“Besides that.”
“We could walk around Rheon and get an idea of the town … and of Khel.”
“You’ll need a very long walk.”
“If we’re going to see the town and all the woolen shops, then I’ll need a solid breakfast.” Quaeryt turned toward the public room, followed by Arion and Zhelan.
“You will, dearest,” murmured Vaelora.
Quaeryt shook his head.
34
Although the clouds began to break by midafternoon on Meredi, there was no point in starting out so late in the day. There had also been little gained by Quaeryt’s and Vaelora’s walking through Rheon, since there had been nothing significant to distinguish it from small towns elsewhere in Lydar-except for the woolen shop, which, Quaeryt had to admit, did have bolts of tightly woven cloth with patterns he’d not seen elsewhere.
By Jeudi morning, the air had warmed, and the snow had begun to melt. By the eighth glass the road was mostly clear, although the hillsides still held snow, and Arion proclaimed that the weather would only warm. Quaeryt wouldn’t have wanted to ride on the roads of Bovaria-most of them, anyway-but the gray stone road was indeed clear in all but the most shaded of spots. As Arion had predicted, the innkeeper had been surprised, astonished, it appeared, at the five golds he had received from Quaeryt, and he bowed profusely-if with great relief, Quaeryt suspected.
Less than a glass after leaving Rheon, they came to a shady area dusted with snow. Arion’s scouts called a halt and requested that Quaeryt and Arion come forward to look at the tracks in the snow.
“A single rider,” said the scout. “He was moving faster than a walk through here earlier today because there’s been no wind. Yesterday … would have been covered with blowing snow, most likely.”
“It couldn’t have been a dispatch rider looking for you, sir, could it?” asked Arion.
Quaeryt shook his head. “Couriers always travel with at least two escorts. Khaern would have sent at least that many.”
“Wonder who it could have been in such a hurry in this weather,” mused Arion. “Don’t see many single riders on the roads these days, especially not at the beginning of winter.”
“We could set the scouts another hundred yards farther ahead,” suggested Zhelan.
“That can’t hurt,” agreed Quaeryt. Hoofprints in the snow headed northwest, toward Saendeol and whatever lay along the way. Just a coincidence? He had no way of knowing.
They kept riding, and Quaeryt kept pondering, but by midday the road was clear everywhere, although the wind from the west was still chill, if no longer as bitter as it had been earlier. The scouts reported no one, and there were no other signs of riders.
That night, they found quarters of a sort in a small town set in a wide valley that was so flat it might once have been a lake. Vendrei morning was warmer, with skies almost clear, except for a faint haze. The wind had shifted from the north to the southeast and had become more temperate, giving a more autumnal feel to the air, even though the fields through which they rode were either brown or stubbled.
Slightly after midday, as the fields gave way to sparse grassland with scattered bushes and trees, Vaelora turned to Arion and asked, “How much farther to Saendeol? How many days?”
“Tonight we will stop in Sovahl,” replied Arion. “It is at the foot of the Deol Hills. From there it is a ride of five or six glasses to Saendeol.”
“For what is Sovahl known?” asked Quaeryt, not that he was supremely interested in one town over another, but because any knowledge would be valuable.
“Gemstones. The hills to the north of Sovahl hold many kinds of precious stones, and the gem merchants of Sovahl are known for their ability to cut and to shape those stones.”
“Why didn’t Kharst occupy Sovahl, then?”
“He did. Rather, the factors who had purchased stones from Sovahl hurried to Sovahl. They found nothing, except empty buildings. Gems, even the largest, are small, and one has to know what they look like before they are cut. The tools to cut are small. Everyone fled into the hills. Not all have yet returned. Some may never return, except to sell stones.”
“They just left? And no one chased them?”
“You will see,” promised Arion with a laugh. “You will see.”
By midafternoon, as they neared the hills to the north and west, the almost barren grasslands gave way to low, rugged, and rocky rises with little greenery except occasional scrub junipers and squat pines, with stretches of sand between the rises, various scattered bushes, and sparse stands of wild grasses, now bent and brown.
“Not exactly the most hospitable place,” observed Quaeryt, leaning forward in the saddle to stretch his back. “I think I can see why the Bovarians didn’t have much success in chasing down the gem dealers. Are the hills around Saendeol this desolate?”
“They are dry, but not so dry as here,” replied Arion.
“And there’s a town ahead?” asked Vaelora. “Where? It doesn’t look like there could be anything here.”
“Another glass or so, I would judge.”
Vaelora raised her eyebrows.
Smothering a smile, Quaeryt asked, “Were these lands greener a long time ago?”
“I do not know. Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered. This is a very good road. It was built a long time ago, yet you tell me it only runs from Saendeol to Kherseilles, and there’s nothing here except a few towns, and herders and gem miners and merchants.”
“Saendeol was once very important. It was also the capital of Jovana, when what is Khel was three lands.”
That was something Quaeryt had not heard. “How long ago was that?”
“Before the time of the lost ones, generations before. I cannot say. Remember I come from the north and west.”
Quaeryt still thought that the lands of the south had once been more lush, but it was clear that what Arion knew about this part of Khel was limited.
Another glass passed before Arion spoke again, smiling. “The edge of the town is just ahead.”
The road began a gentle descent into lower ground running between two sandstone buttes, each about twenty yards back from the road and rising no more than thirty yards above the road. Each one was shaped like a squarish ridge that extended some two hundred yards or so, Quaeryt thought. He frowned. There wasn’t a building in sight … except he saw thin trails of smoke rising into the midafternoon sky in places-from the buttes themselves. Then, between the buttes he saw sandstone-paved lanes leading off from the gray stone of the road.
“The town … it’s carved into the stone itself?”
“It is. Many of the chambers were cut out even before there was a road, or so they have told me.”
As the column of troopers and officers neared the “town,” Quaeryt could see openings cut into the reddish sandstone, on two and sometimes three levels. Some of the “dwellings” or “shops” carved out of the sandstone were vacant and had been so for some time, with shutters either missing or hanging askew, or with vacant oblongs on the ground level where doors had been. Still, most seemed to be occupied in some fashion or another. The brown-stained shutters flanking those windows or openings that had shutters were anchored into the sandstone itself.
After they had ridden several hundred yards past the first inhabited stone chambers, Arion gestured for them to follow the scouts to the right down a wide sandstone paved lane. Ahead of them and to their left, sculpted out of the stone, was a pointed arch rising some ten yards, and in the center of the base of the arch were double doors, brassbound and half open. Shuttered windows set some two to three yards apart extended for some twenty yards on each side of the arch, with three levels of windows. At the south end of the “building” toward which they rode was a set of wide stable doors.
“Welcome to the Stone Inn,” said Arion as he reined up outside those doors from which two young men hurried out. “I did tell them that we’d likely be back.”
“How far back does that stable go?
” asked Quaeryt.
“To the other side of the butte. That way they get fresh air. The last part, well, those are really just tunnels big enough for the horses, with iron grates on the eastern end.”
“You’ve actually looked?”
“I rode back there with a torch. It’s dark after the stable proper ends before you get to the far end, and you can feel the air moving.”
Quaeryt could see Vaelora shiver, but she said nothing.
“I think we’d like a chamber with a window,” suggested Quaeryt.
“Oh … all of them do. They run along the front on all three levels. They use the chambers on the inside for storage and other things. We’d best dismount and see the innkeeper. They get offended if we don’t greet them first.”
“By all means,” said Quaeryt, easing himself out of the saddle. By the time he turned to Vaelora, she was already standing beside him.
They followed Arion to the brassbound doors in the middle of the sculpted stone arch. Three men emerged, two younger, who stood behind the older man, presumably the innkeeper.
Arion nodded politely and spoke several phrases.
The innkeeper smiled, and nodded in return, replying with several much longer phrases.
He was a wiry man, his skin darker than that of most Pharsi and weathered, who looked old enough to be a grandfather. His eyes scarcely moved to Vaelora, which surprised Quaeryt. Instead, he inclined his head deeply to Quaeryt and spoke once more.
Quaeryt didn’t understand a word.
“He says that he is pleased that a son of the north has come to grace his inn, and he will offer all that he can for your favor,” said Arion.
“If you would tell him, in the proper phrases, that we appreciate his hospitality and add whatever else is customary and proper.” Quaeryt wasn’t so certain he wanted to promise favor without knowing what that entailed.
Arion spoke for several moments, and the innkeeper smiled and inclined his head, then gestured to the young men and spoke again.
“They will show us our places while the men stable the mounts and unload. We will eat in about a glass.”
In moments Quaeryt and Vaelora were inside the sandstone inn, where the corridors were narrower and shorter than he had expected, only a little more than a handspan above his head, and Quaeryt was not that tall a man. The chamber that Quaeryt and Vaelora shared was smaller than he expected, no more than three yards by four, with two windows a yard and a half apart, each slightly more than half a yard wide. There were no inner shutters and no hangings. The furnishings consisted of a thick pallet on a stone platform that was part of and rose from the sandstone floor. There were two stools, a washstand, a chamber pot, and a set of pegs protruding from the wall. Covering the bed pallet were heavy woolen blankets woven in designs of black and white. There was a coarse linen or cotton undersheet, and two thin brownish towels, one on each side of the washstand.
“This is not Rex Kharst’s canal boat,” observed Vaelora.
“No. It’s not even the inn in Geusyn.”
They looked at each other and laughed.
After washing up as best they could, Vaelora stretched out on the bed, such as it was, on top of the blankets.
“It’s not that uncomfortable. It doesn’t sag, anyway, not like the inn in Laaryn.”
“You never said anything about that,” replied Quaeryt.
“I didn’t think I had to. Besides, it wasn’t as cramped as the boat.”
“How old do you think this is?”
“Older than I think I want to know.”
Sitting on the edge of the stone bed, Quaeryt smiled at that.
A quint later they made their way down to the public room, a chamber large enough to hold all of first company and Arion’s two squads, with several of the long trestle tables still empty. The stone ceiling was supported by columns of stone that had been left in place when the space had been cut, in irregular places. The columns were darkened with the smoke of ages.
“More lamb?” asked Quaeryt as they seated themselves at a table with the other officers, one set off partly in a stone alcove with a narrow stone window above one end, through which cool air flowed, for which Quaeryt was grateful, given the smoky air.
“No. Goat, most likely,” replied Arion. “The land is hard even for sheep, and the goat will be sliced thinly or chopped and cooked for a long time. But it is good.”
“What is there to drink?”
Arion gave a rueful expression. “Here you have a choice of a bitter beer-I would not call it ale or lager-or fermented goat’s milk.” He paused. “The beer is safer, I think.”
Quaeryt glanced at the column behind Arion, carved with figures in a circular scrolling pattern that rose almost to the ceiling. He saw men and horses, hunters with bows, a merchant bestowing what looked like a gem to a man in elaborate garb. What he didn’t see were any women.
“I’ve been looking at the carvings in the stone. They look to be old, and there aren’t any women shown.”
“You’re among the southern hill people here. They’re not truly Pharsi, and the stories say that they were here from the beginning. Unless you know them well, and they trust you totally, you never see a woman, and seldom a girl.”
As if to emphasize that, the servers were all men, and they set the same stoneware bowl, filled with a stew, as well as a stoneware mug, in front of each officer and Vaelora. There were two large pitchers on the table, one sandstone red, and the other white.
“The red is beer,” explained Arion.
The stew was tender, tangy, and not especially spicy, with a touch of mint and a spice he’d never tasted. The beer was so bitter that Quaeryt had to force himself to drink even a swallow of it. Then he imaged away the local brew and replaced it with the lager with which he filled his water bottle, adequate but not particularly good. But then, he didn’t know enough about brewing to image superb lager. Even so, he did the same for Vaelora and was rewarded with a thankful smile … after a briefly puzzled expression crossed her lips.
When he looked down the table, he thought that Khalis had done the same thing, and suggested it to Lhandor. While he couldn’t read their lips, the looks on their faces when they glanced at the pitchers and the comparative ease with which they lifted their mugs suggested they were having little difficulty drinking what was in them.
“How was your stew?” he finally asked Vaelora.
“Not bad … especially with the … change in beverage,” she murmured back.
“I thought it might help.”
“It did. I just hope it’s not necessary for the remainder of the time in Khel.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I hope we can get a good night’s sleep this evening.”
Quaeryt did not miss the slight emphasis on the word “sleep,” but he smiled anyway.
35
As the undercaptains formed up on Vendrei morning outside the Stone Inn stable doors, Quaeryt rode over to where Khalis and Lhandor waited, almost stirrup to stirrup.
“How did you find the local beer?” he asked, smiling.
Khalis looked to Lhandor.
Lhandor laughed softly. “It was awful, sir.”
“But I noticed you two were lifting your mugs rather often.”
“So were you, sir,” replied Lhandor. “How did you find it?”
“As you did,” Quaeryt said pleasantly. “You seemed to find a way to deal with it. Water, wine, ale, lager … what did you manage?”
Khalis grinned ruefully. “Berry juice and water. I tried to image lager, but it was worse than the beer.”
“And you?” Quaeryt looked to the other Pharsi undercaptain.
“Piss-poor lager, sir, but better than the beer,” replied Lhandor.
“What’s in your water bottles?”
“Piss-poor lager,” replied Lhandor.
“Good,” said Quaeryt. “Keep your eyes open today.”
“More so than usual, sir?” asked Khalis.
�
�Call it a feeling.” Quaeryt nodded, then eased his mount forward to rejoin Vaelora near the head of the column. He was pleased that the two youngest imagers were widening their skills, and not just at his urging.
As Quaeryt and Vaelora rode away from the Stone Inn, Quaeryt could see the innkeeper and the two younger men standing just outside the stone arch over the entry, watching impassively as the column of troopers passed. Very few of the doors in the sandstone cliffs that held the rest of the town had any signboards, but many of those that did bore letters or symbols that Quaeryt did not understand, leaving him with the feeling that they had not so much as ridden through Khel but through a part of Lydar’s distant past.
Just north of Sovahl, the road turned almost due west up a gently sloping dry valley that was little less than a half mille across at its base. Quaeryt saw no sign of any dwellings, nor of livestock or even of goats. Yet the stone road ran straight as a quarrel up the middle of the valley that held only sparse grass and bushes, and little enough of either.
“Tell us more about Saendeol,” prompted Quaeryt. “How big is it? What are the buildings like? The land around it?”
Arion shrugged, then gestured at the stony and near-barren hillsides on each side of the valley. “The land is much like this for the next fifteen milles or so. They call it the stone desert. After that, there are pines and other trees on the heights, and there are tall grasses, good forage in places. There is a small river that runs through the long valley that holds Saendeol. There are many apricot orchards, and the brandy they make from it is well known. The traders of Jariola send ships every year to Pointe Neiman to buy kegs of it.”
“What about the buildings?” asked Quaeryt. “Are they hollowed into the stone?”
“No. The oldest are built of the gray stone like the road. The newest are of sandstone, but they look the oldest.”
“Are there council buildings that are also old?”
“There is only one council building. It stands on top of a round hill, and it is round as well. I do not know what lies inside.”
For the next several glasses, they rode along the old stone road, as level and as well crafted as any of the Naedaran roads and showing less wear, with scarcely a crack or a fissure, through the dry hills until they came to a rise with a scattering of trees, which included bare-limbed broadleaf trees as well as the previous scattered pines and junipers. When they reached the crest of the road, Quaeryt could make out below a moderately wide valley, sprinkled with the orchards of which Arion had spoken, as well as hundreds of houses and buildings set well back from a narrow river. From the highest point on the road, Quaeryt estimated that it dropped almost two hundred yards over several milles as it angled down the comparatively gentle slopes to the base of the valley.
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