A Dirge for Sabis

by C. J. Cherryh

  Jimantam shrugged again. "Some time has passed since the last miracle. People forget, they grow distracted. . . ."

  "We promised—and delivered—the usual miracle of the flame at the solstice ceremony. It didn't draw enough. The crowd was middle-sized at best, and the donations were small. Why, sir?"

  "Well, this is coin-poor land; most trade is done by barter. If the folk simply don't have much coin on hand—"

  "Coin? After first harvest and shearing? Oh, come."

  "The trade caravans to the north—"

  "Went out on time, came back in good time, and should have harvested the usual sufficiency of silver. Besides, even donations in goods have fallen off. Explain me that."

  Jimantam spread his hands placatingly. "Worldly distractions," he murmured. "There was the usual plague of fleas, for example."

  "I heard something of that," Folweel sneered. "The flea infestation was unusually mild this year—and not because of overmuch purchase of our ointment. Why, think you, was that?"

  Jimantam rolled his eyes. "Perhaps some hedge wizard or granny witch has also discovered the secret of making soap, or the virtues of fleabane and garlic. Such knowledge is easy to come by, and another wizard might sell it more cheaply."

  "Aha." Folweel leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "If so, then what other wizard would that be?"

  Jimantam shook his head, accepting the inevitable. "This new batch of wizards off to the west," he conceded. "They have the appeal of novelty, though that should wear off soon enough."

  "Yes, these new wizards." Folweel leaned back in his chair. "The Deese priests, worshippers of a blacksmith's god. They have not confined themselves to making horseshoes and praying over anvils, have they?"

  "Who can tell, Brother? I know they've been selling pretty amulets of iron and brass and black glass bits, but that seems harmless enough."

  "Harmless? When some of said amulets are sold specifically for protection against fire?"

  Jimantam pursed his lips, said nothing.

  "I have heard disturbing reports." Folweel picked up a sheet of parchment and frowned at it. "There are many of these priests; they have wealth enough that they've hired much of the local labor to build—or rebuild, as they claim—a good-sized shrine and priest house out in the old ruins. They have skills with metal work that entice a goodly amount of the local trade, and have produced enough goods beyond that to send north for sale. They have much favor with our old friend Wotheng. They have, if you please, set up a school in Ashkell villa where they teach reading, writing, figuring, healing craft, and—think on this—mechanical skills. They teach this to any who will sit and listen, and with Wotheng's help and approval. Do you not see a difficulty there, Brother?"

  Jimantam sighed. "We have a rival for the people's affections. Some effort will be required to sway them back again. Another prediction of fire, perhaps?"

  "Too soon," Folweel snapped. "And you've utterly missed the danger of that—that school!"

  "What danger?" Jimantam was genuinely puzzled. "Our own temple college teaches skills of far greater virtue: magecraft, priestcraft, estate management, merchantry—"

  "For our own!" Folweel resisted the urge to tug at his -impressive beard. "We teach our own initiates, and grant a bit of harmless hedge magic to our servants. These—these interlopers teach any who care to listen! Can you not see the difference, and the danger?"

  "Er, we take those of more quality, better inclined to -learning. . . ."

  Folweel sighed, remembering that he must be patient with this Brother; the man was very, very good at wringing excellent profit from the temple lands and donations. If he knew nothing of true magic, or wider applications of policy, that only kept him from overmuch ambition. One should explain as much as Jimantam needed to know.

  "Dear Brother," Folweel said, very calmly, "these folk offer to teach anyone: nobles, scribes, craftsfolk, farmers, or even servants. They teach skills readily useful to anyone, as even the dullest peasant may see. If all the folk have such skills, why need they come to us for service in such things?"

  Now Jimantam began to see it. He frowned, counting off on his fingers. "Reading, writing, figuring . . . But they never did come to us for that. The folk always go to scribes for such. We have no competition there."

  "Not there, no: but magecraft, and healing simples, and mechanics?"

  "Magecraft . . ." Jimantam scratched his chin. "We've had no trouble from the local granny witches, priests of other gods, that sort. Would these be any greater rivals?"

  "They very well might be. We have no idea what their magical abilities are." That wasn't the main point, but no profit in telling Jimantam so; it might give him ideas. "Their healing simples and such spells, for example: what if they teach everyone to make and use soap, fleabane, and so on? Who will buy from us, if every shepherd's wife can make plenty?"

  "I begin to see the problem, Brother." Jimantam's lips tightened. "This school must be . . . examined."

  "And the cult itself," Folweel added. "We must discover what they know."

  "It should be easy enough to place . . . students in the school. As to the cult, I don't know."

  "That task I think I shall assign to Patrobe. Send him to see me as soon as convenient."

  "Gladly, Brother Folweel." Jimantam stood, guessing that he was dismissed and eager to be about his new task, delighted to learn that the shortage of the temples income was not to be laid at his door. "May the blessings of Yotha be upon you, forever and evermore."

  "Yotha bless." Folweel waved him off, not even bothering to watch the man leave.

  His eyes strayed to the image of Yotha standing against the inner wall between two bookcases. "Fire God," Folweel grumbled, in his native Halasan. If anyone overheard, they'd think he was praying or practicing magic. So be it; of recent years he'd come to think aloud at the image, for lack of more trustworthy ears. "You're very good as a sword, but this problem calls for a stiletto. Rival wizards, several of them, and well-educated by all accounts: was it pure accident they came here too? Or did they recognize a good milking herd when they saw it?"

  The image made no answer, only stared broodingly at the lamp that burned perpetually in its hands.

  Folweel got up and went to the bookcase, searching among the scrolls penned years ago, back in Anhalas, which no one else in this barbarous country could read. "Mechanics," he muttered, "Medicine, Natural Philosophy. Dangerous, my most useful companion. Not merely of themselves, though that's bad enough. Teach such things, and to the very peasants we need? Monstrous! Suicidal! Are these folk utter fools, or are they keeping the greater knowledge for themselves? The latter, most like. Still, don't they realize the danger? Let common folk learn too much of the workings of the world, and they grow confident. When peasants have faith in themselves, they lose faith in gods and wizards. Where are we then, eh?"

  Yotha silently contemplated his cupped flame, giving no reply.

  Folweel finally located the scroll he wanted, a large medical text. "So, so . . . Much one can learn as a doctor's apprentice in Anhalas: much of chemistry, at least, and the mechanics thereof. Mysteries of the still-room, indeed. What power hides in strong wine, triply distilled, eh? A fluid that burns, and without even a wick."

  He flicked a finger playfully through the flame in Yotha's cup, making the shadows dance across the images face, as if the fire god smiled.

  "We've done very well with that one simple trick." Folweel turned the scroll, looking for one section in particular. "Magic alone has power—well-wish or ill-wish, talent and training provide it. Natural philosophy grants knowledge that leads to power . . ." He tapped his finger on the scroll. " . . . such as our useful, most mysterious fire-fluid. But put the two together, my lad—as my old master used to say—and the results are magnified. Heh! I doubt he ever imagined I'd use that knowledge for more than medicine. But then, I doubt he ever thought that Halas could fall. Hard times, these. One must harden one's spirit to match them, use what tricks one can, take o
n whatever allies may be useful . . . Ah, here we are."

  The section revealed in the open scroll dealt with herbs and extracts that affected the mind. Strong drink was listed first, but Folweel passed over it quickly. Opium was next, but he skipped that also; its source plant did not grow in these climes, nor was it available through local trade. The third was belladonna, the description of its properties and uses followed by a list of its herbal sources. Many such plants grew in the north. Folweel ran his finger down the list, and smiled as he read.

  * * *

  The bell in the pigeon tower of Wotheng's house rang twice, then rattled to indignant silence. In the second courtyard, which held the house herb garden, a dozen children and adults of all sizes looked up, startled. Waxed boards skittered off laps as children started to scramble to their feet. Eloti tapped sternly on her slate tablet, and the students hastily picked up their gear.

  "Depart in an orderly fashion," she commanded, "and don't forget the song."

  The class dutifully lined up and traipsed out of the courtyard, singing in a dozen different keys: "Ayo is for apple, Bith is for barn . . ."

  Eloti let her face slip into a smile, watching them go.

  The crunch of approaching footsteps on the antique gravel path made her turn. Gynallea, dressed in her usual apron and headcloth, approached with a load of scrolls under one arm and settled beside Eloti on the stone bench.

  "I've found some more texts," she said, displaying the collection of scrolls. "One mathematics, two histories, one compendium of medicinal plants, two poetries, and a geography—quite outdated, of course, but still useful. How long, think you, before this lot can read them?"

  "This lot? Half a year, at least." Eloti picked up the geography first. "The second class, though, might start on some of these in another moon."

  "How have you arranged it? Beginners in the first half of the morning, literates in the second half?"

  "Just so. By year's end, I might have my whole day filled with different grades of scholars."

  "And by next year, then, will you have scholars advanced enough to enter the House of Deese as apprentices?"

  Eloti smiled, seeing where this led. "That would depend upon how prosperous the House of Deese becomes. We can feed, house, and clothe only so many, at present."

  "Don't worry about that, dear." Gynallea grinned, patting her knee. "Those little toys you sent north fetched a goodly price. By next year, you'll have fine trade. Surely you can take in another by then."

  "Aha." Eloti set the scrolls aside. "Biddon has been plaguing you, too, hasn't he?"

  "My dear, what could you expect? He wants to learn more skills, all but worships the ground where you tread, has sworn he's willing to become a lowly apprentice again if you'll but take him in."

  "He'll have to master reading, writing, and figuring first. Of course, he does his best at that—he's in the second class already." Eloti shrugged. Biddon had no head for figures and letters, but his pure determination had carried him acceptably far already. "By next year . . . well, perhaps. Certainly by the year after, if all continues as it has done."

  "Ah, very good." Gynallea sat back, scratching her belly. "Now, how goes the building at the shrine?"

  "Most remarkably," Eloti admitted. "The roof is on, the mill repaired, and the wall goes well. We need do some of the work ourselves on the plumbing, but that can wait until the forge is finished. Oh yes, Omis said to tell Lord Wotheng that we'll need another two hundredweight of firebrick and three hundredweight of clay. The, hmm, 'ladle' will need to be more stout than he'd first thought."

  Gynallea shook her head in wonder. "So much brick, clay, charcoal . . . iron and brass I can understand, but the rest is a mystery to me."

  "I think I can reveal that mystery to the uninitiated." Eloti laughed. "Only baked clay and firebrick, so far as I know, can withstand the heat of melting iron. The charcoal—oh, I just thought! Lady, don't let the woodcutters and charcoal burners chop down the whole forest, or there'll soon be none left. Make them plant a hundred seed for every tree they cut."

  "Oh posh, daughter, we've been doing that for donkey's years. Did you never wonder why the wood on that north hill looks as neat as an orchard?"

  "Ah, orchards of oaks?"

  "Certainly. Even standing, they're of use; the acorns make coarse flour, or excellent pig feed. Didn't you know?"

  "Ah, Lady, I'm always delighted to learn something new."

  "There, dear, you may call me Gynna—at least when there are no men about."

  Eloti laughed in genuine delight.

  They might have spoken more, but Yawth came trotting into the garden to announce the arrival of the second class. Gynallea sighed and got up. "Back to work for both of us, daughter," she sighed. "When this class is over, come find me in the still-room. There are some arcana of equipage design I wish to ask you about."

  "Hmm, that would be Sulun's field of knowledge more than mine, but I'll be glad to come. At noon, then?"

  Gynallea nodded and walked away. Eloti turned to watch the incoming class, and noted that it was larger than it had been yesterday. She counted noses, discovering one extra; it belonged to a bland-faced young man dressed as a scribe, whom she hadn't seen before. Perhaps he'd kept away until now, believing his skills were adequate, for he appeared quite well fed and well clothed. He had, she noted, brought his own waxed tablets and stylus with him.

  "Your name, sir?" she asked.

  "Duppa, a scribe," he answered readily, smiling as if he did it often. "I live to the north, near Yedda Stream, by Topa's lane—"

  "Very good, sir," Eloti interrupted him, noting the curious looks from the rest of her class. "Take your place, and we shall proceed with exercises in mathematics."

  The man dutifully sat and readied his tablets. Eloti turned away to hunt among her original basket of scrolls for the day's text, and also to hide her confusion. Magical training had made her sensitive to the presence and "feel" of other living bodies and minds; she was used to feeling the life-warmth and eager concentration of her students, and normally gave it no thought This man was different. He seemed strangely blank, not there, a disturbing hole in the air where his body was visible, as if he were no more than a moving puppet. If he hadn't cast a shadow, she might have thought he was a very well constructed thought-sending.

  Shielded, she guessed. The man was magically shielded, and so intensely that not even the "heat" of his life-force escaped. Was this pure accident, an unintended construction of the man's own mind? Or had it been done deliberately, placed on him by a competent and talented wizard? If deliberate, why? Why should a common scribe need such shields? Unless, of course, he was no common scribe? Some local hedge wizard, studying his competition? she wondered. Best ask Gynallea about him.

  That decided, she took up the scroll and proceeded with the lesson.

  * * *

  The new forge was beautiful, clean, and cold: a virgin, waiting to be initiated into the delights of her natural fire. Omis walked around her once again, eyes measuring her splendid dimensions and features, itching to fill and light her properly. There, that enormous bellows made of two whole oxhides, waiting to be geared into the driveshaft from the mill. With such a pump, in such a furnace, he could refine purest iron out of raw, red earth in a day's work or less. There, the great pulleys and chain hoist braced into the new ceiling. Once the huge ladle was finished, he could melt and pour iron by the hundredweight as easily as if it were wax in a cup. There, Sulun's precious lathe and the new grinding wheels, likewise waiting to be hitched to the mill's driving shaft. Gods, what he could make with those. He'd made little but toys since they'd settled here—farming tools, buckles, sockets for wooden wheels, even pins and needles—good quality, but such puny common things, small items readily made in the sturdy little portable forge from Sabis, on his old and admittedly worn anvil. But with tools like these, once they were ready . . .

  Omis shook his head and turned away. Patience, patience, he reminded himself.
All goes well, better than we could have dreamed just a year ago.

  Indeed, a year ago he could never have imagined working in such a manufactory as this. Possibly there was nothing near like it in all the world. What irony to see it here, in this forgotten country estate, when Sabis and all her glory lay in ruins. . . .

  Omis turned away from the forge, went to a freshly oiled cabinet under the new workbench, opened it, and tugged out the cloth-wrapped shape within. He lifted the object to the bench, laid it down, and pulled up a stool.

  The bombard's outside was still pebble-rough and unfinished, but the interior gleamed like a mirror. She was seamless, flawless, as perfect as human skill could make her, needing only a few finishing touches. Omis didn't ask himself why he felt obliged to work on her whenever he thought of Sabis; her original purpose was long lost, fallen with the city.

  Still, the Bombard Project led him on, led all of them still, had led them like a god's sign to settle here in the vestibule of a sulfur mine. Why sulfur, save for firepowder? Why firepowder, save for the bombard? Why the bombard? No answer—yet the pursuit of that idea had brought them here, to safety, protection, promised wealth, even the respect of the local people and the friendship of the local lord. Even a workshop such as this.

  Omis cast a glance at the nearer of the two figures carved beside the door. "Deese, thou knowest," he said.

  Then he took up a narrow circular brush and a pot of pumice paste, and began polishing the recently drilled fuse hole at the base of the bombard. After this would come the building of its carriage.

  He barely heard the footsteps approaching behind him, managed to ignore them until Zeren spoke, almost in his ear.

  "Where's Sulun? We have a problem."

  * * *

  Yanados perched on a finished section of the wall, supposedly watching the small flock of goats that foraged contentedly downslope. Under the hood of her cloak, no one could tell at this distance that she was actually watching the work crew busy on the unfinished part of the wall. Biddon sat beside her, clenching his corded hands with the effort not to point. Sulun, Zeren, and Doshi came padding up behind her, climbed the broad stile to the walkway, and peered toward the work gang. Zeren clapped a hand on the blacksmith's shoulder.