Elvenborn hc-3

by Andre Nolton

  But that had used up the scant store of raw iron, and the Iron People were grumbling about the lack of material to work with and wondering if their sacrifice to help save the Wizards by giving the Great Lords a new threat to worry about had been worth it. So far, the only bits of iron that the dragons had been able to find had been coaxed out of the ground and dropped as raw lumps between the territory claimed by the Wizards and the strongholds of the Elves. They formed a barrier of protection, difficult to find and disruptive far out of proportion to their small size, and the Wizards were very reluctant to remove them, however badly the Iron People wanted them.

  The plain fact was that the Iron People were not going to make any more of their jewelry for the Wizards unless and until the Wizards came up with more iron. And the supply of jewelry to sneak in among the rebels had long ago run out. How much more disruption could be accomplished if simple iron torques could be sent in among the human slaves? Those iron bands could negate the magic that controlled the slaves through their collars—with them, escapes could be successful, and even the takeover of an entire estate. Without them—nothing would change. If this Lord Kyrtian managed to conquer the Young Lords by power of arms alone, the Wizards would desperately need another diversion to keep the Elvenlords occupied, and the human slaves could only look forward to more abuse, more repression.

  Diric ate his breakfast with a placid face, oblivious to the concerns of his guests. "The Trader-people are to come, also, at last," he offered, between bites. "One of the new Corn People told me that they were following no more than a few days behind, with burdens of trade-goods. I am eager to see them, and I think the rest will be also."

  Rena smiled, despite her concerns. "I have no doubt," she replied, thinking of the excitement that each new boatload of Traders caused among the Wizards.

  "They are good people," Mero offered. "You won't be sorry that you decided to open full trade with them."

  "So you said in council, though there are still those of my folk who think we should simply take them as slaves and have them and their goods." The gleam in Diric's eye reminded Rena that the Iron People were quite used to the idea of having other humans as slaves. There weren't many slaves among the tents, mostly ton People who had been sold by their parents or who had sold themselves to repay debts, but they did exist. Mero had been rather taken aback when he discovered their existence.

  "And I pointed out then, as I will repeat, that it will be far more profitable to trade honorably. If you take them and their goods," Mero reminded the Iron Priest shrewdly, "you will only have a few slaves and the goods they carried. No more will come to you. But if you trade—more will pour into your camp, and you will likely be able to barter what is common to you for what is worth a great deal to you."

  "Eh, now, did I say that I did not feel the same way?" Diric asked, ingenuously, pretending that he had never even entertained the notion, although both Rena and Mero knew how hard they had argued to sway him to their way of thinking. This would be one more hold on the Iron People, one more reason for them to stay here instead of looking for another spot to settle. Right now, with a growing number of voices calling for another move to some place that might have more to offer than just water and grazing, the Traders could provide what Mero and Rena needed until somehow, somewhere, they could come up with a source for the all-important iron.

  The Traders arrived riding on—of all improbable things— pack-grels. These incredibly ugly animals, long-legged, long-necked, with bulging eyes and blubbery lips, served the trading-caravans into the desert commanded by the Elvenlords, but Mero had hardly expected that the Trader-clans would have any. Up until this point, he had thought that they traveled exclusively afoot or on water.

  The Iron People were just as surprised, and even more excited to see a half-dozen of the creatures they themselves had once depended on. In the oldest chronicles, the Iron People had even been referred to as the "grel-riders." It was only when they had been driven south that they had lost the grels, which had not survived the arduous journey and the new pests that the cattle had shrugged off.

  The grels were less enthused to see these new dark-skinned humans—they had no long tradition of association, and they shied and bellowed at the unfamiliar dark faces, much to the Iron People's disappointment.

  "I'm sorry, but they aren't very bright, and they think anything they don't recognize is going to eat them," the grel-handler kept saying, over and over, stumbling a little over the unfamiliar syllables of the Iron Peoples' tongue. Eventually, when the beasts refused to cooperate, the curious got over their disappointment and settled down to serious trading.

  Each side laid out the goods that they had brought. The Iron People offered hides, dried meat, baskets, ornamental bead-work, skilled leather work, horn bows, and weaving. They had linen—flax grew abundantly on the plains, and outriders made sure that the cattle didn't devour it before the women had a chance to gather it. They did not have sheep, although they did have goats and were skilled at spinning and weaving goat-hair. The Traders had raw wool, glass, stone, and pottery objects, flour and salt, some very specific wood products—like longbows of yew, which the warriors were very impressed with— and arrowheads, which were always in short supply. They also had some copper trinkets, copper pots, and a few ingots of copper. But most of all, of course, the Iron People really wanted iron more than anything else, and at the initial trading session it was clear to Rena that they were disappointed not to see any.

  Still, they covered their disappointment well, and trading on the first day proceeded briskly. At the end of the day, Halkan, the spokesman and leader of this particular group, invited the important members of the tribe to dinner in his tent, and included Mero and Rena in on the invitation more out of politeness than anything else. The Trader clans had a set of firm agreements with the Wizards, and it wasn't as if he could have expected anything new out of two envoys to these odd, ebony-skinned folk.

  Mero had never seen an actual camp of the Trader clans before, and looked around with lively interest as they accompanied Diric and Kala to the modest feast. The Iron People lived in round tents constructed of hides and felt; the Traders had square and rectangular pavilions of sturdy heavily-waxed cloth. Beneath the wax, random patterns of blotches of green and brown had been painted on the canvas, and he thought that it would be difficult to spot such tents in the middle of a forest. Out here, of course, they looked a bit odd.

  All around the outskirts of the camp were wicker cages on poles; they weren't torches or lamps, and Mero couldn't even guess what function they were supposed to serve. As they all took their places beneath an ornamental pavilion to enjoy their hosts' hospitality, he found that the Traders had elected to place their guests on flat cushions around a central serving area, with Traders alternating with their guests. That put one of the Traders (a nervous, thin fellow) between him and Rena, which was a little annoying. He was worried that she might be uncomfortable with the seating arrangements, but he hadn't reckoned with her early training—if she was uncomfortable between two strangers, she didn't show it.

  Mero mostly stuck to small-talk with his two neighbors, allowing Diric and his fellow chiefs to monopolize the conversation. But just as they were served a dessert of honey-drenched fruits (from the Traders' stores) and beaten cream (supplied by the Iron People), something reminded him of those curious wicker cages and he asked about them.

  Out of courtesy, so that the Iron People could understand everything that was said around the circle, they both spoke in the Iron Peoples' tongue. "Ah! Those are to protect us from the Demons and their magic," said the young Trader whose name Mero hadn't caught. "We put fool's gold in them, and it works as the iron jewelry does."

  Heads snapped in their direction from all around the circle the moment that the word "iron" was spoken. "What is this?" Diric demanded.

  The Clan-chief explained, and tried to describe the contents of the ward-baskets in such a way that the Iron People would understand, but D
iric was baffled. "Wait—" he said, finally, and sent one of the younger Traders to fetch one of the baskets-.

  In front of Diric's interested gaze, he opened the top of the basket and poured out about three fistfulls worth of glittering, gold-colored stones with rough surfaces. "Fool's gold," the Trader-chief said dismissively. "Fools think it is real gold; it is good only for keeping the—"

  He stopped, his face a study in bewilderment, as Diric uttered a cry of triumph and scooped up two handfuls of the stones, brandishing them over his head.

  "Tell him!" the red-haired Trader-chief said, whirling and addressing Mero frantically. "Tell him it is not gold! Tell him that it is worthless!"

  But what Diric and the others were shouting was not gold— nor would they have been half so excited over a basketful of true gold nuggets.

  "Iron!" Diric bellowed with joy, "Iron!"

  And he and the others ran out of the camp, leaving Mero and Rena to try to explain.

  "We call these things 'iron pyrites,' and there are things we can do with them that we cannot with other iron," Kala said to Rena, as she bent, gloating, over her precious pile of rocks. Once the Traders realized how much their "fool's gold" was valued by the Iron People, it didn't take long for them to trade away all they had, trusting to their own skills and a promised escort of bull-riders to make it back to the cover of forested lands safely. They didn't have much, but at least they knew where there was more, and the Iron People were no longer threatening to take their herds and the Corn People and go elsewhere.

  "It is the women who will most value these," Kala continued. "The men would only wish to melt them down. There are better things to be done with these stones."

  Rena watched in fascination as Kala made good her words, her plump, stubby fingers moving with great skill and surprising delicacy, as she cut and faceted tiny "gemstones" from the iron pyrites, little things that glittered like black diamonds. It took unbelievable patience.

  "What are you going to do with these?" Rena asked, stirring a finished one in the palm of her hand with one finger.

  "Oh, I shall melt down the waste and cast it into a setting for it," Kala responded absently. "It will be a different style than you have seen heretofore, but I think you will like it. We have agreed to exchange it for the raw pyrites, so that the Traders need no longer waste these precious things in baskets on poles in order to protect themselves. One weight of jewelry to ten weights of pyrites."

  There was no doubt in Rena's mind that Kala thought she was getting the better part of the bargain. Rena continued to watch her for a while, but Kala became so involved in her work that it seemed an intrusion to stay, and she got up and went to look for Mero.

  "We have a problem," she said to him, worriedly, as soon as she caught sight of him hurrying towards her through the tents.

  "I know; Diric told me the trade-agreement," he replied, just as worried. "I mean, it's a good thing that they've got some iron, but this cuts us right out of everything. They can get most of what they need from either the Corn People or the Traders—"

  "—so what use are the Wizards to them?" Rena concluded for him. "If the Elvenlords do manage to defeat the Young Lords and come after us, why should the Iron People bother to help now? There's nothing in the alliance for them!"

  Mero nodded. "They're nothing if not practical." He set his chin. "Right. First of all, we need to get in touch with Shana and let her know what's happened. Maybe she'll have some ideas."

  "And next?" Rena asked, hopefully. Mero was resourceful— surely he could think of something they could do!

  "I can't think of a 'next,'" he replied, dashing her hopes. "I only wish I could...."

  16

  Kyrtian sat wearily on his horse beneath the broiling sun, and waited for his scout to come report to him. Ahead of him—somewhere—were the retreating forces of the Young Lords. They were far enough ahead of his troops that there wasn't even the tell-tale sign of a dust-cloud on the horizon.

  It was uncanny, it was indeed. The moment, the very moment that the Council agreed—reluctantly—to put him in charge of their forces, someone must have alerted the rebels. And that same someone must have told them that in Lord Kyrtian they were going to face a trained commander and trained troops. Because he never even got a chance to face an army in the field, only a few skirmishers meant to delay him while the army itself retreated.

  That was what his scouts were out looking for now—skirmishers, traps, false trails. And, just possibly, signs that the Young Lords had chosen a place to make a stand. But he didn't really expect that, not for some time yet. They were too far from areas they held secure, nor was the ground particularly good for turning at bay.

  Meanwhile—

  The scout—one of his own people—came running up; the man stopped at his stirrup and saluted.

  "Report," Kyrtian commanded.

  "My lord—all's clear, and the others have marked out a secure campsite," the man said crisply. "No sign of the enemy, other than the marks of retreat."

  "Very good." Kyrtian saluted in dismissal, and the scout trotted off to return to his own group. He looked over at Gel, who was also mounted, and waiting just beside him.

  "Well?" he asked.

  Gel barked a laugh. "It's making your reputation easily enough," he said. "But I wouldn't count on it to last."

  "I'm not." He sighed. "Let's get them moving. If we camp early enough, I can drill them some more."

  "Good plan." Gel wheeled his horse away and headed towards the main body of the army, paused for a rest, to relay Kyrtian's orders. Kyrtian stared at the horizon—and wondered when the inevitable blow was going to fall.

  Rennati sighed, brushed her hair back over her shoulders, and bent to look out of the window in her sleeping-alcove, craning her neck to see as much of the view below her as possible. Since Lord Kyrtian had left—and she did not know why, only that their servants said that he had gone—there had been nothing to report to Lady Triana, and nothing whatsoever had happened here in the harem. No more visitors had come, and nothing had been told to the concubines. Rennati had assiduously practiced her dancing, but one couldn't fill every hour of the day with dancing. It had been her one passion, but now she had all the leisure she could ever have dreamed of to practice and perfect her art, and she realized that without an audience to appreciate what she did, simply practicing and perfecting no longer was enough for her.

  The other two concubines were happily occupied with the contents of several chests that Lady Lydiell had thoughtfully sent up. Somehow she had known that the last batch of dressmaking materials was exhausted, and she had supplied a true horde of precious things—swaths of silks, satins, and velvets, yards of trim, buckets of glittering glass, shell and stone beads, gold and silver and silken embroidery threads, and everything the heart could desire for the making of dresses and ornaments. A thoughtful gift that had rather surprised Rennati, actually; nothing in her life would have led her to expect any such attentions from the chatelaine and mother of a young lord. And if Rennati had been just a little more like the other two slaves of Lord Kyrtian's harem, she would have been right down there beside Gianna and Kara, planning dresses, sewing, and making delicate little amulet-necklaces with the wealth of beads.

  She had done some of that, but like her dancing, there was only so much puttering with trinkets that she could do before she lost interest. Concubines were supposed to be obsessed with clothing and self-ornamentation; Rennati liked clothing well enough, and she enjoyed looking pretty, but she had always felt frustrated and confined by life in the harem, though she had taken very great care never to show it. The alternative to the harem was the life of a field- or house-slave, and they were not treated nearly as well as the concubines.

  The view from her window, though restricted, was more interesting than anything inside the harem. At least there was something going on out there, something different from the interior of the harem tower. Weather changed, slaves walked past, birds flew by. And sh
e was, frankly, putting off reporting to Lady Triana. The Lady had been increasingly impatient with Rennati's lack of information and, the last time, had threatened to revoke her bargain unless Rennati had more to report the next time she called.

  At last, with a grimace, she decided that she couldn't put it off any longer. She picked up the little box of personal jewelry, and dug the teleson-ring out from its hiding-place among her tiny treasures. Carefully she put it on, spoke the few words that activated it, and stared into the dark green murk of the beryl, waiting for a voice to call to her thinly across the vast distance between this manor and Lady Triana's.

  "Well. So this is where the disturbance has been coming from." Rennati started, and looked up, for the voice did not come from the ring, nor was it Lady Triana's.

  Lady Lydiell stood in the doorway, and in her shock, Rennati could only stare at her dumbly. Elven ladies never entered the harem, much less came into the concubines' private quarters! She had feared discovery by Gianna or Kara, or perhaps even Lord Kyrtian himself, but never, ever by his mother!

  The lady was not dressed in the same fashion that she had been when Rennati first met with her; in fact, she looked very little like the sheltered Lady of the manor that Rennati knew her to be. With her long, silver hair bound into a severe knot at the nape of her neck, no cosmetics on her face, and no jewels— wearing a soft brown divided skirt and matching long-sleeved tunic—only her air of authority betrayed her rank.

  Her eyes were quiet, unreadable pools of murky green, exactly like the beryl in Rennati's ring; her face as expressionless as a statue.

  Lady Lydiell calmly took the few steps needed to cross the distance between the doorway and Rennati, and held out her hand.

  "Whomever you have been reporting to won't answer you, child," the Lady said, with no sign of anger or any other emotion that Rennati could detect. "I've taken care of that. You might as well give that teleson-ring to me."