The Magic Mines of Asharim

by Pauline M. Ross

  Eventually, inevitably, we came to a road. It was not much more than a rough track, winding down from a low pass to the west, crossing our stream by a low stone bridge and then onwards to the east.

  “At last!” Xando said. “This will be easier going than all that bog.”

  “True, but roads mean people. Is this a mine road? Or are we low enough to be amongst the goat herders?”

  “The next marker post will tell us.”

  “We will ride that far, then we can decide whether it is safe to stay on the road.”

  He sighed, but followed me willingly enough.

  We seemed to ride for quite a distance without seeing any sign of a marker post. At last we came to a junction, where a track from the north merged with ours, and here stood a post taller than a man, leaning tiredly away from the road, with arms pointing in two directions up the hill, and another arm pointing downhill. It was carved with symbols, but they meant nothing to me.

  “What is the use of that?” I slapped my knee in anger, and my horse skipped sideways. “Why not use a sensible script?”

  Xando grinned at me. “Ah, here at last I can be of some use. This is a boat on water, see? So that is Crenton Port. This one points to High Cloud and Eagle Peak, and that track goes to Bent Tree and… I am not sure what that one is. The smaller scratches are distances to the shelters. Seven marks to the nearest one downhill.”

  “I don’t know how you make out any of that. That is nothing like a boat on water. And High Cloud? Bent Tree? What ridiculous names the mines have.”

  “You are just cross because you could not read the sign.” And he smiled in gloating amusement.

  I didn’t dignify that with an answer, kicking my horse into motion again.

  There was no possibility of avoiding the mine shelters without taking risky detours over the ridges, but I had no intention of calling at any of them. We stopped early for the night well before we reached the first shelter.

  I found a good place for our camp. It was no more than the ruins of a small building, built for who knows what purpose and long since abandoned. Ever since we’d joined the road, we’d seen such remains, but I knew of no one who had ever lived this far into the mountains, except the mine folk.

  I didn’t much care who had built it, or why. It gave us shelter from the incessant wind, at least, even if I still didn’t feel safe in lighting a fire. I’d found some food in the saddlebag of Xando’s horse, so we ate rather well. There was also a small metal vial of some kind of alcohol, which he drank with seeming enjoyment before falling asleep on the damp ground. He could sleep anywhere.

  The daylight gradually faded into the long, slow dusk of the mountains. A little while before full dark, a wagon rolled slowly past heading down the hill. Making its way to the shelter for the night, I guessed. After that, just the gentle noises of the darkness. After a while, I curled up next to Xando, pulling my cloak over both of us, and slept.

  ~~~~~

  The dawn woke me, a bright finger of light dazzling my eyes. We quickly saddled the horses, and rode onwards. Not long after, we came to the shelter, windows shuttered, its chimney lifting a trickle of smoke into the sky. No one about, and I could detect no minds alert enough to wonder who was passing by so early in the day. We cantered past as quickly as we dared. It was fortunate we were so close to mid-summer and we could be on the road well before most people were awake. The fewer people to wonder why two throwers rode army horses, the better.

  For two more days we travelled, dropping down into the foothills, the summer heat rising up from the plains below us. We continued to avoid the notice of the mine shelters, but once we passed a wagon lumbering ponderously uphill, and twice message riders went by, eyeing us curiously, but not stopping.

  No doubt they thought us an odd couple, although not as odd as we’d started out. My dowdy mine uniform was a world away from Xando’s rich clothing, but the mud and brambles had reduced both our outfits to tattered brown rags. Besides, I doubt any passer-by saw beyond our throwers’ coats.

  The horses were more difficult to disguise. We had removed the most obvious army insignia, but military horses were easily recognised from the cut of mane and tail, and the bridle and saddle were distinctive too. Left to myself, I would have ditched the sword and axe, but Xando thought they might be useful. I suspect he rather fancied himself as a swordsman.

  We were now into goat-herder territory, and more roads branched off ours. I had no wish to pass through Crenton Port, so I turned northwards at the first opportunity. This was a good move, and we soon came into a more populated area, with respectable-looking farms on either side of us, both sheep and cattle grazing the rolling hills.

  It was becoming urgent to lose the distinctive army horses. I soon found the perfect place for my purposes, a prosperous-looking farm looking down to the canals on the plains below, with cattle and horses in the fields, and well-kept barns adjoining a large house. I stopped and dismounted.

  “What are we doing?” Xando asked.

  “Tidying up some loose ends. Let me do the talking.”

  We waited. After a while, a young man with a pitchfork ambled out of a barn.

  “Help ye?” He looked at me with interest and a tinge of fear. Everyone was afraid of throwers. He was grubby from whatever job we’d interrupted, but his tunic and trousers were unpatched, and he wore solid leather boots, not the usual clogs. Good signs. I was optimistic I could do business here.

  I bent my tongue around the western canal accent. “G’day to ye. Like t’talk t’the owner, if ye don’t mind.”

  He stared at us for a moment, then nodded and strolled off again. We waited some more. Xando's eyebrows had risen at my accent, but he said nothing.

  A woman bustled out of the house. She wore a gown with a business-like long coat on top, not unlike a thrower’s coat, although without the multitude of tiny pockets. Her hair was greying, but I would not have said she was above forty. She looked us up and down, and then the horses, her face revealing no expression. She was nervous, probably because of the flickers in our coats, but there was an excitement about her, too. She recognised something unusual about us. Something interesting.

  “Yes?”

  “G’day, M’stress. Got a business proposition for ye.”

  “Listenin’”

  “Found these animals unattended up the hills.” And that was true, as far as it went. “Could turn ’em in ourselves, but we’re in a hurry, don’t want the bother, ye know? Bein’ strangers here an’ all. But ye bein’ respectable local people, be easier for ye.”

  She looked from me to Xando and back, then her eye lingered on the horses. “Fine beasts.”

  “Aye.”

  “Heard some soldiery types went up the hills some while back.”

  “Aye, must be theirs. Guess the cap’n be glad to pay good silver t’have ’em back safe, ye know? An’ not have t’admit he’s lost ’em.”

  “Aye, could be." Then she grinned, her teeth green from the local chewing leaf. "Could be, too, they’d fetch good gold at market in a few moons, when the manes grow back.”

  She was certainly sharp. I smiled at her. “Could be.”

  “An’ the sword, an’ all. Ye’d be leavin’ the sword?”

  “Aye, the sword an’ axe. Everythin’ that’s on ’em, ‘part from these two bags.”

  Her eyes gleamed. “An’ what ye be wantin’ for ’em? Apart from savin’ ye’selves the bother.” She grinned at me again, pleased with her little joke.

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Change o’ clothes. Hot meal’d be good, too.”

  “Nothin’ else?”

  “A bath,” Xando put in, but she just cackled.

  “River’s that way,” she said, grinning her green teeth at him. His face fell.

  She whistled, a high, keening note that had the horses pricking their ears. Several youngsters materialised from their various hiding places in barns or pens, or the vegetable plot behind the house. The horses were swift
ly stowed away at the back of a barn, the saddles, bags and weaponry hidden under the hay. Nothing untoward was visible from outside.

  We were whisked into the kitchen where the farmer woke a very elderly man sleeping beside the range. He served us with bread and soup, then retired to his chair and drifted back to sleep.

  The soup was watery, more vegetables than meat, and the bread was yesterday’s, but it tasted wonderful. I’d thought we had eaten quite well on our trek down from the peaks, but that meal was magnificent.

  The farmer sat down opposite us, watching us eat. “Where ye be goin’?”

  “To Brinmar,” Xando said.

  “Th’institute? Aye, I guessed as much. There’ll be wagons headin’ that way. Ye’ll pick up a ride from th’town, if ye’ve coin enough.”

  “We can get int'town today?” I asked.

  “Well now. Ye could, right enough. Be gettin’ late, mind. No wagons this night, so ye’d need lodgin’s, and that’d be a bother for ye.” She cackled at her own wit.

  “Aye, it would.”

  I grinned back at her, liking her easy humour, and she cackled again. “Plenty room here for ye, if the boys shuffle up a bit. Ye be married? Or something like? Ye’ll share?”

  “Aye, we’ll share. Thank ye.”

  “No bother. I’ll be goin’ down to th’market t’morra, so I’ll give ye a ride. Find ye a wagon goin’ north.”

  “Barge’d be better. Specially if it were goin’ through the narrows, and not direct.”

  She eyed us thoughtfully, her eyes flicking back and forth between us. “Trouble is, the way t’the narrows takes ye past Wetherrin, where the soldiery types is based. I’m guessin’ that’s not appealin’ to ye.”

  “Not much. But better than the obvious way.”

  She nodded slowly. “Aye. Could be. I can find ye a barge goin’ that way. But ye’ll stay t’night, and eat mutton with us.”

  “Aye, and thanks.”

  The youngsters were summoned again from their fastnesses to clear out a room for us under the eaves. Ewers of hot water magically appeared, so at least we were able to wash. We were given some of the local style of clothing, a simple gown for me, tunic and trousers for Xando, and long sleeveless coats for both of us.

  The farmers were understandably nervous about the flickers and we had to leave our coats in the bedroom during evening table. The roast mutton and fried root vegetables were excellent, but I was so tired of dried meat, I’d have eaten roast worms if they were hot. Xando reluctantly contributed the remains of the alcohol to the family, while we sampled their rather good ale. It was a pleasant evening, there were no strong emotions to disturb me and afterwards I slept like the dead for hours.

  Tomorrow we would have to move on, with danger constantly on our tail, but for a few hours we were safe.

  22: The Canal

  The farmer woke us not long after dawn.

  “Soldiery types passed by at first light, headin’ into town.”

  “How many?”

  “Three, riding hard. Not pleased wi’life, I’d say. We’ll not rush into town. Likely they’ll hang around, watching folk pass by. We’ll need to dress ye up a bit.”

  The dressing up involved disguising ourselves as bargers. The farmer and her industrious family set to with scissors and needle and thread to convert some old clothes for us. Bargers everywhere on the canals wore loose-fitting wide trousers cut to above the ankle, a loose shirt and a sleeveless coat on top, with brightly coloured scarves covering the head, and knotted around neck and waist. The exact style of knot signalled the barger’s home strand, but the farmer didn't know the knots, so we just had to hope we would pass muster and no real bargers would call attention to us. And bargers were always barefoot. Xando sighed at the loss of his fine clothes and sturdy boots, but I'd long since stopped caring what I wore, so long as I could avoid notice. Our throwers’ coats and other belongings were bundled up into cloth-wrapped packages, in the barger fashion.

  We travelled down to the local market town perched on a cart filled with turnips, potatoes and several rounds of pungent goat’s cheese. The town was not much of a place, a cluster of ramshackle wooden buildings arranged in a loose semi-circle, dirt tracks radiating out in all directions. Children and dogs scuffled in the dirt, chickens screeched in clouds of feathers as carts closed in on them, and several women waited their turn at a water pump. In the centre stood a ring of shade trees where the carts parked to transact their business. A few people greeted the farmer, looking at us curiously, then dropping their eyes, as if they understood we were in disguise. We stopped once or twice while the farmer spoke in a low voice to someone she knew, then she drove on.

  Beyond the market, the town changed character, the shacks replaced with neat rows of cottages painted soft pinks, mauves and yellows, and then stone-built villas with flowers around their doors and guards at the gates. Then, finally, the canal buildings – tax and goods offices, warehouses, several lodging houses and stables for the barge horses.

  And here was where we found the soldiers, arguing with a lodging-house keeper. I recognised the captain, but not the other two with him. The anger rolled off the captain in a wave that almost knocked me sideways, but it wasn’t violent, just irritated. I couldn’t tell whether that was aimed at the lodging-house keeper or me or just general ill-will. I couldn’t blame him; he’d had a difficult few days.

  “I tellin’ ye, there’s been no one like that...” the lodging-house keeper said in injured tones. Then she caught sight of us, perched atop the cart, trying our best to keep our heads down. She paused and I held my breath. One word, even a puzzled expression, a pointed finger and we were sunk. But she looked away. “No one, I tellin’ ye.”

  The farmer drove steadily past, the captain and his men were left behind and I exhaled slowly. That was too close. Inside me, though, laughter bubbled up. I felt sorry for the captain, but it was fun to fool him, too.

  The farmer wove her way through wagons and cranes to an open space close to the water. She leapt down from the cart with surprising agility.

  “Ye wait here.”

  We nodded, and she strode to the furthest edge of the wharf, gazing around at all the barges lined up against pontoons. There were a few clusters of workers loading or unloading, but most of the barges would have looked deserted, except for the gently smoking chimneys and the poles of washing on their roofs.

  “Ah, there! Morna!” the farmer said, in the tone of one who has just solved a tricky problem. “Come along, will ye. This way.”

  She led us along the wharf, past haphazardly stacked heaps of crates and barrels, and down a ramp to a pontoon, striding to the far end. The barge tied up there, lifting and falling in the slight swell like a gentle heartbeat, was small and old, the hull almost bare of paint. The top of it was well-cared for, though, with polished metal rails and a freshly decorated cabin area. The pattern looked like orange flowers to me, and presumably indicated the owner's home strand.

  “Morna!” the farmer yelled. “Got work for ye.”

  A head of white hair poked out from the cabin, above a wizened face. Morna glanced at the farmer, then a long assessing look at Xando and me, and snorted. “Come in. Not they two, just ye, Geela.” I couldn't detect any animosity in her, just curiosity and some pleasure at seeing a friend.

  The farmer clambered over the rail and the two of them disappeared below. The murmur of voices drifted out, punctuated here and there by bursts of laughter. It was a long time before the two faces emerged, wreathed in smiles.

  “She’ll take ye,” was all the farmer said, and without waiting for our calls of thanks, strode away.

  “Well.” Morna looked us up and down. Her expression was disapproving, but inside she was quite pleased. There was an undercurrent of something else, though. Not fear, but worry, perhaps. “Inside. Bring th’bags.”

  She vanished again, and Xando and I were left to scramble after her, hauling our cloth-wrapped bundles.

  The stairs
led straight down into the open centre of the cabin, a combined living and cooking area. Two pale faces looked up from the beans they were podding and turned in unison to gaze at us; girls, the older perhaps thirteen, the other a year or two younger, although it was hard to be sure with their heads wrapped in voluminous scarves.

  “Granddaughters,” Morna said. “Laina, Breela.”

  “I'm Allandra. He's Xando.”

  “Ha!” She cackled, revealing a few stumps of teeth, green as spring grass. “Daresay not ye’s real names.”

  “Mine is,” Xando said indignantly. Morna cackled even harder at that. I rolled my eyes. Sometimes he had no common sense. But perhaps he was right; false names were unlikely to help us now.

  “This way.”

  She led us to a tiny room at the far end of the cabin, low-roofed, raised up over the deepest part of the hold below. The low bed was littered with cloths and bags and other debris that she swept onto the floor, exposing an ancient straw-stuffed mattress. “Ye’ll sleep here. Ye’ll leave they things in ye’s coats here. Th’bucket room’s next door. Ye’ll help wi’chores, ye’ll eat when we do, ye’ll do as ye’s told. Clear?”

  “Aye,” I said.

  “And ye’ll not need t’bother wi’th’phony talk. Not wi’us.”

  “Fine. Whatever you say. How much do you want?”

  “All paid for. Ye must have done somethin’ amazin’ for Geela, cause she’s paid ye’s whole trip t’Brinmar, food an’ all. An’ ye’s wantin’ through th’narrows?”

  “If possible.”

  “Aye. This tub’ll do it easy. But ye’ll stay in th’hold when we go through Wetherrin. Just in case.”

  I nodded. That seemed like a good idea, disguise or not.

  “One other thing.” Morna looked at Xando, and then poked him in the chest. “Ye can keep away from my two girls. Ye touch ’em, ye even think about it, ye’ll be over the side, understand?”

  Xando's eyes were round with indignation.