The Saprano Sorceress

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Markan intercepted it. "Thank you, Quisa."

  "You're with that lord down south, aren't you, fellow?"

  "Lord Hryding," Markan agreed. "We're headed to Falcor."

  "Takes all kinds, it does." Quisa shook her head and waddled back out the door.

  Fridric, provisions bags in hand, had to flatten himself against the wall to allow Quisa to pass.

  Stepan was laughing as he brought in the last of the saddlebags. "I waited until she came down, but, no, you just had to get up the stairs."

  "You were right," Fridric conceded.

  "What's in these?" Stepan lifted the two irregular bags. "They clank, like blades and stuff."

  "Blades and stuff," Anna admitted. "I thought they might be worth something."

  "More than in your purse," Markan said. "Could I ask…"

  "You can ask." Anna forced a smile.

  "Never mind, lady. Better I not know."

  "I'm hungry," Fridric said, almost plaintively.

  "Best we eat early. Food just gets tougher," Markan suggested.

  "I'd like to wash up a little," Anna said.

  "Not enough water for all of us," Markan observed, glancing toward Anna's room.

  "I think I can handle that."

  Anna washed first, then managed to clean the water in the basin and bucket twice with the water spell. She sat in the empty chair and looked out the window while the others washed.

  Two armsmen in purple rode past the inn, but neither stopped. A setterlike dog dashed across the street after something she couldn't see, and loud voices echoed from the porch.

  Her head kept aching, even after she held it in both hands and massaged her forehead. She finished the water in the bottle Markan had brought with her saddlebags, and that helped.

  "We're ready, lady," Daffyd offered softly.

  Anna stood, her legs suddenly unsteady. After two steps, they uncramped somewhat.

  "Can you ward our stuff?" asked Stepan.

  "Ward?" she answered.

  "Keep it safe."

  "Let me think a moment." It took more than a minute, but Anna did come up with what she hoped would serve.

  "Sing, sing a song; keep them safe to last our whole night long. Don't worry 'cause it's sure strong enough for those who don't belong. Just sing, sing a song."

  She rubbed her forehead, which had begun to throb, probably from all the spells and no food for several glasses. Sorcery on an empty stomach hurt, she had discovered.

  "Strange ward," murmured Fridric.

  "Strange or not, it will work," opined Markan.

  Anna hoped so.

  The entire inn seemed to creak as they walked in single file down the hall and to the lower level. The public room was half empty, with a large table in the near comer.

  "Take the corner chair, lady," Markan suggested, though Anna had already decided on that.

  The five had scarcely wedged themselves around the circular battered and grease-stained wooden table before the squat serving woman arrived, her trousers and tunic brown from a variety of sources beyond the color of the fabric. "Standard fare?"

  "What else is there tonight?" asked Anna.

  The serving woman glanced toward the squared arch through which smoke oozed and lowered her voice. "Nothing anyone should try."

  Anna felt the comment was honest. "Standard fare all around."

  Markan nodded minutely.

  "Drinks? Beer, red stuff about all we got."

  "Red stuff?" asked Daffyd.

  "Call it wine, but it's half vinegar, so I call it red stuff. Visula's always on me for it, but… customers like to know." A toothy grin followed, showing too many blackened teeth.

  "Beer," suggested Markan.

  Anna agreed, and, after that, so did the others.

  "Five more for the drinks," said the server.

  "When they come," answered Markan.

  Anna wanted to massage her forehead, which throbbed more fiercely. She needed to eat. Instead, she withdrew, trying to ignore the greasy air, the odor of sweat and burned meat, and the too-loud conversations.

  "Visula thinks he's got the only inn on the road."

  "He does, the dissonant devil."

  "Who's the lady, there?"

  "… three, four armsmen, but she rode in, no carriage…"

  "Who cares?… prefer a good blade any day…"

  Five tin mugs clunked onto the table.

  "Where's your five?" asked the serving woman.

  Anna laid five coppers on the wood, which vanished in a different kind of magic, and pulled one of the mugs in front of her. She studied the soapy-looking liquid even as Markan took a deep draught.

  "Good…"

  She didn't quite believe him, and tried a sip. Lukewarm or not, it wasn't bad. She had another sip.

  Stepan swallowed half a mug.

  "Lad… easy," cautioned Markan. "The lady Anna isn't about to pay to get you sick."

  Before Anna took a third sip, the serving woman was back with five large steaming bowls filled with a thick dark liquid leavened with lumps. "Road stew," she announced, staring at Anna.

  Anna got the message, and looked to Markan. The arms-man mouthed "two." Anna fumbled out a pair of coppers.

  With a smile the serving woman swept them away. "Enjoy. The bread's a-coming. Hot, too."

  Within moments, it had—two long black loaves.

  Anna glanced around—no cutlery… nothing. Markan had out his own dagger. Do as the Romans, or whoever, do. Anna ended up spearing the chunks of meat with her own dagger, nibbling on them, and sopping up the gravy with her bread.

  Her headache began to subside. What was it? She'd had trouble with blood sugar before, but it seemed even worse on Erde. Was doing sorcery worsening the effect?

  As she ate, around them, the half spoken, half shouted conversations swirled.

  "… a dissonant fool ol' Berfir was…"

  "… Prophet'll save us, but that's to keep the Liedfuhr off his ass, not 'cause he gives a single note about us."

  Anna looked down at the empty bread basket and the empty bowl. Had she really eaten it all? Her eyes felt heavy. Maybe the bed wouldn't be too lumpy. Maybe.

  59

  With the sun beating into her eyes, low enough that the battered hat's brim was useless, Anna squinted toward the west and the road that merged with a red stone bridge.

  Moving past her on the left was a wagon drawn by two horses that plodded stolidly forward and raised road dust that seemed to hang just high enough for her to breathe. The driver stared at the road without ever looking at Anna, Daffyd, and the three armsmen.

  Anna rubbed her nose gently.

  Daffyd sneezed once, twice.

  "The dust never ends," Markan said.

  The player sneezed again, and so did Stepan. Anna squeezed her nose and tried not to sneeze as well—and failed. Her eyes watered with the explosive force of the sneeze.

  "… wish we would get enough rain to lay the dust," gasped Stepan.

  Anna agreed, but blotted her eyes on her sleeve, then straightened in the saddle.

  A rider wearing a sash of cream and green pounded past the armsman and toward the east. The sorceress's eyes followed the rider for a moment.

  "Prophet's messenger, for all the good it will do him." Markan paused, then added. "No one will listen, and no one will tell him anything."

  Anna smiled ruefully—that sounded familiar, just like academic politics at Ames or anywhere else.

  A small square tower stood at the eastern end of the bridge, door bolted shut, upper windows shuttered. Dust coated the stones, softening the harsh red. As Anna's eyes passed over the structure, she wondered why the small tower had ever been built, since it would have been useless against any army. A tollhouse that could no longer even pay for itself?

  "Up there, three deks or so, is where the Fal and the Chean come together," Markan said idly as his mount's hoofs clacked on the broad stones that paved the approach to the bridge.

&nbs
p; Wide enough for two wagons abreast, the stone bridge across the Falche River consisted of three sections. The first ran about a hundred yards from the east bluff of the river to a wide stone pier built up from a small island covered with brush and willows. The second section extended somewhat less than a hundred yards to another stone pier that rose out of the placid-looking muddy water. The last section stretched from the pier to the western bluff of the river— and the eastern part of Falcor.

  The ruts in the stone pavement testified to the bridge's age, as did the loose mortar in the railing. A single cargo raft, steered with a tiller and containing pallets of something, floated south of the span, a dark brown splotch on the light brown water that shimmered almost silver in the late-afternoon sun.

  As Farinelli carried her off the bridge and onto the rough cobblestones of the road, Anna studied the small square that consisted of one statue on a pedestal in a paved area from which five streets branched. Like every other town she had seen in Defalk, Falcor lacked walls. Was that because sorcerers could break them down or because the countries were so far inland that walls were seldom needed? Or for some other reason?

  "Which way?" she asked Markan, slowing Farinelli.

  "The river road, the one to the left. The liedburg is south of the city proper." As he spoke to Anna, Markan turned in the saddle and pointed toward Fridric. "Unfurl the banner."

  The streets of Falcor were paved, if dust-and dirt-covered, and the sounds of the city echoed along the narrow streets.

  "Knives sharpened…" Cling, cling! "Knives sharpened…"

  " 'Ware the wagon! 'Ware the wagon!"

  Anna looked up and saw the chamberpot, reining up Farinelli just before the sloppy mess splashed into the open sewer that ran along the right side of the street.

  Flies swirled around them, smaller and swifter than the large horseflies on the highway. The street narrowed more, and an odor compounded of horse manure, sewage, spoiled food, and kitchen fires drifted around Anna. No wonder medieval minstrels extolled the countryside.

  "Beautiful Falcor…" murmured Anna. Brill's hall seemed impossibly distant, impossibly clean. As with so many things in her life, Anna was reminded that the better aspects were often transitory—like Irenia… like earth itself. She drew herself erect on the gelding, steeled herself for the ordeal that would come.

  The equivalent of a dozen blocks farther south, they reached another square, containing women, children, and carts drawn up randomly on the pavement. From several carts the smoke of fowl being cooked on braziers rose, and Anna was reminded of how Mario had smelled every night the year he had worked for KFC.

  "Roasted fowl! Roasted fowl, two a quarter, two a quarter…"

  "… hot fowl rolls… hot rolls…"

  "Stenjabs! Get your stenjabs here!"

  What were stenjabs? Anna had no desire to find out, and neither Markan nor Daffyd made any comment.

  "Lady? A fowl for your men?"

  The sorceress shook her head.

  "Probably diseased," Markan said under his breath as they rode from the open area back onto a street wider than that which had taken them from the bridge.

  The dwellings were larger south of the square, with lower level walls built of large square red building stones, like brownstones, and only shuttered entrances on the street level. Up a level were balconies and windows, and higher, tile roofs.

  The street sewers were covered—mostly—with slabs of stone.

  As the street sloped downhill, Markan gestured to the castle—the first real castle Anna had seen—on the opposite hill, overlooking Falcor, with the Falche River to the left. "The liedburg."

  A banner comprised of two cream-and-green triangles, over which was superimposed a golden trumpet, flew from the staff above the gates.

  Anna nodded and took off the floppy hat, using her hands to try to push her hair into some semblance of order.

  "Good idea," said Daffyd.

  Don't condescend to me! she thought, but only smiled.

  The street widened into an avenue as it flattened in the space under the liedburg. An expanse of grass a full hundred yards wide surrounded the castle on three sides, with the eastern side of the bluff overlooking the river.

  Markan slowed his mount at the stone-paved road to the gates.

  The walls around the liedburg were not perfunctory, but a full twenty yards high, made of massive red stone blocks, designed to withstand sieges. In the flat below the walls on the side closest to the river, were set up rows of tents, and armsmen lounged in the shade created by the canvas. Several peered toward Anna and her entourage as they headed across the open area to the gates.

  A full squad of guards in leathers and sea-green sashes was drawn up, half on each side of the gate. While the gates were open, a network of bars that resembled a portcullis with a small doorway in the middle blocked the gate opening.

  "We might as well ride on." Anna flicked the reins, and Farinelli stepped forward, his hoofs loud on the hard stone.

  "Who are you?" asked the weathered subofficer who stepped forward when Anna reined up short of the guards. Then he added less peremptorily, "Lady?"

  "I am the lady Anna. I am here responding to the Prophet's proclamation. The armsmen escorting me represent the fealty of Lord Hryding, and his demonstration of goodwill."

  "The lady who?"

  "The lady Anna," she repeated, forcing herself not to explain. No lady would explain in public.

  "Who is she? Some lord's daughter..."

  "… another doxie for Behlem?"

  "… got none, not with his consort…"

  "… she that sorceress?"

  Anna smiled, ignoring the whispered speculations, waiting for the subofficer's response.

  "I cannot say that I…" The subofficer broke off his words with an embarrassed smile.

  "It might be best if you conveyed my message to Lord Behlem," Anna said. "Just tell him that the lady Anna has arrived, as he requested." There was no way she was entering the castle or its grounds until Behlem knew she was there. "I will be happy to wait here."

  "It's hot out here, lady. I was only thinking of your comfort." His smile turned slightly sick looking.

  "I've ridden from the Sand Pass to Synope and then here. A little more sun won't hurt." She smiled and patted Far-inelli.

  After a long moment, the subofficer bowed slightly, turned, and made his way into the shadowed archway and through the door in the portcullis.

  "She's got guts..." whispered Fridric, before Stepan jabbed him in the ribs.

  The guards remained drawn up, holding positions loosely at ease, all except for a graying armsman who stepped forward to take the subofficer's position. He did not look toward the five riders who waited.

  Sitting on Farinelli in the late-afternoon sun, Anna could feel the heat on the side of her face and her neck, and the sweat in her hair. Her legs threatened to cramp again, but she held her seat, as if it were a performance before unfriendly critics—and it well might be.

  In time, two green-coated officers, with silver-braid swirls on the shoulders of their tunics, appeared, flanking a white-haired older man in cream and green. The subofficer trudged behind.

  The whispers rose as the four neared the far side of the portcullis.

  "Counselor to the Prophet…"

  "… more than pretty she must be …"

  "… think old sharp-tongue's in for it now…"

  "… she can get the captains here, she's someone…"

  The armsman who had taken the subofficer's place stepped back as his superior stepped in front of the guards.

  "Honor… arms!"

  Twelve blades flashed in salute.

  The white-haired man stepped toward Anna. "I am Menares, counselor to the Prophet." He bowed, then straightened. "I recognize you from the waters, lady, and bid you welcome to our temporary abode."

  "I am pleased to be here." Anna swung out of the saddle, hoping her legs would hold. They did. "I have arrived as quickly as possibl
e."

  "Your haste is appreciated in these times," Menares said, before lowering his voice. "If you would all follow me…"

  Anna turned and nodded to Markan, and the four dismounted, Daffyd slightly behind the others.

  "Let them enter!" Menares ordered.

  "Raise the gate!" said the stockier of the two officers who had accompanied the counselor.

  After a moment, with a creaking series of squeaks, the gate lurched upward and into the stone grooves behind the heavy wooden gates.

  "Return… arms!"

  Anna led her entourage forward through the narrow stone archway, hoping that she was doing the right thing. Farinelli only side-stepped once.

  Once they were in the courtyard, Menares turned to Anna again. "The Prophet will meet with you—only briefly at the moment—but he will receive you more formally at dinner tomorrow when you have had a chance to rest and refresh yourself."

  And when he's had time to gather everyone to examine me, Anna thought. Or decide what he really wants to do with me.

  Menares motioned to the slender officer. "Namir will ensure your armsmen—"

  "—and my player," the sorceress interjected.

  "—have their mounts stabled and are refreshed, while I escort you to Lord Behlem."

  "Now?"

  "What better time, Lady Anna?"

  The sorceress shrugged, finally handing the reins to the Neserean subofficer. Farinelli neighed and side-stepped.

  "Easy," Anna commanded, and the gelding subsided.

  With a last look back, and a quick smile at Daffyd, she followed the white-haired counselor across the courtyard and through a wide double door. Their steps echoed through the high ceilings of the hall, or liedburg, echoed off worn and polished stone floors that had no mats or carpets. The walls were bare red stone, except for sconces holding unlit lamps set at irregular intervals. The lamp mantles were uniformly sooty.

  A sour odor permeated the hall, one that would have been more unpleasant, Anna suspected, had the climate not been so dry.

  At the end of the main hall, Menares started up the grand staircase. Anna tried not to wince as she lifted her sore legs and feet.

  "I must admit that I was… taken by surprise… at your speedy arrival," said the older man.

  "I didn't see much point in waiting," Anna said. Not since I really had few choices.