"Deflection spells will drain a man," Trollanus whispered. "If it is not too much weight, might I ride in your wagon for a few miles, Master Tycho?"
"Aye." They had stopped, and Tycho dropped the rear panel, allowing the mage to heave himself up into the bed.
The guards returned, each carrying a head. Tycho counted ten before the first prisoner appeared, tied well and jabbering about flashes of light and the gods striking men and cursed arrows. That must be what the mage had meant, Tycho realized. He'd used spells to deflect the arrows, making them harmless. But wait, he'd said that he worked with water, cleaning it, and Tycho had seen him speeding up dirt as it settled from muddy water. Tycho glanced into the wagon. Trollanus slept, or appeared to. Did he have a second specialty? How had he seen the arrows to deflect them, especially the first one? And why had the guards already had their bows strung?
"We leave the bodies to the beasts and birds, for Yoorst gives all their food, and the Scavenger has like claim," the Great Northern Emperor declared. "The others will see justice with nightfall. Resume the journey." He returned to his wagon, and guards tethered the surviving bandits to various wagons, half-dragging them along. One looked like a woman, or at least dressed like a woman. The would-be robbers glared but did not speak—or could not. Tycho shivered. In some ways, that magic scared him more than the ground opening under the men of Liambruu did.
"Heh. Sight mages saw and watched them, and then his Majesty cast a deflection spell over us," a teamster said later, as they slowed during the approach to the pfalz. "Too bad he didn't turn the arrows into ash on the string. That would have been a nasty surprise."
"So would being surrounded by burning trees," Tycho pointed out.
The stocky man blinked, glanced at the robber, and wrinkled his nose. "Good point, Master Tycho. Mage fire and wood fire are not so different as all that."
The pfalz answered a question Tycho had entertained for some years. He'd seen the small stone towers and buildings, but no one had given him a good reason for them, other than storage of in-kind taxes. Now, as the Progress approached the building, he realized that it was not as small as it seemed from the road. At least twenty or thirty people could shelter in the main structure, perhaps more. "Ah, good, it is ready," Trollanus said, sitting up at last and blinking. Tycho dropped the end of the wagon and the mage climbed down, staggered, and caught himself. "A pfalz keeps us from draining the small villages and estates dry, and we are not beholden to any man for shelter and food."
The buildings must be ancient! Once he settled the birds, Tycho ventured to look at the outside of the tower. The stones fitted so smoothly that he could not wiggle a small knife-blade between them. He saw no mortar, and when he stroked the sun-warmed surface, it reminded him of good cloth, but harder. He marveled at the work, and wondered how much a mage or master stone-mason would demand for such work now. Far more than he cared to imagine, given the cost of paving cobbles to replace some on the market square in Rhonari. If this was what mages had done at the end of the Great Cold, they must have been powerful indeed. Or they had craftsmen skilled far beyond modern men, and coin to spare.
"Evening meal will be late. No purity mages can work, too tired, so we are boiling all the water to drive out the miasmas and corruption before we cook," one of the women informed everyone. "Wash-water as well. Come back when we call you."
Why? Tycho turned the question over and over as he sorted things in his wagon, and hung his bedding over the sides to air a little more. It had gotten dew-damp, and needed sun to keep from growing vermin. He wanted a wash, too.
Borghind walked past, and gestured for the men and women to gather so they could hear him. "We are staying two days here, to wash and rest the beasts and mages. There will be wash water tomorrow for those who want it. We also curry the beasts tomorrow. Master Tycho, what do yours need?"
"To roll in the road dust. A dust-pit would be better, sir, but road dust will suffice." He'd spotted a good place just up the road from the pfalz.
"Huh. Very well. Take however many men as you need with you. The rest of you, you know your duty roster for rest days. Priests will be here at sunrise for worship. Any questions?" Mutters and murmurs of "no, sir" rose into the still evening air. "Good."
Tycho opted not to wait. He broached his supplies and got way-bread with meat and dried herbs, then found the drinking water and poured some for himself. He sat in the end of the wagon, watched the stars above and fires around him, and chewed and drank. He'd filled an extra water skin at the last water stop and now he drained that while the other cooled. The mages had to rest. Everyone else would rest. Trollanus had collapsed just after the Great Northern Emperor cast the deflection spells. Trollanus was a water-cleaner. And he'd also collapsed when the emperor destroyed the gate.
The merchant almost choked. The Great Northern Emperor used mages, used their power to add to his own! That had to be what was happening, the way wood-merchants described shelf-mushrooms and tree-hair sapping the strength of the wood and killing trees. The emperor had his own power, as Tycho had seen more than once, but great works required more power than even he had. Somehow he could use other people's magic. The more Tycho thought about it, the more questions it answered. Ewoud had reported overhearing women in the market complaining that preservation spells turned out weak, and light spells did not last as long as usual. That came after the emperor had moved into the city. So if the emperor somehow absorbed magic the way cloth and leather took dye, pulling it out of other mages, that would explain the problem. And why Trollanus kept falling ill when the emperor worked a great spell, and why the other mages likely were drained as well.
Tycho shivered. For once he gave great thanks that he'd been born under three of Donwah's signs, too wet-natured and water-touched to have magic of his own or even use magic. What had it been like back in the days of great magics following the Great Cold? Did greater mages force lesser magic workers into their service? If they had, it certainly explained the mage-guilds' vehement opposition to demands that magic be made a leb-good.
Although he was bone-tired, sleep eluded Tycho until the second watch that night.
4
Rest and News
The next morning, Tycho rolled out of his blankets with a wince and grimace. His shoulder refused to cooperate, his back warned that he'd slept on a rock, and his hips insisted on informing him of his age and of the miles he'd walked in those years. Of all the aches, the one in his shoulder irritated him the most. He needed far too long gently moving the arm farther and farther, stretching the muscles and easing the jammed joint. If someone attacked him in the dawn, he'd have to fight left-handed. Yes, Tycho reminded himself once the arm and shoulder began cooperating and the ache eased to annoying from damned painful—but you are alive. He could have been crippled young on-board ship, or have lost the arm, or died as many others did. His body felt less grateful for Maarsrodi's mercies than Tycho did.
No priest of Maarsdam visited the Progress, so Tycho made an offering to Donwah and Yoorst and received blessings from their priests. Then he ate a little, had tea, and went to collect the first pair of great-haulers. "Show us what to do, Master Tycho, and we'll bring the others," one of the younger men at the corral said. Tycho considered the offer. It would not hurt to have others who could at least hold the birds for him, and taking them all at once would solve several difficulties.
"Very well. Hold this." Tycho handed him the scraping tool he'd borrowed from one of the camp-cutters. "I will halter and fetch the lead female. Copy what I do." Tycho had brought all the halters and ropes for the birds. "Match the color of halter to the band on the bird's ankle. They are different sizes."
Understanding appeared in several of the young men's eyes. "So that's what those are for!" Borghind had paused to listen. "I'd wondered."
"Yes, sir, and for ground tethers and stakes if needed." He'd brought a few of those as well, but the birds hated being ground-tethered. "So, approach the great-haulers from the side,
and hold the halter in your right hand. Keep your left hand in sight. The birds do not trust people without things in their hands, so the rope is in the left. When you need to buckle the halter, slide the rope up your shoulder, like so," Tycho shifted his arm and the loops of rope moved out of the way. "After you fasten the halter, hook the rope to the leather and metal loop on the harness. Never, ever remove that loop. We'll not get the birds back if you do that, because it will chafe their faces and necks and they will refuse to be haltered."
He had his doubts if the northmen believed him, but they nodded. "So. Watch." Now, if only the lead female would cooperate without making a fool of him. The birds and their god delighted in tripping, kicking, or defecating on men who felt too comfortable. Tycho whistled and clicked his tongue twice as he walked up to the lead female. She got to her feet, tipping her head up, beak high, making it impossible for him to put the halter on. "Saaa, now, you want a dust or no?" He asked, keeping his voice low and smooth. She shook and lowered her head. She didn't understand the words, but knew the tone. He slid the halter onto her head, buckled it, then undid the fastener on the loop, put the rope's own loop over the leather tongue, then fastened things again, checking to make certain that the smooth part of the leather rested against the bird's head. Normally he'd also put the pull-collar and breast-strap on to her, but since they were keeping the birds as a flock, she should behave. Perhaps. If Yoorst had mercy and Radmar was distracted.
As he'd expected, one of the young geldings decided that he would not cooperate, and he tossed his head back and forth, eluding the would-be herder. "Here, hold her," Tycho ordered, handing an older teamster the lead bird's rope. Tycho held his hands where the gelding could see them and walked toward the bird with smooth steps, whistling a trill as he did. The bird stopped for a moment and tipped his head to the side, puzzled. "Hela, bird, easy. Do you want a dust or no?" The gelding waved his head again, then allowed the young stranger to halter him. But he kept fluttering his wings, and his eye dilated. "Let go of the rope and step back, slowly," Tycho ordered. "Keep your hands—"
"Trwsssss!" The great-hauler lashed out, kicking hard. The young man barely jumped clear, and Tycho sprang forward, grabbing the rope and hauling down as hard as he could. The bird kicked again, backwards, and Tycho clouted him hard on the neck. "Tweesss!" The bird kicked a third time and got a harder thump in a very tender place. The gelding subsided.
"I'll take this one. He's gotten his temper up, and you don't know how to read his body yet." As Tycho led the gelding forward so he could walk beside the lead female, the gelding kicked again. This time he hit the lead female. She kicked back even harder, and the gelding fell over. Then she hissed at him. He cowered away. Tycho coaxed him into standing, and the fussing and acting out ceased. "That's why you always have an older female as your lead, be it a breeding flock or a team," Tycho informed the watchers after he reclaimed the scraping tool. "So, to the road, please."
The procession of seven large birds attracted some attention, and finally the emperor himself joined them. Tycho bowed, then returned to watching the birds. The emperor was a man. The birds could kill, and they needed his full attention and care if they were to stay healthy. Tycho, the young gelding, and the lead female went first, followed by the others in pairs, with an older gelding in the rear. They walked almost half a mile before they found the place Tycho had seen the day before. "Perfect. Hold this, please." He passed the rope to one of the watchers.
First, Tycho removed any rocks. Then he loosened the dirt in the low spot with the tool, breaking up any clods or hard chunks. "Thank you." He took the lead bird's rope, directed her to the dusty spot, and let go. She ducked her head, then tossed the rope up so it draped over her shoulders, and began scratching and then rolling in the dust. Once she stood and fanned her wings, Tycho caught the rope, returned her to the handler, and tidied the low spot, then brought the young gelding over. They repeated the process for each bird. As the great-haulers finished dusting, Tycho directed their handlers to take them to the brush by the road. The birds nibbled a little at the plants, then concentrated on grooming themselves.
"Master Tycho, that is most interesting," the Great Northern Emperor said at last. He stood well clear of the dust and commotion, arms folded, an amused and intrigued expression on his square features. "But what of our road?"
Tycho replied by scraping all the rocks and loose material from the road into the low area, then packing it down. "The hole is filled, Most Imperial Majesty. The dust chokes the bird-lice and takes away any excess oil from their skin as they clean and shake, Most Imperial Majesty." This, Tycho could talk about. He knew nothing of the ways of government or magic, but great-haulers? Those he knew, and trade.
The emperor smiled. "All are wise in their own fields. Thank you, Master Tycho. We have learned a great deal." The emperor stalked away with his guards, reminding Tycho of the enormous cat that shadowed the ruler. Except Lord Hugan had decided to remain in camp, or so it appeared. That suited Tycho just fine. Perhaps the birds would grow accustomed to Hugan before they returned to Rhonari, but Tycho preferred to have the birds hitched to a wagon when the cat appeared, so they could not run away as far.
"Master Tycho, why do you use birds? Our stories of the south do not mention these great-haulers," one of the northmen asked. He tipped his head toward the young female beside him. She glanced down at his cap, appeared to consider nibbling it, then caught Tycho's eye. He shook his head, and the bird turned to watch the woods, as if she had never been interested in aught else.
"The birds... We have used them for at least two hundred years, breeding them to be larger and more docile." Tycho chuckled a little at the reaction to the last two words. "Some of the farmers keep the old-breed birds to use if we ever have another bird-plague strike. The great-haulers come from the south, below Moahnebrig. They roam wild, and every few years men catch some, then breed them into the tame flocks again to keep the blood fresh. Southern birds are smaller and faster, but cannot pull as much."
"Why not cattle, Master Tycho? Surely there are southern ovstrala?" The guard asked a popular question, judging by the nods and interested faces.
"Because there were not cattle. Cattle only returned to the south less than two hundred years ago. According to the priests of Yoorst of the Beasts, a great murrain struck within the century after the ice retreated, killing most of the cattle, many of the schaef, and all of something called pfeards. Schaef do not grow big enough to pull things, at least not then and not this far west. The surviving cattle could not be spared for wagon beasts, so our fathers' fathers' tamed some of the birds and bred them for strength, stamina, and docility. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes they ate a large amount of poultry on short notice." He winked at the guard. "I'm sure your ovstrala breeders and herders sometimes have meat out of season, to set an example and warning to the other beasts."
Laughter greeted his words, and the men chuckled, many nodding emphatically. "Aye. There's one dark grey doe what will be welcome in the pot some night, and all will rejoice to eat," a second guard called, generating a chorus of agreement. The men talked about bad beasts and good for the rest of the return to camp, and Tycho decided that for all great-haulers and ovstrala were different, Yoorst had given them similar tempers and ways of abusing their handlers. The men led the birds back to the corral, and Tycho demonstrated how to remove the halters. The birds cooperated far better, and the men left them in a flock, shaking and preening, and discussing life among themselves. Off to the side, a number of teamsters and servants combed and brushed ovstrala, leaving mounds of hair scattered around their work area.
Task completed, Tycho returned to the wagon. First he cleaned the halters and ropes, inspecting every bit of leather and metal for wear and stretching. Then he found his clean smallclothes and joined the line of men waiting to wash. The line moved quickly, and the warm water felt good as he wiped off road dust and grime, then rinsed his hair and beard. Next Tycho took his smalls and two shirts to
the wash-women. They added them to the starting pot. "Yer style be too different for us to lose, Mahster Tycho," the stirring woman stated. Her arms and shoulders would make an iron-smith proud, and Tycho renewed his long-standing decision never to cross or anger a woman with a laundry-bat in her hand. He'd seen someone anger the city wash-women exactly once. That had been sufficient lesson for every other man in Rhonari, and they treated the wash-women with the respect they accorded their wives, at least when the women were working. No one small or slender worked with laundry bats or wringers for very long. His father-in-law swore he knew of a woman who retired from the laundry trade and became a rowing-ferry operator because the work was easier.
Tasks done, Tycho considered writing some letters. Instead he filled both water skins and inspected the pfalz. The tower stood thirty feet high or so, and in the better light he saw windows well up the height of the wall, set at least three feet into the stones. If the stones were that thick so far up, the base must be all stone, Tycho knew. So the tower could be defended with ease, so long as they had water and food. That matched the bits of story he'd read and heard about the chaos as the ice retreated, and the creation of the Northern Empire.
Shhhhwip, shhhwip. Tycho continued around the tower and discovered men scything tall grass. They dressed as southerners, and Tycho wondered if they were locals paying taxes through service. Two boys and a girl gathered the grass and carried it toward the ovstralas' pen. The men swung their blades steadily, easily, moving with a smooth and constant rhythm through the lush grass. Tycho watched them for a while, admiring their skill. He knew just enough about farming to know how hard it was to do properly. The scythe had to fit the man, and mowing grass for hay was an art. No thank you. Many craftsmen and nobles assumed that farmers didn't have enough knowledge or wisdom to do anything else. Tycho had been cured of that idea after his father had sent him out to help a steward judge cattle for their hides one autumn, just as harvest started. Young Tycho had never whined about loading barrels and hide-bales ever again. Hides didn't bite, kick, or stomp on a man, and they didn't drop shit all over everything, either. Or die out of spite, as one old farmer had averred, studying the remains of three schaef, bloated and floating in a pond. " 'T bastages fouled t' pond 't get even fer rough shearing, Yoorst 'an Scavenger witness for me!"
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