The first occurred two days to the northwest, on the meandering trade road alongside the Lembesca River. I did not risk any gallop in that withering, humid heat. Shade occurred too seldom as relief, and then only briefly under hardy trees with long thin leaves through which the brilliant sun shone in a lacework of glare.
I arrived at an inn early in the afternoon. I would have liked to push on farther. I’d been careful to walk the horse and to offer water at the two streams we’d passed, but she was looking dangerously droopy as we plodded along the road under what seemed to be a permanent dust pall. Since I had no idea how long I’d ride before finding another village, I thought I’d better stop.
So did a harvest party. And the friends of a journeyman who’d been made master joiner that day, after they’d been working on a building somewhere over the dry, golden hills.
The two parties converged almost at the same time. I had gone in to arrange for a hammock when the harassed innkeeper, who had deployed his entire family for the first party, paused at the door in dismay. From outside came the merry sounds of a crowd turning off the road to the stables as, behind us, the harvesters flowed downstairs into the common room, singing out for food and drink!
Mr. Innkeeper reminded me of my father. Mrs. Innkeeper was a round-faced woman my mother’s age who bustled anxiously to the door of the kitchen. Their expressions were a mixture of stun and a kind of helpless horror.
I swerved away from the door, moved to the shelf behind the counter, and took one of the aprons I saw folded there.
The man ran out to the stable to commandeer bodies for cook’s helpers. The woman turned her head, her braid half coming down, and stared from the apron to me. Brows rising, she glanced at my arms.
“Experience?” she asked, obviously trying not to hope.
“Four years.”
Relief made her face redden. “Here are the choices,” she said rapidly. “Broiled cabbage rolls, fresh-water fish, rice, onion, cooked in pressed olive. Rice with melted cheese and chicken with lemon glaze. Lentil soup with yesterday’s chicken, and cheese over it if they like. Bread until it runs out, and green-apple tarts.”
“Got it. Drink?”
“Don’t fret over the drink, my daughters can see to that.” She indicated two light-haired girls of about ten and twelve who’d appeared from the storeroom door, both in aprons, one dusty with flour, the other setting down a mending basket behind the bar. “But they are too small to carry more than one plate at a time.”
“I can carry six.” I flexed my biceps. “On one arm.”
She laughed. “You shall have a royal meal when we finish, and our best wine.”
“Innkeeper! Wake up!” a man roared, and that was the last time we spoke to one another for many hours.
It was about midnight when I thumped down onto a bench, weary, my arms feeling like string. I had just enough energy to appreciate it. A good workout is a good workout, however one gets it.
The woman entered from the kitchen (from which every scrap of food had been emptied), and took one look around the empty room where the two daughters and I had finished cleaning the tabletops. The younger daughter had fallen asleep on a bench in about two breaths, head on her crossed arms, washcloth still gripped in her fingers. The other girl stood at a window, staring out at the pinpoints of dancing lights as the harvesters wove, singing, back to their homes.
“A bed is waiting.” The woman touched my arm. “Follow my daughter.”
The older girl led me upstairs. She stumbled in exhaustion. I’d expected a hammock but found myself in a narrow but comfortable bed, the linen sheets smelling of a recent drying in sunlight. Heaven.
When I woke, there was hot water steaming on a table.
I went downstairs to a massive breakfast, which ended as the footsteps of the celebrants overhead began thumping about. The family, still tired, seemed cheered by the father’s grin. He’d made enough, he said, to refurbish the stable against winter. Then one by one they turned to me.
So, my two discoveries.
One, in a world without the level of bureaucracy that binds the US of A, you can do things like pick up an apron and there’s no worry about contracts, the IRS, etc. That was the good thing. The not-so-good thing I learned is that it’s really difficult to make up believable lies when you are a stranger in a strange land.
“Were you inn-raised?” the mother asked me, and as I opened my mouth to lie, the father said, “Where? We know most of the inn families up the coast and a good ways along both rivers.”
They were so friendly, and eager for news and gossip. There I was, struggling to come up with lies.
Well, they were not supposed to know I was lying, I told myself sternly. This was the only way I’d get to Dad, which meant a few harmless lies. Therefore my answers had to be short, and boring.
“Stables, mostly.” At the surprise in the older daughter’s face, I vaguely remembered leaving my mare to be curried, and I said quickly, “Supplies. Cleaning. Helped with the tables, when I was little, down south. Then I became a sailor.” I ventured that shot on reflecting how far inland we were. Hopefully they knew nothing of the sea.
“Where did you sail to?” The daughter leaned forward. “I love stories about other places!”
“Why are you so far north?” The mother also leaned forward, ready to be sympathetic if there’d been some disaster.
“Maybe we could get you to run a message, if you’re passing toward some of our folks?” the father put in. “Even with things being bad, handing off letters still always nets a free bed for a night, among our folk.”
I dealt with all these as best as I could, accepting the message finally, figuring I would pay in the next town I could for a messenger. And I took my leave, feeling isolated, uncertain, afraid my lies would explode behind me.
The route I’d chosen was, I hoped, random enough to keep me anonymous and not make my destination clear to anyone who knew magic. Ivory Mountain lay to the west of Ellir, at the far end of the Bar Larsca Valley, inside of the border mountains. The road to Locan Jora was alongside the river that divided Ivory Mountain from some of the other high peaks.
I knew from childhood that Ivory Mountain had a mysterious rep, having to do with magic. I didn’t want to risk going straight to it, so I chose the trade route between the two biggest rivers, where, yes, the most traffic was constantly moving to and fro. I hoped there’d be safety in numbers. The idea was to cruise as unobtrusively as possible to the big trade city, Zhavlir, which lay at the fork of the great rivers. Hang a left to the west. After crossing the Northsca, zap south into the valley.
That was my plan.
I’d also planned to reach Zhavlir in a week—Southern California freeway flyer optimism!
My reeducation began with a high-pressure front squatted over the sweating countryside, forcing all traffic to a crawl except maybe on the military roads, which were beautifully maintained by mages paid out of the king’s coffers.
When at last the weather broke I was scarcely halfway to the city, still angling up to the northwest, my butt sore, my clothes soggy, the mare slow. I wished I had my old junkmobile, which (when it was working) at least had air conditioning. Better, I could rev the thing up to sixty miles per hour instead of the two to five I was sort of making now. I’d been on the road a week and a day. That last morning dawned hotter than ever. The sultry stillness began with a peculiar sheen to the light that gradually oranged and blended into shadow as overhead a massive storm boiled up, ready to rock and roll.
And rock and roll it did.
The rain felt good for about the first thirty seconds, until the wind rose. A sudden, cold wind drove stinging hailstones directly into my face and hands. The hail peppered my poor mare, who snorted, skittish with ill temper, and who could blame her? The blackish green clouds barely cleared the lashing treetops. The light vanished, and my mare now plodded, head low, directly into the oncoming storm sweeping down from the northwest.
The road
soon turned to muddy slosh, caking her hooves and slowing her so much we seemed to be squelching in one place.
After a couple of ice ages, I realized I was not hallucinating, there really were lights somewhere beyond. I threw back my aching head, peering blearily. Yes. Real lights, glimmering through the downpour. At least the hail had given over to real rain, but so much, so quick, it was like a hose turned onto my head, and I had to breathe behind my hand.
The mare picked up her pace. The lights appeared to recede and I wondered miserably if mirages also came with cold and wet, but then the wind brought the warm scent of horse and hay. A stable! And between one shower and the next, I glimpsed the silhouette of a long, rambling building. Inn? Farmhouse?
Whatever it was, I vowed, they were going to take me as a guest, or discover my frozen corpse on their doorstep come morning, seriously lowering their property values.
Someone called out. The words blurred in the hissing roar. With my waning strength I kept my gaze on that square of golden light, which resolved into a broad, open door, like the gates to heaven.
Silhouettes emerged, one bearing a swinging lantern. I rode past them into the barn, and stopped. Warmth gradually dissolved the grip of cold, and sound returned, the flutter of wings and fretful murmling of birds in the rafters overhead, refugees, like me, from the storm. Around me, the quiet voice of command, and response of obedience.
Gradually I regained sight. Lantern flames flickered in the eddies of wind, reaching into the warm stable, their light stippling with gold the edges of a pile of hay, gleaming along neatly hung lengths of horse harnesses, and on people dressed in uniform color.
I had yet to dismount, though someone held my horse’s bridle, waiting patiently. I stared uncomprehending into the faces of a group of young men and a couple of young women. In brown. With little silver cups stitched over the heart.
Sound, sight, and finally sense.
I had fumbled my way into a military outpost.
Chapter Seven
The drought-breaking storm was a major weather front, catching the entire east end of the continent.
All over the kingdom people reacted, either running out to celebrate, or rushing about trying to save things that wet would ruin. Most snugged up inside of castles or cottages, barns or shops, and those on the road sought the shelter of trees or cliff sides.
Out on the sea, traders, navy, smugglers, fishers and pirates alike lay up under mostly bare poles with a scrap of sail to keep them pointed into the wind, and rode it out.
War Commander Randart, having kicked the captain out of his cabin on the ship he’d declared as his flag, sat with his meal uneaten before him, fighting against rage. The king had done what?
The report lay on the table, the words mocking him: . . . promised a treason trial for the prisoners taken along with Princess Atanial.
Randart shook his head in disgust. Canardan was getting weaker every year. Why not just line them all up and have them shot, in as public an execution as possible? That would end his dilemma with rumors.
At least there was one possibility. Randart could show him how it could be done. Soon as he finished this pirate mission, he’d have those old guardsmen of Prince Math’s, Silvag and Folgothan, taken out and shot in a public execution, under military law. That would demonstrate effectively how Canardan ought to handle those fools, and Randart would not have to say a word. It would all be in accordance with military regulations—the ones Randart himself had designed, and Canardan had signed into law.
He balled up the paper and tossed it out one of the stern windows into the storm.
o0o
Some welcomed the rain as a chance to escape snooping eyes.
Just outside of Ellir two columns of cadets, riding inland toward the siege war game they’d all been looking forward to, heard the horns call for camp setup, and they gladly broke ranks. Cursing, laughing, calling out insults, they dismounted and stumbled through the furious rain toward their places.
Camp setup was something you began in your first year. The senior cadets under the command of Damedran Randart oversaw the younger students. In good weather, watched by the critical eyes of the adult captains, they were fast, quiet, and bored. The storm freed them from constraint, and though everyone knew what to do, setting up tents in that splashing downpour was an adventure. As the adults were safely busy, there were surreptitious mud fights (the evidence, they knew, would soon rinse off) and some running around. It was fun and also a relief, so strict had been discipline in the temper-exasperating heat of the past three days.
Ban found his arm gripped as he struggled with his team to get the picket line set up. He whipped around, violently flinging off the hand. But he saw Damedran’s face reflected in the ruddy glow of a torch.
Damedran jerked his chin over his shoulder. Ban followed. Not to the command tent, which was a misshapen giant mushroom full of snickering, cursing bumps and lumps as the setup crew tried to raise it from inside. Damedran led him to a clump of hardy trees a ways away. They stopped under the foliage, rain rattling the tossing leaves overhead.
“What,” Ban shouted.
Damedran put his mouth near Ban’s ear. “I think the sheep knows about the invasion.”
“What?” Same word, but entirely different intonation.
“I’ve been thinking. What he said. On that yacht. Not outright. Mostly about what we ought to be doing in training next spring. You know. The hide-and-attack games.”
“You told us that. I already told you it’s a great idea. Bowsprit, even your cousin thinks so. Everybody does. Except your uncle. Won’t let us change the training. So what can we do about it?”
“Not that.” Damedran shook his head again. “Right before we got off the yacht, the sheep said something about those outsiders who pinched the prizes at the games and scragged my cousin Wolfie and Red. One said something about Norsunder going to war soon.”
Warning tightened Ban’s shoulders. The wind shifted, bringing a whiff of hot olive oil from the direction of the cook tent, then the cold wind snapped it away. “And?”
“Told Father, who told Uncle Dannath. Before we left. But he just laughed.”
Ban shoved his fingers into his armpits. The storm had caught them too fast for them to fetch their gloves from the baggage train. “If the warning came from Prince Jehan, of course your uncle and your father won’t listen.”
“But I didn’t tell that part. I told Father I’d heard it. Gossip. That’s one reason why I waited all week. Father reported it to my uncle, then told me Uncle Dannath says I’ll hear that all my life from cowards. Slackers. Fools.”
Ban shook his head, thinking, Why am I hearing this instead of Red or even Wolfie? “Who were those fellows? I mean, how could a nine-year-old have the strength to dust four of us?”
Damedran shook his head. “I asked Wolfie that first thing. I thought the brat snuck up and brained them from behind one by one. Wolfie said they all four tried to take him on, teach him a lesson. Said it wasn’t strength, it was that he always seemed to know what they were going to do before they did it, and then he knew exactly where to hit that hurt the most. Wolfie said he could have killed them all if he’d wanted to. The brat didn’t even break a sweat. What kind of training teaches an undersized brat to do that?”
Ban shook his head. “I dunno. So why were they even here?”
“And why did they single out the sheep to give their warning to?”
“I think the sheep isn’t a sheep at all,” Ban said, voicing an inner conviction he’d never thought he’d share.
But Damedran did not scoff. They fell silent, neither quite looking at the other.
Damedran said, “I don’t know what to do.”
“Nothing.”
Damedran frowned at Ban, meeting his gaze at last.
Ban relented. Damedran had been different since that day. He could be setting Ban up, but his instinct was against it. “There’s nothing we can do. We’re under orders, at the very bott
om of the chain of command.”
Damedran scowled. Ban was right. What was the good of being senior in rank above all the cadets if the only orders you could give were how many paces apart the tents had to be pitched?
“The real captains don’t listen to us,” Ban went on. “Your father listens only to your uncle. The king, too. They have their plans. We aren’t going to change those.” When Damedran ducked his head and grimaced in agreement, he added, “I think it’s better to wait. Keep our ears open. Because one of these days we’ll find someone who does listen.” Like King Math, if he ever returns.
Damedran frowned at the runnel of muddy water flowing over his boots, carrying twigs and yellow-edged leaves. The storm was lifting enough to permit some light.
Light. They’d be seen.
Damedran said, “All right. Then we’ll wait.”
They ran off to resume their duties.
o0o
At the same time, not far to the southwest, the proximity of the western mountains caused the air to roil and boil, sending lightning and thunder smashing across the sky.
Under cover of it, Devli Eban and his cousin Nad sped from the mage house where they were staying, circling around and climbing up onto the roof.
There they huddled under the eave of the servants’ dormer window, which was shut tight and shuttered.
Ever since Devli had arrived back, they’d longed for a chance to speak to one another, but hadn’t dared—not after Nad read the note Devli had slipped into his hand that night:
We have two spies among us, one for the prince and the other for the king.
Now they looked at one another, and as soon as the thunder overhead died away, Devli said, “What is the gossip about me?”
“They told us you got captured along with Prince Math’s daughter by the pirate Zathdar, but you escaped. Had to make your way cross-country on foot, as they’d taken your transfer tokens, and you were afraid you were warded by the king’s mages so you couldn’t use the regular Transfer Destination. How much of that is true?”
Devli looked into his cousin’s round face, blotched by cold. At least the worst of the rain was hitting the other side of the building. “Only that I was with them. We were on the pirate ship. When I was let go, I transferred outside of town. I lied to cover how long I was gone, because the king’s got at least one spy with us.”