Even with all the mutterings, the squad follows the black-haired officer as she picks her way toward the combination dam/levee that holds the irrigation water for the year’s crops. The heavy-set man, the one who had gulped, looks from the hill road below to the dust-cloud heralding the advance of the Freetown rebels.
The officer’s eyes flicker from the dust-cloud at the northeastern end of the narrow valley to the trail before her and to one of the aqueducts that carry the water beyond the valley and toward the dry steppes of Southern Kyphros. One hand touches the thin oilcloth-wrapped bundle behind her saddle, then strays toward the second and heavier set of saddlebags.
The dust cloud has moved perhaps a third of the way across the valley, another two kays, when the squad leader dismounts under the iron-bound gates of the dam. The cold iron reinforces every joint and every red-oak timber, bracing the iron-hinged floodgates closed.
Above her and to the south rise the stone walls that contain the four aqueduct channels. An iron wheel rises above each tunnel, but each wheel is locked in place with an iron bar and a double lock. The locks are each the size of a farmer’s fist.
The squad leader shakes her head as she studies the floodgates and the iron-bound timbers that hold them closed.
“… what…”
“… shhh… knows what she’s doing…”
Finally she retrieves an iron bar perhaps two-thirds the length of her arm from the oilcloth-wrapped bundle behind her saddle, then a short, rough-toothed bow saw. She carries both with her as she again approaches the water gates.
“The olive groves may suffer,” she says to no one, “but if the autarch could do it, so can we.” After scanning the timbers, she begins to pry the iron edging away from one.
Puzzled expressions cross several faces, but her squad remains mounted, waiting.
As she pries the edging away from the wood and exposes the red beneath, she halts.
“Kassein.”
The heavy-set man dismounts, handing the reins to the blond woman. “Yes, sher?”
“Take this saw. Cut through this timber as far as you can- until the saw begins to bind.”
“Bind?”
“The wood will try to grab it.” She walks to another timber, and begins to pry.
The blond trooper hands the reins of two horses to a third man, dismounts, and walks up to the leader. “I can do this better.”
The squad leader nods and hands the pry bar to her. “I’m going up on top. I’ll leave the second saw. Weaken as many as you can.” Five quick steps carry her back to her mount. “Darso, you stay here and help with the sawing. Altra and Ferl will stand guard, just in case. Take turns with the saw.”
“I’m not…”
“I know. You’re cavalry, not a carpenter. But if you don’t saw, you’ll be dead cavalry. You can tie the horses to that root there.”
Back in the saddle, she nods at the remaining five troopers, and all six begin to pick their way along the slanting trail to the north, round and toward the top of the dam.
… creeakkkk…
When she dismounts at the top of the dam and glances out toward the west, the dust cloud has almost reached the middle of the valley. “Damn…” The saddlebags come off the horse, and she forces herself not to show how heavy the bags are as she sets them down carefully, well back from the lake. She then loosens one set of buckles, easing the wax-impregnated and oiled leather bag containing the heavy powder out of the stiffer leather of one saddlebag. The other saddlebag remains closed. With a deep breath, she lifts the waxy leather container and walks out onto the flat stone bulwark that holds the iron hinges of the floodgates, finally setting her burden down with exaggerated care.
Creaaakkkkkk…
The dark-haired woman studies the gates, trying to determine whether they have begun to bulge or separate. “How many have you got done?” She leans over the stone wall.
“Five completed, maybe another five to go.”
The officer looks at the water, lapping less than a cubit below the overflow spillway, then at the gates. Then she bends over the wall again. “Finish up the ones you’re on, and mount up. Follow us up here.”
“Those beams are solid…”
“I know. I know.” The woman with the still-untarnished silver firebird on the collar of her green leather vest straightens up and looks at the leather bag resting on the stone by her feet.
With a deep breath, she bends.
“One should be enough…” She studies the dust cloud, and the ant-like horses that lead the more than a thousand, renegade soldiers thrown out by the new duke.
Clickedy… click…
Below, the five troopers scramble onto their mounts and guide the horses along the narrow path the rest of the squad had taken earlier.
As the blond woman leads the remainder of the squad upward and toward the top of the dam, the squad leader returns to her mount and extracts a thin coil of waxed rope from her normal saddlebags. She carries the rope back to the dam, where she studies the dark-green water behind the main floodgates.
In quick sure strokes, she cuts four equal lengths from the coil. Two she sets aside. One remaining section she inserts through a plug in the coated leather before tamping wax around the edges. The second section she ties to the neck of the bag. Trying not to hurry, she slowly lowers the bag into the water, paying the rope-around which the fuse is threaded-out slowly, until the bag rests four cubits down. She ignores the puzzled looks from the mounted troops in the defile to the north of the dam.
At last she ties the connecting rope to the nearest iron wheel, and threads the second rope through the wheel as well. After retrieving the coil and the other two sections of rope and setting them on a boulder beside where the blond woman now holds the reins to her mount, she stops.
“All of you-back up and around that corner.”
Not waiting to see if her orders are obeyed, she moves almost at a run to the dam, where she studies the valley. Should she wait? The effect would be greater. But what if… ? She shakes her head and eases the striker from her belt.
Scrtcccc… click… hhsssttttt… A long spark leaps from the striker to the loosely-threaded rope fuse, followed by a tongue of flame licking its way toward the water and the bag of powder suspended in the heavy green below.
“… devils… she carried that all the way from Kyphrien?”
“One white wizard… all that it would take to blow us all to hell…”
“… demons protect their own…”
She sprints off the dike as fast as she can, throwing herself into the saddle. For the first time ever that her squad has seen, her booted heels spur her mount.
Once behind the rocky ledge with the rest of the squad, she reins in and waits… and waits.
“Hell!”
She turns the horse, starting to edge back toward the dam.
CRUUMMPPP… The blue-green water surges up perhaps three cubits above the floodgates.
“Is that all?…”
Creeeaakakkkkk… snnaaappp… SWUUUUUSHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHH…
As the gates buckle open, the spring’s accumulated runoff gushes forth down the narrow gorge, gaining speed as it drops the nearly one kay toward the narrow valley floor.
“… gods have mercy…”
… wheee… eeehuunnn…
“… easy… easy there…”
“… now… you see why you never cross her…”
The black-eyed woman, whose eyes are now darker than the black of her irises, nudges the horse forward to the stone wall, where she can watch the wall of water sweeping down on the unprepared rebels.
At least one Kyphran banner flutters on the high ground where the southwest road offers the only escape from the lake that the grassy valley has become.
The olive groves will suffer, but the autarch needs trained troops more than olives.
L
THE DRAWING WAS simple enough-a wooden armchair, witr^ the five spokes supporting a simple contoured back. Dor-m
an’s tools, old as some of them were, were more than adequate for the job, and in adapting an old Hamorian design in the faded book, I thought Bostric and I could deliver the armchairs for less than Jirrle. The dining set would have meant bidding against Perlot.
“We can do it,” I said quietly.
The glint of gold from the back of the shop told me that Deirdre was watching from the darkness pooled at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the family living quarters. I almost sighed. She was certainly pretty enough, and willing, but… somehow… that would have been poor repayment for Destrin. I think both Deirdre and I knew what could not be, not that either of us was totally happy about it.
“For eight golds or less?” asked the crafter. He still had on the ratty sweater, and the rear window was open but a trace.
I wiped my forehead before answering. “With what I have in the stable, plus the logs-say four golds. Five or six days’ work over two weeks. We bid ten.”
“If you can do it, then I’ll mark the bid,” Destrin said slowly. His color remained grayish, despite all I had done.
I didn’t like doing work for someone like a sub-prefect, especially in Gallos, but steady as the income from the benches was, and despite Brettel’s commissions and the work from Wessel and Wryson, there wouldn’t be enough coin to meet the quarterly tax levies. That left only a few choices, like indenturing Deirdre to one of the local gentry, or a work indenture for Destrin himself-not a personal indenture, but that of all his output to the prefect or a local merchant. Destrin couldn’t meet the terms of an indenture, and the default would leave Deirdre penniless. As for indenturing Deirdre- I shivered at that.
Since the bids were publicly opened, Jirrle couldn’t use whatever influence he might have to change the award.
Even if we were successful, that only bought Destrin and Bostric time, perhaps a year. Unless the levy were reduced, the shop would have to close. But in a year, a great deal could happen.
As for me, a lot of questions about the prefect still remained unanswered. How could a ruler who opposed local corruption so fiercely be so close to Antonin and his lady Sephya, who appeared to be nearly as adept as the white wizard himself?
“You sure we can do this?” Bostric asked yet again. Sawdust stuck to his forehead, glued in place by his sweat. For once, there was no mock-respect, no banter, and that told me that even he was worried. ___
I sighed. Doing the work was^gettffigTo be the least of my
“Would anyone like some cold redberry?” interrupted Deirdre. “Allys had a little ice left over.”
I nodded, wiping my forehead again.
“I’ll take mine without ice,” Destrin whined.
“Ice, please,” Bostric added. “I need to cool off even more now.”
Both Deirdre and I ignored his added comment. Destrin hadn’t heard it.
Deirdre served me first, and I drained nearly all of it in one gulp, trying to cool off from too much warmth in the shop. Destrin was always cold, and while I could take the cold, adapting to too much heat was far harder.
Finally, I wiped my forehead again. “I’m taking a walk.”
Neither Destrin nor Bostric said a word.
“Will you be back by midday for dinner?” asked Deirdre from the stairs, where she had stopped.
“Probably. I just need some fresh air and to think a while.”
She nodded and was gone, her feet barely whispering up the steps.
After leaving the leather apron in my alcove and pulling on one of my two plain shirts, I stepped out onto the street.
Left or right? To the left lay the square. I turned right, taking a deep breath of the cooler outside air, avoiding a puddle that still remained from the rain the night before. The evening showers hadn’t been as bad as the ice and rain storm several days earlier, but for the past eight-day late spring fogs had clouded the streets in the early morning right after dawn. Just as winter had been late in leaving, so too spring had lingered.
Click… click… My boots rang on the stones as I ambled down the street of jewelers and around the corner into the wider street where the healers practiced.
Not all my time was spent in the shop, nor in cleaning the stable, nor riding Gairloch, nor in obtaining the woods from Brettel for our work. Besides my slow night-studies of order, and my cautious attempts at applying them in small and hidden ways-like creating stronger glues by working with the internal order of the broths-I also wandered through the streets of Fenard, just somehow trying to understand why it felt the way it did.
According to the book, feelings preceded understanding. I hoped the understanding didn’t lag too much, because I was definitely having worried feelings, particularly after having seen Antonin and Sephya entering the prefect’s palace.
Even recalling her gave me a chill, more so than seeing Antonin, or feeling him brushing me aside… or walking down the healers’ lane.
Each healer had a different sign.
Rentfrew-Disease Casting. That one was in white letters upon a red background, over a doorway that radiated, to my senses, a dull white-red.
I forced my feet not to cross to the other side of the pavement.
Clickedy… clack… clickedy… A black horse pulled an equally-black carriage away from an awning-covered doorway further up the street, heading away from me.
Healing. The letters were etched into white oak and painted green. No aura surrounded that doorway. Either simple physical medicine with herbs and the like, or a pretender-or both.
Another doorway bore only the sign of a snake twisted around a staff. Why, I had no idea.
A woman wearing a heavy cloak and a broad-brimmed dark-leather hat with a black veil glided from a doorway almost in front of me and back down the slanting pavement toward the street of jewelers. The odor of roses upon roses told me more of what she was even than the sickness buried within her- that disorder that had so wrenched my guts when first I had sensed it in such profusion when Bostric had led me into the street of harlots. Since then I had noted it within a woman peddling combs in the square, and even in a lady attached to one minister.
Supposedly, a high chaos-master could remove the disease, but the price was reputed to be more than most women would pay.
I shook my head and kept walking.
“Love philtres… love philtres…” hissed a voice from the shadows, understandably enough, since street peddling outside the square was forbidden. The woman’s face was thin, scarred on both cheeks, and pock-marked. The disorder within was worse, and I hastened my steps.
Tenterra-Nature’s Healer. A guttered-out lamp, painted bright red, swung idly in the breeze beneath the sign. The doorway was banded in cold iron and barred-a tacit announcement that chaos was barred from Tenterra’s. So, of course, was order; but who would know?
“… love philtres…” The words hissed up my spine even after I passed three more closed doorways and reached the black awning. The door underneath was black oak, banded in black iron, and bore no name nor any sign.
I could feel nothing, either of chaos or order, and passed back onto the far end of the jewelers’ street where it curved around and led back toward the avenue. Even when you started in one direction in Fenard, you could end up going somewhere else.
Did I want to pass by the palace gardens? I shrugged. Even my simple shirt felt clinging and warm as the sun struggled to break through the low clouds that had been fog at dawn.
Two guards, one by each side of the gate, each bearing a halberd in addition to a short sword, watched as I walked toward them. If I looked to my right, I could see the green leaves of spring just barely blurring the outlines of the oak and maple branches extending above the stones of the wall. On the other side of the avenue were the grand town homes of the ministers.
“You! What are you doing here?” The nearer guard lowered the halberd slightly, as if in threat.
“Just taking a morning walk.”
“Not for the likes of you,” he growled.
As I drew nearer, slowing and stopping, I could feel the incredible sense of chaos that enveloped him. Yet beneath that disorder was a kernel of something else, as if the disorder had been dropped upon him, and he had been too weak to resist, but too strong to surrender totally.
Without thinking, I reached out and strengthened his basic honesty and order, letting it push away the chaos as I stood there. “You’re right. I’ll be going.” As I left him standing there, I could sense the honest confusion as he tried to recover himself.
Click… dick… The sound of my heels on the polished stones of the street before the ministers’ houses echoed loudly in my ears.
“… who was that?” whispered the second guard.
Clink… clink… The sound of horses and mounted men rebounded from behind me, and I stepped as close to the side of the street as I could, looking back over my shoulder. A troop of fresh cavalry rode in my direction. Standing aside in the shadows that had begun to appear as the sun burned off the last of the morning fog, I watched.
The standard-bearer, younger than me, borne by a chestnut, passed by with an impassive face and a reek of chaos, a reeking disorder only compounded by the armed men who followed.
Clink… clickedy, click, click… clink…
As I leaned back against the brick wall of an unknown house, I slowly gathered my near-shredded senses back into myself, marveling at the array of chaos-energy expended on the troop. Marveling-and suppressing the urge to retch.
Antonin and Sephya-it had to have been their work.
Why I didn’t know, but Antonin’s hands were on it as surely as though he had signed the city the way Uncle Sardit signed a chest with his maker’s mark.
With the horses safely past, I eased my steps back toward Destrin’s. Had I been unwise in helping the guard struggle against unwanted chaos? Probably. Would I have done it again? Had there really been a choice?
I tried not to shrug as the sun ducked behind another cloud and the shadows faded into gray again.
LI
PATTERNS-THERE ARE patterns everywhere. That was what the book said, and what everyone had tried to point out to me. Just by creating ice crystals too small to see, some of the Masters of Recluce had started a change in climate that prostrated the Duchy of Freetown.
The Magic of Recluce Page 35