Dorrin can stand the unspoken reproaches no longer. “Would you two stop it!”
“Stop what?” Kadara’s voice is vaguely amused.
“You know what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
Dorrin swallows his anger and refuses to speak. Instead, he squirms on the hard saddle, and momentarily stands in the stirrups to stretch his legs.
Meriwhen whinnies, and he pats her neck again.
The three continue until they have passed through the outer low gates and the curbstones have given way to a flat stone highway from which white dust rises with each descending hoof.
Dorrin sneezes.‘He sneezes again. Kadara and Brede exchange whispers. Although he could call their conversation to him on the breeze, he does not. Instead he sneezes again.
“Can’t you do something about that?” asks Brede. “You’re supposed to be the healer.”
“Not… accchoooooo… that good. It’s the dust, or something.”
Kadara and Brede exchange another glance. Dorrin bites his lip and tries to suppress another sneeze. Intermittent sneezes punctuate the next several kays, and his legs are aching from the effort of riding and sneezing by the time his nose begins to stop itching.
The arrow in the stone guidepost directs them onto a packed clay road. Before they have climbed a kay up the gentle grade, heavy brownish dust clings to the legs of each horse. The road flattens at the crest, and less than half a kay away is a small kiosk. To the right of it are flat clay, patches of grass, and scraggly bushes. Less than half a dozen tents dot the area.
“Not exactly a thriving trading ground.”
“No.” Kadara brushes a stand of hair back over her ears.
“No wagon?” The guard remains seated on the stool leaned against the back wall of the kiosk. The kiosk’s white paint has begun to flake away.
“We’re not traders.”
“Ride around the pole, then.” The guard’s eyes close even before Brede guides the gelding around the turnpole and through the two-cubit-wide gap.
“Not even a fence.”
“The posts are close enough together to keep out any wagons.”
The posts, each set about two cubits from its neighbor, enclose a space perhaps three hundred cubits on a side. The traders’ grounds contain no more than a handful of tents, all pitched in the higher northwest corner.
“Wonderful idea.” Kadara glances at Dorrin. “No one here could afford one guard, let alone two-or a healer.”
“So… we ride to Jellico.” Dorrin’s legs are stiff, but they no longer ache-at least not much.
“And arrive penniless?”
“We can only do what we can,” says Brede. “No one in Fairhaven would hire us, and staying there would have cost far too much. Besides, those guards made it clear that we needed to leave while we could. They don’t like Black healers-that was clear enough.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You got us horses we probably wouldn’t have and warned us about the highwaymen. This time, you’re the one they don’t like. Even so, that business with the White lady probably got us out of there. It evens out.” Brede gives a long look to Kadara, who swallows.
“I’m sorry, Dorrin. It’s just been… a long trip already.”
“I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I just thought… maybe at least here.”
“All we can do is try.” Brede guides the gelding toward the nearest tent. Beside the brown patched canvas are a wagon and two horses. Two men watch as the three ride up. One holds an already-cocked crossbow loosely.
“Who you looking for?”
Brede reins up, and Dorrin and Kadara follow his example.
“We heard that there might be some traders who could use some help,” begins Brede, his voice mellow and convincing.
“Not us, young fellow. Don’t need young and hungry bravos. Look somewheres else.” The man with the crossbow cackles, showing blackened teeth. “Try Durnit there. In the patched tent.” He cackles again, but raises the crossbow. “Get!”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” Brede answers.
“Maybe not, young fellow… but I don’t need you and yours. Now go bother some other bastard.”
The three edge their mounts away, still watching until the trader lowers the bow. Then they turn toward the brown tent that is more patches than original fabric. A single man-whose clothes, once solid leathers and linen, approximate rags-sits in front of a low fire, turning something on a spit. Outside of the tent is tethered but a single swaybacked horse.
“Are you Durnit?”
“Maybe. What’s it to you?”
“We heard you might need some help on your next run.”
“Ha! Sure as I would, but I’ve not a copper left from the last.” The trader turns the spit again. “There’s my profits-one scrawny bird. They say the Suthyans’ll take a trader as a factor on the Nordla run. I’ll try that. Can’t fight the wizards and their roads, and can’t afford a road pass.”
“Is there anyone around here who might need help?” Dorrin asks softly into the silence.
“You might try Liedral. Tent’s over there, with blue flag.” The bearded trader’s thumb gestures toward a smaller tent on the hilly rise. “Jellico type.” He spits into the dirt beside the fire.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Just let me finish eating. Last meal for a long time.” He eases the blackened fowl off the spit with the short knife, and greasy fingers worry away a small drumstick. Brede’s hand lifts as if to reach toward the sword in the shoulder harness before he turns in the direction pointed by the hungry trader. Another hundred cubits westward stands the neatly squared tent, although the short blue banner hangs limply in the golden light of late afternoon. A single chestnut and a mule are tethered to iron stakes driven into the clay on the eastern side of the tent, and an iron chain links the two-wheeled cart to a third iron stake on the western side.
The figure feeding the fire from a pile of stubby split logs is broad-shouldered, beardless, dressed in faded blue leathers, and wears a wide-brimmed blue felt hat. The trader straightens and waits, appearing nearly as tall as Kadara. The three from Recluce ride slowly forward.
“Are you Liedral?” Brede begins.
“Yes.” A smile follows the single word delivered in a light baritone.
“Durnit-the trader back there-he suggested you might need some help on your next run.”
“We all need help.” The laugh is soft.
Dorrin’s senses conflict with his eyes over the trader’s appearance.
“I can’t pay three guards.”
“They’re guards,” Dorrin offers. “I’m just an apprentice healer.”
“Your staff indicated something like that.” Liedral gestures to the fire, and the kettle suspended over one side. “You’ve ridden a while. You can at least rest for a bit. I can’t offer much besides some spare redberry or a spice tea.”
Brede and Kadara exchange glances. Dorrin dismounts. Both look at him.
“My legs are sore.”
Brede shrugs and slips from the saddle with the fluid grace that Dorrin still envies. Kadara follows.
“You’re all from Recluce?”
“Yes.” Dorrin sees no point in dissembling.
Kadara raises an eyebrow; Brede looks for somewhere to tether his mount.
“Use the stake the wagon is chained to,” suggests Liedral.
“All three?” blurts Dorrin.
“For now, it should be more than adequate.” The dryness of the trader’s tone brings a flush to Dorrin’s freckled face.
“Why the iron?” asks Brede, as he loops the leather through the fist-sized eyelet of the stake.
“More than a few free traders have lost mounts and wagons.** Liedral pours water into the kettle before swinging it out over the hotter coals with a heavy leather glove.
Kadara quickly tethers her mount.
“Is that why there’s iron in the tether ropes?” asks Dorr
in.
Again, Brede and Kadara exchange looks. Kadara shakes her head.
“You may need two guards just for yourself, healer.” Liedral laughs softly.
Dorrin’s face feels warm, but his words are firm, almost snapped out. “If you were White, I’d know, and, besides, none of the Whites would want that much iron around.”
“Fair enough. Let me find some mugs.” Liedral disappears into the tent.
Kadara fixes Dorrin with lowered brows. Dorrin leads Meriwhen over to the iron stake, where he follows Brede’s and Kadara’s example.
By the time he returns to the fire, the trader is passing out the mugs. “Spice tea or redberry?”
“Tea.” Kadara takes a heavy brown mug.
“Redberry,” adds Brede.
“Tea.” Dorrin is left with a fluted gray mug with a chip on the rim.
The trader’s deft hands pour chopped tea into a metal basket on a chain, which goes into the kettle before the top drops back in place. “Be a bit.”
Dorrin concentrates on the trader, then nods, hiding the smile he feels as his senses confirm his feelings. He smothers a smile and waits.
Liedral gestures to the ground. “I can’t provide any comforts, but please be seated.” The trader settles onto a small padded stool.
Brede sits cross-legged, as does Kadara, before the fire and to the trader’s right. Dorrin’s muscles are too sore and tight for that, and he shifts his weight on the hard ground until he finds the least uncomfortable position on the trader’s left.
The low ooooo of a dove echoes across the trading grounds from the higher grasses of the low hill to the northwest.
“Where are you headed?” Brede asks.
“A few folks might like to know that, questor.” Liedral’s voice carries a faint tone of amusement.
“Questor?”
“That’s the more polite term for those of you from Recluce.”
“The less polite terms being… ?”
“We’ll not go into that.”
“We’re not exactly other traders.” Dorrin shifts his weight on the hard ground again.
“It’s really no secret. I’m one of the few that runs the northern triangle. Most times, I don’t come to Fairhaven, just to Vergren, but Freidr insisted that I come here, just to get a feel for it once.” Liedral frowns. “Once is enough, and I wasted too much time. I’ll leave tomorrow.”
“You traveled all that alone?”
Liedral shrugs. “Bandits generally don’t like the cold, and dyes and spices aren’t the easiest to sell if you don’t have the contacts.” The trader’s eyes flicker to the bow and quiver hanging by the slit in the tent.
Dorrin’s eyes alight on the shortsword, nearly a match to the one worn by Kadara. “You’ve been taught in the Westwind style.”
Liedral laughs. “You definitely need a keeper, healer.”
Kadara shakes her head. Dorrin flushes.
“What about you?” pursues Brede.
The trader shrugs. “I get by. Profits don’t cover hiring guards. They did once, back generations, but not now, not unless you run with the wizards.”
“They control the trade through the roads?” Brede remains cross-legged.
Dorrin shifts his weight again, wondering how the bigger man can remain comfortable with his legs folded.
Liedral nods, then stands. “Tea should be ready. You first, healer.”
Dorrin extends his mug.
After pouring Dorrin’s and Kadara’s tea, the trader replaces the kettle, swings the swivel to the side of the fire, then retrieves a flask from the tent to pour the redberry into Brede’s cup. “There.”
“Thank you,” Dorrin says, looking straight into the hazel eyes.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
The sounds of low voices drift from the other tents, punctuated by another oooo from the unseen dove.
“What is this northern triangle route you follow?” Kadara brushes a strand of red hair off her forehead, then sips from her mug.
“Usually the points of the triangle are Spidlaria, Vergren, and Tyrhavven. From Vergren I’ll make Rytel, then follow the old north road through Axalt and into Kleth. Then a barge down to Spidlaria. Dastral owes me a passage back to Tyrhavven. That’s where I pick up the dyes and spices. Take the river road back to Jellico. That’s back through Rytel twice, but both stops are short. Spend an eight-day or so putting the old warehouse in order-Freidr always lets things get out of hand-and then start all over again.”
“Why are you here?”
Liedral shakes her head. “Like I said, call it a pilgrimage. For Fairhaven, that is. There’s a market for spices, even here, and they don’t take that much space. But I really don’t like going farther than Vergren.”
Dorrin grins.
“Why is that funny?” asks Kadara.
“Oh, it’s not funny, but I should have figured that out.”
All three look at him.
He shrugs, embarrassed. “Chaos is hard on living things. Food comes from living things. It follows that they’d need spices, and that the White traders wouldn’t do as well.”
“If you say so…”
“He’s right,” observes Liedral. “I’d like to know more about why you feel that has to be.”
“It just follows,” mumbles Dorrin. “I mean… chaos is the destructive force… It breaks things down… especially living things. Spices preserve food, but they’re delicate…”
“What do you recommend?” asks Brede, his deep voice gentle. “For us?”
The soft-voiced trader turns. “No one here will hire you. They might in places to the northwest, like Diev, or some of the other cities in Spidlar. The wizards’ reach isn’t that tight there-or in southern Kyphros or Southwind.”
“Southwind’s a trifle far.” Kadara’s voice is edged.
“And you can’t afford a guard?” Brede finally shifts his weight, to Dorrin’s relief.
“Or two guards and a healer, much as I’d like to have all three of you?” Liedral smiles. “Hardly.”
“What about traveling with you?” asks Dorrin. “For some pittance… at least.”
The two others look at him.
“Well,” he explains, “if we have to get to Spidlar to get paying work, we might as well see about the least costly way to doit.”
“Perhaps a silver or two toward food-that’s the most I could go.”
“You trust us?” asks Brede thoughtfully.
“No. I trust the healer.”
Kadara and Brede again exchange glances. Liedral grins at Dorrin. Dorrin looks at the fire.
XXV
“THERE WAS A strange party in Fairhaven, two blades and a young healer…” ventures the apprentice.
“That sounds like Sarronynn,” snaps the sun-eyed man.
“But the healer also could feel the winds, according to Zerlat.”
“Where are they?”
The apprentice shrugs. “According to the standing orders-”
“Damn the standing orders! Does anyone know where they headed?”
The apprentice lets out a slow breath as she watches Jeslek’s eyes fade into the vague look that means his senses are somewhere else.
“Where?” demands the hard voice. Not all Jeslek’s senses are elsewhere.
“They headed toward the Easthorns.”
“What did they look like?”
The young woman purses her lips, ignoring the distant look on her master’s face. “The healer was thin, with curly red hair. One Wade was a red-headed woman. She carried double swords, including a Westwind shortsword. The other blade was a man, pretty young, but big.”
“And no one thought such a group was strange?” Jeslek’s eyes are fully alive again. “Two blades, just to protect a poor young healer? Who knows just what that healer is? And just as we’re starting to tighten the noose on Recluce. Doesn’t anyone think?”
He is out the door from the tower room, and his feet echo on the stairs
before the apprentice can answer his question.
The apprentice frowns, mumbling, “You’re not the High Wizard yet.” But she takes a deep breath and continues polishing the mirror on the table.
XXVI
DORRIN FLICKS THE reins to keep Meriwhen abreast of the cart. Kadara and Brede ride ahead. The pack horse trails, harness tied to a ring on the cart.
“Why are all the Blacks so opposed to Fairhaven?” asks Liedral.
“Wouldn’t you be, after all the trouble it took to escape the Whites?” counters Dorrin. “Besides, living with chaos is rather… painful… if you deal with order.”
“Recluce seems rather… arbitrary… about defining chaos.”
Dorrin laughs, a short harsh sound. “They’re all so concerned about maintaining the pure Black way. Any change is considered chaos.” He brushes away a mosquito. “Even order changes, but they don’t see it.”
“What determines what is Black and what is White?” asks the trader.
“They hammer that out in lessons when you first start your schooling.”
“Who gives the lessons?”
“One of the Black mages.”
“Do they all teach the same lessons? What happens if one of these learned Black mages dies?”
“That doesn’t happen much in Recluce. His apprentices and the others know what he knows, for the most part.”
Liedral frowns. “People remember what they want to. You learn that as a trader. You know how to write, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Dorrin sighs. “I’ve been through my father’s library. Recluce has books and more books. At least, my father does.”
“So… all of the White and Black magic is written down?”
“Not the White. Not even very much of… Actually, there’s not much at all on why things work, or how to do things-just the conditions.” Dorrin shakes his head. “Why are you interested in all of this?”
“I’m just interested, healer. I’m a trader. The more I know, the longer I’ll live.”
Dorrin glances at the smooth brow under the floppy hat, then toward his compatriots as they ride toward the rolling hills ahead.
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