Water pattered onto his hat, waxed linen coat, and breeches as the great-hauler shook her wings. "Thank you, bird," Tycho sighed.
"Could be worse. Ever been around yon beasts when they decide to shake rain or snow off?" Trollanus inquired, a little grin on what Tycho could see in the depths of the waxed hood.
"Worse than dogs?"
"How large of a dog? They start shaking, front end goes one way, hind end goes 'tother, and water and snow go everywhere."
The courier nodded emphatically, sending water flying from his hat. "Aye. My gran'father swears the great snowstorms are just Sneelah's own team shaking off snow."
"Naw, her cats shedding," one of the teamsters called.
Trollanus snorted. "T'were her cats, t'would never melt. My sister's a priestess of the Scavenger and she found cat fur on the robes of the late Son. He'd not been near a cat in decades, she swore by the gods themselves."
The men around Tycho chuckled in agreement. Since the cats around Tycho's wares-house stayed outside the walls, he'd never really worried about their fur. And he didn't hunt or need a ratter, so no dog lived inside the walls. Truth be told, he'd seen a mad dog once as a boy, and never cared to be around the beasts after that. It had bitten a beggar child, and he'd overheard his parents talking later about how the boy died in agony, as mad as the dog, thrashing and crying for water yet unable to swallow. Other men could keep dogs, Tycho preferred them outside his household.
"At least the rain is not cold yet." That came from the teamster on the outside row.
Tycho nodded his agreement. The sky ahead of them seemed a touch lighter, but that could be a lull, or fog, or hail. Probably fog. Tycho grumbled but only to himself. Men didn't whine.
The sun shone—weakly—through thin clouds the next morning. The rain had ended for the moment, but the mud remained mud. "Trwsssss," the birds complained as Tycho hitched four of the great-haulers to his wagon.
"Which is why you have a friend today," Tycho told the young gelding. The male had less sense than most young birds, and if things did not markedly improve, he'd be sold as soon as Tycho returned north or he found a buyer willing to pay premium for far-northern birds. The gelding fussed again and the older male beside him snapped back. Or he might become stew and marrow soup and feather-filling and fans if he continued. The more Tycho considered it, the better stew sounded. The gelding'd be tough but flavorful.
"A vlaat for your thoughts, Master Tycho?" Borghind, the chief teamster inquired as he strode past.
"Whether to sell yon gelding if he keeps acting up, or just stew him, sir."
The big northman studied the bird in question. "I'd vote for sale, unless great-haulers fresh from the road taste far better than ovstrala fresh from the road." he continued on, leaving Tycho to wonder just how bad a tired ovstrala tasted, and why.
The sun steamed the land. Summer had followed the rains, or so it seemed, and Tycho felt a little sorry for the northerners. They drooped, slogging through the mud, men and beasts alike plodding forward. Tycho kept his head up, looking around, listening to the birds and the sound of the wind in the trees. They'd passed most of the farms and now moved through woodlots, each marked with the name of the owner or whoever claimed lease and wood right. Tycho recognized some of the town marks. Just after they began moving again following the noon rest, a charcoaler trudged past. The wizened man coughed and talked to himself, almost invisible under his three baskets of charcoal. He smelled of woodsmoke and char, and might have been a piece of half-scorched wood himself, as grey and soot-streaked as he was.
There must be an iron smith nearby, then. No white-smiths worked away from cities, and no mines dug silver or lead from the ground in this area to need so much charcoal. Every once in a great while Tycho had considered buying woodland as an investment. The prospect of paying taxes on something he could not sell quickly, and that had to be guarded and tended to keep the coppices and stools bearing properly, and the neighbors from stealing every stick they could cut loose... No, thank you. He and his family had more than sufficient to keep themselves as well as an accounts keeper and a law-reader employed and out of mischief, if anything could keep his youngest son Bastiaan out of mischief. Although he wasn't as bad as Wiebe had been. A woodlot would be nice, but not as an investment.
That night Borghind announced that they would rest for two days at the pfalz. "Yes, there's a town up the road, but they had a fire this past winter, and their inn needs rebuilt." Tycho decided to walk to town and see what he could see of local prices. A bathhouse would also be nice.
Before dawn he pulled on his cleaner road-clothes and walked the two miles or so to the town. A path ran from the pfalz to the town gate, allowing him to avoid the worst of the mud on the road. Birds chirped, and he heard someone already cutting wood. Probably coppicing, although it might be a little early, or late, depending on the tree. That much he knew, but which trees could be trimmed in winter compared to those that did best when the sap flowed had never stuck in his memory. Some wood burned fast, some slowly, and some wise men never used for cooking, or so his wife had informed him at length one day when a cook's helper had put the wrong wood into the fire. The evening meal had tasted less-than-good.
The gate had opened just before Tycho reached it, and he followed a farm wagon into the wall. "Your business, stranger?" The guard sounded curious but not unfriendly.
"A travelling merchant. My caravan stopped two miles up the road to rest the beasts, and I came to see if ye had a bathhouse." He showed the guard the end of his staff and his seal.
The man sketched Tycho's seal into the book and nodded. "We do, and it opens with the market. Inn kitchen's not repaired yet but you can get a meal and beer at the Tangled Brush or Great Tree. Gate closes at dark, and no trading without temple tax seal. Any blade longer than a using knife is to be tied unless you post peace bond."
"Thank you, and good to know." Tycho gestured his agreement. The rules were no different than in any other town.
Tycho emerged from the bath and hair trim cleaner and far happier. He'd paid a little extra and he'd also gotten his smalls cleaned, boots cleaned, and other things brushed and wiped of the worst of the dirt. He tipped the matron on duty an extra quarter vlaat in thanks. He missed having access to the bathing rooms in the merchants' confraternity houses. After looking at the goods in the market, he found the Tangled Brush. The dense clump of thorn-bush painted on the wall and the smell of meat coming from the open door marked the location for any man with eyes and a nose, and Tycho had a slice of the day's meat, along with something green and crisp that tasted like spring. He felt better after eating, and enjoyed a good ale.
He considered one of the meat-pies being sold in the market, but the boy behind the counter looked worrisome. Not exactly dirty, or crooked, but Tycho's sense of preservation warned him off the pies. Instead he found a stall off by itself that smelled of fried and sweet. As he and others watched, the man dropped bits of batter into a small bot of boiling fat. As soon as they rose to the surface, he skimmed them out and onto a piece of board with grooves and holes cut and drilled into it. Once the plank filled, he tipped the golden strips into a basket, sprinkled them with something spicy-looking, and announced, "Tenth vlaat for a full cone, with honey." The cone hung on the side of the booth, and after less than a heartbeat's consideration, Tycho raised one finger and bought a full cone. The seller measured out the crispy bits, adding a little honey before he poured them into the scrap-paper cone, then more honey. Tycho found a bit of broken coin and the man weighed it. It came out a touch high, so the sweet-seller opened the cone, added a few more bits and another drizzle of honey.
Tycho left well satisfied by business, and by his hot, sweet, crispy treat. The spices warmed the bites but not excessively so. His wife would fuss, his physician would fume and scold him for unbalancing his nature, but after slogging through the cool and wet for four days and more, well, a little hot and dry inside would not kill him. He munched and studied the leat
her goods and hides for sale, frowned a little at the cost of candles and mage-lights, and thought yet again that some people had no proper sense of value when it came to fabric. He stopped beside the well and ate a little more, just observing the people coming and going.
"Be ye in line, sir?" a maidservant with a shoulder yoke and a large pottery pitcher asked.
"Nae, just stayin' clear of comin's and goin's."
"Thank ye." She bobbed a little curtsey and filled her buckets, as well as a pitcher.
"Loose beast!" Tycho and everyone else in the square turned toward the sound. A strange creature—a bit like a reddish-brown goat but twice as large, with a stiff tail—raced into view, two men chasing. A broken rope around the thing's neck told the story, and Tycho moved closer to the well. The metal cage around it stood taller than he was, and he could duck behind the cage. Several men and a stout woman joined the pursuit. A man from farther south grabbed a length of rope from behind his wares, uncoiled a bit, and spun it, then tossed a loop as the beast darted past. It skidded on the stones of the market square, and the man pulled hard. Two others joined him on the rope, while the original men each grabbed a leg and forced the thing to the ground. The man closest to the head drew his knife and slit the throat. Tycho approved of the clean work.
"Can't let it hurt man nor beast," the knifeman panted.
A tall, thin man no bigger around than Tycho's staff walked up, reminding Tycho of the northern wading birds that stalked the mudflats at low tide. "Well done. Yourn?"
"Yes, Mahster Italgo. Caught it near the fattening pen. Glad t' pen 'twas empty." The farmer got to one knee, then stood, as did his helper. The man with the rope loosened it, and the farmer removed the noose from the beast, careful to keep it free of blood. "Thank ye."
"You're welcome." The southerner spat as he coiled the rope once more. "Damn tired of these beasts. Nothin' good'll come of 'em, Yoorst be my witness."
As if the words summoned the god Himself, a brown and black-clad priest trotted up, panting. Tycho looked away to keep from smiling. The honored Father enjoyed the fruits of the earth, judging by his girth beneath the robe and his red nose. He wasted no time raising his hands and calling down a cleansing blessing on the creature. The body remained as it was, although... Tycho blinked, squinting a little. Had the stiff part of the tail shrunk in—grown shorter? He couldn't tell from where he stood.
And his fried bites grew cool. Tycho finished the last of the cone, wiped his fingers on the paper, then took a drink of cold water from the public dipper beside the well. He moistened his fingers, wiping them on the scrap before he returned the scrap to the seller. The man nodded and added the bit of paper to the fire under the kettle of hot fat with one hand as he skimmed out another batch.
Tycho was not surprised when the red-brown beast appeared in camp the next day, or rather the head, tail, and hide did. Had anyone eaten the rest? Probably. Those born to the Scavenger tended not to be picky about fresh meat, so long as a priest had blessed it.
"This makes little sense," the water mage opined as he, Tycho, a noble, and some others studied the remains. One of the guards had used a stick to prop the mouth open, showing the teeth. "What has both goat teeth and hunter teeth?"
"Besides man?" The noble raised one dark eyebrow. He was the only dark-haired, darker-skinned member of the Progress besides Tycho. "And the tail. These are not beasts as we think of them."
What did he mean? Tycho took his turn inspecting the strange remnants. Most of the teeth belonged to a grazing animal such as a goat or schaef, but four sharp dagger-teeth like a dog or the great northern bears suggested something different. The hide looked and felt like a raw goat hide. Any self-respecting goat—if such a thing existed—would have been proud of the hair. The tail looked goat-like, save for the spike. Tycho found another stick and lifted the tail, looking closely at the spike. It appeared solid, and nothing on the hide resembled the stinging sacks of bees or other insects.
"It is not magic made," Trollanus stated. He folded his arms and scowled at the hide. "Had there not been so many witnesses, I would believe that someone played a joke, albeit a very costly one. Doing that sort of assembly costs a great deal."
Tycho blinked. People combined parts of animals as a joke? It struck him as an appalling waste of hides, bones, and teeth. He suspected that the priests would have a great deal to say to someone who attempted to sell such a thing as a curiosity by claiming that it had been a real beast. He glanced sideways, thinking. However, given the prices some nobles paid for unusual hides and rare feathers and carvings... There had been that one master cooper who believed anything about people and creatures from east of Kehlibar vlee. Master Holzklaw, he'd accept a pieced together creature without blinking.
"The hide is that of any goat, the hair likewise. Although such a color is unusual. Not unheard of," Tycho warned, raising one hand to fend off questions, "just not common. Meat and dairy beasts tend to be white, light grey, or black and white. Some from the eastern Moahne Valley are reddish brown or brown. They are combed for fleece as well as giving milk, and people spin the wool in with schaef wool for soft and sturdy material." He wrinkled his nose a little. "The material must be washed several times before being cut and used for clothing, lest the wearer reveal the fabric's origin to all around if he is caught in the rain."
"Like ovstrala, then, sir." The guard coughed then spat to the side. "Your pardon. Some people do make cloth of ovstrala fleece, but it must be washed, aired, and washed at lest three times with a strong soap. Even then it benefits from sunlight and a good airing."
"Likely so." Tycho turned to leave, and then stepped to the side as Lord Hugan stalked toward the hide. The great cat stared at it, ears back, then spun around, scraped dirt, and hurried away. The men exchanged concerned looks, and the guard closest to the head backed a pace or two away. What did the cat know?
A different, thinner, priest of Yoorst visited the pfalz later that same day. He shook his head. "Such can be made by magic, but the inner nature of the beast cannot be changed, save through using magics long banned. My colleagues questioned the farmer who found the beast, and he says it ate greenery, brush and shrub-shoots, not flesh. As for the tail?" The round-faced priest shrugged. "The spike is but hair, although tight compressed, like some hat felts. It is not unnatural in the sense that it is something that cannot be given the fundamental nature of the beast. However, it should not be." The priest's emphasis relieved Tycho. He understood hair and hides and bones. That such hair, hide, and bone took on forms not fitting for the beast he did not understand, but he'd seen a few wonder-skulls and horns in hunters' collections, and knew them to come from otherwise normal creatures.
Despite the earlier rain, the weather improved. The air remained damp, as befitted their growing proximity to the coast, and cool, but not dangerously so. The crops in the fields seemed healthy. A few dams and young grazed in paddocks near the road, or within sight of it, as was fitting for the season. However, as the Progress moved closer and closer to the coast, and then turned south, something began to puzzle Tycho. He should see more schaef and cattle with young. The plants still appeared healthy, the trees and fruit trees bloomed or had setting fruit, but where were the lambs and calves? Where were the great-hauler chicks and fledglings? Those few he could find acted normal and strong. The grown animals grazed, worked, and dozed as befitted them. Just, too few new young birds and animals accompanied the females.
The Progress had halted for the noon rest and to water the ovstrala. Tycho wandered over to a fenced-in schaef byre and watched the beasts. Two lambs dozed beside their dams. One dam's sides bulged, as if she were ready to deliver at any moment and Tycho wondered if she felt as sore as she looked. Gerta had always grumbled during the last weeks of her pregnancies. Were schaef the same? No, they did not appear to have swollen hoofs the way women's legs swelled. Tycho counted a dozen ewes and two lambs, with possibly two soon to arrive. There should have been at least a dozen and a half lambs. "Tis
not right," he said aloud.
"No, it is not." He turned and began to drop to one knee, but the emperor stopped him with a wave. "Every town and manor south of the Gheel complains of infertile beasts." Mimir Borghindson nodded toward the schaef. "The dams show nothing wrong, no obvious ailment, but perhaps one in ten give birth when all should."
Could something be cursing the beasts? The gods did not. Yoorst punished men but not beasts, save in the way that all creatures suffered from flood or drought or illness or cold. Surely no magic could reach so far from Liambruu. Could it? Was this one of the supposed signs the king of Liambruu had mentioned? Tycho hesitated to ask. Such things lay far beyond his ken and he preferred them to stay there. However, if there were fewer beasts, there would be fewer surplus hides, and the prices would go up. He needed to be ready. Likewise draft beasts cost more after dearth.
"Mrow." The deep-voiced sound spooked the schaef, sending them racing to the far end of the enclosure, bleating and crying. The pregnant ewe staggered but managed to catch herself and keep moving. Both men glared down at the cat. Hugan sat on his haunches and acted as if he had no idea what might have caused the disturbance.
"That was unnecessary," the emperor stated in firm tones. Hugan washed one paw, then blinked green eyes.
"Such lambs as there are do appear to be healthy, most imperial Majesty," Tycho ventured.
The emperor nodded, then folded his arms, still watching the schaef. "There are magics that affect fertility, but only for those who work the spells. They drain the magic user far more deeply than ordinary castings such as clearing water or a normal healing, and are used only in times of direst need. It is better to gather magic workers and combine strengths, if time allows." He inclined his head toward the now-distant schaef. "Magic that affects the fertility of other creatures is prohibited, specific healings aside."
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