Jhotyl was already in the public room, seated at the head of an oblong table, with Lhadoraak, Taelya, and Tulya on one side. There were only two other occupied tables. One held two young men with beakers of something on the table, and around the other were the teamsters and Trader Paastar, and Faeltur, whose wrists Beltur had freed late on twoday.
Jessyla took the chair farthest from Jhotyl, making sure that Beltur would be seated next to the trader.
“I’ve never seen a mage wear a tunic like yours.”
“It’s a mage-healer’s tunic. It’s what I wore when I was working in the healing house.”
“You … a mage … you actually served in a healing house? With … healers?” Jhotyl’s voice contained traces of both surprise and almost a sense of being scandalized.
“He did,” said Lhadoraak, clearly amused at Jhotyl’s apparent consternation.
Beltur wondered about the trader’s reaction, but only said, “How else could I have learned what I needed to know about healing?”
Jhotyl did not pursue the question, instead looking up for a serving woman. “Dinner is my pleasure. I would not have any pelts, and possibly not even my life, except for all of you. I cannot pay much more than I promised, but Granois—he is the innkeeper, and he owes me many meals and much lodging. So you may choose from whatever there is.” A lopsided grin followed his words.
“Thank you. We appreciate it.” Beltur did not ask why Granois owed so many meals—and lodging—to Jhotyl. The fur trader would explain if and when he wanted to, if ever.
A very young-looking serving girl hurried toward the table, looking immediately to Jhotyl. “Ser … Master Trader, tonight we have valdenschnitz or mutton chops with cream gravy. There is red wine, white wine, golden ale, and dark lager.”
“I’ll have the valdenschnitz and dark lager,” declared Jhotyl.
“Can you tell me about the valdenschnitz?” asked Beltur, never having heard of the dish.
“It’s valdenschnitz, ser,” said the serving girl, almost helplessly, as if anyone should know what valdenschnitz was.
Beltur looked to Lhadoraak, who shrugged helplessly.
After a moment of silence, Jhotyl said, “It’s pork pounded thin and dredged in frothed eggs and then coated with crushed floured nuts and local spices and then fried and covered with a chili-lemon-cream sauce. Spicy hot but very good. You’ll need bread with it. Ale or lager won’t cool your mouth.”
“Is it hotter than burhka?”
“About the same, but the taste is very different.”
“I’ll try it,” decided Beltur, hoping that wasn’t a mistake, “with the golden ale.”
“I’ll have the mutton chops,” said Jessyla firmly, “with golden ale.”
Lhadoraak, Tulya, and Taelya followed Jessyla’s example, except Taelya got watered ale, since there was no juice.
After the serving girl left, Jhotyl said, “Mutton here is good, more like lamb. A bit bland for my taste, but good.”
In only a few moments, the beakers of ale and lager arrived, along with a large basket containing three warm loaves of a darkish bread, not really brown bread, but not rye, either.
Beltur took a cautious sip of the ale, but it was full-bodied without any hint of sourness or bitterness.
Tulya immediately broke off a chunk of bread and handed it to Taelya, leaning over and whispering something in Taelya’s ear.
“Thank you, Mother. Thank you, Trader Jhotyl.”
“You’re most welcome, young … woman.”
After several modest swallows from his beaker, Beltur asked, “Are we likely to run into more brigands on the road to Rytel?”
“When we’ve had to take the road before, we haven’t seen any. Now … with last year’s poor harvests, there might be a greater chance. If there are any, they won’t come in the numbers of that last bunch.”
Another silence followed.
Then Taelya spoke. “Ser, how many coats will all those hides make?”
Jhotyl smiled. “When they have fur on them, they’re called pelts, Taelya. It depends on how long the coat is. A really long coat might take two hundred pelts. That’s why it takes most of winter to gather enough of them.”
“Do you have a coat like that?”
“No, I don’t. Those coats are for important people, like the Viscount or his consort. I’m not that important.”
At that moment, the young server returned, accompanied by a much older woman, both quickly setting platters, as well as battered cutlery, in front of the dinners, and then returning to the kitchen.
Beltur looked down at his platter, which held the valdenschnitz, definitely covered with a heavy cream sauce and accompanied by fried lace potatoes, and three long thin slices of what looked to be pickled quilla.
Beltur broke off a large chunk of bread and set it on the edge of his platter, then cut a thin piece of the valdenschnitz, trying not to seem too ginger in his movements as he conveyed the morsel to his mouth. He chewed, but the pork was tender, or had been pounded enough to make it tender, and the initial taste was smooth and slightly tart lemon cream.
The second taste was like liquid fire filling his mouth and flaring up through his nostrils. He grabbed the bread, and quickly bit off a piece. The fire subsided, and the aftertaste was almost mellow. He took a small swallow of ale.
“What do you think?” asked Jhotyl, who had eaten a far larger bite than had Beltur, and seemed not at all discomfited.
“It’s hotter than any burhka I’ve ever tasted, but with the bread, it’s actually quite good.”
“Your forehead’s sweating,” said Lhadoraak blandly.
“I said it was hot, but I still like it.”
“Better you two than me.” Lhadoraak laughed softly.
“I like this,” declared Taelya. “Thank you, Trader Jhotyl.”
“You’re welcome.”
“What can you tell us about Certis and the Viscount that we should know?” asked Beltur. “All I really know is that the Viscount rules and that he and the Prefect of Gallos appear to have … different views.”
“Different views,” replied Jhotyl with a laugh. “That’s a polite way of saying they don’t much like each other.”
“I don’t know even that,” Beltur said.
“They don’t much care for each other. I don’t have the faintest idea why the Prefect does what he does, but he seems to want everyone in Candar to pay tariffs to him and feels that he shouldn’t have to pay tariffs to anyone. That’s why more and more traders in Jellico are shipping goods down the River Jellicor, all the way to Tyrhavven in Sligo, and then having coasters carry them either to Spidlaria or Lydiar.”
“Does the Viscount insist on high tariffs as well?”
“He is far more reasonable. The tariffs are modest for any goods except those from Gallos, and that is only because of the Prefect’s actions and arrogance. Lower tariffs are much better for all lands. That’s the way it should be.”
“Have you ever met the Viscount?” asked Jessyla. “Do you know what he’s like?”
“I couldn’t say, lady mage. I’ve provided furs, and my workshop has made coats for some of his family. They have all been most courteous. The Viscount is said to be forbearing and reasonable unless his patience is greatly tried. That is what I have heard. I have no experience in such matters.” Jhotyl shrugged.
Beltur could see that the trader was not likely to say more. “What is the city like?”
“Jellico? It is a magnificent city, with tall and well-kept walls a good twenty yards in height at the lowest. The streets are paved and smooth, and there are four market squares, each serving a different quarter of the city…”
Beltur smiled pleasantly, listening carefully as Jhotyl went on to describe a city he obviously knew very well.
XCI
Beltur hadn’t realized just how tired he was until he woke on fourday … and found it was well after seventh glass, but part of that might have been that they stayed up later than usua
l as well. Beltur smiled, recalling that that time had been well-spent, as he looked at Jessyla, still asleep. She slept for another quint before waking.
They did manage to get down to the public room for breakfast, well after anyone else had left, but the serving girl did not complain, but provided egg toast, a bitter berry syrup, and thin ham strips and bread. Again, they were not asked to pay, which, in a way, bothered Beltur. At the same time, it did mean that his silvers would go further.
After eating and washing up, they decided to walk around Corumtal to see what they could see and learn what they could. The white sun was warm enough that neither wore their heavy coats, a fact that amused Beltur, because a year earlier, he wouldn’t have thought the day that warm.
As they left the River Inn and walked across the river road to the pier opposite the inn’s warehouse, Beltur began, “Something about dinner bothered me…”
“Besides the spiciness of the valdenschnitz?” replied Jessyla with a smile.
“I liked that, hot as it was.”
“I could tell that … even before last night…”
Beltur flushed and quickly said, “No … it was the way Jhotyl explained what valdenschnitz was. He didn’t sound like a fur trader. It was as though he’d been in charge of the kitchen at a great house or even a palace. He also didn’t answer the question about the Viscount and his family.”
“I did like his description of Jellico,” said Jessyla, “but it wasn’t what I expected from a fur trader. He also admitted that his workshop made the coats. Do you think he’s related to the Viscount?”
“If he is, he can’t be a close relative. He really does trade furs, and he doesn’t travel with any guards … although Mheltyn certainly is familiar with a blade and likely other weapons.”
“Rhamtyl carries a blade, and so does the other teamster.”
Beltur stopped before he reached the shore end of the pier. While the timbers were weathered and looked mostly solid, the thin layer of dried dirt and mud made it clear that the pier had not been used recently. He and Jessyla turned and continued eastward on the side of the river road, which had no walks, unlike the streets in Axalt.
The first shop that they came to was a chandlery.
“Should we go in?” asked Beltur.
“Do we need anything?”
“I’m sure we do,” he replied lightly.
“Enough to put out coppers for it?”
“Most likely not.”
Down the road, across the road from some rotted posts sticking up from the river mud, a sign on a shop caught Beltur’s eye. There was just one word—POTS—and a line drawing in black of three pots of the same shape and different sizes. “We could look in.”
“We can’t carry pots.”
“That’s why we won’t be tempted. I’d just like to see what sort of pots there might be.”
Jessyla offered an amused shrug. “Why not?”
Beltur had only taken two steps into the small shop when he spied a black vase, simple, but somehow appealing, perhaps because its curved body was neither too rounded nor too straight, and the neck was narrow, only wide enough for the stems of a few flowers, and given that small a neck, it had to be for flowers.
“You’re not from around here,” said the white-haired woman seated behind a plain table. “A healer and … a mage? I’ve never seen a mage’s tunic with green cuffs.”
“That’s because he’s a mage and a healer,” replied Jessyla.
“I’m surprised that the Viscount hasn’t sent for you both.”
“We’re not from Certis,” explained Beltur.
“I don’t know as that would make much difference to him.”
“It might to us,” said Jessyla.
“I wouldn’t worry if you’re passing through. The guards posted here aren’t about to insist on confronting a full mage.”
“What about in Rytel?” asked Beltur.
“I wouldn’t know, and asking that sort of thing these days isn’t useful.”
“The black vase there … it’s striking,” said Beltur.
“One of my better pieces. I did it for me. Most folks just want simple pitchers, bowls, and platters. It gets boring doing them, but they make me enough to get by. They might not if the guards from the post didn’t break so much crockery. Then, they wouldn’t be posted here if they were really good. They’d be in Jellico. Where did you two come from?”
“Axalt,” answered Jessyla.
“Most folks want to get to Axalt, not to leave it.”
“We’re not most folks.” Jessyla smiled pleasantly.
“That’s obvious.”
“Is there anything someone passing through should see?”
“No. I can’t think of a thing, but it’s been pleasant talking to you.”
Beltur glanced around the shop, looking at the shelves, but as the potter had said, there were simple, but well-made, platters, bowls, and pitchers. “Thank you.”
The potter nodded.
Jessyla didn’t say anything until they were back outside. “She was … different.”
“She’s a good potter. Should we head back to the Inn?”
“Not yet.”
After spending little more than two quints walking through the streets that held shops and crafters, none of which looked particularly appealing, Beltur and Jessyla finally headed back toward the River Inn.
“We ought to walk through the market square at least,” Beltur suggested.
“If it’s like the rest of Corumtal…”
“Sometimes, you can learn things,” Beltur said.
Another quint later, they stood at the edge of the square, which held a scattering of vendors and those looking. From what Beltur saw and sensed, few of those selling offered foodstuffs, outside of a few root vegetables, and one woman with dried fish of some sort. There were three or four basket sellers, and the baskets were either of grass or withies.
“What are you learning?” asked Jessyla.
“The town is even poorer than I thought, and I have my doubts that things will get better any time soon. I think it’s time for us to give Slowpoke and the other horses a thorough grooming and check their water.”
“You just miss Slowpoke.”
“Of course.” Beltur grinned.
The two walked from the square toward the stable.
XCII
When Beltur and Jessyla rode out of the stables at the River Inn on fiveday, the early morning was hazy, cool enough that Beltur wore his coat and gloves, but not his scarf, and he had left the coat open.
He couldn’t say he was unhappy to leave Corumtal, but all he said to Jhotyl as they rode past the shops was, “The town seems like it’s seen better days.”
“Every time I come here, it’s a little more run-down.”
“Do you come here every year?”
“No … more like every other year.” Jhotyl frowned and leaned forward in the saddle. “There are guards up ahead. They’ll likely stop us.”
“Why? What are they looking for?”
“Whatever they can find that traders aren’t supposed to have, or don’t have the papers for.”
“What goods do you need papers for?”
“Weapons, mostly. Camma bark, though camma trees don’t grow here. It’s too cold. Also, gold and silver bars.”
Beltur had never heard of camma bark, and he had no idea why gold and silver bars required documents. “Not pelts?” he asked humorously.
“They’re not required, but I did take the precaution of having the Certan tariff inspectors seal a paper saying that the pelts came from Axalt.”
“And not from Gallos?” asked Jessyla.
“With the troubles between Certis and Gallos, I thought that wise.”
Beltur looked ahead, where, just beyond the last cot, several guards in brown-and-green uniforms stood on the side of the road away from the river. In front of them was a single uniformed guard with a single slashed stripe on each shoulder of his tunic. Since Beltur
didn’t see collar insignia, and since there were less than a half score of guards, he thought the mounted man had to be a squad leader.
When Beltur reached a point less than ten yards from the squad leader, the man called out, “Halt the wagons!”
Beltur, Jhotyl, and Jessyla reined up.
“You!” snapped the squad leader at Beltur. “Are you in charge?”
“No, Squad Leader. Trader Jhotyl is.” Beltur shifted his weight in the saddle as he inclined his head toward the trader, as well as letting his coat open more to show his blacks.
“Mage,” the squad leader’s voice became more pleasant, “might I ask what you are doing here, rather than being in Jellico?”
“I’m accompanying Trader Jhotyl,” replied Beltur pleasantly.
With a puzzled look, the squad leader turned to Jhotyl. “Is that correct?”
“It is, Squad Leader.”
“What do you have in those wagons?”
“Ermine pelts.” Jhotyl took a leather case from his saddlebags, then eased his mount slowly forward, just enough that he could hand the case to the squad leader. “The Viscount’s marque, and the necessary papers.”
The squad leader took some time to read the papers, most likely because his reading skills left something to be desired, Beltur suspected. Finally, the squad leader replaced the papers in the case and addressed Jhotyl. “Where are you headed?”
“To Jellico. We would have taken a flatboat to Rytel, but the river’s too low.”
“The pelts … whose are those?”
“They are for coats for the Viscount and his family.”
The squad leader nodded. He looked back at Beltur, then studied Slowpoke. “That’s a big gelding, more like a warhorse. Just where did you get him, Mage?”
“He is a warhorse,” replied Beltur. “He’s been with me ever since I was an undercaptain. That was before I came to accompany the trader.”
“You’re an arms-mage?”
“When necessary. As a black, I’d prefer not to be.”
“Might I ask … ah, where?”
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