"Oh, yes.” Waleck affirmed jovially. The old scrapper had unaccountably regained strength once they had left the Waste behind, his dark moods had evaporated, and the sight of the Imperial City now actually seemed to revive him.
"Though sometimes in the winter the storms will blow off the haze for a day or so, the smithies and furnaces never damp their fires -- takes too much fuel to raise a heat if the kettles are cold -- so they pump soot into the air day and night."
Mar leaned forward to study the scene. His saddle tilted to the right as he did so. With a quick decision, he pulled his left leg from the stirrup and dropped to the ground. The cinch had been slipping minutely for the last hour or so, but it had not annoyed him enough to cause him to stop to remedy the problem. Now seemed an opportune time to do so. Not inconsequentially, this pause would also give him a chance to broach a subject that had been on his mind for some time.
"So what now, old Man?" he asked across the brow of his saddle. His hands were busy with a buckle, and he did his best to sound distracted.
Waleck glanced back at Mar, shrugged, and swung down. He dropped the reins to the ground, allowing the pony to graze where it would.
"The Library, of course," the wasteminer replied breezily, walking to Mar's side. "Today if possible, though we must sell the scrap and stable the animals first. We will not tarry in Khalar long, if that is your interest. Our way leads south, I would guess."
"Where will you sell your scrap?"
"Eh? The usual place. Chekvar's, that is. They always give a good price. Why should it matter?"
"I’ve no great desire to enter the city under the nose of the Imperials," Mar indicated without bothering to explain; Waleck either knew or could make a good guess as to why. "Chekvar's -- that's a foundry to the north of the Emperor's Highway?"
"Yes. Most of the foundries are in that section. "
"We could enter the city by the Free Gate instead of the West High Gate, then?"
"Yes, I suppose. I see no reason why we could not. We will make for the Free Gate, then, since that suits you, but if you continue to tighten that strap, you will likely cut that pony in two. Come, we have rested enough."
The trail dropped in easy stages from the pass, widening into a wheel-rutted farm track before joining the brick-paved imperial highway. They followed this for the better part of three leagues through open rolling farmlands, passing numerous small farmsteads and several large estates, but encountered no traffic save for an overburdened hay wain. With the better part of a third-league left yet before the city walls, Waleck turned sharply from the highway and set off to the north through a fallow barley field.
They meandered along a serpentine route of farm tracts, stock trails, and open fields for some time until they reached a broad lane surfaced with mine tailings. Here they added themselves to a steady stream of traffic headed both to and away from the city and composed of all sorts and classes of people, from laborers afoot and farmhands on produce wagons, to mounted factors and even the occasional merchant and his entourage.
This lane, broader and certainly more traveled than the imperial way, which it paralleled but half a league to the south, was officially, by supposedly secret Viceregal Decree, nonexistent. No Imperial Cartographer's map recorded it, and no Guard armsman or Imperial Corps legionnaire ever set foot upon it. Though it dated from the time, the unnamed lane had not been constructed as a part of the third post-imperial viceroy's infamous Road Decree, as had all other highways extending beyond the city's urban edge. It was, in point of fact, a rebellion against the decree and the steep tolls imposed by it. Outraged traders and farmers had boycotted the paved Imperial roads and had pushed their wagons across the fields and pastures. By night covertly at first, then boldly in broad day when their numbers had grown sufficiently to make Viceregal chastisement all but impossible, they had created it by their passage. Thus also was formed its entrance to Khalar, the Free Gate, which was naught but a deep trough worn and scrapped through the stone-faced, rammed earth ramparts which protected the landward flank of the city. As it had proved to the advantage of a strong minor faction in the Assembly of the Patriarchs for a gate to exist over which no Imperial Customs inspectors or officers of Imperial Justice held sway, no determined attempt had ever been made to repair this breech in the city's defenses and tax statues.
The way became increasingly congested as they approached the Free Gate, finally forcing the foot traffic to the shoulders and slowing the pace of the wagons, carts, and riders, including Waleck, Mar, and the mule train, to a frustrating crawl.
While Waleck reacted to the delay with resigned stoicism, Mar began to think of Sihmal. It seemed certain that Sihmal had not talked. He was surely dead – no man could survive a sword thrust through the chest. But some of the armsmen had caught sight of Mar as he fled and had likely been able to give an accurate description of him. Many in Khalar’s gutter population found it easier to sell information to the Viceroy’s Personal Guard than to starve and informers made a habit of observing the Free Gate. If he were recognized, then within no more than a day the Guard would know he had returned to the city.
Feeling as if the odds of his detection were rapidly approaching a certainty, Mar fumed silently. He could think of no realistic way to shorten this present delay, though, and was left with no option but to endure the wait. He passed the time by tallying the means of torture employed by the Imperial Inquisitors.
Eventually they did reach the city wall and pass through the trough into Khalar proper, but if anything, this only worsened the situation. The nameless way debouched into a wide plaza that for decades had been claimed as a farmer's market. Hundreds clogged the narrow paths between stalls and carts, haggling for the vegetables, fruits and fresh meats displayed with such gusto that at any given instant the assemblage resembled a riot. The swirling, constantly shifting, ever babbling mass absorbed the influx from the Free Gate without appearing to release any portion of it into the city. Several times, they were becalmed for moments on end by the unpredictable ebb and flow of the throng, which greatly contributed to Mar's discomfort. Waleck pressed on determinedly, assailed by the clamorous cries of peddlers, as the younger man struggled to keep the train together. Much to Mar's surprise, they did, after some time, win through to a street that led northward into the Lower City.
One of the broader of the unplanned streets of the haphazardly settled left bank, this way swung gradually to the east, widening for long stretches to a spacious six armlengths. They encountered little traffic here and consequently now -- to Mar's unexpressed relief -- proceeded to make good time. Houses lined the way, the second stories of many overhanging the pavement and some arching completely across to form short tunnels of cool shadow. As these arcades seemed ready-made ambuscades, he minutely scanned their flower-boxed windows, picketed balconies, flaking walls, and drooping laundry trellises, but they passed beneath each without incident. Often there would be a small group of old men gaming at a table in the breezy shade or a batch of young children scrambling after a leather ball, and most would call a friendly greeting as they passed. Gradually the houses began to give way to the small shops of artisans and sundries markets, opening out once they crossed the Avenue of Dfghee's Triumph into a thoroughfare wide enough to accommodate wagons comfortably. A few minutes ride further they crossed the broad promenade of the Emperor's Highway.
Establishments dedicated to the metalworking industry predominated here: smithies, foundries, ore traders, mining offices, and a host of associated small workshops. These enterprises overwhelmed the air of the district with a burden of commingled metallic smells: chemical vapors with coppery shades, the burnt odor of cooling-water steam, gusts of warm, hoarse coal smoke. The big square paving blocks of the street, the wood and brick walls of the buildings and their slate roofs were uniformly the color of weathered iron fillings -- dull black with a wet sheen. In places, filmy greens, rusty oranges, or even deeper blacks streaked the ebony. The foundries were invariably extens
ive with open yards filled with finished castings, large and small, piles of pig stock, iron and brass, and high heaps of coal, sorted by grade. Many workers, stoutly built young men wearing leather aprons and clothes of heavy cloth, were occupied in these yards. Some shifted bulky ship fittings; others broke sand molds from still warm pours, unloaded wagons, or the like. A few were involved in tasks incomprehensible to Mar. In each separate yard, the men's features were as similar as their clothing; the Khalarii foundries were without exception family concerns.
A high sided wagon, two teams of great draft horses in tandem eliciting ominous creaks from their harness as they strained their load of ship anchors forward, pulled out from a yard some fifty paces ahead of them and turned in their direction. Waleck yielded to the wagon, easing to the far right side of the street and stopping. He gestured for Mar to do likewise, and the young thief complied, coaxing the mules to stand as close as possible to a crumbling brick wall.
Two men sat upon the platform seat of the wagon, both fitting the mold Mar had observed thus far. The driver, his forearms wrapped with reins, spared a glance neither to the right nor to the left, but concentrated solely on his teams as he guided the wagon passed them. The one on the right, the younger of the two, was clean-shaven and had close-cropped sandy hair. When he looked up and his eyes fell upon Waleck, his fire-reddened face broke into a smile of recognition.
"Waleck!" he boomed in a surprisingly deep voice, waving. With a quick aside to the driver, the young man leapt from the wagon and trotted over.
The old scrapper dismounted as the man drew near and gripped the other's outstretched hand.
"Fhelehg, you are well?” Waleck asked, flexing his knees and swiveling his back as if to work out travel set kinks.
"Indeed." the man replied with a nod. "And yourself? Has that half starved pony worn out your old bones finally?"
Waleck shook his head with a laugh. "No, they are good for many a league yet."
Fhelehg examined Mar curiously, but not in an unfriendly fashion. "And who is this with you? Surely you have not after all this time taken an apprentice?"
"No, Mar aided me this season only. He thinks little of scrapping, I would say. "
"Maybe he has some sense about him then," Fhelehg joked, laughing.
Waleck chuckled. "Yes, perhaps. But tell me, how is your father and your uncles?"
"Well. All well. They shall be surprised to see you. You are early this year. Was the digging that profitable?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary. More pressing business has forced me to return before the end of the season. That business still awaits me, so I must confess that I am in something of a hurry."
"Ah, rightly so," Fhelehg agreed, though Mar thought the man wanted to question Waleck further. "Come with me to the scales and we shall have you on your way in short order."
A gray-haired edition of Fhelehg appeared from beneath an unwalled shed as they passed through the gate, and the young man's greeting was repeated, though with greater vigor. Waleck fell into conversation with this man, Fhelehg's father Jhefra, and Mar found himself delegated with Fhelehg to tally the weights in the hinder part of the yard.
The overhead beam balance lay against the brick wall of the foundry building behind a stack of empty barrels and a pile of crate slats. These they had to move before they could begin to set the sacks of scrap on the large wooden pan.
The two men bent their backs to this task mostly in silence, but as they prepared to begin the weighing, Mar offered the comment that this was an inconvenient place for the balance.
"Oh, I agree," Fhelehg said, giving a barrel one last shove, "but we do not use it often -- just once a year, in fact. It would actually be in the way somewhere else."
"Once a year?"
"When Waleck brings in his load.” Fhelehg leaned back against the upright post of the balance, his movements a little too self-conscious to hide the fact that he was eager to talk. "We cast mainly from new metal and use very little scrap. All but what Waleck brings us we buy in lots as needed from a factor down the street."
Mar pondered this for a moment. "Why do you bother with the old man at all?"
Fhelehg eyed Mar curiously then shrugged. "Tradition, I suppose. Waleck was a friend of my grandfather’s. Chekvar's has always bought his scrap, and I imagine that we always will."
The pointed nature of this last comment led Mar to ask the obvious question. "Always? How much longer can the old man survive the Waste?"
Fhelehg gave Mar an exasperated look. He made as if to speak, but stopped himself, frowning thoughtfully. His face cleared after a moment, and he studied Mar closely.
"Are you some kin of Waleck's?" he asked suddenly.
"No,” Mar replied carefully, unsure the other's motivation. "He’s no family of mine. You could say we met by chance."
"It’s quite odd, you know. After all these years, for him to have someone with him. I don't suppose you could tell me why?"
Mar shrugged. "He’s not told me, and it’d be a waste of time to try to guess. I know very little about Waleck -- nothing really."
Fhelehg nodded, unable to conceal his disappointment. "Yes, Waleck is a secretive man, as much a mystery as that city he has worked all these years."
"Just how long," Mar asked, following a speculative line of thought, "has the old man been coming here?"
Fhelehg paused. "I’m not sure that I should say."
"What should it matter? It’s not as if I asked where you keep your money."
Fhelehg gave him a pained look, then glanced around, as if to make sure that none of the other men working in the yard could overhear them. "Well, I suppose the matter has no weight, but I doubt that you’ll believe me."
"How long?” Mar prompted.
"At least ninety years."
Mar was careful not to laugh. "That's not possible. Waleck's an old man, yes, but he’s no older than, say, sixty."
Fhelehg shook his head. "Regardless of how he appears, what I have told you is true. Our tally books hold copies of every receipt written by Chekvar's from my great-grandfather's day until now. I’ve been through them all. Each and every year there is a record of a payment to 'Waleck, scrapper.'"
"Another man with the same name," Mar argued.
"No. My father has known Waleck all of his life, as have I. My grandfather once told me that he had known Waleck since he could remember anything, and he was over seventy when he died six years ago."
"Are you saying that Waleck is over a century old?"
"I don't know how old he is. I just know that he has been selling scrap to us for that long."
While Mar was trying to assimilate this, Fhelehg spoke up again.
"There is one thing" he offered, excitement and curiosity warring behind the calmness of his tone, "that my grandfather told me concerning Waleck that has always stuck with me. He only said it once, in passing, but the idea intrigued me as a boy and continues to do so till this day. He said that the reason Waleck returned to those ruins decade after decade was that he sought a singular and particular artifact -- something ancient and incredibly valuable. My grandfather did not know what this object was and refused to speculate. For most of my life I’ve tried to imagine what it might be and, I must confess, I’ve been fascinated by the possibilities.”
Fhelehg paused once more to glance about, then leaning forward with an unnerving intensity asked, “Could you tell me -- has he found it?"
"No," Mar answered without inflection, hoping Fhelehg had not noticed his slight hesitation. "I’ve seen nothing but pots and other such junk as we have here."
Fhelehg's face fell. "Ah, silly of me to think so, I suppose. I’d thought that his early return signaled an end to his search at last. Well, no matter."
As they proceeded to the weighing of the scrap, Fhelehg’s disappointment leaving him quiet and subdued, Mar struggled to keep his composure intact. He did not want the churning turmoil his thoughts had become to betray him.
For without a d
oubt, what he had just told Fhelehg had most assuredly been a lie.
EIGHT
Waleck received two hundred forty-seven thal and nine thay for his scrap. On the spot, he counted into Mar's palm twenty-four thal eight thay. The small bag of coins amounted to a good month's wages for a hired smith or factor's agent, a sum that many in the lower city would not hold in one purse in a lifetime -- but the slight weight of it in his fist left Mar unimpressed. On a good night in the residential districts along the river, he had netted that much or more -- but, then again, there had not been many nights that he could characterize as good. Also, alongside the heavy weight of the twenty gold hidden in the waist of his breeches, these public wages were a mere pittance.
Nevertheless, he ventured no comment save humble thanks when he accepted his pay. A disparaging remark would be a blatant approbation of the character that Waleck had established for him in the Chekvars' eyes; hired laborers held their tongues if they wished to retain their employment. Mar knew the demonstration was simply an example of Waleck’s meticulous attention to detail – even in deceit the old man would miss nothing. Prompt payment of hirelings was customary, a public proof of honest trade. It was the sort of detail that would normally be expected but not noted, something that would not add to conviction by its occurrence, being significant and remarked upon only in its absence.
Jhefra proclaimed the hospitality of his house for the evening, but Waleck, with a quite visible reluctance, pleaded the priority of his cryptic "other business" and declined. He did ask that the foundryman stable the mules till they could return, offering a generous payment. Jhefra effusively refused the coin, promising that the animals would be well cared for. With a last farewell, they mounted and departed.
More now than ever, Mar was convinced that what they had discovered in the buried strongroom was indeed a clue to some ancient treasure horde. Fhelehg's disclosures had settled the issue. That Waleck was in some fantastic way unnaturally long lived, he totally discounted. He did have to admit, though, that he likely would have found the jest amusing, had he been a party to it instead of the butt of it. The young foundryman was surely sharing the joke with his fellows at this very moment. Let them think him some gullible peasant; when the treasure filled his hands, a thousand unpleasant memories would be redeemed.
Key to Magic 01 Orphan Page 7
