Pacek hesitated for a moment. “Then we both should do that.”
“That we should.” Kaerylt turned to Beltur. “You can take care of the horses, and Sydon will carry the gear to whatever quarters we have.”
That didn’t surprise Beltur in the slightest.
Sydon didn’t return to the stables until Beltur was finishing grooming the last of the three horses, but at least he had already carried Beltur’s duffel to the small barracks chamber they were to share.
Beltur just followed the older mage.
“It’s an undercaptains’ room,” explained Sydon as he opened the door. “They share. Or they would if there were any here. The only time that happens is when a larger force comes through.”
Beltur wrinkled his nose, trying not to sneeze. “That must have been years ago.”
“I know. I did use a little chaos to move out the worst of the dust.”
Beltur wasn’t sure whether Sydon’s chaotic cleaning hadn’t left things worse. “Thank you. When or where do we eat? Or should we just go looking?”
“I found the mess. They looked to be getting ready.”
“I’d like to wash up.”
“Oh … I imagine you would. There’s a washroom at the end of the corridor.”
Less than a quarter of a glass later, the two were waiting outside the mess when Kaerylt arrived.
“Good. You found the mess.”
“How did your meeting go with the captain?” asked Beltur.
“We’ll talk about that later. We’ll be seated at the officers’ table with Captain Lemaryt, along with his undercaptain and Undercaptain Pacek. He’ll want to hear from you two about the skirmish with the raiders. I’d prefer that neither of you discuss any difficulties you had.”
“Yes, ser,” agreed Beltur.
Sydon just nodded knowingly.
“They’re already inside.” Kaerylt motioned and then turned.
As his uncle led the way into the mess and toward a table at one end, Beltur saw three officers already standing there. One was Pacek, and the other two were a captain and another undercaptain. Lemaryt was graying and angular, and a good half head shorter than Beltur, but his eyes were a hard and intense gray. He studied the mages intently as they approached.
“Welcome to Desanyt Post, and our rather humble fare,” offered the captain in a voice that was not quite rumbling and also gravelly. He nodded to the undercaptain. “This is my second, Undercaptain Harryn.”
“We’re pleased to meet you both, and we appreciate your hospitality,” replied Kaerylt.
“It’s not like the Prefect afforded a choice to either of us, Mage.” Lemaryt grinned, if briefly, showing yellowed and uneven teeth, then gestured for the others to sit as he seated himself.
In moments, a ranker appeared with two pitchers, followed by another ranker with two platters. The pitchers ended up in front of the captain, the platters immediately behind them. Behind them was the basket of bread that had been there earlier.
“Light and dark ale,” explained Lemaryt.
Beltur studied the platters, noting that one had some form of sliced meat smothered in what looked to be a milk gravy, while the second contained a vegetable combination of green beans, mushrooms, and carrots and a heaped pile of boiled sliced potatoes.
“No chilies, I notice,” observed Kaerylt.
“I’ve told the cooks no more than four spicy evening meals an eightday. Sometimes, the spicy meals are better, but chilies all the time burn out your taste.”
Beltur refrained from nodding. Even though he was the last to serve himself, there was still plenty of fowl left on the platters, and no one had touched the pitcher of light ale.
After a time, the captain took a swallow from his mug, then looked at Kaerylt. “I’d like to hear from your mages about the raiders.”
Kaerylt nodded to Sydon. “You first.”
“Yes, ser. There were about twenty-two of them, and they started loosing shafts at us as soon as we were in range…” Sydon gave a quick summary of what had happened, then looked to Beltur.
“I can’t add much to that, ser, but I did notice that most of them carried two blades, and each was shorter than a real sword but longer than a dirk.”
“Sabre length,” corrected Lemaryt. “Go on.”
Beltur added a few more sentences about the raiders walking and then breaking into a gallop, his use of chaos on the raiders, and his surprise when the skirmish was suddenly over.
“The only surprise I have,” commented Lemaryt dryly, “is why it took them so long to realize attacking you was stupid.” He turned to Kaerylt. “Do you really think you can do anything to stop women from fleeing to Westwind?”
“That’s what the Prefect has ordered.”
“He could order the wind to stop blowing, too.”
“The dark angels have to be doing something to entice those women,” replied Kaerylt. “Why else would they flee to a place that is colder than anywhere else in the world?”
“Why indeed?” Lemaryt offered a laugh. “And you will oppose their dark arts with white chaos?”
“As well as anything else I can think of.” Kaerylt took a long swallow of dark ale and then refilled his mug. “Do the nomads fight over herds … or do they just feel they have to fight?”
“Both, from what I’ve seen. They also fight over women. The band leaders always have more than one woman, and that makes women scarce for the younger men.”
“Is that common here in Desanyt and the other towns?”
Lemaryt shook his head. “That’s another reason why the nomads don’t attack the towns. Most of the women here carry dirks, and they can use them. We usually lose a few men every year.”
“You let that happen?” Kaerylt’s voice carried an edge of incredulity.
“A man is found in an alley with a single blade wound to the heart. No one knows how it happened. You expect me to round up every woman with a dirk?” Lemaryt shook his head. “The rankers are all told that forcing a woman here is dangerous, especially one who’s already consorted. Some of them don’t listen. Then, after one of them dies, the others listen for a while.”
“I can’t believe … women…”
“There was one young fellow, big strapping farm boy out of somewhere east of here, Tellura … maybe Meltosia … made a habit of having his way with women. He lasted a month. What was left of him wasn’t … anything you’d want to see.”
“How do your men deal with that?” asked Sydon, clearly curious, rather than confrontational.
“It’s simple enough. If a woman says ‘no,’ she means it. If she says ‘yes,’ she also means that. If she’s says nothing, she hasn’t decided, and you don’t force her. Honey and silver work better with women anywhere. There are more than enough who prefer coins. It’s still a hard life here in the towns. Easier than with the nomads, but women from both sometimes think Westwind might offer more.”
Sydon nodded, and Kaerylt shot a hard glance at his main assistant.
Beltur took another small swallow of ale, ale that had a taste that was rather different, but not unpleasant, and another slice of the not quite gamy fowl.
“How long will you be here?” asked Lemaryt.
“Only a few days, but that depends on what I learn from the council.”
“The council here doesn’t have much power. They just advise the town elder. That’s Jhankyr. You’d be better to ask for a meeting with him first. He might suggest you meet with the council, but you wouldn’t offend him by approaching him directly.”
“Thank you for the advice,” said Kaerylt evenly. “Where are the problems with the women likely to be the worst, and where are they causing the most difficulty in recruiting and dealing with raiders?”
Lemaryt frowned. “Anywhere closer to the Westhorns. That’s just because a runaway woman doesn’t have to go as far to reach Westwind. Kasiera is a name I’ve heard and seen in the dispatches. It’s two days from here, south and west. More west than south.”<
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“What exactly have you heard?” pressed Kaerylt.
“Not much. Just that there are more nomad raiders around the town. That might mean that they’re getting desperate.”
“Or that the town was careless,” suggested Harryn. “Maybe both.”
“That’s possible,” agreed Lemaryt easily. “It’s all that I’ve heard, though.”
Conversation for the rest of the meal was more on pleasantries—and the difficulties of maintaining the post and getting proper supplies.
Beltur could tell that his uncle, while pleasant, was less than impressed with either Lemaryt or Harryn, but Kaerylt said nothing until the three left the mess and then met in the chamber given to Kaerylt.
“It’s as if the Prefect doesn’t even rule here,” said the older mage in a low voice, as if he suspected others might be listening, even though Beltur could sense no one nearby. “The commander of a Gallosian post allowing women to kill troopers … and deferring to a mere town elder? That’s absurd.”
“What do you want us to do about it?” asked Sydon.
“Bad as it is, that’s not something we can do anything about. We weren’t sent here for that reason. We’ll just have to deal with it. But we don’t have to like it. You also had best remember that we’re on our own if we get into trouble. If the locals can kill troopers without fear of retaliation, don’t think anyone is going to save you.”
Beltur had never thought that, even in Fenard, and he doubted that Sydon had either.
“Now, we might as well get some sleep.”
That was fine with Beltur.
VII
Beltur was so tired that he didn’t wake up on eightday morning until he heard Kaerylt pounding on the door, followed by Sydon’s mumbled reply about it being early.
“That’s the whole point of getting up early,” came Kaerylt’s response. “To get something done.”
The two junior mages hurried, rushing through dressing, washing, getting to the mess, eating, and then following Kaerylt to the stables. There the older mage glared—again—at both younger men.
Beltur resigned himself to the tenor of the words that would follow.
“Sleeping late is for babies and old men. You’re certainly not old.” Kaerylt snorted. “You’re coming with me, Sydon. Beltur, you need to walk into town and look around. Don’t use a concealment at first. If you think people might be talking, get out of their sight, and then raise a concealment and go back and see what you can discover. Take your time, but be back here a good glass before the evening meal.” The older mage handed over a silver. “If there’s what passes for an inn or a tavern, and there are more than a few people there, use this and then listen. First openly, and then under a concealment.”
“Yes, ser.”
Beltur watched as the other two saddled and rode out. Then he walked through the stable, looking for an armsman who might be willing to talk. Before long, he found a younger trooper in a small room off the tack room, glumly polishing various items of brass, mostly wall lamps, it appeared. “Extra duties?”
“Oh … no…” The trooper, barely beyond being a youth, took in Beltur’s white tunic, and quickly added, “I mean, yes, ser.”
“How long have you been posted here?”
“Not quite a season. Nine eightdays.”
“Are you from Fenard?”
“No, ser. Linspros.”
“That’s not that far away. Almost due east of here. What, three days’ ride?”
“If you could ride there straight. Can’t get there that way, though. More like six days.”
“Because of the big wash or canyon?”
“And the brigands that hide there.”
“Linspros has to be a lot bigger than Desanyt.”
“Not that much bigger. Only has three public houses. There’s two here.”
“Which one here is better?”
“Both are pretty poor. Brown Pitcher’s got better brew. Women, if you can call ’em that, at the Brass Bowl.”
“You’ll spend more at the Brass Bowl,” offered Beltur.
“Not me. You can’t even look without paying more.”
“So most of the troopers go to the Brown Pitcher?”
“Couldn’t say, ser.”
The way the young man said those words was almost a confirmation, but Beltur nodded. “Anything else exciting in town?”
“Watching the wind blow and the river flow, maybe.”
Beltur laughed, then asked, “Do any of the grasslands types come into town often?”
“Once in a while, I hear. I can’t say as I’ve ever seen any.” The trooper frowned. “Why are you here?”
“The same reason you are. Orders. Of a sort. The Prefect sent the mage I work for here. Something about too many of the nomads fighting because they don’t have enough women.”
“Mages have to follow orders?”
Beltur shrugged, then offered a rueful smile. “Well … if we want to eat.”
The trooper tried not to smile. “Suppose it’s the same everywhere.”
“Too often, it is.” Beltur smiled again and stepped back. “Best of fortune.”
“Thank you, ser.”
Beltur left the stable and headed for the gate. The guards at the gate barely looked at him as he walked out. While the lane to the river road was paved, when he reached the road he discovered that there was only a dirt path beside the road spanning the distance between the lane and the first dwellings north of the post. Each step he took raised a puff of dust in the still air of the cloudless morning, a morning already too warm to be comfortable.
As he neared the houses, he could see that they were similar, but certainly not identical. As with all of the dwellings and buildings he had seen riding in, the houses were but a single story. The outside walls were smooth, mud bricks covered by a mud stucco, then painted with a white wash. On the southernmost dwelling, the wash had faded so much that the grayish brown underneath showed through in places, but the dwelling three north of that was an almost pure white, suggesting a recent refinishing. Unlike the houses on the north end of the town, the narrow windows in the ones Beltur could see were glazed, as well as fitted with shutters. Each house had a wide stoop, but no porch, and, as in Arrat, a wall extending from the rear of each dwelling enclosed a rear courtyard or garden, most likely both, since Beltur could see trees rising above the walls. He thought the trees were apricots, but wasn’t sure.
As he passed the second house, he heard a woman singing, and the sound came from the rear courtyard of the third house. He tried to pick out the song, listening as carefully as he could.
“All day I dragged a boat of stone
and came home when you weren’t alone,
so I took all those blasted rocks
and buried all your boyish fancy locks …
and took you for a ride in my boat of stone…”
Beltur winced at the last line, but kept walking, thinking. As he moved away from the singer, what puzzled him most was that the words, if he’d heard them correctly, were almost vindictive toward men, but the song was cheerful, and the singer had sung loud enough for those words to be heard well beyond the courtyard.
That doesn’t sound like an unhappy woman. He considered again. Or is she really angry and doesn’t care who knows it? He glanced back at the house. It looked much cleaner and neater than those on either side, and it had been recently given a fresh coat of whitewash.
All he could do was shake his head. He wasn’t about to try to climb a wall to find out, even using a concealment. Not yet, anyway. He kept walking. Some of the houses were almost as neat as the white one, although a few looked run-down. He walked past six or seven side streets before he came to the market square.
He wasn’t certain what to expect, given that it was eightday. The market squares in Fenard were busy on eightday because so many people worked seven days, and Desanyt seemed to be the same, with peddlers and growers setting up stalls and arranging their carts. Beltur made
a rough count, and judged that there might be forty-five to fifty carts and stalls set up in the square. There was an entire row of carts filled with various melons. He recognized sweet green and yellow melons, but not the most prevalent melon, one with a yellow and green patterned skin. So he stopped and asked an older man what the melon was.
“It’s a sweet canlyn. You won’t find a sweeter one anywhere in the square.”
“Where do you grow them?”
“My plot’s next to the river, good rich bottomland there … Just a copper for two.”
Beltur smiled. “I might be back.”
“They’ll be all gone if you wait too long, ser mage.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
As he moved along the vendors, he did notice that while he saw several very small children, some of whom were girls, they were not with their mothers, but with either men who could have been their fathers or older women who were likely grandmothers. There were no young women, not that he could see, in the square. He looked more closely at the next two older women he passed, noting that they both wore dirks at their belts, and both wore garments that covered everything but their hands, face, upper neck, and hair.
At one edge of the square, he saw a much older man, slight of build, a tinker with a grindstone, and a small table with knives and scissors laid out on the gray cloth.
“You be needing a knife, ser mage? I’ve got the best you’ll find this side of the great wash.”
Given how little Beltur had seen, he wouldn’t have doubted the man’s truthfulness, even if he hadn’t sensed the honesty behind the words. “Do you have a shop here?”
“Hektyl’s the name. Best tinker in Analeria. Spend an eightday or so in each town, then travel on.”
“Because folks don’t need too many knives?”
“That’d be true. But they like to keep ’em sharp and true. That’s why they come to me.”
“Where were you before Desanyt?”
“Came from Arrat, and Paalsyra before that. Just a night there. Not much more than a hamlet.”
“You travel alone?”
“Not if I can help it,” replied the tinker with a wry chuckle. “Try to hire out as a guard. I’m fair with a blade, better’n that with my horn bow.”
The Mongrel Mage Page 7