“Not for ten years. He doesn’t come to Lord’s Town, of course, but I keep track. Why?”
Whandall told the tale as they drove. “So I’ve been on both sides of that fence, Master Peacevoice.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes. “There was something Lord Quintana wasn’t saying,” Whandall said.
“Yes, sir, there was,” Waterman said readily enough. “You’re still not welcome in Lordshills.”
“But—Lord Samorty’s dead?”
“Oh, yes.”
Waterman—Quintana—the Lords were keeping a promise made to a dead man. Because he was dead, the order could never be changed. Lords were strange. Whandall had not guessed how strange.
“Them Toronexti,” Waterman said.
Huh? “What about them?”
Waterman said nothing. Why had he brought up the subject at all? “Do you work for the Toronexti?” Whandall prompted.
Waterman sucked air through his teeth, an ugly sound. “Why ask that?”
“Not to offend. The Toronexti had to send you a runner,” Whandall said. “He must have waited just long enough to see”—he brushed his tattooed cheek—“me, and then run like the wind. And you came. With Lord Quintana and most of your army.”
“Not most,” Waterman said. “Some. As to the Toronexti, what you think you know about them is likely wrong.”
“Please do go on. We like to trade stories.”
“And it’s my turn?” Waterman grinned. “Most Lordkin think they’re just another band. A few think they work for the Lords.”
“Don’t they?”
“Used to,” Waterman said. “Used to collect taxes, and keep some, of course. They kept the kinless from running away, looked after trade stuff for the Lords. But my father’s father told me trade stopped coming through the woods, and then there were more Toronexti, and they kept more of what they took.” Waterman spat over the side. He said, “Gathered. I guess maybe they still keep to some of their tasks. Some goods get through from the forest. They did send a runner to tell us about your wagons. But mostly they work for themselves now.”
“We never knew where they lived, how they lived, what they did with all that wealth. Who their neighbors were. If they were Lordkin, where’s their turf? If they’re kinless… are they kinless?”
“I know how they started,” the Master Peacevoice said. “Our forebears burned their way through the forest and took Tep’s Town. You know that. But Lords and Lordkin didn’t want to live together. When things had settled down, there were… I’m told… exactly sixty boys and girls who had a Lord for a father and a Lordkin for a mother.”
“Never the other way around?”
“No.”
Silence could often be the essence of tact.
Waterman said, “A place had to be found for them. They were set to guard the way through the forest. Kinless must not escape, you see; they might bring allies. But the tax men lived on site and built their homes along the Deerpiss. It was their duty.”
“No homes there now,” Whandall remembered. “Just that guardhouse and the barrier. That big center section is stone; must have been built by kinless. The wings are crude work, more recent. They didn’t become kinless.”
Waterman said nothing.
Whandall asked, “What do you wonder, when you wonder about the Toronexti?”
They’d passed the edge of town and were moving through Flower Market territory. The streets looked empty until Whandall’s mind adjusted. Then… here was the snapdragon sign crudely painted on a crumbling wall. Motion along a roof: a clumsy lurker… a whole line of them. Motion in window slits. An audience was watching the parade.
Waterman hadn’t answered.
Whandall asked, “Why tell me?”
Waterman stared straight ahead.
They rolled along in a silence that might have been companionable. Whandall waited. Some secrets must be hidden, but some may be traded….
The caravan skirted the edge of Serpent’s Walk, along the road between Serpent’s Walk and Flower Market. Whandall remembered the road. Lordkin came out of houses to stare at them. No one was going to try gathering from wagons escorted by marching Lordsmen.
Over there was an empty lot. A large square building must have covered that, and another behind it, now both gone. Ahead was a ruined wall, remains of a burned out building, and ahead of that—
A field, once paved with cobblestones. Grass and mustard stalks grew among the stones. All the walls around the field were ruins, buildings long burned out.
A fountain stood in the center. Water trickled from it—
“But this is Peacegiven Square!” Whandall shouted.
Waterman nodded, his expression unreadable, amused? Wry? Whandall couldn’t tell. “That is it. Sir. It’s where Lord Quintana said you was to make camp. Good roads from here, room to set up a market, not much water but more than most places. He thought it would be a good place.”
Whandall stared at the ruins. “All right, he has a point. This will do. Master Peacevoice, it strikes me that you could have told me about this. Where we’re to set up our market, and why, and what happened here in the twenty-two years I’ve been gone. But you decided to talk about the Toronexti. Was I supposed to know something? I never came anywhere near the Deerpiss until—”
Until Wanshig got involved in making wine.
There’s a question; he’s waiting for it. Whandall asked, “Did Lord Quintana ask you to mention Toronexti?”
“Wouldn’t say yes; wouldn’t say no,” Waterman said.
“What would the Lords do if the Toronexti just… disappeared one day?”
“Find someone to take their place,” Waterman said. “Someone more reasonable, and a lot fewer. I think me and ten men could do their job.”
“Sons? Nephews?”
“There’s a notion.”
CHAPTER
73
Whandall raised his hand above his head and brought his arm around in a wide circle. “Circle the wagons,” but with only four they made a square.
There were wagons—small flatbeds, with no roofs, in the kinless style—at the far end of the square. Waterman went over to them. Whandall was just unhitching the bison when Waterman returned leading a young man. He was shaven clean, no tattoos, and no more than twenty, perhaps less. It was difficult to tell his age because of his clothing. He wore a dark robe and a close-fitting cap that came down over his forehead and was low enough to cover his ears.
“Witness Clerk Sandry,” Waterman said. “I present you to Wagonmaster Whandall Feathersnake. Wagonmaster, Clerk Sandry is here to assist you. Any questions you may have, any requests, he’ll help you.”
“Thank you, Master Peacevoice.” As Waterman went back to his troops, Whandall inspected the younger man. He was taller than Whandall remembered any Witness Clerk as being, and of course Whandall had been younger and shorter then. Most of his body was hidden by the loose robe, but where his arms showed they were more muscular than any clerk’s. His cap wasn’t new, but it didn’t fit him very well. Whandall’s expression didn’t change. “Welcome, Clerk Sandry.”
“Just Sandry will do, sir.”
“Very well. I presume you can read.”
“Yes, sir, I can read and calculate.”
“Good. Find us a place to corral the bison. Then find where we can buy fodder for them. Bison eat a lot, Clerk Sandry. More than you would expect. We’ll want a full wagonload of hay or straw.”
“As you wish, sir,” Sandry said. He inspected the trickle of water from the fountain. “Might I also suggest a water wagon? Sir.”
“What will that cost us?”
“I’ll find out, sir. But not so much if it’s river water. Only for animals, of course.”
Whandall remembered the stinking water of the rivers in Tep’s Town. He’d been glad enough of it at one time. Now he was used to better, and the memory of that water choked him. The fountain water wasn’t good, but it had to be better than river water.
>
“Please arrange it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Green Stone came up to watch Sandry walking across the square. Whandall explained.
“Who do you think he is, Father?” Green Stone asked.
Whandall shook his head. “I never knew that much about the Lords and Witnesses and their clerks. He may be just what he says he is, but I doubt it. Remember that he can read. Don’t leave anything around he shouldn’t see.
“I never do,” Stone said.
“Of course you don’t.”
“Handsome boy,” Burning Tower said from behind him.
“Too old for you, Blazes,” Green Stone said.
“Well, maybe,” Burning Tower said. “And maybe not.”
“Don’t you two have work to do?” Whandall Placehold Feathersnake asked.
At the far end of the square kinless workmen set up a camp for Waterman and his Lordsmen guards. One of the kinless, a boy about fifteen, came over to Whandall. He took off his cap and shuffled from one foot to the other. Whandall stared in confusion, then embarrassing memories returned. A kinless who wanted to speak to a Lordkin but was afraid.
“Talk to me.”
“Master Peacevoice Waterman said I was to ask if you need workers to help setting up camp.”
“No, thank you. We’re used to doing it ourselves.”
The kinless boy watched as Whandall’s people unloaded wagon boxes. He seemed astonished.
Of course. There was Green Stone, with a Lordkin’s ears, carrying a box with one of the Miller boys. The Millers all looked kinless, except for those who looked like Bison tribesmen, and Mother Quail, daughter to a Bison man and the younger Miller girl, an exotic mix whose beauty edged the supernatural. Burning Tower looked like a slim young Lordkin girl. And they all worked together.
“Firewood,” Whandall said. “We’ll pay for firewood.”
The kinless boy nodded. “We can get you some.” He seemed hesitant.
“Spit it out, lad,” Whandall said.
The boy flinched.
“Come on—what is it?”
“My name is Adz Weaver.”
“Weaver. Ah. You’ll be kin to my wife, then?”
“It’s true? You married Willow Ropewalker?”
“More than twenty years now,” Whandall said. “Stone,” he called. “Green Stone is our second son. Stone, this is Adz Weaver. He’ll be some kind of cousin.”
Stone held up his hand in greeting. Whandall nodded approval. It was a Hemp Road gesture not used in Tep’s Town, but then in Tep’s Town there wasn’t any gesture a Lordkin would use to greet a kinless.
Adz Weaver glanced around, obviously aware that a knot of Lordkin were watching from the Serpent’s Walk side of Peacegiven Square. “You’re welcome here,” Whandall said. “But it might be best if you come back after we have the walls up. No sense in gathering Lordkins’ attention. And we do need firewood.”
“Yes, sir,” Weaver said. Whandall smiled to himself. Adz Weaver had used the tone that kinless used when addressing an older relative, not the more obsequious falling tone used to address Lordkin.
Progress.
Well before the Lordsmen guards’ camp was up, the wagon boxes had been offloaded, carpets unrolled, awnings erected, and the bison corralled in a nearby vacant lot. Sandry appeared with kinless driving a wagonload of hay and another wagon with a water tank. Whandall recognized one of the fire prevention wagons kinless used. More kinless brought firewood. When Stone offered a kinless the smallest fleck of gold they had for a heap of wood, it was obvious that they’d paid far too much. Whandall negotiated for shells and was pleased: they bought several bags of shells, too many to count, for one gold nugget.
Trading would be good here.
Whandall’s travel nest was divided into two rooms. The inner was more ornate than most, as befitted a wealthy merchant prince. Willow worried about that, so the outer sides of Whandall’s wagon boxes were scarred and unfinished, and the outer room was plain. In the inner room the wood was polished, rubbed with the shells of laq beetles until it shone. Two mirrors hung so that they faced each other, making a magical display the children never tired of. Wool for his carpets came from highland sheep sheared after a hard winter, and his cushions were filled with wool and down. Outside was poverty, but inside the nest everything said “I can afford to ignore your inadequate offer.”
Dinner was locally bought chicken stewed with local vegetables. Between what the Toronexti took and what they’d sold here, there wasn’t any more bison jerky or fruit. Whandall had just filled his bowl for a second helping when Stone came into the nest. “There’s an old man wants to see you.”
“You should be specific,” Whandall said. “Kinless, Lordkin, Lordsman. Witness. Lord even. Not just man.”
“I can’t tell,” Stone said patiently. “He has a knife.”
“Lordkin,” Whandall said. “Old?”
“A lot older than you, Father. No teeth, not much hair.”
“I’ll come out.”
Old described him. The Lordkin still stood erect and proud and wore his big Lordkin knife defiantly, but Whandall thought he’d better have sons with him if he wanted to walk far in Tep’s Town.
Whandall held out his hand, Lordkin to Lordkin. They slapped palms. The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t know me, do you, Whandall?”
Whandall frowned.
“Know anything about wine?”
“Alferth!”
“That’s me.”
“Come in; have some tea,” Whandall said. He led him into the outer nest. No point in giving too much away—
Alferth looked around and laughed. “Tarnisos said you took a kinless wagon, and I heard you married a kinless. Now you live like one?” He grinned. “You must be rich.”
“I am,” Whandall admitted. “How is Tarnisos?”
“Dead. Most everyone you knew is dead, Whandall.”
Lordkin killed each other. Even men who lived here forgot.
“Something I’ve wondered about all these years,” Alferth said. “Tarnisos said you really were possessed by Yangin-Atep. Burned a torch right out of his hand! Was he lying?”
“No, I did that.” Whandall tried to remember that time. Alferth and the others beating a kinless man—Willow’s father!—into something unidentifiable. The rage that filled his mind and flowed through his fingers… was gone. “I burned our way through the forest.”
“I always hoped it was true,” Alferth said. “Never happened to me. I mocked Yangin-Atep, pretended to be possessed when I wasn’t.” He shrugged. ‘Too old now, I think. Why would Yangin-Atep be interested in an old man?”
He looks twenty years older than me, Whandall thought. But it can’t be more than five.
“Hungry?” Whandall asked.
“Nearly always,” Alferth admitted.
Whandall clapped his hands. “Stone, please ask Burning Tower to bring dinner for my friend. Alferth, this is my son, Green Stone.”
Alferth stared.
Son, Whandall thought. I said son, and Alferth isn’t kin.
Alferth came to himself and nodded greeting. He’d been studying Green Stone’s ears. Of course he would. Well, the Lordkin could just damned well get used to it!
Burning Tower brought in a pot of stew. Alferth took a carved wooden cup from his belt and held it out. She filled it, not bothering to hide her curiosity about this strange man who sat as a friend in her father’s nest.
“Things have not been good?” Whandall asked.
“Not good, not since the year we had two Burnings.”
“In one year?”
“Yeah. Nine years ago now. First Burning, that was fun, but the second was bad. We burned things we needed. That’s when Peacegiven Square went, with half the city.”
“How did it start?”
Alferth shrugged. “I never did know, Whandall, because I never really believed in Yangin-Atep. But that time, that second Burning, everyone was possessed! They ran around pointin
g and fires roared up, and we all went damn near mad gathering. I went right into a fire and came out with an armload of burning bath towels! Took me half a year healing from the burns. I’ll never have a beard again, this side. Pelzed smelled roasting meat and ran into a burning butcher shop and staggered out hugging a side of ox. His heart quit.”
“Lord Pelzed is dead, then?” Whandall wasn’t much surprised.
“Sure—hey, Whandall, your brother is Lord of Serpent’s Walk now.”
“Shastern?”
Alferth’s face wrinkled. “Shastern? Oh, him, naw, he’s been dead what, fifteen years? No, the old one, Lord Wanshig, he’s Lord of Serpent’s Walk now. Matter of fact that’s why I’m here—be sure it’s really you.”
And see how the land lies, Whandall thought. “Tell my brother—tell Lord Wanshig I’m delighted. And I would like to see him again, here or anywhere he’d like.”
Alferth’s face twisted into a grin. “Thought you would be.” He looked around the plain boxes. He leaned close and dropped his voice. “I could help you find a better place to feed him.”
Whandall stood. “Let me try first,” he said. He pushed aside a tall man’s height of boxes that turned out to be nailed together, and led Alferth into the inner nest.
“Yangin-Atep’s eyes! You do live fancy,” he said. “So those stories are all true—you went off and got rich!”
“There’s a lot more,” Whandall said. He gestured eastward. “Out there. I can bring more in. Except I can’t.”
“Hmm?”
“Toronexti. They took a lot of what we brought. They’ll take more going out.” Testing, Whandall said, “I’d kill them all if I could.” Alferth had felt that way once.
“Thought of it myself,” Alferth said. “I hired Toronexti to guard Lord Quintana’s grapes and move his wine that he put in my charge. They let some Lordkin gather one of our wagons, just what they was supposed to stop, and two of them dead and the rest screaming at me. That was you and Freethspat, wasn’t it, Whandall?”
“Sure.”
The Burning City Page 46
