"Greetings," Calandryll returned in the. language of Kandahar, "We've ridden far and should welcome a decent meal and a bed. We can pay."
"From Mherut'yi?"
The farmer's face remained expressionless. Calandryll nodded.
"Not many travel overland from Mherut'yi."
Calandryll shrugged.
"We have business inland."
"Better to take ship to Mhazomul or Ghombalar, and a riverboat inland."
"Our business is ... delicate. We prefer to avoid the obvious trade routes."
The man's eyes narrowed.
"You don't look like merchants."
"We come to negotiate trade contracts. I am called Calandryll. This," he indicated his companion with a wave, "is Bracht."
"You're Lyssian?"
"I am. My comrade is from Cuan na'For."
"He speaks our language?"
"No," Calandryll shook his head, "but he understands the Envah."
The man nodded and turned his head slightly.
"Denphat, check the roof."
The younger bowman grunted an affirmative and disappeared back inside the house. Moments later he appeared on the roof, moving slowly along its perimeter with his eyes fixed on the surrounding terrain.
"Nothing I can see," he called.
"Then come down." The man gestured at the well. "Those horses need watering—help yourselves. I am called Octofan."
"Our thanks, Octofan," smiled Calandryll, dismounting.
The farmer nodded and walked around them to the gate. He swung it shut and dropped a bar in place, sealing the opening. Denphat and the other youth continued to study them in silence down the length of their shafts. The red dog watched them with parted lips, as if ready to attack on a word or any sudden movement.
"You're cautious," Bracht said, emptying a bucket into the trough beside the well.
Octofan shrugged without speaking, waiting until the horses had drunk their fill, then leading them to the long, low structure of the bam. The red dog followed at his heels. His two sons came after, standing in the doorway as their father indicated stalls.
"Put them up here. Help yourselves to hay."
He stood back as they stripped off the saddles and led the horses into the pens, patient as they rubbed the animals down and forked hay into the mangers. When they were done he said, "There's a washhouse at the back. Food'll be ready soon."
They washed under the wary eyes of his sons, then Octofan beckoned them onto the porch and escorted them into the building. It was cool and airy inside, the floor the same thick stone as the walls, the odors of meat and vegetables rising from pots on a cooking range tended by a grey-haired woman in a worn blue gown. She turned to examine them, her face expressionless as Octofan's. Calandryll bowed; Bracht ducked his head.
"I'll not have swords at my table," she said.
"My wife, Pilar." Octofan indicated a row of hooks by the door. "Hang them there. These are my sons, Denphat and Jedomus."
The youths had lowered their bows on entering the house and now they loosened the strings, setting the bows down on a table by the wall, nodding silently to the unexpected guests. Bracht and Calandryll unbuckled their swordbelts and hung them on the pegs.
"Sit down. Jedomus, bring that pot of ale."
They settled at the long table that occupied the center of the room. Octofan took the head, his sons to either side, and filled clay pots with dark beer. Calandryll and Bracht drank gratefully.
"They've come from Mherut'yi," Octofan informed his wife as she set a loaf of steaming bread before him. "On some Lyssian business."
"They're not... ?" Pilar's raised brows framed a question.
"They offered to pay."
The woman nodded as though this confirmed something. Calandryll fetched a coin from his satchel.
"Is one var sufficient? We'd purchase provisions for the journey, too."
Octofan began to slice the bread, using the knife he wore. He said, "Three varre is ample."
Calandryll pushed the coins across the table. Octofan picked them up, examined them, and dropped them into a pocket of his robe. Pilar brought a pot of stew from the range and began to dole it into bowls. Calandryll felt his mouth water as the rich odor struck his nostrils. His stomach rumbled and he smiled apologetically.
"You came without provisions?"
Octofan spooned stew as he spoke. Calandryll followed suit, too hungry to concern himself with good manners and not sure how to explain their lack of supplies. Bracht saved him.
"We were attacked," he said, adjusting the tmth, "and lost our supplies."
The farmer and his wife exchanged glances. Octofan said, "The road from Mherut'yi to Kesham-vaj is plagued by brigands."
Bracht nodded. Pilar said, "Sathoman," in a low, angry voice.
"Sathoman is their leader?" asked Bracht.
"Aye," Octofan grunted. "Sathoman ek'Hennem, may Burash rot his soul."
"He's the reason for your caution?"
Bracht indicated the bows Denphat and Jedomus had discarded: Octofan nodded.
"Sathoman ek'Hennem is a noble gone bad. The lictor of Mherut'yi didn't warn you?"
Bracht shook his head. "We found the lictor ... unfriendly." .
"Philomen," said Pilar, her tone dismissive. "He s no better than Cenophus. They're supposed to patrol the roads—protect folk like us—but what do they do? They sit safe in their keeps and barely venture out save to gather the Tyrant's taxes. And when they do that, they eat us out of house and home. Nor ever pay for what they take."
She smiled briefly at Calandryll.
"Cenophus is a lictor?" Bracht asked casually.
"Lictor of Kesham-vaj," said Octofan. "He claims our land falls under Philomen's jurisdiction, save when it's time for tax-gathering."
"And this Sathoman is a local brigand?" murmured the Kem.
"The son of Mandradus ek'Hennem," said Octofan. "Mandradus was Lord of the Fayne until he took the wrong side in the Sorcerer's War. He fell at the Battle of the Stone Field and the Tyrant declared his lands and all possessions forfeit. Sathoman swore he'd revenge his father's death and declared himself rightful master of the Fayne. He claims it's his right to extract a toll from travelers. And herdsfolk, too, Burash damn him!"
"Lictor and Sathoman both claim their tax," Pilar added bitterly.
"Does the Tyrant not act against outlaws?" Calandryll asked.
Octofan glanced at his wife and laughed sourly.
"The Tyrant sits safe in his palace, and Nhur-jabal is a long way from the Fayne. So long as his taxes come, he's content to leave such matters to his lictors."
"And neither Cenophus or Philomen have the taste for battle?" Bracht said softly.
Octofan fixed suddenly suspicious eyes on the Kern. "You've not heard of the Sorceror's War?"
"I come from Cuan na'For," Bracht returned, "and I've traveled in Lysse. I know little of Kandahar."
"The Tyrant Iodrydus declared sorcery outlawed," Calandryll supplied. "Save for those wizards licensed by himself, he placed severe limitations on their employment—the lords of Kandahar were required to give up their court magicians, and they rebelled. It was called the Sorcerer's War."
Bracht nodded thoughtfully. "Does this Sathoman still employ a wizard?" he asked.
"A mage called Anomius," said Octofan. "Neither Cenophus or Philomen will risk his magic. You were lucky you didn't face him when Sathoman's cutthroats attacked you."
"Indeed," the Kern murmured.
"And Sathoman's stronghold is nearby?" inquired Calandryll.
"To the north," Octofan said, "Though he spreads his net wide, across all the Fayne."
"Hopefully we'll not encounter him," said Calandryll, remembering to add, "again."
"Few survive an encounter with Sathoman, with or without Anomius," Octofan offered dourly. "You'll not likely escape a second time."
"Is he likely to be on the road?" Bracht asked.
Octofan shrugged, pushing his emptied plate
away. Pilar rose and began to collect the dishes.
"Who knows where Sathoman will be? Perhaps you'll meet him, perhaps not. Best pray to Burash you don't."
He rose to fetch a pipe and a pouch of the narcotic tobacco to the table. Denphat and Jedomus pushed their chairs back and left the room. Calandryll saw that both took a bow. He shook his head as Octofan offered a pipe; Bracht did the same.
"Why does the Tyrant not send his own wizards to aid the lictors?" asked the Kem.
Octofan sucked smoke, holding his breath a moment before releasing it in a sweet, blue cloud and saying, "Most fled Iodrydus's edicts, and those who remain the Tyrant prefers to keep close. Some few ward the larger towns, but he'd need an army of sorcerers to dig Sathoman out of Fayne Keep—I suppose that so long as the lictors collect his taxes he sees no advantage in it."
"And so folk like us suffer," Pilar said from where she scrubbed dishes. "Cenophus collects taxes; Sathoman collects what he wants. At least he leaves us enough to live on. Just."
"Is it not the way?" asked Octofan, his voice slightly slurred. "The farmers always suffer."
"It's different in Lysse," Calandryll offered.
"You live in walled cities."
It sounded like an accusation and Calandryll could think of no suitable response: he shrugged. Octofan slumped in his chair, drawing deep on the pipe, filling the room with its smoke. Pilar finished her cleaning and rook a chair at his side, filling a pipe of her own. Bracht helped himself to more ale. Calandryll yawned, pleasantly full and growing drowsy. In a while the door opened md Denphat and Jedomus came in. They set their bows down and helped themselves to their father's tobacco. Outside the moon painted the yard with silver light. The red dog scratched on the porch and the pigs grunted. Somewhere a cow lowed; a bull snorted. Finally Octofan set his pipe aside and rose loose-limbed to his feet.
"You can sleep in the barn. I'll see you provisioned in the morning."
"Thank you." Calandryll was grateful for the dismissal: he wanted nothing more than to sleep now. He lowed in the direction of the table: "My thanks for a fine meal, Goodwife."
Pilar nodded, smiling languidly, saying nothing. Bracht landed him his swordbelt and Octofan took a lantern, ppening the door. The red dog stirred, growling, and the tanner gestured it to silence, leading the way across the yard to the barn. He lit them inside and left them there among the sweet scents of hay and horseflesh. Moonlight entered from narrow windows cut high in the front wall, revealing the straw mounded at the far end. They spread their blankets and stretched on the makeshift bed: it was mightily comfortable after the hard ground of the Fayne. He closed his eyes, but Bracht's soft voice denied him instantaneous sleep.
"So, to the dangers of the Chaipaku and Azumandius we can add a brigand and a renegade wizard."
"At least," he replied, "sorcery's outlawed in Kandahar. That should please you."
"Then you'd best keep that red stone well hid," Bracht chuckled. "Lest we add the Tyrant to our list."
"Aye," he mumbled, burrowing deeper into the straw.
He was not sure at first what woke him, thinking that the sun rose and shone into his eyes, then that someone held a lantern close to his face. Close enough he could see the red glow of its flame through his shuttered lids and feel its neat against his chest. He stirred, throwing a protesting arm across his face. Surely it was not yet dawn—did Octofan come to wake him? He granted and opened his eyes to darkness, the blue-velvet stillness of the earliest hours, yet lit by a faint red glow. Not before his eyes, but below them. From his throat! Where the red stone hung. He gasped, right hand scrabbling for his sword's hilt even as he rolled from his blanket, his mind screaming Chaipakul
He was on his feet, unsteady in the shifting straw, sword drawn, knees bent in the fighter's crouch Bracht had taught him before he was fully awake. He saw the aisle of the bam, the sleeping horses in their pens, the yard beyond the door lit by a moon preparing to vacate the sky. He spun, stumbling in the straw, and saw the Kem's dark form, filled for an instant with the awful dread that his comrade was slain in his sleep, almost laughing with the relief Bracht's soft snore brought. He turned full circle, his wary eyes finding nothing amiss, no sign of imminent danger. No black-robed figure prepared to attack, nor lictor's soldiers. A horse broke wind; out in the night an owl hooted.
He blinked, racing mind calming, and touched his left hand to the stone. It was warm to the touch, and when he drew it from beneath his shirt its glow was fiery. He let it drop, Varent's words loud in the ears of his mind: Should you encounter some glamour, the flame within will burn bright and the stone grow hot. Should that happen, you will know that wizardry is close.
He sniffed, but smelled only horses and hay: no scent of almonds. He took a step to the side, a step closer to Bracht, and kicked the sleeping Kem ungently. Bracht's steady breathing faltered, then quickened. He moved suddenly off the blanket, the falchion glittering in the waning moonlight as it slid from the sheath, rising defensively as the freesword came to his feet. He stared about, caught Calandryll's wide-eyed gaze, and frowned a question.
"Magic," Calandryll said, slow and soft, "There's magic abroad."
He touched the stone again and Bracht nodded as he saw its glow.
"Where? I see nothing."
Calandryll shook his head.
"I don't know. But the stone ..."
"Aye."
Bracht moved off the piled straw onto the firmer ground between the pens. His blue eyes darted over the horses; returned to Calandryll, then up to where the loft lung heavy with baled hay.
"There. By Ahrd, what is it?"
His voice was hushed. Calandryll looked to where the falchion's tip pointed, and gasped.
In the darkest corner of the barn, farthest from the door, where the moonlight that filtered through the openings in the wall could not reach, something hung glowing. It was like the witch fire he had seen dancing on the masts of ships before a storm, silver as a polished blade, but not flickering: solid; unmoving. It was shaped like man and bird conjoined, its form growing clearer as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. It sat—or perched, he was not sure which—on the edge of the loft. Prehensile toes gripped the edge of the platform, bent knees concealing the body, which hunched forward as though strained by the bulbous head. Ethereal wings were folded behind, framing that strange skull—if the thing had such corporal substance as bone beneath its shimmering hide— which seemed all eyes, huge and round and impenetrably black. There was no indication of a nose, but below the lominant orbs he saw a slitted mouth, and on either side of the head, great fan-shaped ears.
He gaped. The thing stared back. Then, sudden and silent, it rose, launching itself from the loft.
The wings spread like silver sails, curved and angled, more bat's than bird's; the legs stretched behind in facsimile of a tail and he saw vestigial arms folded across the narrow chest. It swooped toward him and he ducked, raising the straightsword as does a man swatting at a fly. The creature darted effortlessly clear, its blank eyes never leaving his face, rising to swoop again, this time over iracht's head.
The Kern swung the falchion viciously and again the weird creature avoided the blow. Calandryll thought he heard a whistle, almost beyond the range of human hearing, trill from the lipless mouth. Then the wings beat and it sped for the door, through into the night beyond. He saw Bracht spin round, running after, and followed, in time to see the thing climbing into the sky above the sleeping farmhouse, lost against the panoply of stars.
He looked at the talisman: it glowed no longer.
"It's gone," he said, hearing his voice shake.
"What was it?" Bracht lowered the falchion. "Have you seen its like?"
Calandryll shook his head. "Not seen, but I've read of such beings. They are called quyvhal—sorcerous creatures used as spies by wizards."
From the porch the red dog growled a warning. Bracht stared at the sky, then turned back into the bam. "I think," he said, "that perhaps Azumandias has found
us. Or the one called Anomius."
"Sathoman's wizard?" Calandryll frowned. "Why should he seek us? How could he know we are here?"
"This journey of ours raises more questions than I can answer," Bracht shrugged. "Perhaps the mage sensed our presence. Or perhaps ne looks for us for reasons of his own. Perhaps he allies himself with Azumandias. Or Varent, for all I know."
"Should we flee?"
"I think not." Bracht shook his head. "If whoever sent that thing could find us here, he—or she, perhaps?—can find us again. We need those provisions Octofan promised, so we'd do as well to wait for the dawn."
Calandryll glanced at the sky. After the appearance of that strange creature dawn felt a long way off. "At least it didn't attack us," he said.
"No," Bracht agreed, "but why did it spy on us? We ride watchful from now on."
"Perhaps Octofan can shed some light on it," Calandryll suggested.
"Perhaps Octofan told it of us," said Bracht. "And if he knew of the sender he may be an enemy. I think we'd best keep silent."
Calandryll nodded and stretched on the straw, all thought of sleep forgotten. It seemed they must regard all they encountered with suspicion, every Kand a potential enemy: it was an oppressive thought. He was glad when the velvety darkness opalesced into the misty grey of dawn, and gladder still when the sun broke through and he heard the strident crowing of a cock announce the commencement of the day.
Pilar appeared, nodding a brief greeting as she began to collect eggs, and then Octofan, stretching and yawning, Denphat and Jedomus at his back. They, in turn, greeted the two wayfarers before going about their farmyard tasks, none seeming suspicious as Bracht and Calandryll availed themselves of the washhouse and prepared their horses for departure, seeing the two sons ride out to tend the cattle as Pilar called them to a substantial breakfast and her husband presented them with provisions sufficient to cam' them through to Kesham-vaj: dried meat and a sack of vegetables, flour and salt, a little sugar.
"You can buy more there," he said, "if Sathoman doesn't stop you along the way. The town's some three or four days' ride from here if you make a good pace."
"Are there other holdings?" Bracht asked.
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