“It is not wrong to feed the hungry, but it is wrong to feed their hungers.”
I never liked obscure answers, and I didn’t like Justen’s. If he thought that Antonin was a showman, he should have said so. Or that he served evil by tempting hungry people. But he didn’t. Justen only smiled sadly again. Did the man ever do anything besides disapprove of the white wizard?
Antonin the white wizard faced all of us in the common area. “Come forward, those of you without a penny for food. There is enough for a small portion for all who are hungry.” His voice was hearty and friendly, and the words sounded genuine, but the real invitation was the smell of roast mutton.
First came a boy in a patched jacket, the apprentice of some tradesman. After him came a thin girl in leggings too big and an old herd coat too small. Before the shuffle of their feet had reached the trestle table, half the commons were pressing after them. Only the whiteness of the wizard kept the crowd in a line.
Arlyn snored on the table, but the man next to me and his companion in green had joined the crowd. Tempting as the mutton smelled, the odor repelled me as much as attracted me. So I munched through the rest of the hard black bread and the thin cheese wedge while the others jostled for the mutton.
The innkeeper emerged from the crowd carrying the sheepskin, the one thing of lasting value, and disappeared briefly into the kitchen with the prize, emerging quickly with a large truncheon and another man with an even greasier apron and a larger club.
Antonin sat at his table and sipped from a real crystal glass-wine, not mead or cider, glancing once or twice in my direction. I tried to ignore him as I swallowed the last of the cider.
The gray magician-Justen-stood up and pulled his cloak around him. Then he walked toward me. I stood, wondering whether to meet him or flee. Then I shrugged.
“Let us check the animals, apprentice.”
I nodded, realizing that, for whatever reason, he was offering some sort of protection, and followed him into the blizzard that separated the inn from the stable.
Whheeeeeeeeee… The howl of the wind was lower, only a half-wail compared to the shrieking that had forced me inside earlier. The needle-ice no longer fell, replaced with fine white powder so thick that it blurred like heavy sea fog.
“You near lost your soul there, young fellow.”
I wanted to leave him right then. Another person knowing better than I did, ready to preach and not explain. But he hadn’t asked anything. So I waited to see if he would explain.
He didn’t, just walked toward the stable. I followed.
XXIV
THE WOMAN IN gray watches the roadside from the bench seat of the wagon, holding her staff tightly in one hand. She tries not to think about the similarity between the rolling of the wagon and the motion of the cargo ship that had so recently carried her to Candar.
On either side of the road, the dull gray-brown of damp and rotting grass, interspersed with patches of black weeds, stretches to the hills on the north and to the horizon on the south. Beyond the southern horizon lies the Ohyde River, and the point where her journey will end-Hydolar, where the road and the river meet.
Ahead on the road, she sees three thin figures, their ragged and uneven walk like that of so many others that she and the wagon have passed.
Crack!
“Hyah… hyah…” rumbles the driver without looking at the whip he has cracked or the two draft horses pulling the now-empty wagon that had carried cabbages and potatoes. He wears a heavy belt filled with more than gold, and a cocked crossbow rests on a stand to his right. “See anything, Maga?”
On the road ahead, the two younger men ride a pair of rail-thin horses. The sandy-haired one bears a long rifle, good only against the desperate, but necessary on the road they travel.
Beyond them, beyond the three figures that the wagon lumbers around, she can sense only the emptiness of another set of minds, trudging away from Freetown and the soggy desperation of too much rain and too little sunlight.
“Nothing except some more hungry people…”
“Good for us, at least,” rumbles the driver. “Never got so much for cabbages and potatoes.”
She grips her staff and tries not to think about either ships or the gnawing pains in the minds and bellies of the vacant-eyed men and women and children stumbling along the road toward the sunlight of Hydlen.
XXV
“SERS! THE DOORWAY, please!” The pleading voice came from what I first took to be a pile of rags and blankets. The stableboy had heaped a worn saddle blanket over a pile of rags and burrowed his own tattered leathers underneath. He was huddled in a nook where he could watch the big sliding door. Beyond him loomed Antonin’s coach, not quite lit by an internal flame.
“Of course,” I found myself saying as I quickly slid the heavy slab back into place and plunged the stable back into gloom.
Whhhhh… thip, thub, thip, thub… The doorway creaked and rattled in the wind.
The darkness didn’t bother me, since I didn’t seem to need much light to see by any more. Turning toward Justen, I found he had left and walked toward the stalls in the rear.
Gairloch was still double-stalled with the other mountain pony, dark gray with a creamy mane.
Wheeeee . . : nun…
“Good girl…”
I should have guessed. “Yours?”
Justen nodded.
“Gairloch’s male.”
“That won’t matter for now. Rosefoot’s pretty tolerant. She likes company. Where did you get him?”
“Freetown.”
Justen nodded again. “I thought so. It would be odd for them to have a mountain pony, though.”
“The liveryman led me to believe that was why I could afford him. Mean-tempered. I rescued him from the glue-pots.” I shrugged. “That was what they told me, anyvway.” I shivered. The stable was cold. Not so bad as outside, but not a whole lot warmer than an icehouse.
Justen climbed onto the half-wall that separated the stalls. To our right was a tall mare who turned her head in our direction, skittishly. A white blaze covered her forehead.
The gray wizard crouched on the stall half-wall and eased toward the outside wall. Just above him was a squarish opening partly framed with hay wisps. He stood up in the opening, his head out of sight. With a sudden jump, he pulled himself up into the space above the stalls. “Come on, youngster, and bring that staff you hid next to your pony. They’ll rest better, and so will you.” He disappeared, and I could hear the rustle of straw or hay.
“How… ?”
“Can’t you sense it?” His voice was muffled.
He was right, though. When I tried to reach out and feel for the staff, like farseeing, it almost burned into my brain. I grabbed the half-wall for support. After a moment, I reached down and reclaimed the dark staff. To my hand, the wood held only a faintly reassuring warmth.
Wheeeee… Gairloch tossed his head, more like a nod. It had to be coincidence.
“Are you coming, young man?”
With a second thought, I reached down and grabbed my pack as well, brushing off the straw and slinging it half over my right shoulder. I clambered up on the wall, then scrambled, far less gracefully than the gray wizard, up through the square opening.
“Ac… chewWWWT
“The dust will settle shortly.” Justen had pulled off his boots and his belt and was piling more of the loose hay into a bed.
“We’re staying here?”
“You can stay where you want. I prefer not to stay under the same roof as Antonin. I sleep better.”
I sighed. There it was again. More assumptions, more statements, and no explanations. “Could you explain a few things to me?”
Justen stretched out on a cloak that suddenly was more than twice it original size, and looked to be twice as thick. “A few. If it doesn’t take too long. I’m tired, and I intend to leave early tomorrow. I’m headed toward a little hamlet called Weevett, and then to Jellico. Jellico’s the town where the Viscoun
t of Certis reigns. Once upon a time, Hewlett belonged to Certis, but nobody remembers. Back then all it had was sheep, and no one really cared, even before the dead-lands. Now Hewlett belongs to Montgren, and no one really cares except the countess.”
I frowned, trying to sort out my questions. Finally, I gave up. “You said my soul was in danger from Antonin. Why? I mean, how could he have hurt me that way?”
Wooooooooo… rat, tat, tip, tat… Momentarily, the wind picked up and ice chunks rattled against the roof overhead.
Justen wrapped the overlarge cloak around himself. “Take off your boots. Your feet need the air.” He shrugged, trying to make himself more comfortable on the straw. “Antonin is the strongest of the white magicians. A chaos-master, if you will. Wielding chaos is extraordinarily hard on both body and soul, and most white magicians die young. Powerful, but young. Antonin, and Gerlis, and by now I would suspect Sephya, have attained the power to somewhat postpone their early demise, by transferring their personality and ability to other and younger bodies, preferably to bodies already equipped with the talent and unaware of their own defenses. You fit the bill admirably. That’s why I decided to move you away from Antonin. He was preoccupied with Sephya and her… situation. He didn’t really sense you. Your innate defenses are good enough to conceal you from a quick look.”
I shivered again. “Thank you.” I struggled and eased off one boot, realizing that while the ice and rain hadn’t gotten through the thick leather, my feet were indeed damp. The second boot came off easier, but my left foot was just a trace smaller than my right anyway.
“Oh, don’t thank me. I did it for me, not you. None of us gray magicians could afford to have Antonin controlling a body with your latent powers. His knowledge is already too great.”
“What do you intend, then?”
“Not much. You can devise your own hell once we’re clear of Antonin. Tomorrow, assuming you’re willing, on the way to Jellico I’ll teach you enough to allow you to block anyone from taking over your body without your consent. Plus, if there’s time, a few other tricks that are pure black and won’t prejudice your decision.”
“My decision?” The words were grunted as I levered off my right boot.
“Whether you intend to be a black, gray, or white magician.” Justen yawned. “I am tired, and so are you. Get some straw together and go to sleep. Rosefoot will certainly let us know if anyone tries to climb up here. So will your pony and your staff. Good night.”
He rolled over and left me sitting in a pile of straw, my pack and boots by my feet, my head twirling with unasked and unanswered questions, and my thighs aching still from too much riding.
For all the aches and questions, I was asleep before long, listening to the wooooooooo… rat, tat, tip, tat… of the wind, ice, and snow, even as I wondered who Justen really was and whether I should trust him. But I slept anyway.
XXVI
WAKING UP IN the Snug Inn stable was nearly the reverse of falling asleep, except colder and noisier.
Whooooo…tip, tap, dick, clack…
The wind continued to blow, and my breath was frost-steam in the chill air, so cold that even the dust seemed to have been frozen out of the air.
Rrrruuuurghh… My stomach contributed to the turmoil as well. With one eye open I glanced through the gloom toward the other side of the loft where Justen had spread his cloak. I sat up abruptly, nearly banging my head on the roof truss. The gray wizard was gone. The straw had been pushed back into place as if the man had never been there.
I stretched, jerking myself out of the warmth of my cloak, and brushed the straw off my trousers and tunic, bit by bit, stepping from foot to foot on the cold rough planks. After getting a few stray pieces out of my boots, I pulled warm feet into the cold leather, wincing as I did so.
Scrambling sideways onto the planks by the open bay to the stable below, I stood and stretched again. Then I glanced down at the ponies. Both Rosefoot and Gairloch were chewing something more substantial than hay.
Where had Justen gone?
To the inn? Or on some wizardly errand? Or a more mundane bodily need-one that I needed to take care of as well?
Rrrrrrrrr… My stomach reminded me of its very unwizardly needs… that, and the fact that I had yet to think through my trip toward the Westhorns. I was still reacting. The last planned step I had taken was to purchase Gairloch. After that, everything had been reaction. Not one thumb’s worth of travel food lay in my pack or in the empty saddlebags.
“Stupid… really stupid, Lerris…”
Somehow, things kept getting in the way. I had forgotten to stop at the market square in Freetown because I had wanted to get clear of the town. That decision had been sound, but there was no place on the road to Hrisbarg, and I had been forced out of Hrisbarg and on to Hewlett. Now I really didn’t dare to go back into the inn… not after what I had seen of Antonin, and what Justen had said. Still, perhaps there was a general store or something, among the buildings standing in the sea of frozen mud around the inn, where I could buy some sort of provisions, including some blankets or the equivalent.
I shook my head, then followed Justen’s example by shoving the straw back into place and by shaking out my cloak. My teeth felt fuzzy, my stomach empty, and my muscles sore. I checked my pack, then gathered both staff and pack for the descent to the stable.
Creeaaa… aaakkk… The stable door opened, then slid shut again. I ducked back out of sight.
“Good morning…” Justen’s head popped through the opening from the stable. “Give me a hand, would you?”
I was glad to, since he had two steaming mugs, and a large platter, covered with a ragged cloth, which also steamed.
“I thought you might like something to eat before we left.” He easily sat cross-legged on the hard floor and picked up one of the cups, easing the cloth off the platter and revealing four large bran biscuits and a battered apple.
I sipped the cider, warm but not burning, and overspiced with cloves. The warmth and the liquid helped ease the headache I hadn’t realized I had.
“You know, young friend, it would help if I knew your name, or at least what you would like to be called.” Justen took a large bite from the biscuit he held.
“Sorry… it’s Lerris,” I mumbled, trying not to lose any of the biscuit crumbs. While bran biscuits wouldn’t have been my choice for breakfast, my stomach received them gratefully. “You’re Justen?”
He nodded. “Otherwise known as the gray wizard, that damned fool, and other less flattering terms.” A deep swallow from the battered earthenware cup followed. “The apple’s yours.”
I didn’t protest, and ate it right down to the core, squishy spots and all.
“Antonin has been requested to assist the new Duke of Freetown…”
“Oh… he told you that? But he was already in Freetown.”
“Does that matter? He serves whoever pays,” snorted Jus-ten. “He didn’t tell me, though. He told one of his guards, who told Fedelia, who told someone else.” The wizard finished his second biscuit and topped it off with the remaining cider from his mug.
Rather than answer immediately, I chewed the last of my second biscuit. “The old duke’s actions seemed designed to anger many people.”
“Particularly Recluce,” observed Justen dryly. He stood up and brushed a few crumbs from his cloak and trousers.
“What would Recluce do?”
“Nothing major-besides flooding the duchy, ruining the fall hay, and ensuring that no major trade flowed through Freetown until the duke’s death. Nothing besides destroying-publicly, and with a woman-his champion, and presumably using the same woman to assassinate him in his own castle.”
I shook my head. “All of that scarcely seems possible.”
“Not any more possible than an untrained blackstaffer escaping the duke’s guards, riding the deadlands untouched, and avoiding the attention of the most powerful white wizard in Candar.”
I tried not to shiver at his matter-
of-fact words, instead following his example of standing and brushing away the crumbs. “What next? Is there anywhere I can get some trail food and some blankets and a waterproof travel cloth?” Justen shrugged theatrically. “That’s no problem at all. Expensive here in Hewlett, but… necessary.”
“Why… why are you helping me?”
“Who said I was? I’m more interested in not helping Antonin. Doubt is a powerful weapon. Once he learns you were right under his nose, that will create more than a little doubt, and he certainly needs some doubt in his life right now.” Justen looked below. “Let’s go. It’s still early, and there’s some snow falling, enough to make farseeing difficult.” He vaulted down onto the half-wall below, then dropped into the stall next to Rosefoot.
Crack… thump… thud… I followed, not nearly so gracefully, banging the staff on the wall, dropping the pack, and nearly losing my balance off the half-wall of the stall.
Justen said nothing as he began to saddle Rosefoot.
I looked around.
“There,” pointed Justen.
He was right. Beyond the small door was the outhouse. By the time I returned, Rosefoot was saddled, and Justen was checking rather full saddlebags. The gray wizard said nothing as I struggled with Gairloch, offering neither assistance nor criticism.
“All right,” I mumbled, after what seemed like forever.
He nodded and opened the stall door. I led Gairloch out, and Rosefoot followed without Justen even touching her reins. Like Gairloch, Rosefoot wore a hackamore, not a bit.
“Sers… ?” pleaded the ragged stable boy as he eased back the sliding door.
I looked at Justen, who grinned, then tossed a copper at the smudged face protruding from the assemblage of leather and rags. The coach stood beyond, polished and waiting, but the horses were still in their stalls.
“Thank you, gray wizard. Good luck.”
“Good luck, Gorling.”
Creakkkkk… I eased onto the saddle, my thighs not protesting quite as much as when I had left Hrisbarg.
The Magic of Recluce Page 20
