“The Analerians won’t be at the way station, will they?” asked Kaerylt.
“No. The way stations are for the army.”
“Have you ever been attacked by the Analerians?” asked Kaerylt.
“No Gallosian company has been attacked. Some squads have had trouble, but that’s likely because the raiders didn’t realize who they were. If there was a real attack, the Prefect might have to do something. Torch the grasslands, or slaughter their herds.”
“That wouldn’t be all that useful,” pointed out Kaerylt.
“Well … long as they fight each other, we just watch.”
If that’s so … why are we here? wondered Beltur. Or is it that the Prefect doesn’t want anyone to know how badly he needs more men for his army?
Another half glass passed before the fourteen riders rode into the empty way station, as the sun was beginning to drop below the western horizon.
“Beltur, make yourself useful,” said Kaerylt. “Go over and draw up some water for the horses. If there’s plenty there, use the first bucket to rinse the trough.”
“Yes, ser.” The last thing Beltur felt like was drawing water. His legs and buttocks hurt, and the insides of his thighs were raw. Besides, wasn’t that something for the troopers to do? He eased the gelding toward the square brick walls of the well. Even before he dismounted, he could see that there was no windlass, just a rope and a bucket. He tried not to wince as he dismounted and tied the gelding to a corner post rising out of the waist-high masonry wall. Then he checked the rope and the bucket. He definitely didn’t want to have the rope break or lose the bucket.
He peered down the well, but in the long shadow of the western wall cast by the setting sun, he could see nothing, although he thought he sensed water below. He slowly lowered the heavy bucket, weighted so that it would sink, until he felt it reached the water and began to fill. Then he began to haul it up. He’d forgotten just how heavy a full bucket of water was. When he got the bucket to the top, he rested it on the flat stones of the well wall for a moment.
He started to pour the bucket of water into the trough, then stopped. He couldn’t so much see as sense something like orangish-red flecks throughout the water. He set the bucket down on the wall again. “Ser!” he called to his uncle. “You should come here.”
With an annoyed expression, Kaerylt handed the reins of his mount to Sydon and strode toward Beltur. “What is it now?”
“There’s something like chaos in the water.”
“In the water? Likely story.” But Kaerylt bent over the bucket and studied it. Finally, he straightened. “There is something in the water.”
“Could it be poison or something?”
Kaerylt shook his head. “It’s corruption chaos. Not a lot, but it’s there. Someone’s likely dumped a diseased animal or parts of it into the water.” He turned and called, “Undercaptain!”
In turn, Pacek scowled and then strode across the dusty ground toward the well. “What is it?”
“The water might be tainted. Are there any other streams or springs near here?” asked Kaerylt.
“No place I’d want to send anyone in the dark. No place they could get to before full dark, either.” Pacek almost glared at Kaerylt, then looked down at the bucket in the dim light. After a pause, he bent down and dipped his cupped hand into the water and brought it up, smelling it, and tasting it. “I don’t smell anything, and I don’t taste anything. It’s good enough.”
Beltur was about to protest, but held his tongue as he caught his uncle’s quick sharp look.
“You have more experience with this than we do,” Kaerylt said deferentially.
“Is that all?” asked the undercaptain.
“That’s all.”
“Good.” Pacek turned and marched away.
“What do we do now, ser?” asked Beltur quietly.
“Just pour it into the trough. It likely won’t hurt the horses.”
“What about us?”
“It’s likely not bad enough turn your guts to water, but there’s no point in risking it. I’ll show you what to do after you get some water in the trough.”
It took Beltur two buckets of water to clean the dust out of the short trough, and three more before Kaerylt said, “That’s enough for now. Get out your water bottle.”
Beltur reclaimed it from the holder on the saddle.
“Draw another bucket of water, and fill the bottle.”
Filling the water bottle from the heavy bucket was harder than it looked, and Beltur ended up getting water on his trousers and lower sleeves.
“Watch with your senses.”
Beltur did, sensing as Kaerylt eased a small bit of chaos into the water, except that the reddish white of magely chaos seemed as separate from the water as did the orangish flecks of chaos that had already been there.
“Now, cork the bottle and shake it gently. Keep sensing the water.”
Beltur could sense that whenever the orangish flecks encountered the mage-induced chaos, the orange flecks vanished. He looked to Kaerylt. “Thank you.”
“Now that you know what to do, you can fill all our water bottles and make sure they have no corruption.”
“Yes, ser.”
In moments, there were five more water bottles on the top of the masonry wall.
Beltur was very careful in filling each one, and even more careful in adding chaos to the water. Even so, he had a splitting headache by the time he finished and returned the full bottles to Sydon and his uncle … just in time for hard biscuits and dried mutton jerky, both of which required liberal application of the just cleaned water to even chew, let alone swallow.
Seeing the expression on Beltur’s face, Undercaptain Pacek said, “These are good rations, Mage. Sometimes, the hard biscuits have more weevils than biscuit.”
“Weevils taste better, too,” muttered one of the rankers.
Beltur wondered if a touch of chaos would rid such biscuits of vermin, without destroying the biscuit. At the same time, he hoped he never had to find out. Then he took a deep breath, remembering that he still had to deal with his mount.
V
Surprisingly, Beltur slept soundly, and while he was stiff when he woke on sixday, his legs didn’t hurt nearly so much as they had, and the rawness of his thighs appeared to be lessening, or his skin was toughening. Breakfast was the same as dinner, and they were on their way before sunrise. Beltur had to admit that riding in the gray light before dawn was much more comfortable than riding in the late afternoon had been.
By midmorning the sun was as hot as it had been on the previous days, and Beltur was again mopping sweat off his face. He also noted that several of the troopers had to dismount and scurry into the chest-high tan grass beside the road to relieve themselves, in more ways than one. Neither Kaerylt nor Pacek commented on that, and Beltur certainly wasn’t about to say anything.
Sydon finally asked the question that Beltur had kept to himself after more than a day of riding through the seemingly endless high grasslands. “Aren’t there any towns?”
“Nearest place of any size is Arrat,” replied Pacek. “We should be there late this afternoon. It’s more of a hamlet than a village. There’s a post there, with hot food.” The undercaptain looked back ahead, not that there was anything to see, except the narrow road stretching ahead … and more of the brownish tan grass, bent in most places by strong winds, unlike the vagrant breezes that had too seldom graced the grasslands they had traveled so far.
After a time, Beltur turned to Kaerylt, and, keeping his voice low, asked, “Are we stopping at Arrat?”
“We’re headed on to Desanyt, another day east from Arrat. It’s a village, closest thing to a town around.”
“Is that where there’s the most trouble?” asked Beltur.
“I’d doubt it,” replied Kaerylt. “It might be where there’s the least.” At Beltur’s puzzled expression, he added, “That’s not one of the places that complained about being raided. In the places whe
re the herders have raided because they’ve had the most women leave, the men aren’t about to say anything unless the losses continue. That means that the raiders are going after other villages. They won’t raid the larger towns because they’d likely lose too many men, and they won’t gain many women by raiding other bands of nomads.”
“We’re going there so that the Prefect can say that he’s sent white mages to deal with the problem?”
“Another brilliant deduction,” said Kaerylt dryly. “Besides, we have to start somewhere.”
“You’re hoping that our presence will stop the women from leaving and cut down on the raiding.”
“It should,” interjected Sydon.
“The most our mere presence will do,” replied Kaerylt in the same dry tone, “is to let the towns know that the Prefect is concerned. The raiders may not even know that we’re around. It may be helpful to let them know. If they see that the Prefect is concerned, it might stop the raids. More likely, they’ll raid where we aren’t.”
“Do you think more women will leave because they’ll think we’ll stop the men from chasing them down?” asked Sydon.
“Both of you are equally brilliant this morning.”
Once again, Beltur was reminded why he tended not to ask too many questions. Yet it seemed that a half squad of mounted troopers would be more effective in tracking down fleeing women than three white mages who didn’t know all that much about the grasslands of northern Analeria. Except …
He nodded. With kays and kays of high grass that looked pretty much the same, it would take hundreds of troopers, if not thousands, to try to track down a comparatively few women … and if the Prefect happened to be worrying about what the Viscount might be doing, using troopers to track unarmed women wasn’t the best use of his army. It’s not the best use of mages, either. But then, white mages who weren’t regularly paid retainers of the Prefect really couldn’t afford to turn down paying tasks offered by Denardre.
In the very late afternoon, one that was hotter and drier than the previous days, Beltur caught sight of what looked to be a woodlot just next to the south side of the road, possibly two kays ahead, although that was hard to tell, given the flatness of the grasslands.
“That’s Arrat,” announced Undercaptain Pacek laconically.
Beltur’s immediate thought was that there must be a spring at Arrat, since there weren’t trees anywhere else, and he doubted that anyone would dig a well just to water trees. Even as they rode closer, though, he saw no sign of houses, just a brown wall with the trees behind it, in what appeared to be a square roughly a kay on a side. The tree trunks appeared to be very close together.
“Where are the houses?” Sydon finally asked.
“Behind the trees,” replied Pacek. “They’re gray thorn trees, and their lower branches fill most of the space between the trunks.”
Beltur nodded. The trees formed a natural barricade, and there was nothing else that would burn, except for grass, for kays and kays, and the grass wouldn’t burn that hot for that long.
“I could flame my way through that,” murmured Sydon.
“To what end?” asked Kaerylt. “To obtain their hoard of gold or their beautiful women? Or perhaps to admire their magnificent structures that tower into the skies before using your last scraps of chaos to destroy them?”
Sydon started to reply, then shut his mouth.
“Are all the hamlets protected in the same way?” asked Beltur.
“Most aren’t,” replied Pacek. “It takes too much work and plentiful springs.”
That made sense. Beltur nodded.
As they neared the hamlet, he kept watching, both the grasslands and the walls, but he saw no one. The dusty road ran parallel to the eastern wall of the hamlet, but a space of a good hundred yards separated the road from the wall and the trees. When Beltur rode past the northern wall of the hamlet, he noticed a walled enclosure located on the road several hundred yards south of the southern wall of Arrat. It did not appear to be in the best of condition, with piles of crumbled bricks at the base.
Something appeared at the base of the wall, almost as if hiding behind one of the brick piles. Beltur realized it was a dog, lean and clearly wary.
“That looks like an old way station out there,” said Sydon.
“There’s also a dog there,” added Beltur.
“It is,” said Pacek. “That’s the way station for those they don’t trust. The mongrel dogs sometimes scrounge there from mongrel traders. There’s a barracks and stable just inside the walls for us.” The undercaptain laughed. “That way, if anyone attacks, we’ll be close to the gate. I’ve been coming here for nearly ten years. Never happened yet. The other reason is that it keeps us away from their women. They don’t ever mention that, but you won’t see many. Those you do see are white-haired. If you’re lucky, they might only have gray hair.” He laughed harshly before adding, “The food is decent, sometimes better.”
A brick-paved narrow lane ran from the road to the narrow iron-bound gate barely wide enough for a single wagon. The gate itself was set between two massive brick gateposts three yards on a side that stood over five yards above the entry lane. The square crenellated wall on top of each post, as well as a number of arrow slits, suggested that the hamlet was serious about defending itself. The gate itself was four yards tall and closed. The gate remained closed as the fourteen rode from the road toward the hamlet’s walls.
Pacek reined up some ten yards back from the gate, then gestured to the ranker who had been riding beside him. The trooper produced a small trumpet and played a short salute. That was what it sounded like to Beltur, anyway. Nothing happened. No one appeared at the gate.
After a time, Pacek said, “Again.”
Shortly, the gate swung open, pushed outward by two young men. Beltur half expected that the heavy gate would squeak or creak, but it did neither. He could see that the pavement continued into another walled area.
A dark-haired and clean-shaven man perhaps the age of Kaerylt walked out from a narrow archway just behind the right gatepost. He wore pale or faded blue trousers, a long-sleeved tunic, and sandals. “Who seeks shelter in Arrat?”
“The troopers of Prefect Denardre.”
“With white mages?”
Pacek gestured to Kaerylt, as if to suggest the answer was up to the senior mage.
Kaerylt eased his mount forward, even with Pacek, and reined up. “The Prefect has sent me in response to a request that he address the concerns of the people of the grasslands that too many of their women are fleeing to the Westhorns.”
“He has not seen fit to listen to our concerns in the past,”
“I can only say that he ordered us here for that reason.”
“You are welcome to the quarters for the troopers. After you have refreshed yourself, you can meet with the council, if that is agreeable.”
“That is most agreeable and generous in spirit on the part of the council. I look forward to such a meeting.”
“We will hear what you say with interest.” The councilor looked to Pacek. “You and your men and the mage and his men are welcome in the usual manner. And for the usual terms. You will sign the accounts in the morning.”
“I will, as always.” The undercaptain nodded solemnly. “Thank you.”
The councilor turned and left by the same archway he had used before.
“The stables are through the gates and to the left at the far end of the courtyard,” said Pacek. “We’re supposed to stay in the area around the barracks. It’s a good idea to do that.”
Kaerylt looked at the undercaptain quizzically. “Terms from the locals?”
“No. Discipline from the Prefect’s arms-commander if there’s a complaint. The hamlet and town councils will make complaints.”
“That might seem … difficult … for them,” suggested Kaerylt.
“It’s very easy. They keep the gates closed until they get a response. There’s no water in that way station. Not anywhere else,
either. Why do you think the Prefect pays?”
“Couldn’t he take over the hamlet?”
“He likely could, but that would require a garrison, and garrisons are costly. Much more costly than provisions.”
Kaerylt nodded. “I see.”
While Beltur understood why the troopers didn’t wish to upset the people in hamlets like Arrat, he was also beginning to wonder why the Prefect even bothered with trying to rule Analeria, although he knew there had to be a reason, even if it might not be the best one. He and the others followed the undercaptain through the gate and then left toward the south end of the narrow courtyard, the walls of which had no windows or other openings, except for the doorless archways into the stable and a second single and narrow gate in the middle of the west wall.
The stable was constructed largely of mud bricks, with a roof of grass thatch, but the archways were low, and all the riders had to dismount in the open courtyard and then walk their horses into the stable. Beltur couldn’t help but notice that the stable floor was paved with the same kind of bricks as the courtyard, except the bricks comprising the stable floor had been coated with something like varnish, although he had no idea what substance would harden over mud brick. In any case, he was glad for the comparative coolness of the stable, and the fact it was far easier to unsaddle and groom his horse in the narrow stall.
He was just finishing when Kaerylt appeared and stood at the end of the stall, waiting. Beltur didn’t hurry, but finished grooming the horse and gathering his duffel before leaving the stall, closing the half door, and then sliding the wooden bolt into place.
“You did a good job with the horse.”
“Thank you, ser.”
Sydon appeared, carrying both his duffel and Kaerylt’s, and stood there waiting.
The older mage did not move. Instead, he cleared his throat. “Beltur … I have a task for you. You’re good with concealments. Good enough, anyway, even if your concealments are more like those of an ordermage than I’d like … but then, I suppose that’s also a form of concealment.”
The Mongrel Mage Page 4