“You were just getting started on the way to getting yourself permanently maimed or killed. Perhaps you didn’t notice, Khaesyn, but you never touched Rahl. At one point, he considered breaking your leg, but only put you on the mat. If you keep trying to kill him, at some point you’re going to get hurt very badly. You might even get killed.”
Rahl noticed how the magister used a touch of order to emphasize the last few words, enough so that Khaesyn finally shook his head.
The two marines turned.
“Wouldn’t last a moment on a deck… can’t dance like that…”
Rahl lowered the truncheon and waited. “He’s right about that, you know,” said Zastryl. “Yes, sir, but I wouldn’t have waited in that kind of fight.”
“I didn’t think you would.” Zastryl paused, then frowned before speaking again. “I have a question for you,
Rahl. It’s one I don’t want you to answer. In fact, I forbid you to answer me. I just want you to consider it.“
“Yes, ser.”
“You clearly respect me. Just as clearly, you do not respect most of the other magisters. Why is that so? I’d like you to think that over.”
Rahl pondered the question.
Why had Zastryl asked the question? Was it that clear that Rahl respected Zastryl? But why did he respect the armsmaster? Because Zastryl didn’t hide behind words? Or didn patronize Rahl?
“Not now,” said Zastryl with a laugh. “We need to start you with a blade. That’s going to be much, much more difficult, and you’ll have a much harder time using it against someone like Khaesyn.”
But why would Rahl have to? He could carry a truncheon anyplace he could carry a blade.
“Because,” Zastryl answered the unasked question, “you may well be someplace where the only weapon is one you can take from someone else, and that is most likely to be a blade. In weapons, as in many things in life, we don’t always get the choices we want.”
That was becoming increasingly clear, Rahl admitted. He didn’t have to like it, though.
XXIX
After the midday meal on sevenday, Rahl took a nap, then washed up and headed down the long road to the harbor. He was looking forward to the evening because Magister Thorl had invited him to the evening meal—it was dinner in Hamor, not supper—at a harbor eatery that served Hamorian food. While Rahl had avoided the harbor for a time, even after that, he had never really properly explored the area around it, and now he did finally have a few coppers to his name, not that he intended to spend them. Some few were to go to send the letter to his parents that he had yet to write, and the rest were for what he might need in Hamor.
After walking a few hundred cubits downhill, Rahl took a wider road on the right, one that seemed less traveled for all its width.
Shortly, he arrived at a small park, square in shape. Low trimmed hedges, no higher than midthigh, formed an outer wall. Almost hidden within the hedge were tiny yellow and orange flowers. Stone walks circled through the grassy area within the hedges, and carefully trimmed evergreens, with soft and bushy long needles, were set almost at random within the space, but somewhere near each of the evergreens was a stone bench.
At the west end, where there was one of the larger grassy spaces, five children played hoop tag. After watching the game briefly, Rahl crossed the park and took the street nearest the southwest corner, which looked to run close to the western end of the harbor. Instead of the haze that usually blurred the western piers, where the-black ships were moored, he thought he saw almost a light shadow. He glanced skyward, but there were no clouds that could have cast such a shadow.
The black-stone houses along the street seemed far older than those along the more traveled main route to the harbor, and several, neat and well kept as they were, looked old enough to have dated back to Nylan’s early days. One bore a brass plaque, but Rahl would have felt strange crossing the street just to read what it said.
Just above the harbor, he came to a walled area where the street he had followed ended at another street perpendicular to it. The wall rose at the edge of that street’s sidewalk. All Rahl could see above the wall were three long slate roofs. There was no gate in the northern section of the wall, which stretched almost half a kay to his left and right. ,
Rahl turned west, walking a good three hundred cubits before coming to another street that ran southward to the harbor. Small neat stone dwellings stood side by side, separated by only narrow gardens, on the west side of the street, opposite the wall. Belatedly, he realized that the wall enclosed the engineering hall and its outbuildings.
When he reached the end of the wall, he looked eastward, then nodded. A large gate stood in the middle of the southern wall. He decided against walking back to view the gate, because just ahead, past a cluster of workshops, he could see what looked to be a harbor wall and the vague outline of piers beyond.
As he passed the closed doors of the workshops, still smelling of hot oils, metal, and even sawdust, he could see that the street he followed also ended at a black-stone wall. Several hundred cubits to his right, at the intersection of the street in front of the wall with another street was a guard post. It stood in front of the open iron gate manned by two soldiers or marines in black uniforms.
Since Rahl couldn’t see the piers or through the gate from where he was, he turned and began to walk westward. The closer he got to the gate, the more puzzled he was because the guards bore strange-looking weapons. Were they rifles? Why would anyone bear a rifle when loading one of the clumsy weapons was slow and when even the hint of chaos would cause gunpowder to explode?
He frowned. The large barrels were of black iron. Would that contain chaos? Still, the barrel seemed too large for a rifle. In addition to the weapon each guard bore, there were racks beside them that held similar weapons.
He refrained from shaking his head, but he couldn’t help but wonder what the weapons were if they weren’t rifles. He glanced through the gate but managed to keep walking. Afternoon sunlight fell on the piers, and yet there was a shadow of some sort—an order shadow!
Rahl had to remind himself not to use any active order investigation. He definitely wasn’t ready to go to Hamor. Even so, he could sense the solidity of several vessels at the piers, although he could not see them with his eyes— clearly some sort of black magery. He wished he dared explore that, but shook his head. Not now.
Ahead of him was another black-stone wall.
He shrugged and turned, walking steadily, but not hurriedly, back eastward, staying on the sidewalk across the street from the guards. He could feel their eyes on him, but he did not hesitate. Before long, the wall to his right made a right angle into the harbor. He glanced at it, but since it ran well into the water, he could not see the vessels tied at the piers.
He had no doubt that they were the feared black ships, but why did they need to be hidden? Especially in Nylan? Was that because so many vessels visited Nylan and because it would be easier to study them closely when they were moored? Or was it to add to their mystique?
Rahl laughed silently. So much for seeing the black ships.
There was a wide expanse of water, a good half kay, if not more, between the walled mooring of the-black ships and the next set of harbor piers. Only a small fishing boat was moored on the west side of the first pier, clearly battened down and empty. On the east side was a larger schooner, and crewmen were carrying crates of. fish to a wagon on the pier.
Rahl didn’t want to see any more of the piers, not for the moment. He turned to his left, away from the water, at the next lane, immediately, he found himself walking up between the small shops that lined both sides of the way. The first offered scarves of all sorts, in more shades and colors than he could have dreamed possible.
The next held leather goods—vests, belts, scabbards, sturdy belt wallets, and even small decorative leather boxes, some of them gilded. Then came a shop filled with decorative brasswork.
Rahl took his time, looking, because that was all h
e could do with his limited coins. Even so, he had far from explored more than a few square blocks around the harbor, or so it seemed, looking through shops, then going to the seawall and taking in vessels from Hamor and Candar, as well as from Nordla and Austra, and viewing more goods in more shops, before he realized it was getting close to the evening bell, when he was to meet Magister Thorl.
He didn’t know exactly where he was, but he recalled the directions that the magister had given him, based on starting at the market square. He had to walk quickly, but it wasn’t that far, he discovered, and he reached the bright green-and-yellow awning of the eatery that was less than two blocks from the market square before the magister did.
At least, he didn’t see Thorl when he stepped inside.
A slender graying man dressed in spotless khaki trousers and shirt, with a crimson vest edged in silver thread, turned to Rahl and offered an apologetic smile. “You wish a table, ser? I fear that we cannot…”
“I’m supposed to meet Magister Thorl here.”
“Ah… ha… he said you would be here. I apologize, ser. This way…” The vested man turned.
Rahl followed him to a corner table under a brass lamp suspended from the beamed ceiling by a large brass Chain. The table held two people and one vacant chair. With Magister Thorl was Deybri.
“Ah… good evening,” Rahl offered.
Thorl gestured expansively to the empty chair. “I did not mean to upset you, Rahl, but Deybri is my niece, and since you two get along, I thought it would be more enjoyable with three of us.”
His niece? Thorl didn’t look that much older than Deybri. “Oh, I’m not at all upset. I’m surprised, but pleasantly surprised. Very pleasantly surprised.”
Deybri laughed. “You’re gallant, but it’s nice to know that you also meant it.”
Rahl slipped into the chair.
Thorl was speaking to the man who had escorted Rahl to the table. “The leshak with the pashtakis for the first course, and then…”
“Your uncle,” murmured Rahl to Deybri, “I didn’t realize
“Talents for handling order—or chaos—do tend to run in families. You’ll find that many of the magisters and magistras and healers are related,” Deybri explained. “That can be a problem.”
“Oh, because people don’t like consorting with those who have order-talents? And those who do can only find relatives?”
She nodded.
“Your timing was excellent, Rahl,” began the magister in Hamorian. “We had only been seated a few moments. I wanted you to have some understanding of Hamorian food. That was Kysant himself who brought you here. I asked him to look out for you. His place is the only true. Hamorian-style eatery in Nylan. His grandfather was the cook on a Hamorian warship. He claims it was the fleet commander’s vessel. I’ve had my doubts about that, but the cooking is-authentic.”
Rahl nodded, wondering how Thorl might have known that.
“Uncle Thorl spent several years in Ada,” Deybri added, if in halting Hamorian.
Rahl almost laughed ruefully. When those around him could sense what he felt, before—and whether—he expressed it or not, the whole nature of conversation changed. “This takes getting worked… used to, I mean,” he replied, also in Hamorian.
“You will do well in Hamor,” Deybri continued in Hamorian. “You have no accent. I do.”
“I learned from your uncle and the children.”
“Actually, he does have ah accent, but it will work to his advantage,” said Thorl. “He speaks as I do, and that will tell people he is from Ada. That way, he will be considered Hamorian—but excused for not knowing all that he might about Swartheld.”
At that moment, a server appeared, wearing the same khakis as the owner had but a pale green vest. He set three goblets on the table and a large pitcher. Then came a circular bone porcelain platter with scalloped edges, which he placed in the center of the dark oiled wood of the table. On the platter were fried folded shapes that were roughly octagonal.
Thorl poured a clear liquid from the pitcher, half-filling each goblet. “Rahl, you must taste the leshak—it’s a wine from greenberries and white grapes. Drink it in moderation. It’s more powerful than it tastes.”
Rahl lifted the goblet, noting that the wine had the slightest of green tinges. He took a small sip. The wine was smooth and cool, with a taste that was unlike anything he’d ever had. Perhaps the closest might have been a cross of pearapple, green-apple juice, with a hint of honey, and an even tinier hint of pine.
“Although they use greenberries liberally, the taste is totally unlike the vaunted greenberry brandy of the north,” Thorl added.
Rahl had heard of the brandy, but no scrivener could ever have afforded it, nor could any of his friends or acquaintances.
“The pashtakis are a favorite and common dish everywhere in Hamor. They are spiced crab and mushroom filling inside a crispy fried pastry. The ones in Hamor are sweeter, because the southern crabs are more…” At that point, Thorl used a word that Rahl had never heard and could not discern from context.
“More what, ?”
“Juicy and tasty… succulent.”
Rahl concentrated on holding the word.
“These are still good, and perhaps better,” the magister went on. “They aren’t as likely to be cloying if you eat too many.” Thorl paused. “Cloying… too sickeningly sweet.”
“Thank you.”
Rahl sampled one of the pashtakis. The appetizer almost melted in his mouth after a single bite into it, leaving a piquant taste that was neither mushroom nor crab, yet both. “Good.”
“I thought you might like them,” replied Magister Thorl. “By the way, meals are far more social in Hamor than in Reduce. The midday meal is luncheon, and light, but an occasion for planning or business. The evening meal is late, well after twilight, and much more substantive—solid—if you will.”
“Do men and women eat together in public?” asked Rahl. “I had heard…”
“Only if they are consorted, or if a woman is accompanied by a male relative. Now… women can eat together in public, and groups of men and women can eat together at the same place if they are at separate tables. Among families or in private, it does not matter. Only the appearances matter.”
Rahl almost laughed. That sounded like Land’s End.
“That may be because their customs are more directly Cyadoran, as is the language itself,, which is decadent Cyadoran mingled with High Temple and fermented by time. Also, certain subjects are not discussed in public. They are not forbidden, but a sign of bad manners. One does not discuss family difficulties, nor order or chaos, or anything personal about the Emperor…”
Rahl listened intently.
Abruptly, Thorl broke off as the server reappeared and removed the platter that had held the pashtakis and replaced their platters with clean ones before placing two serving dishes before them. One held sheets of very thin pan bread, seemingly barely thicker than parchment, and the other long light brown cylinders.
“Biastras. Each slice of meat is braised in spiced oil just enough to brown it on each side, then rolled around sweet peppers that have been marinated—soaked in a mixture of special oils and spices for days,” Thorl explained to Rahl, “and each tube is braised just enough to warm the peppers. Then the meat is dipped in an egg and corn flour mixture and fried briefly in very hot oil.” After a moment, he added, “They actually make this with marinated wild horse meat in the far east of Hamor. I think it tastes better with horse meat than with beef or lamb, but you can find all three kinds of biastras.”
Rahl took a small bite of the end of the cylinder. Even the small mouthful left his mouth and nose burning. Sweat popped out on his forehead.
“I think I forgot to mention that they can be very spicy.” Thorl grinned.
Deybri laughed softly, then turned. “That was cruel, Uncle.”
“Somewhat, but had I told Rahl how hot it was, he would not have tried it.” He looked at Rahl. “Have
a bite of the bread. That will cool the taste more than leshak or anything you drink. Too many sailors have ended up in the ironworks or the quarries for the Great Highway because they thought leshak would cool their throats.” He laughed jovially. “It will, but the cost can be rather exorbitant. High,” he explained, seeing Rahl’s momentary puzzlement at the unfamiliar word.
“Another way to eat them,” suggested Deybri, “is to wrap them in the thin bread and eat bread and biastras together. That’s what I do.”
Rahl followed Deybri’s example and found that the taste was merely close to unbearably spicy rather than intolerable.
“Burping or slurping… or smacking one’s lips,” Thorl went on, “is considered very common and bad manners…”
As he ate carefully, Rahl continued to listen. He also only sipped the leshak.
Before long, the biastras and bread had vanished, and the server placed another platter before them.
Magister Thorl gestured. “Khouros. Two cinnamon pastry tubes—one inside the other and tied together with a thin layer of honey. The inner tube is filled with sweet creamy cheese.”
Rahl enjoyed the dessert greatly, perhaps because he’d missed true sweets and perhaps because the khouros removed all the aftertastes of the spicy Hamorian dishes.
When he finished, he looked at the magister and inclined his head. “Thank you so much. This is the best meal I’ve had since I came to Nylan, and certainly with the best company.” He turned to Deybri. “With the exception of those I’ve had with you, but neither the food nor the other company was so good.”
Thorl laughed. “That was the best sentence you uttered in Hamorian, and a perfect conclusion to a meal.”
Deybri just shook her head.
Thorl turned to Rahl. “I’d be most appreciative if you would walk Deybri home. It’s not that far.”
“Uncle…” Deybri half protested.
“Humor me, if you would. I have certain matters to take care of with Kysant.”
“Of course.”
Rahl rose, scarcely before Deybri did. He inclined his head to the magister once more. “Thank you again.”
Natural Ordermage Page 19