The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “You are most kind, Abslim,” answers the Matriarch as she nears the head of the Exchange.

  “What brings you to our humble Exchange?”

  “Me? The harmonies, I suppose. I had heard rumors that the Exchange was considering a surcharge on handling grain and transactions that involved Defalk. I thought I would come to see for myself.”

  A series of murmurs whisper across the polished white floor.

  “The surcharge was begun yesterday. There is much unrest in Defalk.”

  The Matriarch nods as she proceeds through and around the traders and toward the trading platform at the south end of the hall. “Are you imposing a surcharge on Ebra? Or Dumar? Or Neserea?”

  There is a moment of stillness.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Ebra has a civil war brewing and no central government. Neserea has a struggle between an outside regent and an underage lord. Dumar has accepted the presence of a Sturinnese fleet. Do not those merit consideration?”

  “We will consider such.”

  “Ah . . . Abslim . . . why does the Exchange deal so harshly with Defalk?”

  Abslim squares her shoulders. Finally, she speaks. “Is it not true that the sorceress continues the old ways in Defalk? She has announced that the new heir to Synfal will be young Lord Jimbob. She has not allowed any of the consorts to dead lords to become full noble holders in their own rights, but only administrators for male heirs.” The tall and thin woman in sea-blue tunic and trousers smiles coldly across the floor of the Exchange. “This lady Anna may be a woman, but she has done little or nothing for women.”

  “That may be, although I would suspect you have not stated all that has occurred. Still,” muses the Matriarch theatrically, as she steps from the trading floor to the platform, “what has the sorceress to do with the cost of transactions involving Defalk?”

  “It raises their costs,” answers Abslim. “Because you are the Matriarch, we have acceded to your request to allow normal credit to the lords of southern Defalk. Now we find that they are in revolt against the very regent who has guaranteed that such loans would be repaid.”

  “She never guaranteed more than repayment of past debts,” answers the round-faced Matriarch quietly, yet her voice carries, and the whispers die. “She has repaid half of a debt she did not incur. How does that make her responsible for guaranteeing the debts of those who rise against her?”

  “She is the Regent of Defalk.”

  “There is no authority in Ebra, but you have no surcharge there,” points out the Matriarch. “You have oft said that the price itself knows the problems of trade. Why have you changed that?”

  There is no answer.

  “Abslim, what do you desire?”

  “I desire that the Matriarch use her power and the harmonies to improve the lot of women throughout Defalk, not to impose her wishes through the Exchange.”

  “You are imposing your wishes through the Exchange. Banning further loans to Defalk reflected your wishes. Or those of the South Women.” The Matriarch smiles.

  “The marketplace is always right,” says Abslim.

  The Matriarch shakes her head. “The prices set by the market are right, in the end, but that does not mean you or the traders are right.” A gentle smile follows. “You know that, and so do the harmonies.” She turns. “I have said what I will say.”

  The whispers on the trading floor remain low until the round-faced Matriarch has climbed the stairs and vanished.

  Abslim’s face remains as cold as the limestone columns, long after trading resumes.

  44

  The dusty road wound around yet another orchard-covered hill, with a narrow strip of bean fields separating road and orchard. The fields appeared to have been recently tended, but nothing moved in the still morning air, warm already, with the sun barely above the trees and low hills.

  The road was empty as well. It had been all the way from Cheor, expect for an occasional dog, one or two farm carts that vanished upon seeing the riders, and a handful of older women in the fields, most of whom slipped out of sight behind trees or hedgerows once the riders appeared.

  Anna sipped the last drops from her second water bottle, then replaced it in the holder. She readjusted the uncomfortable breastplate, hoping she wouldn’t need it, but knowing that she should get used to wearing it. Under the light armor that rested too heavily on her, the scar from the crossbow bolt still itched, and the itching was worse because the plate made her sweat more. The slash on her arm itched as well.

  “Glories of warfare, Liedwahr style,” she murmured, half wondering, far from the first time, how a singer who’d hated fantasy had ended up in a world with two small moons, music magic, and medieval warfare. “God, or the harmonies, have a nasty sense of humor.”

  “Pardon, Lady Anna?” asked Jecks.

  “Nothing, Lord Jecks. I was just muttering to myself.” As you find you’re doing more and more.

  Jecks nodded, but did not pursue the conversation.

  Riding beside Jecks, Hanfor studied his map, and occasionally spoke to the riders who shuttled messages to and from the scouts.

  The sorceress slowed Farinelli as they neared a brick marker—a roadstone that read, “Osuyl—2 d.” She peered eastward, but could see nothing except those scouts who rode almost a dek ahead and the fields which slanted gradually upward and ended in a rise about a dek away. Osuyl had to be beyond the low hill.

  When the column halted, so did some of the scouts, while a single rider eased over the rise and out of sight along the road toward Osuyl.

  “How far to Suhl?” asked Jecks.

  “Four deks beyond Osuyl, from what we figured, and more to the south,” said Hanfor.

  “Time for the mirror,” Anna said. The intelligence would be valuable, and she wanted time to eat and recover after using it. She reined up and waited until she was sure Hanfor had signaled Alvar and gotten the armsmen to halt in reasonable order.

  Then she dismounted and extracted the mirror from its padded leather case atop her saddlebags. Next came the lutar.

  A good thing you don’t travel heavy, she reflected as she tuned the instrument.

  Finally, she glanced at Jecks, then Hanfor. “Ready?”

  They both nodded, Jecks first.

  Her fingers touched the strings, and she began the spellsong.

  “Those in Suhl so strong,

  those who’d do me wrong . . .”

  The image in the mirror on the roadside grass was clear. On the mound she had discovered weeks earlier was a huge crossbow, unattended and attached to a log frame set into the ground. Below the vacant summit in the meadow between the keep and the mound were more than a score of tents. Several strings of mounts were lined up, as though on some form of tieline, to the north of the tents.

  Anna frowned. Weren’t they keeping tabs on her? Sargol’s forces seemed almost relaxed. What did that mean? She glanced at Hanfor and Jecks. Jecks smiled faintly, but did not speak.

  “They have something else planned, I would say, Lady Anna,” Hanfor suggested.

  Anna released the spell, then set down the lutar and took a long swallow of water from one of the remaining bottles.

  “They do not have many armsmen on guard,” mused Hanfor. “I do not like that.”

  Neither did Anna, even if it happened to be early in the day. Setting aside the water bottle, she tried the second spell, ignoring the line of hot and dusty armsmen who lined the road, waiting on equally hot and dusty mounts under a sun getting hotter each moment.

  “Danger from Suhl, danger near,

  show me that danger bright and clear . . .”

  The next image in the glass was that of fields and a road similar to the one that stretched before them to Osuyl. Orchards crowned the low hills to either side of the road. Anna squinted, trying to discover . . . something.

  “There,” murmured Jecks. “The soil is different.”

  Anna followed his finger, as did Hanfor.

  �
��Pits . . . stakes.”

  “Blinds there, I’d wager. Archers.” Jecks shook his head. “Signs of mounts there.”

  “Is it just my imagination,” Anna asked, “or are there traps all along the direct route to Suhl?”

  “That is what your glass shows,” Hanfor pointed out. “They will have scouts on all the main roads.”

  “Main roads?” Anna had already noted the lack of the wider roads throughout Defalk. “Is there another one?”

  “There is but one,” conceded Hanfor. “They will have scouts on the larger lanes as well.”

  With his patient tone, Anna felt small. “I’m sorry. I’m feeling bitchy.” Who wouldn’t riding for days after a lord who’s tried to kill you and who’s probably got ambushes everywhere?

  A quick frown passed across Jecks’ face, and Hanfor showed no expression at all, both indications that regents weren’t supposed to admit bitchiness in public.

  Feeling the heat from the glass, and seeing the grass next to the frame begin to brown, Anna released the spell, then blotted her forehead, and searched for the water bottle.

  After drinking, Anna decided to try again.

  “Show me now and show me clear

  the way to avoid this danger near . . .

  Like a vision, like a map or plot . . .”

  The mirror remained blank. Anna frowned. Jecks and Hanfor exchanged glances.

  The mirror couldn’t advise? It could only display. What about showing a lane without armsmen? Would it do that?

  “Let’s try something else.” Anna tried to get the words in her mind. Of course, there’s no simple way to do it.

  She could sense the impatience of the riders waiting in the hot sun, yet she had to find a way to keep them out of an ambush.

  “Show me now and show me clear

  a lane to Suhl without armsmen near.

  Like a vision, like a map or plot . . .”

  This time the glass showed an image—of a lane leading from a group of buildings—Osuyl?—down a lane that branched to the north of the main clay road. The lane swung around one hill and then swung south uphill through a few small hovels and then down another lane and through an older and neglected orchard. Beyond the orchard was an open field just to the northeast of the mound containing the enchanted crossbow.

  “There are some hovels along this route, but there are no signs of armsmen,” noted Jecks. “Not now.”

  “They will find us soon enough.” Hanfor had out the greasemarker and was sketching the route rapidly on his map.

  Anna broke the spell, and the image faded. She walked back to Farinelli. She was faintly light-headed, and that bothered her. Three biscuits and several chunks of cheese later, she looked at Jecks and Hanfor. “If we find that lane, can we get to the field and get set up before they charge us?” she asked Jecks and Hanfor.

  “We will find it,” averred Hanfor. “It is not far ahead.” He turned his mount to the armsman beside him. “Tell the scouts to look for a lane to the left of the road. It will be shortly past the hill crest. We will take that if they find no signs of mounted armsmen.”

  “A lane to the left past the hill crest. Yes, ser.” The armsman spurred his mount into an easy canter.

  Hanfor shook his head. “I hope your glass is true, and none lurk in the orchards beside the lane.”

  “So do I,” Anna said. “It’s been right so far. How much time will we have?”

  “They will not charge at first,” said Jecks. “They will want you to attack. Even from the field below that orchard you will be too far from that infernal device. If they do charge, it will take a half glass for them to assemble.”

  Anna wasn’t so sure that Lord Sargol would be that slow, and it wasn’t something she intended to leave to chance. She nodded to the two and walked back past her personal guards until she reached Liende and the players.

  “Lady Anna.”

  “We’re getting close. I’d guess about a glass. We may not have much time to prepare.” Anna shrugged. “Jecks thinks we will. I don’t know. I’d like to start with the long flame spell.”

  “The long flame spell—the one against their weapons?” Liende leaned forward in her saddle, then had to brush a lock of white hair back off her forehead.

  Anna nodded, wondering if Liende were graying so quickly because of the magic, if all players and sorcerers—except her—died young in Liedwahr. She certainly hadn’t run across any old sorcerers. She wanted to laugh. Liedwahr was a violent and primitive place, and she hadn’t run across many old people of any occupation, except for a handful of lords and ladies.

  “What will be the second spell?” asked the head player.

  “The first arrow song . . . I think.” Anna didn’t shrug, though she wanted to. How would matters go after the first spell? She had no idea.

  “Players!” Liende’s voice rose over the murmurs of the armsmen.

  “Green company!” called Hanfor.

  “Purple company!”

  “Gray company!”

  Anna coughed as she walked back to Farinelli and remounted in the dust that sifted around her as the light wind shifted. Once in the saddle, she groped for the third water bottle. Four bottles—they probably wouldn’t be enough, and Jecks thought the weather was pleasant!

  After riding a hundred yards, she was out of the worst of the dust and had managed to clear her throat. Dusty horseback travel didn’t always agree with spellsinging, but at times not much did.

  With scouts moving over the rise and out of sight, they rode slowly eastward along the road that sloped gently upward. The tops of trees with pale green leaves appeared to the south, their trunks hidden by the crest of the hill that held another bean field.

  “The first lane should be about five hundred yards ahead,” suggested Hanfor, “on the left just over the rise and beyond the orchard.”

  Anna peered from the saddle, absently patting Farinelli.

  Hanfor was right. A narrow lane, barely wide enough for two mounts, ran through the bean fields across from the orchard. Two of the scouts waited. The others had started down the lane, distant dark blots between the fields and scattered hedgerows.

  “To the left. Down the lane. Take the shoulders. Four abreast!” ordered the arms commander. As the orders were repeated by Alvar and the subofficers, he leaned toward Anna. “We don’t want to be too strung out.” He shrugged. “Some of the fields may suffer.”

  “Better the fields than us,” Jecks concurred.

  Anna merely nodded, her eyes on the dusty lane, her thoughts on the spells she would have to use, and the notes that held them.

  For another dek or more, they followed the lane over and around the low hills, moving more and more southward. Though she strained, Anna could see nothing except fields, the few scattered orchards, the lane itself, and dust.

  “That looks like the next turning point,” Anna said, pointing down the lane past the end of the fields. Four hovels or small houses stood at varying distances from where the two lanes crossed. Around the houses were gardens, and pens made of rough-trimmed branches. The pens were empty.

  A scout waited at the crossroads; the others had taken each of the roads.

  “We should head due south again at that crossroads,” said Hanfor, glancing from his rough map, then nodding at the messenger riding beside him.

  “Tell them to scout the south road, ser?”

  Hanfor nodded.

  “Yes, ser.” The messenger rode ahead of the column toward the tiny hamlet and the single waiting scout.

  “Over the next rise is an orchard,” Anna recalled, “and then a higher field that overlooks that mound.”

  “Ready arms,” ordered Hanfor, and Alvar echoed him. The muted orders passed back along the column.

  “No one around,” said Jecks as they neared the crossroads and the small houses.

  Anna could feel and see that.

  The thatched roof on the first house on the left sagged so much that one side held a small pool of rain
water. A dusty black dog scurried down the side lane, to the north, as if the canine knew the riders were headed south. The rear door to the cottage swung in the hot breeze. On the woodpile by the door, in the narrow band of shade cast by the overhanging eaves, crouched a black and white cat.

  “Boots in the dust,” said Hanfor. “Less than a glass old. Work boots. No mounts.”

  “They were warned,” said Jecks.

  Anna didn’t mind the people being warned. She did mind the stories that had caused people to flee their homes in fright, even terror.

  At the small crossroads, if where two lanes intersected were indeed a crossroads, the column turned south.

  Anna stood in the saddle and turned. “Liende . . . it won’t be that long. Tell the players to get ready. We won’t have much time when we get to where we can see Suhl.”

  “Yes, Lady Anna,” said the head player, nodding her head as she did before turning to those who rode behind her. “Make ready. The long flame song will be the first spell.”

  Once the column passed the houses, Fhurgen eased his mount up behind and closer to Anna. “Lady Anna?” The black-bearded armsman’s voice rose above the clamor. “Should we not lead?”

  Anna supposed—no, she knew—that at least some of her guards should precede her. “A few, Fhurgen, but I have to be able to see.”

  “Then I will lead, and Rickel will flank you.” Fhurgen was counting on Jecks to cover her right. The guard swung his mount around and quicktrotted to the fore.

  The strawberry-blond and broad-shouldered Rickel eased his sorrel up beside Anna. Jecks slipped his blade from its scabbard, examining it as they rode southward.

  “Lord Jecks?” asked Anna.

  Jecks nodded.

  “Is there any reason why some keeps have their own names, and some have the name of the town?”

  The white-haired lord cocked his head for a moment, then smiled ruefully. “I do not know . . . save that Elheld was a keep long after Elhi was a town.”

  “So . . . you think that the older holdings have the town name because they grew together?”