by Emily
"Barbaric notion," said Avila. "I wonder if people create the kind of divinity that reflects their own character?"
Flojian turned to stare at her. "It surprises me to hear a priest talk that way. I was taught that the divine essence cannot be misunderstood, save by willful effort."
"That is the official position," said Avila, refusing to take offense. "Incidentally, I've withdrawn from the Order."
Flojian rolled his eyes. "Did Silas know you were an ex-priest when he invited you to come along?"
She nodded. "I haven't hidden my status from anyone."
Chaka tended to side with Flojian on that issue. If there was anything to the old traditions, an ex-priest might well bring them bad luck. She had considered voting against allowing Avila to join the company, but cringed at the prospect of explaining her reasoning. Nevertheless, she determined to keep a respectful distance, in case a bolt did fall from the sky.
A few miles north of Illyria, the forest gave way to low, grassy hills, which in turn descended into a swamp. The sky had turned gray, but there was no immediate threat of rain. They stopped by a spring.
The water was clear and cold. Chaka knelt on a rock and scooped it into her hands. It tasted good, and in fact, the day tasted good. She still hoped for Raney's appearance, but a strange thing was happening: She was anxious to be far enough away from Illyria to be certain that he would not come.
"Not having second thoughts, are you?" Silas had come up behind her. He pushed his hands into his jacket and assumed the mien of confident leader. She wondered how he really felt.
"No, Silas," she said. "No second thoughts. I'm glad we're finally on our way."
"Good." He produced a cup and dipped it into the stream.
"I'd feel better, though, if we had a map."
"Me too." He drank deeply and stared thoughtfully at the horizon. "We'll find our way. Meantime, I'm going to start a journal. We won't make the same mistake Karik made." A smile spread across his features. 'We're going to create the travel book of the age. Once we get beyond the frontier, we'll record everything: foliage, wildlife, weather, topography, ruins, you name it. And charts." A mile ahead, the road crossed planking and entered the swamp. "If there's another expedition after this, they won't have to play guessing games."
"The Great Geographer," smiled Chaka.
"Yes." He laughed. "They'll put my statue in the Imperium, left hand shielding my eyes, right pointing to the horizon." He demonstrated the pose.
Chaka gave him a thumbs up, in her own style, both hands.
They arrived at the Crooked Man just before sunset. The main building was three stories tall, a massive, rambling structure with turrets, balconies, bay windows, glass-enclosed porches, sloping dormers, and parapets. A marble sundial that also served as a fountain guarded the approach. Grooms took their horses, and a liveried doorman welcomed them into the opulent interior. Chaka admired the thick carpets and shining hardwood floors. Murals depicting hunting scenes covered the walls. Stylish furniture from an earlier age filled the lobby and hallways, and lush red curtains framed the windows.
All of the travelers had stayed there at one time or another. The host of the Crooked Man was a four-hundred-pound giant whose name was Jewel. Jewel's speech was polished and his manners impeccable. His luxuriant black beard spilled onto a white shirt. His arms were thick as beefhocks. He had great shaggy eyebrows and thick black hair streaked with gray and teeth that looked able to take down a horse. He was capable of ferocious grimaces when dealing with stewards, grooms, and tradesmen. But he was absolutely correct with guests, and called four of the five travelers by name, even though he had not seen some for years. He missed only Avila, apparently thrown into confusion at seeing her in nonclerical dress.
"It's good to have you back at the Crooked Man," he said. "I'd heard that a quest was going out, and if we can do anything. please don't hesitate to ask." Unfortunately, he explained, the inn was quite busy just now, and they would have to share rooms. He hoped that wouldn't be a problem. Since they had intended doing that anyhow, it wouldn't. Nevertheless, Flojian contrived to look inconvenienced.
Jewel directed their bags be taken care of, and personally showed them to their quarters, expressing his desire that they enjoy their stay and come again soon to see him. They thanked him and agreed to meet in the dining room at the seventh hour.
The rooms were single compartments; but they were nevertheless spacious and comfortable, almost as grand as Chaka remembered. The curtains had been opened to admit the last of the sunlight.
A low fire heated a pair of water pots in the chamber she would be sharing with Avila. Oil lanterns burned on either side of an enormous bed with large down pillows and a quilt. A freshly scrubbed wooden tub gleamed invitingly near the fireplace, on a raised wood platform designed to draw off excess water.
Two serving boys arrived with buckets of fresh water. Avila gave them coins. "Thank you, Mistress," said the taller one. "Just ring the bell when you want more."
Both women were covered with dust from the road, and a bath would be the first order of business. But Chaka shrank from the task. There were no modesty curtains in the room, and the prospect of removing her clothes in the presence of one who had been ordained to Shanta was daunting. She loosened her neckerchief and hesitated, suddenly aware that Avila was watching her. "If you don't mind," said Avila, with a hint of amusement, "I'll claim the privilege of the older and go first."
There is nothing quite like nudity to strip away titles, pretenses, and reservation. Before twenty minutes had passed, Chaka found herself admitting to her companion what she had not admitted to herself: She felt rejected by Raney, and she was at that moment recognizing that the future she'd thought they would have together lay in ruins.
"You may be fortunate," Avila said. "If you truly loved him, I don't think you'd be here at all. So maybe you've learned something about yourself."
"Maybe," Chaka said. All the same, it hurt.
"Why are you here?" asked Avila. "The cost seems to be higher for you than for anyone else."
Chaka explained about her brother and Avila listened without comment.
"How about you?"
"It's a chance to escape," Avila said. "And the Roadmakers are interesting. If this Haven really exists, I wouldn't want to miss my chance to see it."
Chaka was seated in the window, watching the western sky turn purple. "I expect," she said, "that if we do find it, it'll be a ruin. Like everything else." She described the time travel concept in Connecticut Yankee and said how she wished such a thing were possible. "I would love to have seen their cities when they were whole. And to have traveled on their roads before the forest took them. To have seen how the hojjies actually worked."
"Wagons that needed no horses," said Avila) "I'm still not sure I believe it." She stood with one foot on a low stool, scooping hot water out of the tub and pouring it over shoulders and breasts. Suds ran down into the drains. (Illyrians did not sit in bathwater until they were clean, and would in fact have been horrified at the notion of doing so.) "But you're right: We could learn a lot if there were a way to take one of the highways and use it to travel back a thousand years. Or whatever it is."
"Maybe in a way," said Chaka, "that's exactly what we're doing."
After Chaka's bath, they dressed in clean clothes, strolled downstairs, and swept into the dining room in high spirits. A slab of beef, tended by a cook, turned slowly on a spit over an open flame. There were roughly twenty tables, each illuminated by an oil lamp. About half the tables were occupied by guests who seemed already well into their cups. Their own party had commandeered a corner stall. Quait waved, and all
three men looked their way. Their glances lingered just long enough to bring a rush of satisfaction to Chaka.
Wine and brew were flowing enthusiastically, and the place was filled with laughter and the sizzle of beef. A young man sat on a raised platform in the center of the room, one leg crossed over the other, fingering a
guitar.
Drink, my love,
Though stars may fall and rivers fail,
I will not care so long as
I have you.
Quait poured wine for Chaka and Avila and refilled the other cups. They toasted the quest, and then rose, one by one, collected metal plates, and went over to the spit. The cook sliced off a large piece of meat for each, scooped some peas out of a pot, and added two ears of corn dipped in melted butter. Chaka picked up some bread and an apple.
When they'd got back to their table, Jewel entered the dining room, carrying a glass of wine. At his appearance, the musician stopped and the house fell quiet. When he had everyone's attention, Jewel held the glass high. "This is our finest," he said. "And tonight I want you to join me in toasting some special guests of the Crooked Man." He directed everyone's attention to Chaka and her companions. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have the honor to host a group of very special people this evening. Silas Glote and Flojian Endine are leading a party of explorers who are going to try to find some lost books." He glanced back at Silas. "Do I have that right, Silas?"
The diners applauded and Silas nodded. Chaka wondered who promoted Flojian.
"The Crooked Man wishes you well." He drained the glass.
The audience followed in kind, and applauded.
"By the way," continued Jewel, "the wine is produced especially for us, and we are selling it tonight at a very good rate Thank you very much."
People came over to shake their hands. One young man, congenial and slim and interested in the Haven legend, asked
Chaka how she'd become involved in the quest, how she rated their chances for success, and whether she'd actually read the Mark Twain. His eyes were hazel and he had a good smile. She couldn't help noticing that Quait was watching them with a disapproving frown.
His name was Shorn and, at his invitation, she took her wine and they strolled out onto the veranda. She was doing the sort of thing he would have liked to do, he explained. Leaving civilization behind, getting out into the unknown to see what was there. He wished he were going along.
They talked for a while, looked out over the river, and eventually returned to the table. "I hope you find what you're looking for," he said to them. And to Chaka: "How long do you expect to be gone?"
"Maybe years," offered Quait.
"Not past autumn, we hope," she said.
"I'll look forward to your successful return." Their eyes connected. Chaka smiled, and then Shorn was gone.
A crowd had gathered around one of the other tables, where a lean man with vulpine features sat with his eyes closed. "No," he was saying to someone in the group, "there is a shadow across your star. Be cautious on the river for the next two weeks. This is not a propitious time for you."
The man to whom he was speaking, nondescript and straw-haired, placed a coin on the table.
Chaka joined the crowd.
"That is Wagram," said a middle-aged prosperous-looking woman behind her.
"Who's Wagram?"
"Who indeed?" said the vulpine man.
"He's a seer," said the woman.
"And you, young lady, are Chaka Milana." He clicked on a smile. "Currently bound for Haven. Or so you hope."
One of the patrons nudged her. "He's never wrong," he said. The patron was an elderly man, probably in his seventies.
"And what do you foresee for us, seer?" asked Chaka.
His eyes closed. Quait got up and came over. He was looking at her curiously.
"You will be successful," he said at last. 'You will find your lost treasure, and you will return to Illyria with fame and wealth."
Chaka waited, expecting to hear a catch. When none came, she bowed slightly. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She fished a silver coin out of her pocket. That news, after all, was worth something.
The crowd expressed its approval, a few shook her hand happily, and a drunk tried to kiss her.
When they returned to their table, Flojian asked what the seer had said. Chaka told him and he seemed pleased.
"I wouldn't take it too seriously," said Quait. "They always give good news. That's how they earn their tips."
"Not necessarily," said Flojian. "Some of these people are legitimate."
"I wonder," said Silas, "if he was here when Karik went through."
9
Unexpectedly, a holiday atmosphere developed. Inns were strategically placed along River Road, so it was possible with good planning to sleep every night in a warm bed. They ate well, drank a little too much, and sometimes partied too late. They frequently paused and occasionally even wandered off onto side tracks to examine archeological sites. On one occasion they stopped for lunch at the home of one of Quail's former military comrades.
They looked at the massive anchor near Piri's Dam, sinking into a forest of sugar maples, trailing a chain that no man could lift. They viewed a restored cannon near Wicker Point, wondering what forgotten war it had seen; and visited the Road-maker Museum in Kleska.
They passed ancient walls and foundations. Hojjies lined the sides of the road, where they'd been dragged when Argon cleared its highways more than a century before. They came in countless shapes and sizes, some small, some immense. Many were partially buried by accumulating earth.
They spent as much time walking as in the saddle, and they rested frequently. Quait, who'd had some experience with long-distance campaigning, understood how easy it would be to exhaust both horses and people, particularly in this case, where Silas and Flojian were accustomed to a sedentary existence. Silas had begun limping after the first day. But he'd fashioned a walking stick, refused to take extra time in the saddle, and by the end of the week seemed to be doing fine.
Quait enjoyed being the only young male in a company with two attractive women. Avila's charms were by no means inconsiderable, and his appreciation for them did not replace but found a comfortable niche alongside his passion for Chaka.
She stood about an inch taller than he, dark-eyed and mysterious. That she had been a priest added to her exotic aura.
Meantime, Chaka demonstrated an impressive range of abilities. She was an accomplished forester and marksman. She was at home around horses, and seemed capable of walking everybody else, even Quail, into the ground. Although she had been distracted during the first couple of days, a more amiable spirit had emerged once they were well under way.
Cold rain settled in as, on the ninth day, they approached Argon. Had he been with his detachment, Quail knew what the mood would have been. But only Flojian showed any inclination to grumble, and he usually caught himself quickly and stopped. They reined up at Windygate, the last accommodation below the city, and consequently their final evening in beds. They checked in, relired to their rooms, and scrubbed down, luxuriating in the hot water. At dinner that evening, Quail detected a sense of expectancy and possibly of nervousness. Tomorrow they would connect with Wilderness Road, which would take them east, away from civilization. Into the eternal forest.
This was also the evening during which they got into an altercation with an oversized cattle trader who'd had too much to drink. His throat was scarred and he needed dental work. His face looked as if he'd been hit by a plank. But he visibly drooled over Avila. Quait, walching from his chair, felt his muscles bunch and remembered a remark a comrade had once made: Never pick a fight with a three-hundred-pounder who has broken teeth.
The cattle trader was sitting at the next table. He grinned at Avila and raised his stein in an elaborate toast. "How about you and me, gorgeous?" he asked. "Shake off these creeps and you can have a man."
Before Quait could respond, Flojian leaped to his feet with both fists clenched. "Back off," he snarled.
Avila iried lo inlervene. "I can handle this myself," she said.
The trader casually set his beer down. "Stay out of it, dwarf," he told Flojian. He grinned at a friend as if he'd just said something amusing, and signaled for somebody to refill
his stein. The friend was only moderately smaller, but every bit as ugly. A boy hurried over and poured cold beer until it overflowed and ran down onto the table.
The trader turned his snag-toothed stare on Flojian, daring him to say more.
"You owe the lady an apology," sputtered Flojian.
"The lady needs a man," he sneered. "If you want to show what you can do, porkchop, I'm right here."
Damn, Quait thought. He got up.
But Flojian, to his surprise, knocked the beer into the trader's lap. That was a mistake, of course. Quait knew that if you have to initiate hostilities against a dangerous opponent, do it with a view to taking him out with the opening salvo.
The trader roared to his feet, wiping his soaked trousers, and came around the table after Flojian. Flojian went into what he thought was a fighter's crouch. But Quait had to give him credit: He didn't back away.
Everything happened at once. The trader cocked his right fist, which looked like a mallet for driving tent pegs; Quait borrowed the pitcher from the young man (who had hovered within range to watch the action) and brought it down over the trader's head; and Avila broke a chair across the shouders of his companion, who had got up a little too quickly. The battle was effectively over from that point. The waiters, who also served as peacekeepers, arrived armed with short clubs. Quait got knocked in the head for his trouble, and the trader (who no longer knew where he was) absorbed a solid blow to the shin. He was taken to the back for repairs and later returned to his table, still glassy-eyed.
As was common practice in that relatively civilized time, the peacekeepers announced to both sides there would be an additional charge for their trouble, apologized if they had seemed to use undue force, and implied that further hostilities would be treated severely. The evening proceeded as if nothing untoward had occurred.
Later, Avila found her opportunity to take Flojian aside. "I appreciated your defending me in there," she said.
Flojian stared back at her. 'I'd have done the same for any woman." .
Wilderness Road was a Roadmaker highway, twin tracks through the forest, rising into eastern hills and fading finally the horizon. It was built on a foundation of concrete and asphalt, which was usually buried by as much as a foot of loam. Often, however, the loam had worn away and the concrete gleamed in the sun. That the highway was still usable, after all these centuries, was a tribute to the engineering capabilities of its makers. Chaka tried to imagine what it had looked like when it was new, when hojjies rolled (by whatever means) along its manicured surface. Behind them to the northwest, the towers of Argon loomed in the midafternoon haze.
