Bystanders step away, almost melting into the streets off the square.
“You a Black healer?” snaps the square-faced guard.
“No. I’m a questor.”
“Same thing. What about what the peddler says?”
Dorrin faces the guards, his staff resting still in his left hand. “I said nothing, except to my friend. I certainly am no trader.” A warning flash slides through his brain, although his words are literally true.
“Those women-they would have bought except for him!”
“What women?” asks the other guard, looking around the nearly deserted section of the great square.
The peddler looks around, then waves his arms. “He scared them away.”
“Likely story.” The guards lower the white blades.
The square-faced one turns to Dorrin. “You, youngster- keep your Black thoughts to yourself. You understand?”
“Yes, ser.” Dorrin nods politely.
“I don’t want to see you making more trouble, young fellow.” The square-faced guard turns to Brede. “Nor you either, with that iron toothpick!” Brede nods. “I will be careful, ser.”
The two guards march across the square.
“Well, are you going to pay me?” snaps the peddler.
Brede looks at the peddler. “For what? False accusations? The healer couldn’t tell an untruth if his life depended on it. That’s more than one could say of you.”
The white-haired man shrinks away from Brede’s glare. “Black bastards… trouble-makers… all of them…”
Brede grins. Dorrin shrugs as they walk toward the stalls on the far side of the square. Brede’s grin vanishes as he watches two men fold their tables at the approach of the two questors. Another throws a cloth over his silverwork to signify that he is closed.
“Sorry,” Dorrin apologizes.
“There’s not much we can do.” Brede nods toward the avenue. “Might as well head back.”
Dorrin feels the eyes of the White guards on their backs as they cross the square and head back up the avenue toward Liedral’s building.
Kadara is hanging up her laundry when they slide open the stable area door. “You weren’t gone long.”
“We had a few problems.”
“I had a few problems,” Dorrin corrects. “A local peddler was selling dead seeds. I remarked on it, and the authorities overheard. By the time there were through, everyone decided it was time to close.”
“Oh, Dorrin.” Kadara pats his shoulder.
The doorway from the quarters opens. “If you’re all back, we could eat,” Liedral announces. The trader wears clean dark blue trousers and a high-necked tunic, with damp and clean brown hair longer than Dorrin’s but shorter than Kadara’s ear-length cut.
The dining room is on the lowest level. The long red-oak table is polished, oiled, and only slightly battered along its eight-cubit length. There are wooden armchairs, not benches, for the six who gather. Four other chairs are placed in the corners and against the wall. Freidr stands by the head of the table. To his right sits a thin blond woman.
“Dorrin, Brede, and Kadara, I would like to introduce you to Midala. Midala,” Liedral says smoothly, “Kadara and Brede are blades; and Dorrin is a healer.”
Freidr smiles and gestures to the table. “Please be seated.”
Dorrin finds himself between Midala and Liedral, who sits at the foot of the table. Brede and Kadara sit side by side with their backs to the high windows that front upon the street.
A young woman in dark blue sets a platter heaped with thin strips of meat covered in a dark brown sauce before Freidr. As he serves himself and Midala, the serving woman returns with two other deep platters, one filled with potatoes coated in cheese and another with limp and dark greenery.
Liedral takes a small helping of the potatoes and hands the platter to Dorrin, who follows her example.
“What’s the greenery?”
“Chiltach. It is bitter enough that it takes some getting used to, but it goes well with heavier meat and potato dishes.”
“How have you found Candar so far?” asks Midala.
“Generally hospitable.” Brede spears some meat and places it on his plate. “Somewhat colder than I thought, and”-he grins-“the size, especially of the mountains, takes some getting used to.”
“You haven’t seen the Westhorns yet, either.” Liedral takes a moderate helping of the chiltach.
“Why does Recluce still send young people to Candar?” Midala has taken only a small nibble of the potatoes.
“The idea is that we should come to appreciate order more,” volunteers Dorrin. “Especially the way the order-masters want us to.”
Kadara swallows hard, almost choking on a bite of meat.
“You don’t sound thrilled with the order-masters, healer.” Freidr pours from the brown pitcher placed before him by the serving girl. “This is dark beer. The white pitcher has redberry.”
Dorrin looks at the white pitcher, then lifts it to pour for Liedral, who nods. He fills the trader’s mug, and then his own, before turning to Midala.
“Yes, please.” The blond woman nods.
“Well,” Dorrin temporizes, “following order most strictly can be somewhat difficult if one is young.”
“I’ve heard it’s difficult at any age.” Liedral sips from the stoneware mug.
The serving girl returns with a woven basket filled with steaming golden-crusted bread sliced into wide slabs. After offering it to Liedral, who declines, Dorrin takes a slab and offers the basket to Midala. The blond woman takes the smallest slice and sets the basket before Freidr.
“What about you?” Freidr turns to Brede.
“If one is a blade, I suppose some experience helps.”
“You’re not told to scout an area or bring back information?”
“I rather doubt that is necessary,” Dorrin says. “The air wizards can see a great deal from the winds.”
“You’re rather confident about that,” laughs Freidr.
Dorrin flushes, and covers his embarrassment behind the mug of redberry. Then he takes two slices of meat and begins to slice them and eat quickly.
“I think that’s been well known since Creslin,” notes Kadara tartly. “It’s not exactly a secret.”
Freidr inclines his head to Kadara and smiles warmly. Midala smiles also, politely.
“I take it that trading is a family tradition.” Brede’s voice breaks the momentary silence.
“The tradition is somewhat strained these days.” Liedral stabs a slice of the meat and lifts it from the platter to her plate.
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Politics,” adds Freidr. “To travel the great white roads, one must have a license, and that means approval of the Prefect, who is advised by his White Wizard. It used to be a simple tax.”
Brede nods. “It has become a loyalty test?”
“Of sorts. It appears as though everyone has a loyalty test these days, does it not?” Freidr looks at Dorrin.
Dorrin takes refuge in another sip of redberry. His eyes stray to the small and dusty guitar upon the wall.
“That? Actually, that’s an heirloom. It’s said that Creslin once played it. Who knows? It’s an old family tale, but, these days, there’s certainly no way to tell. It’s seen better days.” Freidr shrugs off the instrument. “Ah, yes, loyalty and legends.”
“If I might ask,” Kadara smiles politely at the dark-haired Freidr, “What exactly do you do while Liedral is out trading?”
“Mind the warehouse, try to factor what she’s gathered to shops in Jellico-that sort of thing. It doesn’t do much good to obtain things if you don’t sell them.”
“Freidr’s very good at factoring,” Midala adds proudly.
“I can imagine,” Kadara says brightly.
Dorrin eats, wishing he were in the stable or even in the great square.
“Tell me,” continues Freidr, as if nothing had been said, “where you will be heading from Jellico.
”
“Toward the Westhorns.” Brede refills Kadara’s mug with the dark beer, then tops off his own. Setting the pitcher down, he sips the foam almost silently before taking a healthy swallow.
“Through Passera and Fenard?”
“That’s along the wizards’ highway?” asks Kadara.
“The wizards haven’t finished it there. You’d have to take the old road through Gallos.”
Brede and Kadara exchange glances, but avoid looking at Dorrin.
“I would think a more northward route,” ventures Brede.
“That might be the wisest.” Freidr inclines his head to Kadara. “If you would pass the beer?”
“Of course.” Kadara smiles and hands the young factor the pitcher.
Dorrin reaches across the table and retrieves the bread, taking a slab before offering the basket to Liedral. All six eat for a time as the serving woman replaces the depleted bread basket and removes the empty meat platter.
“Faya! Some more beer!” Freidr lifts the pitcher.
When Faya returns, Freidr fills his mug and offers to pour for Kadara.
“No, thank you, ser Freidr.”
Dorrin quietly refills his mug with redberry and takes another slice of the warm bread. He looks at the remnants of the chiltach on his plate.
“It’s not that bad, Dorrin.”
“I think I’ve seen rotten seaweed that smelled better,” he mumbles.
“You must have tasty seaweed then,” Liedral quips.
“You eat seaweed on Recluce?” asks Midala.
“Sometimes.” Again Dorrin finds himself flushing.
“Are you finished, ser?” asks Faya, standing at Dorrin’s elbow.
He nods gratefully as the platter and the chiltach vanish into the kitchen. Shortly, Faya sets before each diner a small cup filled with a single golden orb-honey-brandied peaches.
“This is excellent.” Brede finishes his in three bites.
Dorrin has used his knife to spray honey on his fingers and the table in attempting to cut the fruit into smaller sections. He continues to eat small sections long after Brede and Kadara have finished.
“We will not keep you, travelers,” says Freidr, rising. “It has been a long day for you.”
Dorrin swallows the last of the redberry in his mug and stands, following the others to their feet.
“Thank you.” Kadara’s soft and warm voice is echoed by Brede, and finally by Dorrin.
Then, with Brede leading, the three ease away from their chairs and file toward the warehouse, and the stableboy’s room. Liedral slips behind them, but stops at the doorway from the quarters to the stable. The trader’s warm fingertips touch Dorrin’s shoulder, squeeze briefly, and drop away. “Try not to mind Freidr. Things aren’t always easy for him.”
“Because he’s from a trading family, and he doesn’t like trading? Or because he’d like to be on the council or whatever advises whoever rules this place, and he can’t?” Dorrin licks the last of the honey off the comers of his lips after he speaks.
“He likes governing, and traders can’t, especially not us.”
“I see… I think. We’ll be going in the morning, I think.”
“Good. So will I. We can travel to Kleth together.”
“What makes you think we’re going there?”
“You don’t have much choice, Dorrin.” Liedral smiles. “Your friends don’t want to head west to Gallos. That means you either head over the hills to the south toward Hydolar or you go north to Rytel and northwest to Kleth-unless you want to go back to Tyrhavven… or go cross-country, which I wouldn’t advise.” The trader steps back, half shutting the door. “So we might as well travel together.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.” Dorrin shakes his head as he walks toward the fourth stall- empty except for laundry-where he has placed his bedroll on the straw. Sleeping near Brede and Kadara will not make for a restful night. He senses too much, and is reminded too often of the red-headed girl he once kissed in the spice garden.
“You look troubled.” Kadara emerges from the second stall, brushing straw from her hands.
“The trader is coming with us tomorrow to Rytel.”
“You don’t like that?”
“Liedral knew, and I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry.” Kadara’s voice is soft. “We thought you understood. Freidr made it pretty clear, and after that incident in the square…”
Dorrin waits.
“We didn’t think it was a good idea to stay in Certis or head toward where the White Wizards are working… and we wanted to get to the Westhorns.”
“And that means heading toward Spidlar along the northern route?” Dorrin finishes.
“Yes. It’s better for you, too. You could go the other way, if you want.”
“Me? I can’t even carry a blade or stand up to a White Wizard. I may not have much choice, Kadara, but I’m not stupid. Slow… but not totally stupid.” He walks past her and into the stall that holds his bedroll, where he sits on the blankets and strips off his boots, ignoring Kadara until she looks down and turns away.
XXIX
THE ROAD ANGLES up and down over the low rolling hills of Certis, paralleling the Jellicor River toward Rytel. The creak of the cart and the clop of hoofs are almost lost in the whine of the spring wind. Dorrin leans toward the cart, his staff in his left hand. “Would you have left this soon if we weren’t headed this way?”
Liedral shifts her weight on the cart seat. “I wasted too much time in seeing Fairhaven, and I’m not sure it was wise.”
“Seeing Fairhaven or wasting time?”
“Either. Freidr’s worried about the White Wizards, but he’s too comfortable with Midala to go check himself. Besides, I need to get to Kleth to pick up the stuff from Jarnish. Some came from Diev.”
Dorrin has heard of Kleth, but not the other names. Still, he has another question. “Your brother… he doesn’t seem quite like a trader.”
“A trader?” Liedral snorts. “He went to Rytel once. He lost more than if he’d dropped the whole cart in the Jellicor and watched it wash all the way down river to Tyrhavven.”
“Then…”
“Politics.”
“Oh.” Dorrin understands. The Whites hate the Legend, or women who control anything. He considers the trader’s apparel and manners before asking another question. “Who’s Jarnish?”
“What about politics?” asks Brede belatedly.
“Jarnish is a factor in Kleth, but he doesn’t travel.”
“Where’s Diev?”
“Right at the foothills of the Westhorns. It’s about as far north and west as you can go without entering the mountains. Small three-season port, but not all that much there. Lumber for Spidlar, but Axalt and Sligo are better for anywhere else.”
“When you talk about Spidlar,” mentions Brede, who has ridden the gelding closer to the trader’s cart so that he and Dorrin are on opposite sides of the trader, “all you do is talk about trade. Doesn’t anything else happen there?”
“Spidlar’s still an independent trading country. There’s a Council of Traders that runs things. They were the only ones in eastern Candar to avoid the mess that created Recluce, and their Council tries to avoid conflict.”
“No duke, or viscount?” Brede leans forward, untangling the gelding’s mane.
“What about the wizards?” Dorrin straightens in the saddle and twirls the staff, happy that he can finally do the simple exercise.
“Careful with that!” snaps Kadara from behind him.
“Sorry.” He replaces the staff in the lanceholder. “You did say that I needed to practiced”
“Dorrin…”
“What about Spidlar?”
“Is that Rytel over the hills there?” interrupts Kadara, pointing toward a low wall rising out of a flat expanse of brown and green.
“What’s that?”
A thread of silver winds from the south toward the walls.
>
“The river? That’s the Jellicor. We’ve been following-”
“No,” explains Brede. “The line of trees across there.”
“That’s the Estal. It meets the Jellicor on the other side of Rytel, and the Jellicor flows into the Northern Sea at Tyrhavven, not that it gets much bigger or that Tyrhavven’s all that great a port. It’s a lot better than Diev, though Spidlaria’s the best.”
Liedral flicks the reins to get the cart moving again, and the four begin the downhill trek toward the still-distant town.
Dorrin slaps at his neck. The mosquitoes are out, and they seem to prefer him to the others. Unlike the fleas, the mosquitoes move too fast for him to persuade them to move elsewhere-and there seem to be clouds of them.
“Healer?”
“Dorrin,” he corrects.
“Try this. Smear a little on your neck. It might help.”
Dorrin takes the leather pouch and squeezes the ointment into his palm. His senses tell him it is faintly order-based, and he rubs it across the back of his neck. “Thank you.”
“Sometimes, simple potions are more helpful than complicated magic.”
So, Dorrin believes, are relatively simple machines-but he seems to be one of the few raised in order that thinks so. He frowns. He never did hear any more about Diev, although Liedral had been hinting at something.
XXX
DORRIN LEANS SIDEWAYS in the saddle to avoid banging his head into the rocky ledge as Meriwhen carries him around the switchback. Then he wipes his forehead, clearing an accumulation of sweat and cold rain that has splattered off the canyon walls and onto his face. Behind him the cart creaks, and the inside wheel scrapes on a boulder.
“Darkness…” mumbles Liedral.
Dorrin swallows as he glances at the fifty-cubit dropoff to his left.
“It’s worse in the Westhorns,” Liedral says cheerfully.
Ahead, Brede hums, in perfect pitch, a Temple hymn.
“Would you stop it?” snaps Kadara.
“Ooofff.” Dorrin’s grin is wiped away as his staff bangs the side of his face, knocked there by an ice-covered root protruding from the canyon wall-just high enough for the three to ride underneath, just low enough to catch the tip of Dorrin’s staff. He pushes the staff back into place and concentrates on the narrow winding road before him.
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