The younger male waited until Tycho had come close enough to hook a second lead-rope back to his head harness, then shook. The fine tan powder covered everything and tasted of grit and heat. "Bird! That was uncalled for," Tycho snarled. The gelding flapped and stood, beak high, proud of having gotten the best of the man. The female kicked a few small rocks toward the gelding but otherwise behaved herself. Tycho glanced down at his clothes and considered kicking a larger rock at the gelding. Instead he led both birds back to camp. Walking them also helped keep them in good condition, and he let them drink from a sweet spring on the way.
They took the long way around the Progress' encampment rather than through it, and Tycho boggled once more. At least eight hundred men and women, and five hundred eighty six ovstrala plus his seven birds, all fed and watered every day. Especially here, away from obvious fuel and fodder sources... Well, he knew where the food for the ovstrala came from, because he'd passed herders guiding the beasts to different patches of greenery. They'd stopped eating as much now that they were not moving daily. They'd also shed a great deal of their hair, something that had surprised the northerners and worried them. The beast-mages had watched the bovines closely and announced that nothing ailed them, but that Yoorst had granted them a blessing. At the time Tycho and some of the other teamsters had not called the mounds of loose hair "blessing." In fact, he'd learned some colorful descriptors from the northerners, one of which he might possibly keep for his own use, but only when neither women nor children could hear him. The ovstrala retained their long outer coats, but the shorter inner hair had dropped off in hanks or blew in clouds when the wind moved. Happily, the people along the Progress had been delighted to collect or buy whatever of the hair they could, and Tycho suspected a large number of ovstrala-wool garments would be woven and knitted that fall.
He smelled cooking and the harsh scent of burning sea coal. The bakers and water-boilers used the sea coal, and the other cooks kept the wood for their own use. A smith had also set up and made repairs as needed and sharpened things that had grown dull. A traveling city, and all fed and watered. Tycho nodded to one of the teamsters as the other man tended an ovstrala with a cracked hoof. The birds grumbled and hissed, and Tycho glanced around, but saw nothing. Probably just commenting on the world at large, the way some ovstrala grunted and muttered all day.
Water at least they had in plenty. Wood, grazing, food for men, that all had to come from miles away or from what they had brought. The harsh land around the Progress' encampment irritated Tycho much the way a rough seam in a shirt or trousers did. It chafed him, but he didn't really notice it until it stopped. He found the lack of trees and brush bothersome for some reason. Which made no sense, Tycho knew, because the land around the Five Cities lacked trees until you moved up into the rough hills that kept the river contained during the greatest of floods and storms. Reeds and farm-mounds and salt-meadows man found aplenty, and marshes that even grew some berry brush and other wet-footed plants, but proper trees preferred higher, drier ground. Tycho guided the birds into the corral, walked them sunwise around the few ovstrala resting there, and turned them loose to join the other great-haulers napping or sunning. He left them to their rest and coiled the ropes, slid them up over his shoulder, and began walking back to his wagon. He needed to clean his clothes—outer as well a smalls—and himself after that dusting. Birds.
As he handed his smalls to the washer woman in charge of such things, and his spare jacket, jerkin, and tunic to another woman, Tycho realized what felt so wrong. Dry land needed trees. Away from the sweet streams and two of the foul-water ponds, the ground was dry. Dry ground should have grass and trees on it unless it were bare rock. He'd seen a few of those places, and one or two far to the south where the sun had baked the dirt back into rock. Anything that grew there had his admiration and respect just for its determination. But dry ground grew trees. Here even the grass seemed sickly and tired. He should not be able to see so far on dry ground.
Tycho got hot tea from his assigned dining place, then joined the men's wash group. A small tent had been set aside for the purpose, and warm water provided. Each man brought soap on his own, and Tycho opted not to waste his. He'd find a true bath house when they returned to the settled lands. As he rinsed his hair and then the rest of him, he mused that settled was a good word and unsettled as well. This close to the Moahne and whatever else transpired to the south, the world seemed unsettled, churned and raw, unmoving for now but tense, if ground could be called tense. Tycho dried and dressed. A young man gathered the towels and trotted off with the laden basket as a second man in plain clothes brought fresh. Tycho had seen the laundry lines, garments and napkins and other things blowing in the sea breeze. Each laundress had charge of a certain length of line, and the women made certain to move things when they dried or when rain appeared. It struck Tycho is quite efficient and a good use of time and effort. The used water from the baths went to the laundresses along with clean water for rinsing. The used rinse water went to the teamsters to use if they needed to wash a beast or wagon. Otherwise it returned to the soil through the necessary pits, diluting any foulness and preventing miasmas from developing.
That still amazed Tycho after so many days and miles. He rarely smelled camp. Perhaps there was something to using group necessary pits. Or perhaps the water-purification mages and others worked magic to keep the miasmas away, or to speed the return of the ordure to the soil. He'd never heard of such, but that meant nothing, as Tycho had come to understand. Towns and cities carried scents, waste and tanning and smoke, river smells in some places and dust in others. Here he smelled smoke, but not as much as he should have. He also smelled animals when it rained, and food at meal times, but not the bitter foulness of corruption and gathered human waste that he should have. The northmen smelled like other men and women, dust and clean sweat from those working, a bit of beast from the teamsters and sweat, but not as much as he'd think from so long on the road. That alone should convince any man of the emperor's power.
Chores done, Tycho decided that a little staff work would not be amiss. The guards had assigned practice areas for archers, swordsmen, and staff fighters. A few women also used the staff, and Tycho recognized one of the laundresses as she drilled with a young soldier. Her arms gave him pause, and he wondered if her father had been a blacksmith, or had carried barrels on his shoulder. Or perhaps her mother had been a fishing woman, one of the few who went out with the men who hunted the whitefish and could use a gaff as easily as a man. He certainly would never dare take the wash from her section of line or argue about prices and quality. He warmed up off to the side, and began a basic practice set, not sparring with anyone but slowly checking his stance and form. Each blow and counter had to be known by his bones, because in a true fight, no man had time to recall what countered what.
He did not care to work too hard, just keep in practice. He'd work hard later. Tycho finished his practice and started to leave, when he saw that a group had formed around the sword circle. He heard metal on metal, and murmurs, followed by a few winces and head-shakes. Curious, he eased over and peered between shoulders and around heads. Mimir Borghindson faced off against one of the senior guards, both with shields and metal practice blades, dulled and weighted. The men wore armor, and Tycho admired the metal work that he could see, and the leather. Someone took good care of the straps and stitching. Raw hide covered the shields, or was it a raw-hide covering protecting a painted surface? The emperor dropped his guard and the warrior slid forward, risking an extended lunge and scoring against the emperor's flank. One of the watchers held up two fingers on his right hand. He had four raised on his left, and he watched the fight closely. The emperor snarled, probably at himself as much as at his opponent, and blocked the next blow, then ducked and wove in a strange way, his blade and shield both licking in and out, almost like a cat's paws when it had a mouse. The guard blocked and countered well.
"Movement on the river," someone shouted. The fighters
ignored the call, circling. Then a flurry of blows, men moving faster than Tycho could follow, and the guard sat in the dust, blinking. The emperor leaned to the side, a pained expression in his eyes and wincing.
"Draw!" The watchers applauded and cheered, and Tycho noticed a few coins or other tokens changing hands.
The guard staggered to his feet and bowed. The emperor did likewise. They sheathed their practice blades and shook hands. A man of men, Tycho nodded to himself. Such was a lord he could follow. A man who took blows and respected skill deserved honor.
"What sort of movement?" the emperor panted as he removed his helmet. Tycho began to leave, then hesitated, wondering as well. Surely no one dared try to sail on that water?
"A group of men under Korvaal's banner approached from the south, most imperial Majesty," the messenger said. "They stopped at the southern lip of the gorge and were watching the water. No mage has sought to look farther, as you instructed." She bowed.
"Good." Mimir Borghindson tossed helmet and shield to a guard, unbuckled the practice blade and accepted his true sword. "We come." The watchers parted, bowing as he passed.
Curiosity warred with wisdom, and curiosity won. Tycho walked south, toward the river. he did not intend to go all the way, just to a rise he'd discovered that would allow him to see to the edge. As he did, he found Lord Hugan pacing him. Tycho bowed to the cat. The cat blinked green eyes at him and continued pacing him, looking ahead. If Hugan expected to find mice or other prey, he was sore mistaken, Tycho thought, but carefully. The pair halted at the rise Tycho had recalled, and looked to the river.
Banners waved in the afternoon wind. He wasn't keen-sighted enough to identify them, but the color suggested Korvaal or Gember, or perhaps Yoorst. Off to the side, a black banner with silver and white fluttered. The Scavenger? No, something did not fit, and Tycho watched more closely. Not the Scavenger, but Liambruu itself and the king, Tycho realized. The king used black wax, and had taken black as his color despite it being so weighted with ill omen. Sanchohaakon must be passing strange, but then nothing Tycho had seen thus far of the king's words or actions suggested the behaviors of a well-balanced and thoughtful man. At least the royal banner stayed at one remove from the gods' banners. Perhaps Sanchohaakon had learned something since winter. Hugan stuck his tongue out, then pivoted and scraped dirt toward the banners, then turned again. No, apparently the king had not learned, or so Tycho took that cat's actions to mean. He blinked. He was trying to read the cat as he would a man.
The banners stayed where they were, then first one and another disappeared down into the dark gap of the gorge. Tycho blinked. No, they were climbing down or otherwise descending somehow. Magic? He glanced at Hugan. The cat scratched one ear with a hind foot, washed the foot, then sat back and began washing its privates. His privates, Tycho corrected before glancing away. Did that mean no magic was used? Of course not! Unless Sanchohaakon and Liambruu had the sort of change that required the gods to make themselves, the southerners still called magic anathema.
The wind swirled, then changed direction, from the south instead of the west. Something on the wind stung Tycho's eyes, and he blinked. They watered as if he stood beside a dirty fire of green pitchy wood. Hugan sneezed. Then the huge cat hissed, and the fur on his shoulders rose. He turned and loped north, toward camp. Tycho took that as a warning and retraced his own steps. Whatever transpired in the gorge could continue without his presence.
The farther north he went, the cleaner the air felt and the less his eyes stung. With that in mind he went through the camp to the informal market that had arisen. He felt better just watching business, and he leaned on his staff. The northerners bartered ovstrala hair and embroideries and camp bread for fresh food, and bought other things with good silver. Tycho saw a leather dealer and wandered that way.
The woman selling things ignored him, intent on talking to a northern woman. She gestured to the goods spread out on a blanket in a schaef cart. Tycho glanced at them, then leaned forward. Two tanned hides had already cracked, as had a belt. He frowned and selected one of the thicker belts, picking it up when the owner did not stop him. Only a single row of stitches held the joined pieces together, and the finish left grease on his fingers, and a trace of brown dye. He sniffed it. Under the dye, a faint hint of rot warned that someone had not scraped the hides properly, nor cured and tanned them with sufficient bark. He laid the belt down and turned a hide over.
The clay seal impression affixed to the hide did not match the quality. He studied the seal, then touched it. Nothing. Tycho peered more closely, but the image seemed blurred, and he did not recognize it. He reached into his belt pouch and removed a protective bag. He untied the waxed fabric, removed his own merchant's seal, and touched it to the impression attached to the hide. The shape did not fit, nor the size. Tycho scowled and looked up to meet the woman's equally deep scowl. "This is not a true Rhonari seal," Tycho stated.
"Yes it is! The master's factor confirmed it before witnesses," the young woman informed all within hearing range. "I call false dealings on you for claiming otherwise."
That drew the attention of the men and women in the little market, and a guard eased up to Tycho's elbow. To his surprise, a grey and brown-clad priest of Maarsdam also peered over shoulders. "What transpires here?" the priest inquired.
"This man accuses me of false dealings, says the goods are not from Rhonari. They are. I saw the seller prove it." The woman folded her arms. The seams on her sleeves strained, and Tycho wondered if she'd also done the poor stitching on the belt. Her clothes looked fine, but the workmanship did not match the material.
The priest elbowed his way to stand on Tycho's other side. "Show me," he ordered. The woman turned the hide back over and pointed to the wax and clay impression. Tycho offered the priest his seal. The priest took it, studied it, and rested the plate lightly against the wax and clay. Several people gasped, and the guard grunted, his face darkening.
"Nay, that's not right! The seal on the hide is good," the woman protested again. "He lies. His seal is false. All know that northern merchants will lie to undercut the rest of us."
Red washed over Tycho's vision and he felt blood filling his face. He took a long, deep breath, then another. "The seal is good. It was set by a notary mage before four witnesses, as is required, and blessed by a priest of Maarsdam in Rhonari, and in Vlaaterbe." Tycho kept all feeling out of his voice.
The priest held up Tycho's seal. "This seal is good. The impression—and your goods—are not." The priest turned so all men could look at the metal plate on the seal. "What do you see?"
"Blue-green, honored Father," several people called.
"It glows," the northern woman who had been looking at the leather said. "The impression turned black, honored Father."
The priest returned the seal to Tycho, who stowed it in wrapper and pouch once more. "Hear me. These items cannot be sold as quality-checked goods. My daughter," he shook a thin finger with swollen joints at the local woman. "I do not know if you sell these things unknowingly or not, but the quality seal does not fit the goods or the price you have asked. Lower your prices to match." She opened and closed her mouth without sound. "Maarsdam rewards fair and just dealings. Low quality, low price so that all may know that they receive that for which they pay." He turned his back before she could answer. "I will check all goods for sale. Now." The local woman closed her mouth and gathered what remained of her stock, cramming it into a basket without care for creasing or tangling. A second guard joined the man standing beside Tycho, and Tycho eased out of the way. He'd done his duty to the god's honor.
He didn't know why, but just before dark he visited the small portable shrine to Maarsdam that had been added to the row of permanent chapels. He bowed three times before entering, then knelt and bowed again. "Hail, Great Traveler," he saluted the small figure of the god of trade and travel.
"Greetings, son of Rhonari, born for Maarsrodi and to Donwah," the priest replied. Before Tycho coul
d faint, the younger man said, "I was told of your presence here, Master Tycho. I had not planned to encounter you in the market, but," he spread his empty hand and smiled a little wryly. "I should have known better. Please rise."
Tycho smiled as well. "Truly, the Traveler's sense of humor is greater than most would realize," he sighed.
"Truly. Do you seek counsel or to pay your respects?"
He had not sought counsel on the way. Should he? Not yet, something suggested. He did not even know what to ask about, and feared most of the answers that he could imagine. "To pay my respects, Honored Father. I have not gone so long without doing business in many years, and it feels strange to be on the road and not buying or selling."
"The sister to the north thought that might be the case. You are right not to do business, Master Tycho. There is a time to watch and learn, and a time for trade." The priest sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Would that the Great Traveler were clear as to which was which."
Tycho preferred ambiguity in this case, and stayed quiet.
"Go with Maarsdam's blessing, son of the Traveler, and keep your staff at hand. Things move, and only the gods know which way they move." The priest sounded more than a little irritated, and Tycho smiled again, this time with sympathy.
"Thank you for the blessing, Honored Father. May your rest be sweet and your dealings sound." Tycho knelt again to the god, then rose, bowed, and backed out of the tent. He almost toppled over, flailing his arms and staggering as he hit something just outside the entrance.
"Mroh!" Hugan sounded offended.
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