Brede steps back. “Who does trade the back roads?”
“You might ask in the alleys, friend. Nobody with brains, that’s for sure.”
Gerrish is not telling the whole truth, but Dorrin does not shake his head. Instead, for a moment, he looks at the figures unstacking barrels in the warehouse beyond. Then he turns his eyes back to the trader. “Do the unsanctioned traders still operate from the old grounds outside the city?”
“How would I know? Outside the city, the alleys—it’s all the same to us.” The trader squares his round shoulders and broad paunch, with a look toward the warehouse.
“Thank you, trader.” Brede gives a half-bow.
Kadara ignores the man as she turns, her hand on the hilt of her blade.
Dorrin, although tempted to wish the man well in the name of order, just to see him squirm, merely nods as he turns away from Gerrish.
Back on the white-paved street, the three look to the horses, which wait, apparently undisturbed. Brede stops by the stone support, glancing across the street toward another sign with a trader’s symbol.
“Now what do we do?” asks Kadara.
Dorrin glances around the traders’ square, his eyes flickering from one white stone building to another, none more than two stories tall. The avenue beside which he stands runs straight as a spear toward the great city square of Fairhaven, where the wizards’ buildings surround a well-kept park that contains even a few ancient white oaks. The vegetation in the center of the traders’ square, circled by the same white paving stones that comprise every main thoroughfare in the White City, is comprised only of the short wiry grass and evenly trimmed low bushes with blue-green needles—candlebushes.
The healer recognizes that the greenery consists of plants which can withstand chaos and few, if any, true flowers in Fairhaven.
Two men and a woman, wearing the pale blue tunics of traders, enter the building which the three exiles had just left.
“Well…what do we do now?” repeats Kadara. “Try one of the others?”
Dorrin shakes his head, and both look at him. “You can’t pay protection to two masters, and the traders here must look to the White Wizards. Maybe I’m wrong, but”—his head inclines toward the sign across the white paving stones from where they stand—“trader Alligash probably would give you exactly the same rationale.”
“Do we just give up?” Kadara’s hand remains on the hilt of her blade.
“We need to look outside Fairhaven,” opines Dorrin.
Brede looks at the sun, now hanging just above the stone roofs on the western side of the square, and grins ruefully. “We probably ought to find somewhere to stay. This isn’t a place where you can sleep in the square.”
“Our coins aren’t going to last forever,” reminds Kadara.
“Then we need to get out of the city,” suggests Dorrin.
Both Brede and Kadara glare at Dorrin.
Click…clickedy…click…
“…shit…” Kadara reaches for her saddle, but does not attempt to mount.
Three horses move quickly into the square from the direction of the main city square. All three bear the white-clad and white-armored guards. Two guards are female, but all are hard-faced and short-haired, and their white-bronze blades glitter with the white-red of chaos.
“So where are we headed?” asks Brede, his big right hand on the reins to the gelding. He does not untie the leathers from the post.
“Out of the city. Toward the west,” suggests Dorrin.
“Hold it!” The speaker is the leading guard, a rangy older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a beaked nose.
“I beg your pardon?” offers Brede, the reins to the chestnut in his hand.
“You’re outlanders?” asks the White guard.
“We’re not from Fairhaven—that’s true,” admits the tall man, his voice mellow and polite.
“Another bunch of those young Recluce pilgrim types, I’d bet.” The low-voiced comment comes from the dark-haired female guard. She shifts her seat on the gelding directly behind the group leader who had spoken to Brede.
“They’re more interesting than the one-god pilgrims from Kyphros,” adds the third guard, a heavier blond woman.
Dorrin senses some discomfort behind the words, discomfort not exactly linked to the three from Recluce.
“Where are you headed?” demands the older guard, swinging off his horse.
“West. Through the Easthorns and beyond,” Brede answers simply.
“Likely story.” He half-snorts, but looks toward the trader’s building, then at the dispatch case in his hand. Finally, he shrugs and looks at the blonde. “Derla, I need to talk to Gerrish. You can take care of these…pilgrims…” He ties the horse beside Brede’s, and his boots click on the stones as he walks into the trader’s.
“So…what brings you to Fairhaven?” snaps Derla. She edges her mount forward until the gelding almost separates Dorrin from Brede and Kadara.
“The usual,” Brede replies. “We were sent out to learn about Candar and the world.”
The woman’s discomfort is almost palpable to Dorrin, and he squirms, wondering what he should do. She is, after all, a White guard and a servant of chaos.
“What do you think?” Derla looks at the younger and dark-haired guard.
“According to Zerlat, the big one’s a natural blade. The redhead is a mage, but he’s no Creslin. He can barely sense the winds. He is a pretty fair healer…”
Dorrin catches his breath, realizing that the meeting in the square has scarcely been chance. He edges toward the one called Derla, and his hand brushes her leg. Chaos or not, he must respond to the twisted knot of agony tied within her. Despite the invisible white flames that lick around her, there remains a core of order that he touches, easing the pain and strengthening her. He shivers as he steps away, pale, and takes a deep breath, shaking his head against the throbbing caused by the contact.
Kadara closes her mouth quickly, but not so quickly that Dorrin cannot sense her disapproval.
“You didn’t have to do that,” snaps the guard.
Silence, except for the heavy breathing of six horses, shrouds the corner of the square.
“Fair’s fair.” Derla eases the gelding back away from Brede, Dorrin and Kadara. “And I’m more than sick of bleeding all over the entire continent so that some stupid man can have a child someday and boost his frigging ego.”
“I’m sorry.” Dorrin leans away from the blond.
“Don’t apologize. You’re a man. It’s not your fault that you’re all glands and little brain.” The white-clad guard smiles politely and turns toward the other female guard. “So…what should we do with them?”
The dark-haired woman shakes her head. “The Council doesn’t like people from the isle, and Jeslek is saying that Recluce has stolen our rain and our crops for centuries.”
“Have the orders changed?”
They both grin.
“Young fellow…Dorrin…whatever your name is…if I were you, I’d get out of Fairhaven real quick and quietly. And take your friends with you.”
Brede and Kadara look from the guards to Dorrin. Then Brede vaults into the saddle. Kadara studies the dark-haired guard for another long moment.
“You heard what I said, witch-blade. If you want to swing that toy of yours much longer, I’d get out of here.” The blonde turns to her dark-haired compatriot. “Hard to believe they’re descended from Creslin…so dull…”
In the process of clambering onto Meriwhen, Dorrin suppresses a grin as he senses Kadara’s combined puzzlement, anger, and frustration. But, as he turns the mare, he inclines his head to the two guards. The blonde flushes, although her expression remains as cold as that of a formal marble statue.
Until they clear the square the three ride in silence.
Finally, Kadara looks over her shoulder and then back at Dorrin. “What they see…”
“Kadara.” Brede’s voice is low, but firm.
“Don’t ‘K
adara’ me!”
Brede and Dorrin exchange glances.
“And stop looking at each other like that!”
Both men shrug, almost simultaneously.
Dorrin looks at the road ahead, leading westward.
XXIV
Kadara, Brede, and Dorrin ride along the white-paved highway south toward the old trader’s grounds. Dorrin pats Meriwhen’s neck when they pass another set of mounted White guards, but the guards only look, and turn their mounts onto a narrower road headed east. Kadara again looks at Brede.
Dorrin can stand the unspoken reproaches no longer. “Would you two stop it!”
“Stop what?” Kadara’s voice is vaguely amused.
“You know what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
Dorrin swallows his anger and refuses to speak. Instead, he squirms on the hard saddle, and momentarily stands in the stirrups to stretch his legs.
Meriwhen whinnies, and he pats her neck again.
The three continue until they have passed through the outer low gates and the curbstones have given way to a flat stone highway from which white dust rises with each descending hoof.
Dorrin sneezes. He sneezes again. Kadara and Brede exchange whispers. Although he could call their conversation to him on the breeze, he does not. Instead he sneezes again.
“Can’t you do something about that?” asks Brede. “You’re supposed to be the healer.”
“Not…accchoooooo…that good. It’s the dust, or something.”
Kadara and Brede exchange another glance. Dorrin bites his lip and tries to suppress another sneeze. Intermittent sneezes punctuate the next several kays, and his legs are aching from the effort of riding and sneezing by the time his nose begins to stop itching.
The arrow in the stone guidepost directs them onto a packed clay road. Before they have climbed a kay up the gentle grade, heavy brownish dust clings to the legs of each horse. The road flattens at the crest, and less than half a kay away is a small kiosk. To the right of it are flat clay, patches of grass, and scraggly bushes. Less than half a dozen tents dot the area.
“Not exactly a thriving trading ground.”
“No.” Kadara brushes a stand of hair back over her ears.
“No wagon?” The guard remains seated on the stool leaned against the back wall of the kiosk. The kiosk’s white paint has begun to flake away.
“We’re not traders.”
“Ride around the pole, then.” The guard’s eyes close even before Brede guides the gelding around the turnpole and through the two-cubit-wide gap.
“Not even a fence.”
“The posts are close enough together to keep out any wagons.”
The posts, each set about two cubits from its neighbor, enclose a space perhaps three hundred cubits on a side. The traders’ grounds contain no more than a handful of tents, all pitched in the higher northwest corner.
“Wonderful idea.” Kadara glances at Dorrin. “No one here could afford one guard, let alone two—or a healer.”
“So…we ride to Jellico.” Dorrin’s legs are stiff, but they no longer ache—at least not much.
“And arrive penniless?”
“We can only do what we can,” says Brede. “No one in Fairhaven would hire us, and staying there would have cost far too much. Besides, those guards made it clear that we needed to leave while we could. They don’t like Black healers—that was clear enough.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You got us horses we probably wouldn’t have and warned us about the highwaymen. This time, you’re the one they don’t like. Even so, that business with the White lady probably got us out of there. It evens out.” Brede gives a long look to Kadara, who swallows.
“I’m sorry, Dorrin. It’s just been…a long trip already.”
“I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I just thought…maybe at least here.”
“All we can do is try.” Brede guides the gelding toward the nearest tent. Beside the brown patched canvas are a wagon and two horses. Two men watch as the three ride up. One holds an already-cocked crossbow loosely.
“Who you looking for?”
Brede reins up, and Dorrin and Kadara follow his example.
“We heard that there might be some traders who could use some help,” begins Brede, his voice mellow and convincing.
“Not us, young fellow. Don’t need young and hungry bravos. Look somewheres else.” The man with the crossbow cackles, showing blackened teeth. “Try Durnit there. In the patched tent.” He cackles again, but raises the crossbow. “Get!”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” Brede answers.
“Maybe not, young fellow…but I don’t need you and yours. Now go bother some other bastard.”
The three edge their mounts away, still watching until the trader lowers the bow. Then they turn toward the brown tent that is more patches than original fabric. A single man—whose clothes, once solid leathers and linen, approximate rags—sits in front of a low fire, turning something on a spit. Outside of the tent is tethered but a single swaybacked horse.
“Are you Durnit?”
“Maybe. What’s it to you?”
“We heard you might need some help on your next run.”
“Ha! Sure as I would, but I’ve not a copper left from the last.” The trader turns the spit again. “There’s my profits—one scrawny bird. They say the Suthyans’ll take a trader as a factor on the Nordla run. I’ll try that. Can’t fight the wizards and their roads, and can’t afford a road pass.”
“Is there anyone around here who might need help?” Dorrin asks softly into the silence.
“You might try Liedral. Tent’s over there, with blue flag.” The bearded trader’s thumb gestures toward a smaller tent on the hilly rise. “Jellico type.” He spits into the dirt beside the fire.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Just let me finish eating. Last meal for a long time.” He eases the blackened fowl off the spit with the short knife, and greasy fingers worry away a small drumstick.
Brede’s hand lifts as if to reach toward the sword in the shoulder harness before he turns in the direction pointed by the hungry trader.
Another hundred cubits westward stands the neatly squared tent, although the short blue banner hangs limply in the golden light of late afternoon. A single chestnut and a mule are tethered to iron stakes driven into the clay on the eastern side of the tent, and an iron chain links the two-wheeled cart to a third iron stake on the western side.
The figure feeding the fire from a pile of stubby split logs is broad-shouldered, beardless, dressed in faded blue leathers, and wears a wide-brimmed blue felt hat. The trader straightens and waits, appearing nearly as tall as Kadara. The three from Recluce ride slowly forward.
“Are you Liedral?” Brede begins.
“Yes.” A smile follows the single word delivered in a light baritone.
“Durnit—the trader back there—he suggested you might need some help on your next run.”
“We all need help.” The laugh is soft.
Dorrin’s senses conflict with his eyes over the trader’s appearance.
“I can’t pay three guards.”
“They’re guards,” Dorrin offers. “I’m just an apprentice healer.”
“Your staff indicated something like that.” Liedral gestures to the fire, and the kettle suspended over one side. “You’ve ridden a while. You can at least rest for a bit. I can’t offer much besides some spare redberry or a spice tea.”
Brede and Kadara exchange glances. Dorrin dismounts. Both look at him.
“My legs are sore.”
Brede shrugs and slips from the saddle with the fluid grace that Dorrin still envies. Kadara follows.
“You’re all from Recluce?”
“Yes.” Dorrin sees no point in dissembling.
Kadara raises an eyebrow; Brede looks for somewhere to tether his mount.
“Use the stake the wagon is chained to,” suggests Lied
ral.
“All three?” blurts Dorrin.
“For now, it should be more than adequate.” The dryness of the trader’s tone brings a flush to Dorrin’s freckled face.
“Why the iron?” asks Brede, as he loops the leather through the fist-sized eyelet of the stake.
“More than a few free traders have lost mounts and wagons.” Liedral pours water into the kettle before swinging it out over the hotter coals with a heavy leather glove.
Kadara quickly tethers her mount.
“Is that why there’s iron in the tether ropes?” asks Dorrin.
Again, Brede and Kadara exchange looks. Kadara shakes her head.
“You may need two guards just for yourself, healer.” Liedral laughs softly.
Dorrin’s face feels warm, but his words are firm, almost snapped out. “If you were White, I’d know, and, besides, none of the Whites would want that much iron around.”
“Fair enough. Let me find some mugs.” Liedral disappears into the tent.
Kadara fixes Dorrin with lowered brows. Dorrin leads Meriwhen over to the iron stake, where he follows Brede’s and Kadara’s example.
By the time he returns to the fire, the trader is passing out the mugs. “Spice tea or redberry?”
“Tea.” Kadara takes a heavy brown mug.
“Redberry,” adds Brede.
“Tea.” Dorrin is left with a fluted gray mug with a chip on the rim.
The trader’s deft hands pour chopped tea into a metal basket on a chain, which goes into the kettle before the top drops back in place. “Be a bit.”
Dorrin concentrates on the trader, then nods, hiding the smile he feels as his senses confirm his feelings. He smothers a smile and waits.
Liedral gestures to the ground. “I can’t provide any comforts, but please be seated.” The trader settles onto a small padded stool.
Brede sits cross-legged, as does Kadara, before the fire and to the trader’s right. Dorrin’s muscles are too sore and tight for that, and he shifts his weight on the hard ground until he finds the least uncomfortable position on the trader’s left.
The low ooooo of a dove echoes across the trading grounds from the higher grasses of the low hill to the northwest.
The Magic Engineer Page 11
