto the marble in a crumpled heap.
Whhhhssstm!
"Noooooooooooooo!"
Sephya's scream echoed through the great
room.
Since she had been unable to penetrate the
shield I ignored her, ignored the searing in my arm, and concentrated on
keeping the shield intact until the heap that had been the white wizard was
truly dead.
Thhuuurruuummmmm ... A low roll of thunder
rumbled on and on, as if it radiated from where I stood, rolling outward like
ripples from a boulder cast into a pool.
. . . thuuurrrummmmmmmmmm ...
CRACK! A blade of lightning flashed outside
from a cloudless sky, and I flinched, but clutched my thoughts tight around the
shield.
. . . thhhurruummmm . . . The growling in
and under the skies, and the lingering echo of the single lightning bolt,
rolled and kept rolling outward and away from the castle, until the thunder and
the lightning were mere echoes far out across the Westhorns.
Not merely physical, those sounds had
carried far beyond my hearing, and I shivered.
With a deep breath I dropped the shield and
turned toward Sephya. She had squared her shoulders.
Whhhhstttt!
The heat seared around me, but I deflected
it, letting the white flame sheet around me. I took a single step toward her.
Wwuhhhssstttt!
Another step carried me through and past
her firebolt.
Whhhsssttt!
Moving as though through glue or old
varnish, I managed another long step.
She backed up almost to the hearth.
Whhsttt!
A knife-another one of the bronze
blades-appeared in her hand. "Touch me and you lose her!"
I stopped.
She lifted the knife and reversed it.
I threw all the order I had left in me at
the knife, trying to order the copper and tin, bend it away from chaos.
"Ohhhhhhhh ..."
The muscles in her arms stood out as she
tried to bring the knife toward her body. I staggered toward her, pouring all
the order-feelings I could toward her.
"Ugffff..."
Clank ...
Her legs bent, then buckled as she
collapsed against a chair and bounced onto the floor.
I half-walked, half-dragged myself across
the white marble squares, toward the doll-like figure sprawled between the
white-oak table and the hearth.
After kneeling on one knee, I turned her
face up. The slash across her fair neck was more burn than cut, ugly as it
looked, although the blood didn't help appearances much.
I left it alone, afraid that any more
order-meddling was dangerous, at least until I gathered my own thoughts and
strength back.
A quick look toward the white wizard showed
me but a heap of white ashes. Even as I watched, the white ash turned to dust,
and the dust vanished into the white haze that still filled the castle. Only
the white robes and matching white boots remained upon the white tiles of the
floor.
I looked back at the unconscious Sephya,
noting the slight build, the reddish tinge of hair beginning to replace the
black.
My stomach twisted, even as I gathered my
last energies to break another mental lock-this time, the one Antonin had
provided for the woman who had tried to keep eternal youth by letting Antonin's
promises ensnare another near-innocent from Recluce.
I had guessed but not known what had been
done to her, not as Sephya, but as another soul trapped in Antonin's web. In a
way both Sephya and Tamra had been trapped. Yet Sephya had agreed, knowing that
Tamra would in time wither away under Sephya's personality as reinforced by
Antonin. The white wizard had not lied, exactly; rather, he let Tamra think she
was about to learn how to control the powers she had always been denied. Tamra
would not have known that Sephya would control her body.
Thanks to Talryn and Recluce, Tamra had
never learned, just as I had not learned, that she already possessed that power
all along. Except Tamra had refused to accept her power, insisting that someone
else declare her worthy; while I had kept asking for the reasons, instead of
acting, and the reasons had nearly become an excuse for not acting.
I took a deep breath, knowing what had to
be done before I lost my nerve as I feared my father had.
"Lerris, you can't do that!"
I ignored the caution from somewhere far
away, too far away for me to worry about as I looked into the closed eyes of
the slim, red-headed figure. Tears were streaming down my face, but they, too,
were distant from what had to be done. If I had listened . . . but that was
another question, and we all choose our own demon-inhabited hells.
One deep breath, and I plunged, deep into
the darkness, away from the swirls of my own thoughts, away from the crumpled
clothes that were all which remained of the white wizard upon the floor of his
about-to-crumble fortress an palace.
Call the depths of the mind white darkness,
the chaos that preceded chaos. Call them what you will, but they are chaos, a
chaos so formless that it cannot bear description.
First, to find within that chaos the
patterns that were, that had been. What those patterns really were, I did not
try to discover, for that would have been yet another rape. Instead, as I
discovered, touched, each gossamer thread, I restored it, not reading it, or
the joys, tears, anger or boredom it held, but replacing it as it had been
before Antonin had changed Tamra's temple to Sephya's harlotry. Even so, the
hidden feelings plucked at my own fears, my own worth. Had I the right? Who
appointed me custodian? To decide who should live and who should die?
I did what I had to do.
How long that took . . . that was how long
it took ... as long as destroying Frven took my father, for it had to have been
him and Justen, the brothers-one building a nation to ensure chaos would never
rule again, the other trying to minister to the damned and their descendants in
hell. As long as crossing the deadlands ... as long as my refusing to
understand the eternal penance that had ensnared my father . . . and Justen,
the damned gray wizard, perhaps the only true gray wizard.
One thread of memory, then another, and for
all that I did not look as each was replaced, with each thread grew the
sadness. With each thread grew the river of tears that should have flowed from
the Westhorns to the Easthorns and emptied into the Great North Bay or into the
Gulf of Candar.
With the return of each original thread, a
false thread floated free, moaning as another part of Sephya died, somehow
clutching to remain as I plucked it away from the underlying sadness and the
hard-plated gentleness of the redhead I had never really known or seen.
With each thread, I severed my ties to
Recluce, for I was destroying a soul to save another.
The last threads I replaced by feel, for
even the eyes of my mind were filled with tears.
Then I stepped back into the amber light of
that damned white palace. That was all I could do before my knees buckled and
my own private darkness buried me.
Yeee-aaaahhhh . . .
Yee-ahh ...
It would have been nice to be wakened by a
beautiful lady, or even a friendly one, but it didn't happen that way.
Yeee-aaahh . . .
My mouth was dry, dust dry, and an
invisible smith was using my head for an anvil.
Yee-ah . . . yee-ah . . .
My forearm burned and ached simultaneously.
Yeee-ahh . . .
My knee throbbed, and sent shivers of pain
to my already beaten skull.
Yeee-ahhh . . .
On the roof above the open window, a
vulcrow complained that he couldn't get to the raw meat that was me.
After lurching into a sitting position on
the rough marble floor, I slowly looked toward the pile of white garments and
the white boots that had been Antonin. The white shoes were gone, and the
remnants were still remnants.
Then I looked toward the woman who had been
both Sephya and Tamra. She had curled into a ball next to the white-oak table that
was already beginning to sag. In the diffused light, her hair was the red I
remembered.
A cool wind blew through the open windows,
and the weaker late-afternoon light and the shadows outside told me I had been
lying on the stone too long. My sore body agreed.
... uuummmmmmmmm . . . uuummmmm . . .
The sound of strained stone transformed my
too-leisurely observations into motion- slow motion.
First I gathered myself together, standing
carefully. Then, after walking to Tamra, I stretched out a hand, gingerly, and
touched the bare skin of her forearm. Nothing. Nothing but the lingering odor
of chaos, and an overwhelming sense of pain and loss.
Slowly, gently, I pried her limb-by-limb
out of her ball and onto her feet. Like a puppet she allowed me to, her eyes
open but blank, almost like a china doll. Such a physical coercion wasn't a
great idea, I could tell, but I could not carry her. With Antonin's castle
sounding near collapse around us, my options were limited.
Together we tottered step-by-step out of
the great hall, down the circular staircase, and out the sagging double doors.
Creeeakk . . . scrunch . . . creaakkk ...
The heavy fir bridge creaked and sagged,
but held long enough for us to cross. My heart was thumping loudly enough to
hear, and my mouth was so dry I could not close it by the time we stepped back
onto the road on the other side of the ravine.
Yee-ah . . .
I ignored the damned vulcrow and
concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, taking a deep breath
after every other step. My steps got shorter when we reached the slope up
between the hills.
Tamra walked more easily, copying my pace,
unthinkingly.
The shadowed spot by the brook where I had
left Gairloch was no longer shadowed, but Gairloch was there, looking up from
the water.
Wheeee . . . eeeee . . .
"Yes, I know. I took too long," I
mumbled as I struggled to open the water bottle. The liquid helped, enough for
me to realize that it would have been a lot easier to drink from the brook.
The brook water was colder, and Tamra
followed my example, after I told her to drink.
Then I got out my meager store of food,
mostly travel bread and the yellow cheese I didn't like all that much. I sat on
a small boulder by the brook to open the packages. My stomach didn't seem to
mind the taste of either, and some of the shakiness left my legs.
I offered a piece of bread to Tamra. She
took it, looking at it blankly.
"Go ahead. You can eat it."
She did, mechanically, those eyes still
china-doll blank.
It was going to be a long trip back to
Kyphrien, a long trip indeed. Slowly, I chewed enough of the bread and drank
enough of the water that my head cleared and some of my strength
returned-enough for me to touch that scar on Tam-ra's neck and begin the
healing process. She didn't need any external scars. The ones inside would be
great enough.
Tamra didn't protest when I boost-ed her
onto Gairloch.
Wheee . . . eeee . . . He objected,
skittering aside, nearly pulling the reins from my hand.
"Easy there," I mumbled.
Wheeeee . . . eeeeee . . .
"I know . . . but help me out . .
."
Long wasn't the word for the ride back
toward Kyphrien. Until close to sunset, when I finally found another brook and
a semi-enclosed spot off the wizards' road, Tamra and I had alternated riding
Gairloch, except that he got nasty if I didn't stay close by. She just looked
blankly into space, whether riding or walking.
After we dismounted and struggled off the
road, we ate- more travel bread and the bitter yellow cheese, plus some very
dried sourpears that I had to wash down. Tamra didn't even pucker her lips when
she ate them.
As the light died, I put up double wards,
which took most of my limited strength-wards against Tamra, and wards against
any other outside intrusion.
Neither was necessary. When I woke the next
morning, Tamra was looking blankly into space, sitting on my bedroll. So tired
I had been that my cloak had been enough for me.
"Are you all right?" I asked. She
wasn't, of course, but I had to ask. She said nothing, china-blue eyes taking
in whatever she faced, but seeing nothing.
She would eat if told, as well as do
anything else, including rather necessary functions. That part was hard for me.
The second day was better, but only
physically. Tamra remained silent, puppet-like. I could sense no active chaos
around or within her, and somewhere deep inside was a coil of tight-sprung
order that I dared not touch, though I could not say exactly why. I hoped
Justen, the healer as well as gray wizard, could help. In some things, gall was
no substitute for experience.
So we rode on, and on, past the narrow gap
once guarded by the ghost knight. I saw only the greened copper of a lance tip
lying on the left side of the wizards' road, but not even dust or ashes of the
knight. The bones and ragged fabrics from packs and clothes remained.
The second night, in the hills outside the
Westhorns themselves, was worse. I woke more than I slept, and I swore Tamra
just lay on the bedroll staring at the dark clouds overhead, clouds that never
rained, never thundered, just shut out the stars.
Before mid-morning on the third day, after
we had reached the old road to Kyphrien, a familiar figure appeared on the road,
moving quickly toward the Westhorns. Two familiar figures-one on a charger, one
on a shaggy pony, accompanied by an armed squad of the Finest. I didn't
recognize any of the other riders. They had two riderless horses, just in case.
"Yelena . . . Justen . . ." My
voice was rusty, flat. I wasn't exactly thrilled to see Justen, as if somehow
seeing him meant I had failed somewhere.
"Congratulations, Master of
Order-Masters." He inclined his head as if he meant it.
Yelena did not meet my eyes, instead
looking at Tamra. The subofficer's hand remained close to her well-ordered iron
blade, and her lips were tight. "What did ... what happened? Is she
captive ... or what?"
I looked at Justen, without words. Finally,
I spoke. "White prison. I did what I could, but her soul is twisted into
the tightest order-knot within . . ."
He looked back at me, levelly. "Did
you hear me?"
"I did. I did it anyway."
He shook his head. "She cannot live
with those memories."
"I know that!" I snapped.
"Why do you think I restored her old memories? She may not remember
anything."
"How did you do that?" His words
were carefully spaced.
"I just did it. It's like weaving
light or energy, except it hurt more, and I didn't get all the pain, just the memories.
The pain's separate."
"Order-masters?" began Yelena.
I understood. "Yes. We can talk as we
ride, and Tamra needs better care than I can provide."
Justen looked away from me, not even
meeting my eyes. Instead, he rode next to Tamra, talking to her in a low voice.
Even when we stopped for a midday break, he barely looked in my direction.
No one else looked in my direction, either,
not when they thought I was watching, except when we stopped. Then they would
offer, most politely, some fresh travel bread or white cheese or fruit. The
yellow cheese supplied by Brettel had served me well, but its limited and
bitter taste left much to be desired, and that was a charitable way of putting
it. So I appreciated the white cheese and dried apples.
Once back on our mounts, though, everyone
kept a comfortable distance from Gairloch and me, as if I were contaminated or
something. Hell, they even talked to Justen, and he was a gray wizard. Not even
Justen seemed comfortable near me. So I rode quietly, drawing into myself.
How was I any different from Antonin? I had
used every power I knew and some I had only guessed at. Was I going to be
another gray wizard? Or worse?
LXVI
ONCE
AGAIN, I watched the sun rise and the morning unfold from a balcony in
Kyphrien. I stood alone in the early morning. This time the winter sun was
chill. The cold refreshed me as the brisk wind whipped up from the city,
bringing the odor of fresh-baked bread, as well as the odor of goats. Somehow
the goats didn't bother me so much any more, but that might have been the
result of an eight-day's worth of meals centering on roasted, stewed, brazed,
and baked goat presented with equally diverse spices and side dishes by the
autarch's chef.
At least the breakfast rolls I had brought
up from the mess-staying in the guard mess for any length of time created a
profound and drawn-out silence as every single guard seemed to look at me-
contained no goat meat.
My balcony was the one next to {Crystal's,
with an iron grillwork doorway between the two. Though there was no lock, I had
not opened the door since I had yet to see Krystal.
The sub-commander had not been in Kyphrien
when we had returned, but, instead, had used the disruption I had created to
destroy the remainder of the prefect's border force. Without the backing of
chaos, the young Gallian troops were no match for the Finest, or even for the
better local outliers. I hoped that the talkative Shervan had managed to
weather the action, though I wasn't certain I was ready for conversation with
him any time soon.
Whether I was really ready.for another
conversation, the one with Krystal, was another question. Like me, she wasn't
the same person who had left Recluce. Like me, she had forged herself in her
own fires into a different kind of steel. I had no doubts that, even with a
black staff in my hand, her blade would have proven superior. Then, again, no
one was a match for Krystal there, except perhaps Ferrel, and I wondered about
that.
Justen had taken Tamra under his wing, as I
had hoped, and she had begun to respond. I had only seen them from a distance,
but the gray wizard had himself another apprentice. It might do them both good.
Thrap!
I wanted to ignore the knock on the door,
but did not, instead walking back inside to the iron-bound red-oak door. The
order arrayed on the other side could only have been one person. I lifted the
latch.
Justen stood there. "May I come
in?"
"Be my guest." I stepped back,
aware that the gray wizard had the slightest hint of wanness about him. All the
bowing and scraping was already getting to me, and it had barely been an
eight-day since I had stumbled from the ruins of Antonin's castle. You would
have thought that I had done something great-like leveling a few mountains, or
even craft-ing the most beautiful chest ever seen in Kyphros.
Bravado, luck, and applying whatever skill
I had-that was what I had done, not quite like the effort to do a chest or
table perfectly, though they were far more alike than I would have guessed when
I had first apprenticed to Uncle Sardit.
The other thing I had done, almost
unconsciously, was to be honest with myself. Not that I really had much choice
otherwise, but that was the other difference between Antonin and me. It had
taken a while, most of the ride back to Kyphrien, to figure out the answer to
my question. How was I different from Antonin? Even Justen had been different
from the white wizard. Could I have ever imagined Antonin working with smelly
sheep? And that was the real sin-the real evil-of the white wizards. Pride. The
conceit that they would impose their will on the world. Without even mentioning
it, Justen had made his point with the smelly sheep of Montgren. And I hadn't
even realized that I had learned.
"May I come in?" he repeated.
"Oh, sorry. You reminded me of
something." I moved aside.
Justen stepped inside. I gestured toward
the balcony.
Click.
I shut the door. We walked in silence
outside into the chill, since I didn't feel like being closed in. The. granite
of the guard buildings was also getting to me.
"So why does everyone have to skitter
out of my way? Uncle Justen?" I added.
He nodded. "Was it that obvious?"
"Probably, but I didn't see it until I
went after Antonin. I'm still angry as hell at Talryn and Recluce. And my
father." And I was. The idea of being sent out as his penance, so to
speak, grated on me. While I could understand-now-why the answers I had sought
were not possible, Recluce had no excuse for the excessive secrecy.
"Talryn's probably quaking in his
sandals." Justen's voice was not quite tongue-in-cheek.
"I doubt that. He's probably happy to
be rid of me." Strangely, although I was angry, I wasn't that angry, and I
was less concerned about Recluce than about Kyphros and Gallos.
"Could I ask how you-" Justen's
tone was deferential.
"Luck, bravado, stupidity-the usual
ingredients of so-called heroism."
"Lerris."
I shrugged. "Chaos-order balance.
Simple-enough."
Justen looked bewildered for the first
time.
"Chaos is concentrated anarchy, if you
will. Order is diffused by nature. They have to balance. Recluce has gotten
stronger by letting Candar create more chaos, in effect letting ..." I was
the one to shake my head. "You know that. You're the one who pointed it
out to me." I stopped as Justen shook his head slowly. "I swear you
did. But after making Antonin stronger, helping him create more chaos, I didn't
have any choice."
The gray wizard looked even more . . .
appalled. That might have been the best word.
I tried to explain what he already must
have known. "Order, except in special circumstances, can't be
concentrated. I'm not talking about reinforcing already-ordered people-or
sheep-or chairs, but pure order. Chaos can. In effect, because order and chaos
must balance, the higher the diffuse order in an area, the greater the
potential for chaos. So my efforts to increase order in Gallos just allowed
Antonin to create more chaos." Another thought struck me. "I suppose
that meant an overall decrease in order-chaos energies somewhere else, but I
haven't worked that out. Anyway, once I figured the balance and my
contribution, I didn't have much choice. I was as guilty as Antonin for the
destruction."
My guts protested. "Not as
guilty," I corrected myself, "but I helped." Justen shook his
head, and I ignored the gesture, just wanting to finish answering the question.
"Anyway, all I did to Antonin was
throw a reversed shield around us, to reflect energy away from as small a
circle as I could hold. He maintained himself by drawing from the chaos-forces
around. With the shield up, he couldn't draw, at least so long as I could keep
him from taking my order-energies." I shrugged. "Without that energy,
he just died."
Justen nodded. "How many people could build a screen like
that?"
"Probably any good order-master ... I
didn't think about it."
He nodded again. "How many
blackstaffers could and would break their only defense in front of a white
wizard?"
"That was stupid, I guess. I didn't
know if it would work, but holding onto it wouldn't have protected me for very
much longer, and the staff kept getting in the way. Besides, that's what the
book said."
"You're right. But... no one else, not
since before Frven, has stood face-to-face with the highest of chaos-masters
and triumphed." Justen gestured out at the town. "You wonder why
everyone bows and scrapes and won't look at you? That's why. You wonder why
Talryn is quaking in his sandals? Every chaos-master and order-master in the
Western Hemisphere heard Antonin fail-"
"That's fine, except I'm not an
ancient order-master. I'm even ready for Tamra's bitching. At least that's
real. I'm ready to go back to crafting. That's real, too."
Justen smiled. "Who said you
couldn't?"
"Right! Good old Lerris is so smart
... so why didn't I at least pick up some of Antonin's ill-gotten loot before I
dashed out? I might have three gold pennies left in my pouch. That's not enough
even for tools."
"I suspect that the reward the autarch
is about to confer-"
"Another ceremony?" I groaned.
Having half the city lined up at the gate and waving banners-very quietly-had
been bad enough. Even Yelena had looked in my direction and grinned.
"Your burden to bear. That's another
price for heroism."
None of that answered my questions, but
then, no one else would probably ever answer them.
"How's Tamra?" I changed the
subject.
"Ask her yourself. I'll send her up
here shortly." He smiled. "She will bitch at you. She told me she
would."
I let him go. He wasn't about to answer the
real questions, not the ones I wasn't about to ask, and that still hadn't
changed. So I waited.
And waited.
And waited, remembering in time that Tamra
had never been punctual for anyone.
Click. She didn't like knocking, either.
Those blue china-doll eyes, cold as ice,
took me in as Tamra stepped-clothed in dark-gray once more, wearing a
bright-blue scarf-onto the chill and sunlit balcony. Her red hair glinted in the
light as she edged up to the railing; then she turned to look at me. She was
wearing it longer, with matching black combs sweeping it away from her face.
"Good morning, Lerris."
"Good morning, Tamra."
I walked over to the edge. I was careful out
of habit not to stand too close-either to the railing, or to Tamra-and looked
out on Kyphrien.
As the silence continued, I said nothing,
for it was not my turn to speak.
A puffy white cloud edged toward the sun,
casting a brief shadow across the narrow walled balcony where we contained a
corner of Recluce, a corner that needed to be expanded beyond the black walls
of the Brotherhood, beyond the black walls of Nylan and the narrow confines of
the High Temple.
"I should thank you." Her voice was
as flat as I had ever heard it.
"Don't. The one who deserves thanks is
Justen."
Her hand came to her mouth, but she still
did not look in my direction.
"If Justen hadn't given me just enough
hints and forced me to answer my own questions, neither of us would be
here." My guts twisted slightly.
"You believe that? Or is it just more
poor little Lerris?"
Good old Tamra! I actually grinned.
"More poor little Lerris, of course. But remember that I die/have
something to do with rescuing you."
"Do you really expect me to fall at
your feet and be eternally grateful? To mirror your great shining light?"
I kept grinning. She sounded like the Tamra
I recalled. "Well . . . eternal gratitude would be nice ..."
"You're still impossible."
"Only sometimes. The rest of the time,
I look for perfection."
She didn't answer for a long time. Finally,
she said, "I meant what I said about not falling at your feet."
"I know that. You want to get out your
staff and thrash me soundly again."
"I can't do that-you broke your
staff." Then her voice dropped. "We'd fight too much, and if we
didn't, I'd hate you, and if we did, you'd hate me."
She was right, but that was one of the
answers I had figured out already, one of the few. There were hills south of
Kyphrien, not all that far away, with water and trees, even some of the right
kinds of trees. "You're right. I realized you were right, back when we
talked on the ship. I just wasn't bright enough to understand. Now it may be
too late."
"What will you do?" She ignored
my unspoken real question.
"I have an idea. But I don't know if
the sub-commander of Kyphros would be interested in a mere woodworker who
occasionally dabbles in order."
For once, Tamra looked surprised, almost foolish.
"Or having him build a house on a hill
not too far from her place of business."
Her mouth opened a shade wider.
"Or having a redhead whom I regard as
a sister come to visit occasionally." For a time, but only for a time, she
was speechless.
"You're . . . still . . . impossible.
You honestly think ..."
"No. But I can hope."
I left her there when I saw green leathers
on the adjoining balcony-green leathers, black hair, and black eyes.
The Sub-Commander unlatched the doorway,
and I walked onto her balcony.
"You were successful, I hear."
The music was still there, linked within the order she had found.
"So were you, I understand."
She looked over my shoulder. "How is
Tamra?"
"Bitchy as ever, thanks to
Justen."
"Give him hell, Krystal!" called
Tamra before leaving my balcony.
"She does seem recovered."
Krystal's lips turned up at the corners for a moment. We still stood there
looking each other over at arm's length, or more.
"Recovered enough," I answered,
wondering why I was dancing around all the things I wanted to say.
"Enough."
In the end, I stepped forward and took her
hands.
And, like Tamra would have hoped, she took
them back, walking to the railing and turning to look out on the city. "You
may think you have your answers, but did you ask me?"
My stomach turned. Why was I always doing
the same thing, assuming I knew what was best for the women I cared for?
"No. I apologize, Highest Sub-Commander, for possibly thinking that the
affections of a woodworker who dabbles in order could possibly be of interest
to you." I swallowed, looked down, wondering how soon I could get the hell
out of Kyphrien-except I needed whatever reward the autarch might offer.
Krystal shook her head sadly. "You're
still doing it."
"Doing what?"
"You won't ask anything of anyone. You
may want answers, but you never ask for help. There's a difference."
I shrugged. There wasn't much to say. I
looked at her short and graying dark hair, although I knew enough to keep her
young, just as my father had my mother; at the broader shoulders that carried
half the weight of Kyphros on them, and shook my head.
Krystal looked vaguely amused. "Just a
moment. I've worn this damned sword straight for the past five days." She
unbuckled the belt and laid both sword and belt on the table.
"Damned sword?" I asked.
"Not any longer. It's ordered."
"Stop assuming things." She
stepped around the table.
"What?"
"Like whether I would be or wouldn't
be this or that. I am. I always have been."
"Been what?"
It was another stupid question, but it
finally didn't matter. This time, her hands didn't stop at my fingertips, nor
mine at hers. We couldn't say anything more. Even the gusts of the full winter
wind didn't bother us. Then again, we didn't stay on the balcony long, and she
had already barred the door.
Someone knocked, of course, but that was
later. Much later.
L. E.
Modesitt, Jr., lives in Cedar City, Utah.
TOR
BOOKS BY L. E. MODESITT, JR.
THE
SAGA OF RECLUCE
1 The Magic of Recluce
2 The Towers of the Sunset
3 The Magic Engineer
4 The Order War
5 The Death of Chaos
6 Fall of Angels
7 The Chaos Balance
8 The White Order
9 Colors of Chaos
10
Magi'i of Cyandor
11
Scion of Cyandor
THE
SPELLSONG CYCLE
The
Soprano Sorceress
The
Spellsong War
Darksong
Rising
THE
ECOLITAN MATTER
The
Ecologic Envoy
The
Ecolitan Operation
The
Ecologic Secession
The
Ecolitan Enigma
THE
FOREVER HERO
Dawn
for a Distant Earth
The Silent
Warrior
In
Endless Twilight
Of
Tangible Ghosts
The
Ghost of the Revelator
The
Timegod
Timediver's
Dawn
The
Hammer of Darkness
The
Parafaith War
Adiamante
The
Green Progression (with Bruce Scott Levinson)