A deep male sigh wafted through the evening air. "Cat, you know better." Tycho caught himself as a priest of Yoorst planted one hand on his hip and glared down at Hugan. "That was unkind."
Hugan ducked a little and washed one paw, then stalked off, a white shape in the growing darkness. The priest shook his head and went about his business, leaving a bemused Tycho wondering what had just transpired. After several heart beats he shrugged and went to find supper.
The next morning, Tycho ate, checked on the birds, and then went to collect his clothes. He found them, along with a great deal of commotion. The washer women coiled their lines and had emptied their pots, putting out the fires. Other people harnessed ovstrala to wagons and moved things into a defensive formation. He had not heard of trouble. "Of course the little," the chief laundress compressed her lips, round and full face reminding Tycho of a storm cloud, fists on her hips as she watched her assistants gathering and packing things. "The least majestic king in all of the gods' own world would choose this day to ruin our plans, now that we have a stretch of fair weather and proper heat."
The younger woman glanced over their shoulders at the senior laundress, and Tycho heard a faint, under-the-breath hiss, "Proper heat? I'm about to bake and steam together." The air carried far more water than in the days before, and also more heat. It had not been exactly cool by Tycho's definition, but summer rose from the ground as well as pouring down with the bright, hard sunlight. He'd not noticed it until that moment, but yes, summer was in full glory. Tycho took his clean things back to his wagon and packed them, then prepared to move. He considered his sword. Should he put it on? He had a dispensation from Jokith to do so if the Progress came under attack, but were they? Something told him to keep the sword on the top of his gear but under the cover. Now was not the time, not yet. But he added his heavy road-knife to his belt, and retrieved his merchant's staff.
"They crossed last night," one of the guards told a gathering of servants and teamsters. Tycho eased in with them. "Rafts, and I feel for whoever had to catch the wood and build the things, but yes, Sanchohaakon and the others are here. They are still south of us, and they did not bring a full army, at least not yet that the sight mages have found. The attack on Milunis has eased as well." Tycho was glad to hear that. "Form pattern three, and then we wait. His Most Imperial Majesty prays for a sign and for judgment and wisdom, and asks that all do likewise."
Pattern three meant that Tycho did not have to move his wagon. However, he did have to move the birds. He hurried to the wagon, collected the lead ropes, and trotted to the corral. "Good," Borghind called. "We have a little time yet. We are the next to last to relocate, so that the beasts stay calm. I have extra hands to help, Master Tycho."
"Good. I can use them," Tycho said. He made his way into the corral and through the ovstrala to the birds. The lead female seemed touchy, and he set his staff aside, slowly uncoiling one lead rope and approaching her without hurrying. She permitted him to touch her without acting out, and he clipped the rope to her head harness. The others settled as she did. They might not know everything, but if the lead bird acted quiet, then they had no need to panic.
The youngest male failed to pay heed. Just as Tycho clipped the rope and removed his hand, the tan and brown bird lashed out with wing and claw. Tycho fell backward, rolling out of reach, trying to pull the wind back into his chest. His right shoulder protested. He rolled again, onto his belly, then stood and grabbed the flopping rope with his left hand. "Hold the others," he called, but quietly. The rope jerked as the young male reared his head back. Three fast strides brought Tycho behind the great-hauler and he pulled, dragging the bird over backwards. The male balled up as he fell, and Tycho caught the back of the bird's head and neck, keeping them from hitting the ground. Then he pushed forward, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder while holding the male in a ball. The bird hissed, shivered, and relaxed. Tycho kept the young gelding in place until he'd caught his own breath, then allowed the bird's head to come up.
"Enough. Stand." Tycho backed up and shook the rope. The bird stood. "Come." Tycho led him over to the others. One of the younger men handed him his staff, and Tycho managed to take it, but his shoulder hurt as if he'd been stabbed. He moved with great care, and nothing caught or felt as if it had broken this time, but he'd not be using a sword in his right hand for at least the next handful of days. "Where do we take them?"
"This way, Master Tycho." Two of the men had worked with the birds before, and moved so that the lead female went first. The other birds followed without more than the usual hisses of protest. Tycho noted that the others walked with one eye on the way ahead and the other eye on the birds' legs. The young gelding remained calm, in fact calmer than all but the lead female. The ovstrala marched along behind the birds. Tycho blinked. No, no one led the bovines, they followed on their own. How strange.
A rope-ring marked where the new corral was to be erected. The stocky man leading the great-haulers marched into the center, and the others came along. Tycho brought up the rear. "Hold them for now," Borghind called. Tycho stared unabashedly as the ovstrala trooped in behind them, circling sunward until they formed a tight, inward-facing ring. "You can release the birds." With as much of a shrug as his shoulder permitted, Tycho did so, reaching up and unhooking the lead rope. The gelding looked left and right, fluttered his wings a bit, then plopped down right where he stood. The other birds settled as well. The men found small gaps between the ovstrala and walked sunward until they found the gate and cleared the ropes. A wagon carrying the light wooden frames rolled up as Tycho collected the lead ropes, draping them awkwardly on his left shoulder, then switching his staff to the left hand.
"Master Tycho, a moment of your courtesy," the stocky herder began. "What did you do to the gelding?"
A good and useful question. "When the birds are just hatched, if their dam needs them to stop moving and stay in the nest, she uses her foot to gently hold the head and tug the chick over backwards. They form a protective ball as they turn over, and she can cover them with bedding. They stay quiet until she uncovers them. It's not good to do to the older birds on a regular basis, because unless you pull exactly straight back, you can break or strain their necks. Do not try it." He smiled a little, in part to hide the twinge from his shoulder. "But as a last resort, it also keeps them from being able to break your arm with their wing, or kill you with their claws and beak."
"They can kill a man?" The youngest of the handlers stared from Tycho to the birds and back.
"Oh yes, and are trained to do so if commanded to fight, or if threatened." Tycho bared his teeth. "Steal an un-harnessed great-hauler at your own peril. 'One-hand' will be the mildest of your new names, if you are fortunate."
Borghind folded his arms, straining the seams on his tunic sleeves and chest. "Rob or threaten a merchant at your own risk, Alferd. Such men don't live to be old and wise by being young, foolish, or untrained."
He was not old! Tycho's shoulder suggested that he rethink that declaration. It also suggested that he put the ropes away before he grew stiff, as would probably happen. He bowed to the lead teamster and found his way back to the wagon, where he stowed the ropes. Then he collected his water skins and went to fill them. A man could not have too much clean water in his stores, unless he had a flooded cellar. And it would keep him from thinking about the trouble that had just crossed the river.
How had they crossed? Rafts required wood. They could not have brought that much with them, could they? And where were the trees and who would carry the logs down into the gorge? Certainly not courtiers and priests, for all that the priests of Korval and Yoorst tended to be strong. They might have found enough timber washed up among the rocks, but rafts still needed rope at the very least, and trimming off branches, and something to pole across the flow. Tycho harbored grave doubts about Sanchohaakon working that hard. Now, he chided himself, do not underestimate the man. He could be a fit warrior and skilled at things that required less judgeme
nt and discernment than ruling a land. Like the cooper's idiot boy had been, strong in arm but only a child in mind.
Yes, Tycho reminded the memory, but the cooper's boy had given a kind word and smile to all men and had worked hard in the ways he could. The family had been forced to rent the fishermen's hall to accommodate all those who wished to attend his memory feast. That had been a terrible winter, with fever and lung-rot carrying off even the young and fit.
The sun now pouring heat down from the water-white sky would not tolerate chill and coughs, even if people got wet feet or went around with wet heads. Actually, Tycho mused, pouring water over Sanchohaakon's head might be worth the effort, although if he were as hot-headed as many younger nobles, the steam would only make the air feel stuffier. As it was, fish could almost walk on land.
What would the northerners think of walking fish? For that matter, what would he think if he saw fish coming across the close-cropped grasses and bare ground toward the sweet stream? Tycho crouched awkwardly and filled his water skins. He'd probably wonder what herbs had been used in the tea that morning, and if something in the sausage should not have been there. Wasn't there a story about fish on dry land? Tycho hurried as best he could back to the safety of the Progress. The last of the wagons was being moved into place to finish making the outer wall. No, that was fish on land after a great flood, one of the sort that afflicted Chin'mai every few generations. And of course the year that they had fish in the streets and cellars in the Free Cities, but it only took the right wind and the wrong tide for that to happen, at least in the lower city.
Tycho returned to his wagon to find Trollanus and a courier waiting. "Good. His imperial Majesty desires your presence, Master Tycho. A messenger from Liambruu comes." Tycho stowed two waterskins in his wagon, bowed and followed. Women as well as men bustled around with long knives in their belts and quivers hanging opposite the knives.
Trollanus nodded toward the women. "They are huntresses and can carry supplies. No one travels with the emperor unless they can fight or hunt and survive in all seasons."
Surprised, Tycho made a noise suggesting understanding. What about mages? Did the mages fight as well, or did they have... battle magic? His mind shied away from the thought. He had more important real concerns, such as not tripping over the tent-poles, assorted equipment, and personal flotsam littering the ways. The paths through the Progress had narrowed and no longer led straight to the imperial tents. "Neither men nor animals should have easy passage," the mage observed. "Those beasts that hunt the wild ovstrala are not averse to hunting men."
If the wild ovstrala were half again as large as the domesticated sort... Tycho preferred not to see the hunters of the northern snows. The hides he'd seen and tales he'd heard were more than sufficient to assuage his curiosity. Rather like the ambassador of Liambruu as compared to the king himself. Tycho caught a glimpse of a black banner and frowned. "Is black unfortunate in the south as it is in the north?" he puzzled aloud but quietly.
The courier glanced over his shoulder. Like the emperor, he wore his hair in a single thick braid, and Tycho wondered if he might be distant kin. The men shared a similar build, but the courier's frame seemed lighter. "Aye. Black for the Scavenger, and the unending night of winter, not for common use or for seals and banners, Master Tycho."
They reached the edge of the imperial camp. It nestled up against the tower at the pfalz, and Tycho suspected that the emperor quartered in the building. Indeed, the smaller ornate tent Tycho had guessed belonged to the emperor had not been erected, only some secondary canvas and the dining tent. As he watched, the dining tent sighed down, sending some loose bits of leaves and scraps of something fluttering away in the wind. Servants began shaking out the canvas and leather, folding the blue and cream shape with practiced skill. The courier led the way to the stone stairs climbing to the long building's second level. "This way, please." Tycho opted to use his staff rather than the wall for assistance. He'd grown too used to flat or rolling surfaces.
"Please bring your staff, Master Tycho," one of the guards at the door told him. The guards wore heavier armor, arm guards, and helmets even indoors. Tycho wished he'd thought to bring his armor, at least the heavy stiffened leather chest and back guard that could pass for a jerkin. It would no longer be tight in the middle. He also wished he had a monopoly on the hide trade within the empire and could abolish dowries, both of which were as likely as the other. Tycho wiped his right hand on his tunic and eased down to one knee, bowing to the emperor.
"You may rise." Once Tycho regained his feet, Mimir Borghindson said, "A messenger from King Sanchohaakon is on the way to Us. We desire your presence as witness and to examine any written documents. Your eyes are less likely to be confused by false seals or other," the emperor raised one white eyebrow, "distractions."
Something in the way the emperor emphasized the word gave Tycho pause. What sort of distractions? Did he mean something magical? No, this was Liambruu. Did he mean a lithe young lady of great charms? If so, Tycho was no more immune than any other man. Rather than ask for clarification, Tycho bowed and moved so that he stood beside the priest of Maarsdam. A quick glance at the man's pendant of office and the gold touched silver on the top of his staff revealed that it was Maarsdam's Son who had come to the pfalz. In fact, as Tycho looked more closely, the priests and priestess that he could see all wore the badges and patterns of the senior members of their temples.
A tall, slender man in blue and silver stepped into the doorway and bowed. "Most imperial Majesty, Lord Ximerna of the Northern Reach and a herald-messenger of His Most Noble and Generous Majesty Sanchohaakon request audience." Tycho heard no emotion or inflection in the herald's voice, and gave the man credit for dispassion. He'd be an excellent and hard bargainer.
"We welcome news from the south," the emperor intoned. The herald took that for permission, bowed once again, and stepped to the side as two figures marched in under a black and silver banner. Tycho glanced to the far corner of the room in time to see the Scavenger's Hand folding his arms as if amused, or perhaps annoyed. The silvery-white device on the banner resembled, well, Tycho wasn't certain but took it for some sort of flower with an arrow through it. Was it Sanchohaakon's personal device? It certainly bore no resemblance to the arms of Liambruu that Tycho recalled. The herald wore black and white. The blackened armor of the man beside him seemed odd to Tycho, but perhaps it was to protect the metal from rust.
The southern herald unrolled his message. "Sanchohaakon the Generous, by the blessing of the gods King of Liambruu and all below the Moahne, to Mimir Borghindson. We have reclaimed our proper lands and reestablished the proper worship of the gods, and demand that you cease tolerating blasphemy. The great gods have sent signs of their pending wrath, and unless the foul and unclean practices which you have permitted to flourish cease forthwith, they will remove their favor from all men and destroy the lands north and south of the river.
"Eliminate all magics, return to proper worship, and abandon all claims to those lands given through mercy to Liambruu since the end of the Great Cold. Or the gods will strike all men, beginning with those who have so corrupted the north with their foul, tainted behavior. So have the gods declared to us, Sanchohaakon the Generous and Wise, beloved of the gods. By our hand and seal."
The emperor extended his hand. The herald hesitated, leaning onto his back foot as if uncertain if he should flee or reply. "I would read the message for myself," the emperor explained. Beside him, Tycho caught a glimpse of white and grey tail twitching. The herald handed the message roll to the armored man beside him, Lord Ximerna. His armor appeared quite fine, for all that it had been dyed or blackened, then given thin silvery trim. Tycho glanced at the warrior's boots. The leather showed some scuffing but no cuts and the stitching was even and tight. Good, sturdy, high-quality equipment, Tycho decided, and approved for all that the man was of Liambruu. He was tired of seeing shoddy.
The noble wore black gloves, and handed the roll to the e
mperor. The emperor read over it, lips moving as he did, then looked toward Tycho and inclined his head, passing the roll to a servant. The woman hurried the roll to Tycho. Maarsdam's Son extended his hand and Tycho gave him his staff so he could hold the roll properly. He skimmed the message, lips compressing as he did. Expensive ink on very heavy parchment, or was it paper? Tycho rubbed one corner and felt ridges—paper then, expensive paper. The text matched what the herald had recited, but something about the document appeared off. Not the text per se, nor the writing although Tycho wondered what sort of pen the scribe had used. The strokes had a faint gap in them, a tiny bare stripe as if the nib had cracked or chipped before use. The seal, however... Tycho brought the seal closer to his eyes, blinking as he did. It wavered a little, black on black, and Tycho took a better hold of the document, brushing the seal with his thumb. The design stopped blurring and he could see the older pattern of Liambruu, the one that he knew from business documents. Beside him, Maarsdam's Son inhaled through his teeth but said nothing. Tycho returned the roll to the emperor, who in turn passed it to the southern nobleman. The priest gave Tycho back his staff.
Mimir Borghindson spoke. "There is no blasphemy in magic. So the priests of the gods have averred, Donwah, Gember, Korvaal, Yoorst, Rella, Radmar, Maarsdam, the Scavenger, and Sneelah of the Snows." The emperor stood, as did Lord Hugan. "Hear the words of the Northern Emperor. King Sanchohaakon must lift the siege on Milunis if he has not done so already, and return to his lands south of the Comb. The lands between the Comb and the Moahne have reaffirmed their preference for rule from the North, and we accept that preference. Twice have the gods shown their disfavor for the claims of Liambruu, and we heed their warnings. Return to King Sanchohaakon with our words."
Lord Ximerna's face began turning red under his tan, and the black clad herald nodded once. "The words from the north shall be given to his Most Generous and Wise Majesty."
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