“How did your meeting go?” asked Jorhan as the Lydian seated himself.
“Well enough.” Karmult gestured toward the serving woman as she left three younger men.
The server moved to the round table, but stood next to Jorhan, on the side where Jessyla was seated.
“What’s the fare?” asked the smith.
“Mutton pie, fowl and dumplings, or coney hash and gravy.”
“Fowl and dumplings, ale,” said Jorhan.
“The same,” added Beltur and Vaenturl, almost simultaneously.
“Do you have hot cider?” asked Jessyla.
“We do. Same as the ale.”
“I’ll have that with the fowl.”
Karmult shook his head. “Ale and mutton pie.”
“Is that all?”
“For now,” said the Lydian.
“Pay when you’re served. Inn’s rules,” announced the server, glancing around the table.
Beltur nodded, as did Jorhan and Vaenturl.
Once the server headed toward the kitchen, Karmult nodded in a satisfied manner. “Mutton pie. Can’t go wrong with that.”
“Not at all,” said Vaenturl, “unless it’s not Montgren mutton and you like lead in your belly.”
“I’ve had the dumplings. They make mutton seem light.”
“Only if you’re talking about Montgren mutton,” replied Vaenturl. “It makes others’ lamb taste like mutton, and Montgren lamb is ambrosia.”
Karmult laughed. “Some truth in that, but that much.”
“More than you’ll admit.” Vaenturl grinned.
Karmult shook his head.
“How many more days to Axalt … if it doesn’t snow?” asked Beltur.
“Without snow and wind, four days. Otherwise,” replied Karmult, “who knows?”
“Likely won’t snow for at least two days,” said Jorhan. “Looks to be cold and clear tonight.”
“Are there any more inns along the way?” asked Jessyla.
“There’s one in Trakka,” said Jorhan. “Two days. Not much to speak of, but the fare’s decent.”
Before all that long, the serving woman returned. When she set the platters before Jessyla and Beltur, he put down a silver. “That’s for the healer and me.”
The silver vanished with a quick movement of the server’s hand, which left two coppers where the silver had been. Beltur left one of the coppers on the table, then took a sip of the ale, a deep amber, but not dark. It was on the bitter side, but not nearly so bitter as what his uncle had preferred.
The dumplings were heavy, Beltur had to admit, but they were tasty, and the sauce was good and necessary because the fowl seemed a little dry, not that he left anything on his platter.
“Good to have hot fare,” said Jorhan. “Travel food gets old quick.”
“Travel gets old quickly,” added Vaenturl.
“If it gets that old, why do you keep doing it?” asked Karmult.
“Because I’m a terrible herder, and a man has to make a living.” Vaenturl shook his head ruefully and gave Beltur a quick sidelong glance.
Beltur understood immediately, because he’d sensed a certain falsity in the other’s quick and seemingly rueful reply. But that means he knows you can sense that, and he’s trusting you not to say anything. But why? “Are there herders in your family?”
Vaenturl laughed, honestly, before answering. “I doubt that there’s a single family in Montgren that doesn’t have herders, and that includes the Duchess’s family. The sheep of Montgren, especially the black sheep, are the strength and wealth of the land. No doubt your tunic is woven of the finest Montgren wool.”
“I wouldn’t know,” admitted Beltur.
“I can tell from here.”
“What else can you tell?” asked Jessyla warmly.
“That your consort is a very fortunate man.”
“I’m fortunate as well. Very fortunate.”
“Spoken like the newly consorted,” said Karmult sardonically.
“As they should speak,” replied Vaenturl. “If we don’t speak that way when we’re young, how can we speak well of each other after enduring the trials that life brings to everyone.”
“You’re speaking like a Relynist,” observed Karmult.
“I’m not one, but there’s wisdom in both what the Kaordists and the Relynists say, although I don’t hold to either’s words strictly.”
“Do you hold to any words strictly?”
“Just to do what is right, as best I can. Sometimes, that’s not as good as I’d wish. More than sometimes.”
Again, Beltur had the feeling that what Vaenturl said was slightly off, not so much false as false self-denigration.
Two quints later, Jorhan rose. “I’m tired, and tomorrow will be early.”
At that prompt, both Beltur and Jessyla also stood.
“We’ll be here for a bit, yet,” said Karmult.
“Then we’ll see you in the morning,” offered Jorhan, who turned to Beltur and Jessyla, “as I will you.” Then he strode off quickly out through the doors, but once out in the foyer, not in the direction of the staircase to the upper level.
When Beltur and Jessyla stepped out of the public room, a worn-looking woman in faded brown trousers and jacket moved quickly toward Jessyla. “Healer … a moment … please?”
Beltur eased a shield around Jessyla, even though he sensed no untoward chaos.
“What is it?” asked Jessyla kindly.
“My son. He needs a healer. He got frostburn, and there is pus and stench…”
Jessyla did not wince, but Beltur sensed a certain discomfort.
“Where is he?”
“In our quarters, at the end of the stable. Please…”
“Aren’t there any healers here in Charaam?” asked Beltur.
“No, ser.”
Beltur sensed the truth and the despair behind the words.
“We’ll do what we can,” said Jessyla.
Beltur kept the shields up as they followed the woman from the inn and across the courtyard to the far end of the building holding the stables. The shields didn’t do anything to protect them from the wind, and his teeth were chattering when they reached the building.
The “quarters” to which the woman led them consisted of a single room little larger than the one where Beltur and Jessyla stayed. That room was smoky, because there was no hearth or stove, just a large brazier, along with a bench, a narrow table set against the outside wall, and two pallet beds. A girl sat on the end of the bench. She was small, possibly only four or five, with wide brown eyes. At the other end of the bench sat a red-haired boy, also small, but likely ten or eleven. One hand was wrapped in a stained cloth.
Even from the doorway, Beltur could sense the wound chaos, but he said nothing, accompanying Jessyla to where the boy sat.
“Vielor, the healer needs to see your hand.”
The boy held up the hand.
Jessyla unwrapped the cloth, studying the inflamed area and the greenish pus, as well as the reddish streaks radiating from the discolored distention in his palm. “He’s had frostburn. You can tell from the whiteness of his skin, but the chaos isn’t from that. If it were, his hands and fingers would be dark blue, even black.”
“There’s something in his hand, in the palm below the thumb.”
“I can sense that.” Jessyla turned to the mother. “I’m going to have to cut into his hand a little. It needs to be cleaned.”
“Do what you must, Healer.”
“Do you have a clean cloth and some water?”
The woman pointed to the table, and the pitcher on it. “I will get some cloth.”
Beltur eased out his belt knife, dusting it with free order, then handed it to Jessyla, who waited until the serving woman held out a square of cloth.
“Just moisten it, and hold it for a few moments.”
“You won’t be able to move your hand while the healer does what she must,” Beltur said, using a containment to hold the b
oy’s hand steady.
Jessyla used the knife to cut away the dead skin, then took the cloth and began to express the pus. Beltur tried to ignore the initial smell. After a time, she looked to him. “I don’t have any tweezers, and I’d rather not cut any deeper.”
“Let me see what I can do.” Beltur concentrated on anchoring a bit of order to the small object lodged in the boy’s hand, then linked that to a small containment that he gingerly tugged free through the cut Jessyla made.
She used the cloth to grasp it. “Another clean wet cloth.” She handed back Beltur’s knife, which he laid on the table.
Once she had cleaned the wound as well as she could, Beltur eased in bits of free order.
“I can’t stitch it up—”
“I have a needle and thread,” volunteered the woman.
Beltur used a bit more order to strengthen the thread as Jessyla sutured the cut. Then he released the containment, and recovered his knife, using a scrap of cloth and order to clean it.
Finally, Jessyla turned to the mother. “You’ll need to keep the wound clean and dry. He shouldn’t be working in the cold until it heals.”
“The stablemaster—”
“If it gets worse again, he might lose the hand,” interrupted Jessyla. “He might even die. Tell the stablemaster that.”
The woman swallowed.
“Tell him that both a mage and a healer told you that,” added Beltur.
The woman inclined her head. “Thank you, Healer, and ser.”
Jessyla looked to the boy. “Keep it dry and clean.”
Once the two were outside in the courtyard and hurrying through the cold back to the inn, Beltur spoke. “How could a splinter get that deep without him noticing?” He thought he might know, but wasn’t sure and wanted to hear what Jessyla had to say.
“His hands were numb from the frostburn, and he likely didn’t feel it then. When his hands warmed, they hurt all over, far worse than a splinter would. He works in the stable. There was likely some corruption on the splinter, and it festered and kept getting worse. At first, his mother likely didn’t notice or told him it would get better. Usually, little chaos wounds like that do. That’s why I think there was some corruption on the splinter.”
Beltur glanced up at the night sky momentarily, seeing the stars glittering, tiny points of light against the black velvet of the sky. He shivered as the wind gusted around them, far colder than it had been earlier, possibly because the night was so clear and the wind came out of the north. They were both shivering by the time they returned to their room in the inn, since they hadn’t worn coats or gloves, not really expecting to have done some healing in the stable quarters.
Once he locked the door, he just looked at Jessyla. “We’re very fortunate, compared to so many. Even if we do have to leave Spidlar.”
She nodded.
He looked at her again, so beautiful.
She smiled. “Not yet, dear. We need to talk. No … I ate too much too quickly, and then doing healing…”
Beltur sensed that she was more than truthful. “Then sit down, and we’ll talk. There is something that happened at dinner…”
“I saw. Vaenturl isn’t a terrible herder at all. Or that’s not why he’s not a herder.”
“Then there’s what he said in the hallway earlier—that we’d be better suited to Montgren. He clearly felt that. We really know nothing about Axalt, except that there’s one honest trader there who offered to help us.”
“Help you.”
“Anyone who would help a mage would certainly be more willing to help a healer.”
“I suppose so.”
Beltur pursed his lips. “There’s something we should have talked about much earlier.”
“Oh?” Jessyla offered an amused smile.
“We are young, and we don’t have even a land where we belong, let alone a home or even a rented room…” Beltur didn’t really want to blurt out what he had in mind.
“Are you trying to ask what we might do so that we don’t find ourselves with a child too soon?”
Beltur swallowed. “Ah … well … yes.”
“It might have been better if you’d brought this up before last night, you know?” she asked, her tone almost stern.
“I should have,” he admitted.
Jessyla grinned. “I love it when you know you should have done something and are trying to make apologies without apologizing.”
Beltur flushed. “I … don’t like admitting making mistakes. I’m sorry.”
“I accept your apology.” She smiled gently. “It’s something Mother and I talked about a long time ago, once I became an apprentice healer. She made me practice until I could do it effortlessly. It just takes concentration on order in the right place, and we won’t have a child until we’re both ready.”
Beltur did not sigh in relief, but he might as well have done so, because he knew she could sense what he felt.
“I’m glad you did think about it, even a little late.”
So was Beltur.
XXXII
As Jorhan predicted, fourday dawned bright, clear, and cold. Breakfast was egg and mutton scramble with near-tasteless, if warm, bread, and ale or cold cider. Beltur had the three mounts saddled before the sledges were ready, even though he took extra time to show Jessyla how to groom and saddle her mount. They had their gear loaded on the third horse and were waiting in the stable, which kept them out of the slight wind, when a stableboy appeared.
“You’re the mage and healer? Baryla said to tell you Vielor’s much better.”
“Thank you,” said Jessyla.
The boy looked sideways and then said to Beltur, his voice low, “Your mounts looked like they needed more. Couldn’t do much with the grain. Stablemaster does that, but I put more of the sweet hay in their mangers.”
Beltur kept his smile to himself and slipped the boy two coppers. “We appreciate it…”
“You don’t have to, ser. You and the healer … I saw Vielor’s hand yesterday. Worse’n any frostburn I ever saw. His ma says he’ll keep the hand.” The boy looked around. “Best be going, ser.” In moments, he was nowhere to be seen.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Beltur said.
“You’re glad?” Jessyla shook her head. “It took two of us.”
“Only because you didn’t have the right tools to deal with the wound chaos.”
“That was sometimes a problem at the Council Healing House. There were too many who needed help and not enough healers or even clear spirits or cloths.” Jessyla peered out the door. “Vaenturl’s pulling his sledge out now.”
“We’d better lead the horses out and mount up.” Beltur untied Slowpoke and patted his neck, then led him and the packhorse out into the clear morning, where the green-blue sky showed not a trace of haze or clouds. Once Jorhan had his sledge on the snow-packed path to the main road, Beltur and Jessyla mounted and closed up the gap.
Fourday was uneventful, if chill, with riding a glass, walking a stretch, watering the mounts, riding, walking. During the entire day, they saw one local sledge heading east that turned off before they neared it, and passed two groups of traders headed west toward Elparta.
The way station where they stayed on fourday evening was much like the one where Jessyla and Beltur had earlier spent the night, except the water wasn’t tainted, and they had to share the space with a trapper who was bringing pelts to Elparta.
Fiveday was much like fourday, except there was no wind and the sky had a faint haze. The inn at Trakka had smaller rooms, harder beds, and Beltur had to dust the straw mattress with order and a little chaos to kill off the vermin, and he spent another three silvers or so for room, stalls, feed, and food … plus another silver for grain and some extra fodder and bread and cheese.
The end of sixday brought them to a way station within sight of the Easthorns, and at sevenday’s end, they stayed in a stead that offered rooms over a stable, better accommodations than at a way station but more severe than at
either inn.
Eightday dawned hazy and gray.
Once they were on the road to Axalt, still a snow-packed way, but one that curved through hills that seemed to get higher, Jorhan motioned for Beltur to ride closer to him. Once Beltur moved up, the smith said, “Often we get a northeaster after this kind of haze. Also, this part of the road is the most likely place for an attack by brigands.” He pointed to Vaenturl, who now carried a bow and a full quiver.
Karmult, riding beside the lead sledge horse, also carried a bow.
For a moment, Beltur wondered what weapon the smith might have, until he saw the long staff in a bracket on the side of the sledge closest to Jorhan.
The smith gestured to the staff. “That’s the best I can do. Don’t see that well at a distance, and I never could get my shafts anywhere near where I wanted them.”
“There don’t seem to be any tracks besides those on the road, and there are few of those,” Beltur said.
“After the brigands attack, even if they’re not successful, they take pine branches and smooth the snow. After even a light snow, it’s hard to see their tracks.”
“How do they even get to the road? The snow is waist-deep out there.”
“Skis.”
“Skis?” Beltur had never heard of them.
“Long narrow board slats tied to their boots. They’re polished and waxed on the bottom. They’ll ski down close to the road and use their bows to pick off travelers. The snow makes it hard for the travelers to get to them. Most travelers aren’t good enough with bows to drive the brigands off.”
Beltur could see how that might work.
“Then, they take the sledges and drive them farther to where there’s a hidden path off the main road. They’ll dump bodies somewhere in gullies or deep snow, and wait until spring when they’ll travel back roads through the high passes to Certis, and sell what they can to a fence in Rytel.”
“Fence?”
“A less than honest merchant who will resell at a profit to others, usually outlanders.”
“‘Fence’ … a good term for a barrier between the thieves and others who aren’t averse to not looking too closely at where something came from.”
“Suppose that’s where the word comes from. Never thought about it. You never heard that before?”
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