by Sharon Lee
That idea went from his head almost immediately though. The new inspectors began one at the front and one at the back, as well as one in conversation with the cart driver. They looked at each section of the cart as if they'd never seen one before, using lanterns to cast light beneath the cart. They knocked and listened carefully.
Nearby a small wooden dais was now occupied as well, by an ornately dressed man on a wooden bench. Slate flinched, for the dais had its own light, as if it were lit from within. No need for smoky torches or any such to disturb the man who sat there. Magic! And that man must be magic, too, for Slate had not seen him arrive in the stand for all his attention.
The man on the dais stood, as if Slate's glance disturbed him. Slate did not look away. The man spoke to a soldier standing guard; that solider looked swiftly at Slate and his band, and hurried toward the inspection area.
Slate felt his sword stir, as if it was being...careful. He rested his elbow on the edge of the hilt, and could feel the very tiniest of energies about it. Not immediate danger, perhaps, but wariness.
The guard from the dais reached an inspector at the horse's harness, and tapped him quickly on the back. The inspector turned, outraged, but when he saw who it was his outrage became mere surprise, and when he took in the wave toward the bridge--clearly indicating Slate and his troop--he snapped to alert and called out to his comrades.
"We are done with these. Let them pass. The Bispham himself will lead the next inspection!"
* * *
THE BISPHAM STOOD before Slate, his armed guards and border troops about him like a cloak of power. It seemed to Slate that the man needn't display his armed might so readily, given the wondrous array of wands of power he had tucked about his amazing, purple garb. He'd even wore on his head an overcap of conical construction, like an imitation of wizard caps of old, that glittered with gemstones in the torch light.
The Bispham bowed--actually a very slight nod.
"How very pleased I am to be here at the border to welcome you, Rove Captain Slate. News of your coming has preceded you, and we were quite expecting an army to appear on our doorstep. And how pleasant that you should have delayed until nightfall, which is my shift this moon!"
Slate bowed, considered his words, wished yet again that a witch had not called his name...and wished, too, that they'd been permitted to stay ahorse. He disliked the whole of this: it smacked too much of theater for his taste!
"I am but a Rove Captain with a small troop, as you can see. If tales have sprung up claiming us more than that I apologize. There was no need to bring your..." here he hesitated, then smiled wryly. The dread had gone from him, despite the insistent low vibration of the sword.
"You have the better of me sir, I have not your name and..."
There was a modest laughter, quickly hushed, among the soldiers.
"No one has my name, or may have it for mere conversation," came the reply tartly. "I am the Bispham of the Bridge, carrying on the tradition of proper judging of people permitted to complete the Carrsbritch Crossing. You may call me ‘Sir Magician,' or if you prefer ‘Bridgemaster'. As you must know, Lamonta is a peaceful, law-abiding place. We permit travelers to visit, to pass through, and even to engage in commerce, as we find that the prosperity of all depends on the such.
"We do, insist, however, that no one may bring in to Lamonta items which do not properly belong to them, and if they do bring such items, they must not be permitted to carry them farther but must relinquish them to our care, that we might return them to their proper owners or find those who might be able to utilize them if the proper owners are not about. It is the duty of The Bispham of the Bridge to keep such order here; elsewhere there are others of my rank to keep order if need be..."
Slate closed his eyes briefly, nodding. This was why the costs of some goods fell as one closed on the border. Not because they were common in Lamonta--but because they would be contraband on this side of the bridge!
"And so, Rove Captain, we must inspect your troop as we inspect all other travelers. You'll note that some travelers have discovered on their own that they have somehow come to carry things whose ownership is unclear --and they have willingly divested themselves of all such here in the Stonekeep where such goods are held until their rightful owners might be ascertained. You and your men are welcome to take advantage of the few moments left of sunglow to make your own inspection of the goods you carry before we make ours."
At that point The Bispham pulled from its hook one of the many wands he carried, and waved it about meaningfully.
"Understand, Captain, that we are able to identify items that are not traveling with proper ownership or permissions. If need be, I am empowered to enforce penalties, as well."
"Thank you, Bridgemaster. I will confer with my troop to ensure that none carry aught but what they should."
Slate turned to his men warily, eyes searching the faces of two in particular. Littlebrook, whose grasp of items was likely better than his grasp of ownership, and Arbran, who'd fled his home that he not suffer the fate of far too many younger sons in houses of influence. Arbran had even brought one of his father's swords to their first meeting, claiming his right to carry it....
"We are told," he said gently. "I trust none of you have any doubt of what we are being offered. We have the opportunity here to give over anything that we carry under false pretense. I cannot speak to the penalty, except that we are somewhat outnumbered and on strange ground to boot. So, please, do not hesitate."
His men looked at him, and at each other. None made move one.
"I take that as an answer I can deliver to the magician, then?"
His men nodded, one by one, even Littlebrook, even Arbran.
"So shall we say," he said carefully. Slate nodded to each of them, felt that slight tingle of danger in the sword, and turned to face The Bispham.
"I am told that none carry good they should not, Bridgemaster."
The Bispham looked smug.
"Such an honest troop of rovers I doubt I've seen before, Captain. Surely, before I must insist with my own means, you might find about you that which does not belong to you or yours."
"We are certain, Bridgemaster," Slate said.
"My inspectors will assist you, now, Rove Captain. Please understand this is a courtesy we would extend to any of your house."
* * *
THEY STOOD, EACH beside the piles of their belongings, each with bareback horse at side, except for Slate. Slate stood between two piles--the paltry one that was his and the larger, more important pile that was those things that belonged to House DaChauxma. The pack-pony was tethered, likely grateful to be without his load. Grayling waited impatiently at Slate's back. His saddlebags had been carefully removed, but the gray crow stood fast on the saddle, refusing Slate's entreaties to be gone as well as rebuffing the "assistance" of The Bispham's minions.
Slate was inclined to think kindly of the crow despite it, for by now it was clear that those packed onto the bridge favored the crow. There were many people now on the bridge, slinking in from the night, calling out that no one had the right to stop the gray crow on his own bridge!-- and it might well be that Slate would find his last joy here, fighting a stupid last fight over a stupid mission while the crow laughed for him at his enemies...
One of The Bispham's guards, braver than the rest, or seeking favor, closed on the crow again, this time raising a stick to jab at him. Grayling lashed out instantly with a hind foot, knocking the man down and raising and unexpected murmur of laughter and approval from the gallery on the bridge.
"For the sake of rain, man," Slate roared,"that's a war-horse! Might as well come at him straight on with a sword and get your head bashed in!"
The Bispham glared at the proceedings from his vantage point next to Catania's pitiful pile where he and a scribe were inventorying the belongings cursorily. A guard stood beside them, bored. Catania, it was plain, carried nothing worth consideration on his person.
"You, th
ere, Captain! You'll need to control your horse if you wish to keep it!" The Bispham's threats were becoming more blatant; Slate was not surprised to find his sword still vibrating low with warning.
The downed guard rose with a limp, looked to his corporal, who shrugged and waved him away.
Slate could hear some of the questions Catania was answering. Did he have any jewels? None. Where had he gotten the small silver neck pendant?
From his dead wife. Did he gamble? That was answered with a laugh and a quick--"Only by volunteering!" "Do you carry anything you've stolen?"
"I do not!" "Where did you get your horse?" "From the house--it carries DaChauxma's mark, look you, like my saddle and my weapon and my bedroll and my life."
The magician waved several of his various wands over Catania and his pile, snorted, and said--"Pack this junk up. Your house does well by you with horse and gear, I see, and pays you not at all!"
Stuart Hall was a different matter; being born out of the Household he had trinkets and geegaws, and a change of clothing meant for a modest Court. He also had a tongue in his head, which became unlimbered as his crossbow was inspected. "Did you make this?" "My uncle did. It was my gift for Twelfth Year." "What do you carry that you've stolen?" "Not a damn thing!" "And this jewelry? Hardly what I'd expect of a soldier in the same troop as that pauper!" "I'm out of house, a younger son. All here was given me or bought by me, Bridgemaster!" This last was said with such insulting venom that the guard stepped closer in warning.
The Bispham looked Hall in the eye and said "We shall see, we shall see!" and brought forth some pendulous and flashy jeweled thing, which he swung over the pile while muttering. He also said to the scribe, "Make a note of the gold pieces--they are foreign gold and the ownership harder to be sure of!"
Slate winced at that, for even if they were let go how hard would it be to do their mission with no gold to buy food or information?
The scribe said something Slate couldn't hear, and The Bispham simply said, "Note it all, note it all," before turning to his next task.
The Bispham peered dismissively at Disburno, who was standing quietly beside his painted pony, talking in his own language as he plaited its mane gently, from saddle forward. The little man was in his Plain's garb rather than house clothes; and he was heedless of the magician, even when the awkward clatter of wands should have told him he was under scrutiny.
The wizard made several quick passes with the wands, and then chose a different one, which he also swung about energetically while mumbling some magic phrase or spell.
Apparently magic spoke not of stolen goods and The Bispham turned his attention to Arbran, next closest to Slate, and his curiously large pile. In it, conspicuously, was the hat that Arbran had worn when he came to the troop. That was the very hat Slate had told him to get rid of, since it made him an obvious target for an archer.
But the rest...the rest was the bedroll. It was fluffed to amazing proportions and on it lay some few odds and ends of Arbran's life--a knife, some coins, the hat, a fancy belt, his sword.
The Bispham looked Arbran over carefully.
"Are you a gambler?"
"No."
"Odd, that looks like a gambler's hat to me. Where did you get it?"
"I, uh...it was a gift from my mother."
"Ahhh...of course," said The Bispham. "Your mother gives you a parting present of a gambler's hat while you travel with a troop of rootless, roving mercenaries?"
Arbran reacted as if slapped.
"We are not rootless! We are on a mission for House DaChauxma ..."
"And neither you nor your horse are of that house, eh? So you are a mercenary who wears a gambler's hat!"
"This hat is from my mother, who insisted I take it. It is... it is in case I need to be paroled. She will know this hat is mine, because she had it from her last lover ere she married my father!"
"So it is a gambler's hat, and you have it without his permission!"
"It is not stolen!"
"You are on the edge of trouble, boy," said the magician, and then to his scribe, "Note the hat and the silly feather blanket too."
This time the Bridgemaster took several wands out and waved them slowly to muttering and mumbling...
"The permissions on some of these items is scanty at best! You'd do well to decide which should stay here!"
With that he harumphed his way to Littlebrook, who was looking not at all at ease.
"Just hand over the goods. You needn't explain how they came to you."
Littlebrook glanced over toward Slate sheepishly and reached into his leather belt pouch. He withdrew several things--what exactly Slate couldn't see--and tried to hand them to The Bispham. He waved the items over to his scribe as if unwilling to be touched by someone willfully carrying an item not his own.
Slate shook his head in disgust as the scribe unceremoniously shook out a handful of fine-linked necklaces. They were likely troth-gifts or even bride-badges, exactly the kind of things a young buck looking to show-off to his cronies might take away from his evening's pleasure. Better a soldier to buy an honest working girl's time for the night than tempt fate trifling with husbands and boyfriends thus...
"What else? There's something else. You've got it in your boots!"
Littlebrook looked appalled, but managed to gasp out, "There's nothing in my boots but my feet and my stockings!"
"Take them off!" said the magician, pulling forth a wand and waving it excitedly over Littlebrook's feet. "Yes. Take them off and we'll see!"
Littlebrook sat awkwardly on his blanket roll, pulling first one and then the other of his boots off. He tipped them to show that they held nothing....
The magician looked momentarily perplexed, pulled out another wand and said several words. He tried again, shoved that wand away, and pulled out the pendant thing he had used earlier.
Now he smiled.
"Tell me about the boots. Where did you get them?"
Littlebrook grimaced. "I won them. It was a drinking bet, see and..."
"Bah! Bah! You took them from a drunk! You did, didn't you!"
"We had a bet! We did so," Littlebrook insisted.
"And he was drunk stupid when you took them, wasn't he? Stolen boots! Leave them!"
Slate felt his frustration molding itself to something like anger. What a stupid matter to be using magic for! What a waste there was of power, to aim it all at someone like Lyle Littlebrook!
Littlebrook looked miserable, but the magician wasn't done with him. Littlebrook turned out every pocket, had to account for every coin: copper, silver, or gold. In the end he was out boots and coins, necklaces and bracelets. Still the magician fiddled with his wands. He came back once more to Littlebrook's feet.
With a cunning expression the magician quickly touched Littlebrook's ankle with his wand. There was a sharp report, as of shield meeting shield.
Littlebrook moaned, dropped his hand to his ankle, and sat down.
"No, you'll not get away with this one either. What are you hiding in your stockings? Or did you steal your socks?"
Littlebrook said nothing but began to struggle out of the stockings.
Slate stood on the balls of his feet now, the sword comfortably humming against him, as if eager, as if feeding on his anger. What necessity to drag a man's very socks...
"The story!" The magician insisted, bringing his wand toward the struggling man.
"A lady-" he began "well, she, we, we bathed and then I needed stockings and so she put on these from her master's linens...."
"Leave them then! Stand up!"
"Enough! You've proved your point, now enough is done!"
Slate wasn't sure who was most surprised. Certainly the crowded bridge went silent; certainly the Bridgemaster stopped his harangue; certainly Lyle Littlebrook looked amazed. Certainly, it was Slate's own voice that had rung out in the dim night air.
The magician was fumbling about his robe madly, while Littlebrook hurriedly divested himself of the tell-ta
le stockings. Everyone else was momentarily still, save the hawks still circling overhead, added a course of keening to Slate's demand.
Firelight glinted on the wand aimed directly at Slate; yet nothing happened. The magician stood impotent with rage for a long moment and pulled out another wand, looked at it, and then gathered himself and waved scribe and guards toward Slate angrily.
Slate, for his part, stood firm. What was done was done; he only hoped Littlebrook would be able to soldier again once they got away from this accursed place. A captain must always care for his troops and Slate would answer for duty if need be.
The Bispham strode distantly around Grayling, his guard and scribe following in a rush. Behind him Catania, Hall, and Arbran had gone to Littlebrook and had gotten their comrade seated, though he shook mightily.
On Grayling's back the crow stirred, watching The Bispham's elegant, glittery headgear with grave interest-- muttering, muttering, muttering
"Braddack, Braddack, Braddack. Carthulu Braddack, Braddack."
"Rove Captain, what a fine brave band of honest men you bring us," the magician said as he approached. "And what brave words. Do you tell us how to guard our own country?"
The mage clanked somewhat, as if he'd not placed all his wands firmly in their tucks and they now banged against each other. His voice, unctuous as it was, hid none of the excitement that also showed in his face. Slate had fought men in this state, and found them dangerously overconfident.
Against his best wishes Slate's voice was loud in the night.
"Bridgemaster, if dirty stockings were a threat to Lamonta surely the country would have fallen long ago!"
"Do not mock me, outlander!"
There was no answer to give so Slate gave none. His duty now was to get the troop beyond this madman, and to move somehow on to the mission. Ay, at this moment he'd gladly face the griffins rather than this wand-toting fool.