Certain aspects of Axalt seemed to be well thought out, Beltur reflected. Unless you’re poor and without silvers and skills. But wasn’t that true everywhere? Was it even possible to have a land where the poor and unskilled had a chance to improve themselves without working themselves to death? He was still thinking about that when he reached the smithy.
Even from the door he could see that Jorhan had molds laid out on the workbench and was working on another. He hung up his coat and tunic and walked to where Jorhan waited. “What are we casting today?”
“The mirror frame. Maybe the mirror, depending…”
Beltur understood—depending on how long it took to cast and set the order and chaos in the frame sections. “The oak leaves and acorns turned out well on the base.”
“They aren’t raised as much on the frame. Otherwise, they’d overshadow the mirror and the base. Leastwise, that’s the way I see it. We’ll find out if the way they turn out matches what I had in mind.”
“It usually does,” Beltur pointed out.
“Best hope this is usual.” The smith paused, then said, “Before I forget, you need to see Ryntaar this afternoon. He thinks he knows of some traders who’ll be heading for Rytel late next eightday. They might even pay you a little to keep off brigands.” The smith added, “I’ll be happier when this mirror’s done.”
Beltur just nodded.
In the end, Jorhan decided against trying to cast the mirror sheet that afternoon, and Beltur walked into the Mountain Factorage just before fourth glass, then waited in a corner, behind a concealment, while Ryntaar dealt with an older man, likely another merchant.
Once the other left, Beltur dropped the concealment and approached Ryntaar.
“Oh … Beltur. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I just stayed out of sight while you were busy. Jorhan said that you knew of some traders who could use some mages … and might pay. Who are they?”
“I don’t know all of them, but Jhotyl’s the one putting the group together. He works for a fellow in Jellico who’s the furrier to the Viscount of Certis. Or something like that. That’s why they’d be happier with a few mages with them.”
Beltur didn’t even pretend to understand. “Why does a fur trader need guards?”
“Ever heard of ermine? That’s the winter fur of a stoat. Pure white, except for the tip of the tail. Takes well over a hundred to make a full-length coat, and that coat might cost a hundred golds, except the only ones who can wear ermine in Certis are the Viscount and his family. Jhotyl’s the one who buys the ermine pelts from the mountain folk. He’s likely got five hundred pelts in his wagons, and it’s better to transport them while it’s still cold. That’s also when there are likely to be more brigands in the hills east of Axalt before you get to the flatter lands. The Certans don’t patrol the hill roads much in winter. They lost too many men that way. That’s why most traders don’t venture traveling until spring and the roads are clear.”
Beltur wasn’t so sure he wanted to deal with brigands again, but the thought of traveling with others, as well as possibly getting paid, had a certain appeal. “Is there anyone else planning to leave any time soon?”
Ryntaar shook his head. “I’d say it’d be at least another eightday or two. Now there could be someone coming from Elparta on the way to Rytel and down the river to Tyrhavven.”
Traders or merchants coming from Elparta sounded even less appealing. “It wouldn’t hurt to talk to them. Where do I find Jhotyl?”
“Right now, he’s in the public room at the Traders’ Bowl. I’ll take you over there and introduce you.” Ryntaar turned. “Frankyr, I’m taking Beltur to meet Jhotyl. Watch the door.”
“I can do that,” called back the younger brother.
In moments, Ryntaar had his coat on, but didn’t bother to fasten it as he walked out of the factorage with Beltur.
“How long have you known Jhotyl?” asked Beltur.
“I wouldn’t say that I know him all that well. Father did business with him for a good ten years. Said he was always fair. He’s not that easy to get along with, not if you’re younger than he is, anyway.”
“A bit prickly, it sounds like.”
“He likely has to be, dealing with mountain trappers.”
Beltur nodded, thinking that someone tough and prickly might not be so bad if brigands happened to show up. But then, they want mages so that they don’t have to use weapons. Or risk all those pelts.
Before long, the two were walking into the public room in the Traders’ Bowl, which looked somewhat similar to the Traders’ Rest in Elparta, with heavy square timbers, reddish brick walls with traces of soot, and small leaded windowpanes. Unlike the Traders’ Rest, the Bowl had simple straight-backed chairs at all the tables, and, except for two longer oblong tables, all the tables were round, although some were small, with only two chairs, and others could seat four easily, six if crowded. The fire in the hearth was mostly reddish coals.
Ryntaar led the way to a larger round table, at which sat five men. The oldest-looking man immediately stood. He had a weathered face, a square-cut black beard that still needed trimming, and longish black hair. “Ryntaar, good as your word.”
Ryntaar nodded. “This is Mage Beltur, Jhotyl.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” offered Beltur, inclining his head slightly.
“You’re youngish for a mage.” Before Beltur could reply, the fur trader went on, “Ryntaar says that you can protect traders on the road and that you’d go as far as Rytel. That right?”
“We’d go to Montgren if you’re headed that way.”
“Just to Rytel, then upriver on the river road to Jellico. Don’t need mages from Rytel south. Ryntaar says you’ve got womenfolk you want to bring.”
“My consort and the consort of the other mage, and their young daughter. My consort is a healer and a partial mage.”
“Partial?”
“She can handle shields and a few other things.”
“Never heard of a woman mage.”
“There aren’t many.”
“How do I know you’re what you say? Anyone can put on blacks and claim they’re a mage.” Jhotyl looked to Ryntaar. “Not that I don’t trust you, but trust doesn’t stop blades or brigands.”
“Can you use that blade?” asked Beltur, glancing at Jhotyl’s scabbard.
“Is that a question or an insult?”
“It’s a question, but treat it like an insult.”
Jhotyl frowned.
“Go ahead. Just try to touch me with it. If you can.” Beltur offered almost a sneer.
The trader shook his head and turned to the shorter but more massive man still seated at the table. “Mheltyn, we’ll see what the mage can do. Not in here. The innkeeper might not see it the way we do.” Jhotyl gestured toward the door.
Beltur and Ryntaar followed the two back outside, onto the stone pavement.
“What do you have in mind, Mage?”
“Just have him try to hit me with his blade. Or anything else.”
“You heard him, Mheltyn.” Jhotyl stepped back, as did Ryntaar, who moved even farther back, if quietly.
Beltur just stood there.
“You aren’t going to do anything?” Mheltyn thrust at Beltur. His blade slid to the side. He tried again, with the same result. The third time he delivered an angled cut with a fair amount of force. The blade stopped, and Mheltyn dropped it, shaking his hand.
“I’ve seen better,” declared Jhotyl.
Beltur dropped tight containments around both men, giving them barely enough room to move. “I doubt it.”
“What do you—” The trader’s face paled as he realized he couldn’t move. “Mheltyn, hit him with that blade.”
The guard actually grinned as he replied, “If I could move, I would, but I’d likely break the blade. You’d have to pay for it.”
“Do you want more of a demonstration?” asked Beltur.
“I … I think that will do.” After Beltur
released the containments, the trader turned to Ryntaar. “Have you seen him in action?”
“Just once, when he was attacked without warning and disarmed a bravo. He was a Spidlarian arms-mage and a City Patrol mage in Elparta.”
“Is that true?”
“It is.” Beltur nodded.
“Why in the name of the black angels are you offering to guard a trading group?”
“Because the Axalt Council really doesn’t want me to remain in Axalt, and we need to get to Vergren. I’d prefer to make some coins while going there, since the Council frowns on my staying here and doing that.”
“He’s been working with a smith to forge cupridium,” added Ryntaar.
Jhotyl shook his head. “Sometimes…” He looked to Beltur. “What about the other mage?”
“Lhadoraak was also an arms-mage during the invasion. He was exiled from Spidlar for a number of reasons, but mostly because he was my friend.”
“Is there anything else I should know?”
“Beside the fact that his consort and daughter will be coming? No. Both have their own mounts, and the mother will take care of the daughter.”
“What about the healer, your consort?”
“She has strong enough shields to protect herself. She’s been working at the healing house here. She can set bones, do most anything a healer should do.”
“Young like you.”
Beltur nodded.
“She ever deal with battle wounds?”
“She was one of the healers dealing with the wounded in the invasion.”
“I can’t pay all that much,” Jhotyl said. “A few golds at most.”
Beltur could sense the truth of that. “We’ll have six mounts and a pack mule. What about fodder for them?”
“Two golds and food and fodder for all of you.”
“That’s fair.”
“You’re no trader.”
“You were telling the truth,” Beltur countered. “I could have forced another few silvers out of you, but that wouldn’t have served either of us well.”
Abruptly, Jhotyl laughed.
So did Mheltyn.
“You can tell that all the time?” asked Jhotyl.
“Unless it’s a powerful white or black mage who’s fully shielded.”
The fur trader nodded, almost as if Beltur’s words explained something. Then he said, “We’re waiting for one last set of pelts. We plan to leave at sixth glass on twoday morning. That’s unless it snows, or we get a spring northeaster that ices everything.”
“Where should we meet you?”
“Right here. If things change, I’ll let Ryntaar know.”
After a few more questions and answers, Beltur and Ryntaar headed back to the factorage.
“That didn’t take long,” said Frankyr as the two walked inside.
“Beltur has a way of getting to the heart of matters, quickly.” Ryntaar smiled. “I’ve not dealt with Jhotyl that often, but this afternoon was the first time I’ve ever seen him surprised.”
Beltur smiled. “Thank you for setting it up.”
“I’d say it was my pleasure, except everyone in the family will be sorry to see you go. Even Eshult, I think.”
“He seems to be almost happier, in a sad sort of way.”
“Happier in a sad sort of way,” repeated Ryntaar, musingly. “I wouldn’t have thought of it that way, but it fits.”
“It fits,” declared Frankyr.
“Thank you, again,” said Beltur. “I need to get home and let Jessyla know what’s happening.”
As he walked from the factorage toward the cot, Beltur just hoped that nothing would go wrong with the forging of Eshult’s mirror, because, if it did, he and Jorhan would be working very late in order to finish before Beltur and Jessyla left.
Somehow … it seems almost unreal. You have a cot and a home, and, most likely, in an eightday, you’ll have neither, and you’ll be headed for a place you’ve never seen, just in hopes that you can find a place that won’t force you out.
When Beltur opened the cot door and stepped inside, Jessyla was waiting.
“You’ve obviously been doing something. What, might I ask?”
“Arranging with a group of traders to accompany them to Rytel, for which we’ll get paid two golds, and extra if we have to deal with brigands. They’ll also supply food and fodder, not that I don’t think we shouldn’t bring some of our own supplies. They’re planning to leave next twoday morning.”
“That soon?”
“It will be the second eightday of spring,” Beltur pointed out.
“That’s not much time. We’ll need some oilcloth,” said Jessyla. “The ground will be wet, and more blankets than we had on the way here…”
Beltur nodded and continued to listen.
LXXXI
Fourday morning Beltur was at the healing house half a quint early, and Herrara was in her study, as if waiting for him.
“I need to tell you something,” began Beltur, “if you haven’t already heard.”
“I’ve heard. Johlana told me last night. Next twoday?”
“If we don’t get snow. We’ll be traveling with a fur trader named Jhotyl. He’s headed back to Jellico. We’ll just go as far as Rytel with him, and then keep heading east to Vergren.”
“I haven’t heard anything about Jhotyl. What do you know about him?”
“Barrynt traded with him for at least ten years. Ryntaar says that his father had no problems with Jhotyl.”
“He’s likely halfway honest, then. Did he ask you much?”
Beltur smiled wryly. “He wanted a demonstration of my skills as a mage.”
“He didn’t ask if you’d actually killed anyone, did he?”
“No. I didn’t volunteer anything like that.”
There was a silence before Herrara asked, “How many men have you killed?”
“I don’t know. At least hundreds. It could be more.”
There was another silence before she said, “I suspect it’s much more, but how can a black…?”
“I’m very limited, unless a white mage throws a chaos bolt at me. I can often catch chaos bolts with order and throw them back with greater force. The Prefect had at least six or seven powerful whites. Someone’s troopers were going to die, and someone’s mages. I thought it was better that those who died were the invaders.”
“You could have just blocked the chaos.”
Beltur shook his head. “We were outnumbered. Doing that would have assured that those who died were Spidlarians.”
“You could be wealthy as an arms-mage.”
“I’d also die younger than I’d prefer.”
“With your abilities?”
“Anyone can be killed, and the greater a threat a mage is thought to be, the more likely it is that someone will try. I’ve already seen that too many times in my life.”
“For a mage so young and talented, you’re very old and cynical in some ways.”
“And very young and inexperienced in others,” added Beltur wryly.
“Just keep that in mind. True old age and treachery often triumph over youth and great ability.”
“I’ve seen some of that everywhere I’ve lived.”
“Just don’t ever forget it.” She paused, then shook her head. “Better you than me.” After another pause, she went on. “I’d like you to look at one of the loggers caught in the avalanche. His foot was so mangled that we had to take it off.”
“I looked at him on eightday and twoday. Errakyn, isn’t it? There was a bit of wound chaos there both days, less on twoday. He seemed to be healing well.”
“He was in a lot of pain, but he kept saying that the pain was coming from his foot.”
“The one you took off, you mean?”
Herrara nodded. “I thought that might be better suited to your kind of healing.”
“I can look at him … but I’m not sure how to stop pain from a foot he doesn’t have.”
“That’s happened once or twi
ce before. I couldn’t do anything then, or last night. Maybe you’ll have more success. Then I’d like your thoughts on Klaznyt’s hands. They seem to be healed enough to take off the splints, unless you can sense anything different. You don’t need to come back down here until you look in on everyone.”
“I can do that.” Beltur moved to the shelves and picked up two baskets, then made his way out of the study and down the hallway to the large room that held the three remaining injured loggers, two of whom would likely be leaving the healing house before long, since their broken bones had been set in casts on threeday, according to Jessyla, somewhat later than usual because the swelling had not subsided as much as Herrara thought it should have for putting on casts earlier.
The three loggers had moved their beds so that one was being used as a table for some sort of game of plaques.
“Here comes the mage-healer,” said Saebasyn.
Errakyn looked up. “About time. My foot’s killing me.”
Voortaan, the third logger, with one leg in a long cast from nearly knee to toe, shifted his weight on his bed awkwardly, but said nothing.
Beltur checked Voortaan and Saebasyn first, removing some small bits of wound chaos, before he moved to Errakyn. “Where exactly is the pain?”
“In my foot.”
“The one you don’t have anymore?”
“It still hurts.”
“Does the pain go up into your leg at all?”
“Maybe a little. Hurts so much that it’s hard to tell.”
“Let’s see if I can sense anything.” Beltur concentrated. He found several small points of wound chaos, which he removed. “How does your leg feel now?”
“My leg feels fine,” replied Errakyn. “The foot hurts a little less. I know my foot’s not there, but it still hurts.”
Beltur tried to see if he could sense something like an order binding in the stump of the lower leg. He didn’t find that, but he did sense what he could only describe as a small knot that didn’t feel as though it should have been there. At least, he’d never sensed a knot like that before. Rather than remove the knot, he just eased a small bit of free order into the knot.
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