The Magic of Recluce (35 page)

“Who…knows…” Brettel was working on the third log. “The autarch's cavalry…carved up…Gollard's…elite troop. With raw recruits. Some wench…killed…his son-in-law.” Brettel stopped and grinned. “Not a few people cheered that.”

I shook my head. After all my time in Fenard, I still didn't know why the prefect and the autarch were at each other's throats. “Why?” I asked.

“Why what?” Brettel handled the last small log as if it were a toothpick. I doubted that I could have even moved it.

“Why are they fighting? The autarch and the prefect, I mean?”

Brettel strapped the logs onto the cart before answering. “Rumor has it that her mother was a wizard's daughter—”

My mouth nearly dropped. I had assumed the autarch was a man.

“—And that the mother used her wiles to split off what used to be Gallos south of the Little Easthorns. Then the mother conquered old Analeria after the prince died. The daughter took over a few years ago and added parts of the Westhorns that Hydlen claimed, but never really ruled. Gollard figured, in his best guess, that the daughter wasn't a wizard. So he tried to retake Kyphros.

“He almost made it. Broke her army and the cavalry, but the peasants rose and burned their fields and opened the dikes. The cavalry couldn't maneuver in the mud, and some mistakes were made. No one was clear how, but instead of a victory, Gollard lost half his army and most of his officers.

“The autarch started recruiting women, the best she could find.” Brettel shrugged. “Now Gollard's troops usually lose, but the autarch never enters his territory.”

By now, we were approaching the saw; the belts leading from the waterwheel were motionless.

“What cuts?”

Taking the grease pencil, I outlined what I had in mind with each of the logs.

“Should have thought of that myself.” Brettel pursed his lips. “Need to set this up. I can make these and deliver the planks and those square sections late this afternoon.”

“That would be fine.” I took the hint, and walked back to where I had tied Gairloch while Brettel began to set up the saw.

Wheee…eeee
…

“All right.” I patted him on the shoulder and pushed his nose away from my pockets, which were empty.

Kyphros versus Gallos—order versus chaos? Or was it that simple? Woman versus man? The more I found out, the less I knew, and I suspected I was far from the first man to realize that.

“Come on.” I mounted my shaggy beast and flicked the reins. “Come on.”

Whheee…eeeee
…

“All right,” I said again.

So we halted by the bottom of the millrace for him to get a drink of the cold water, and I even stopped by the granary and bought a small sack of feed for Gairloch.

A
FTER GETTING THE
bid for the sub-prefect's chairs, and after getting exactly the lumber I wanted from Brettel with a bit extra thrown in for no extra cost, we still had to actually craft the chairs.

Besides worrying about the actual work, I worried about a lot of other things. I worried that Destrin would get sicker and die. I worried that Bostric would slip with the plane, or that I would get careless.

I worried that Jirrle would somehow find a way to attack me. I worried that Antonin would find out exactly who and where I was and attack. Even though I ate, I felt harried and thinner.

“You look tired,” Deirdre told me.

Since I felt tired, I probably looked that way as well.

Every night I set wards on the shop, but I wasn't sure what good they would do, and I kept my staff close to my bed.

I used my senses to keep studying the wood each step of the way, checking to make sure that no hidden cracks or stresses would erupt to mar the wood or the finish. When I found two, both Bostric and Destrin thought I was crazy for refusing to use sections of what appeared to be perfectly good wood.

“It's good wood, Lerris.”

“Not good enough. It's flawed.”

“How? Where?”

“It just is.” How could I explain without letting them know I was a beginning order-master?

“If the honored craft-master who claims he is only a journeyman says so, it must be so.”

What bothered me most about Bostric's flip comment was that he and Destrin both looked at each other, nodded, and didn't say anything more.

I groused and I growled, and even Deirdre stepped away from me at dinner and supper.

Not only did I do the smooth finish myself, I even worked with the varnishes until I had what not only looked right, but felt right all the way through. Then I spent time steeping the chairs in order, reinforcing their strength with order and more order, until chaos itself might have had a hard time sitting in them.

We got all five chairs done. And done well.

Brettel lent us his cart and Gairloch even pulled it, with more than a few protests, to the same front steps of the sub-prefect's house.

I hadn't planned on the welcoming committee. Not only was a scowling Jirrle there, but Perlot stood at the back, as did other crafters I did not know.

The sub-prefect was not there, but a thin man in a uniform, some sort of functionary, was.

First they had us line up the chairs side by side on the granite paving-blocks. In the morning light, the officer stared and scowled. He looked under the chairs. He studied the joins, the finish. He compared each chair with every other chair. He ran his fingers over every exposed surface.

Bostric, standing beside me, began to sweat, even though the day was overcast and the heat of the late summer day had not yet arrived.

I pursed my lips, knowing that the inspection was far from normal.

The one reassurance was Perlot's presence. With each inspection, with each frown by the officer and each accompanying scowl by Jirrle, Perlot's faint smile became more pronounced.

Finally, the officer turned to me. “The chairs seem acceptable.” He pulled out a long paper and a servant proffered a pen. “Put your mark at the bottom.”

I read the paper, but all it said was that the sub-prefect had accepted five chairs for the sum of ten golds. So I signed on behalf of Destrin, copying his mark as well for good measure.

The officer's eyebrows raised, but he said nothing.

Jirrle edged forward to look at the chairs, finally shaking his head and looking at me. For a long time, it seemed, his eyes rested upon me. I just waited for the coins, which arrived in a leather pouch.

Although I could tell they were good, I checked each against the steel of my dagger, since no tradesman would have done otherwise. The officer nodded, as if to himself, and seemed reassured.

Jirrle looked back at the chairs, then at me, before walking back toward the avenue.

The other crafter I did not know also stepped up to the chairs. Unlike Jirrle, he stepped up to me. “Good work.” He nodded pleasantly, and his whole manner inside and out was honest, even if there were traces of chagrin beneath.

As the officer's servants began to carry the chairs inside, the officer sniffed down his nose. “That is all, tradespeople.”

I inclined my head. “Thank you.”

He ignored me and turned.

“Damned fine work there,” rasped another voice. Perlot stood by the cart traces.

Whheeee…eeee
…Gairloch wanted out of the traces—the sooner the better. Bostric looked at the pony nervously, then back to me.

“Thank you.”

“No. I mean it. Sedennial was trying to find a reason not to accept them, and he couldn't.”

I'd thought the same, but the chairs were good. They should have been. I'd sweated enough over them.

“You underbid them—more than just a little, given the quality.” The craft-master's voice was wry.

“Master Jirrle seemed upset…” I observed in a neutral voice, checking the cart harness.

“He was, but he'll get over it. Good day, Lerris.”

Perlot smiled briefly, and stepped out into the lane with his quick short steps, looking pleased with the world as he left us with a restless mountain pony and an empty cart. Most important, we had ten golds, five of which could go toward the quarterly levies.

“What do we do now?” asked Bostric, wiping his forehead.

“We get out of here before they tell us to, and we find some more work to do. Hopefully, something that you can do more of.”

Bostric swallowed. “I can't do things that good.”

“Not yet. That doesn't mean you can't learn.” I led Gairloch around to get the cart facing toward the avenue, then climbed onto the hard board seat. “Come on.”

Bostric scrambled up next to me, and we headed out to return him to the shop and the cart to Brettel.

A
FACE IN
the window caught my eye. What was Perlot doing at the shop? Destrin was upstairs resting, and technically it wasn't my place to meet with another craft-master.

Setting down the plane, I crossed the room, sniffing at the smell of barley soup drifting down the stairs. We had eaten earlier, but Destrin had not, and Deirdre was probably feeding her father a late noon meal.

Bostric looked up.

“Keep at it,” I told him. “And think about where the grains will meet.”

“It's just a tavern bench. But I heed the words of wisdom.”

I just looked at him until he began to check the lines of the grain.

Perlot had stepped inside the shop doorway, and stood waiting. He wore his working leathers, but he had pulled on a rough shirt and a vest.

“I apologize, craft-master. Destrin is not available at the moment.” I inclined my head.

“No apologies needed, Lerris. Several of us are gathering at the Tap Inn after the day ends. I was hoping you could join us. Your apprentice would be welcome to sit with Grizzard and the others.”

I kept my mouth in place. The invitation was serious, and, in effect, an announcement that the other crafters had accepted me. Had that been Brettel's doing? “I thank you, and would be honored.”

Perlot smiled faintly. “I think we're the ones who are honored. Destrin is fortunate to have found you. Until tonight.” He nodded and was gone.

Only after he had gone did I sigh. Perlot himself had crossed the town and the square to invite me. Maybe, just maybe, my plans might have a chance of working out.

Bostric glanced up from the bench as I walked back, his bushy red eyebrows lifted.

“We've been asked to join the other crafters for a drink after work.”

Bostric just nodded, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. For him, perhaps, it was. I had encouraged him to spend his free time with the other apprentices, knowing that, if my hopes were fulfilled, he would need the contacts in the years to come.

Picking up the plane, I studied the internal framework of the chest for a long time, knowing that something was not quite right. How long it took, I didn't know, but I finally ended up planing and readjusting one of the drawer supports for the second drawer. From there it got easier, as I entered the flow of the wood and the design. Part of the problem was that the design was an adaptation of one of Dorman's plans, and even partly original pieces were much tougher.

“Lerris…?”

I shook my head, realizing more time had passed than I realized.

“Yes?”

“Hadmit has closed,” Bostric noted tactfully.

The jeweler stayed open later than anyone else. I began racking the tools, noting that Bostric had already been quietly putting away Destrin's tools.

Before long, I had told Deirdre that we were leaving; and we had washed up and were striding across the square. The only thing that bothered me was that I knew I'd have to clean Gairloch's stall when I returned, as well as get up early in the morning to ride him.

Clink…clink
…

We had to hug the edge of the mill street on the other side of the square as a troop of the prefect's cavalry rode in toward their barracks. Three of the horses at the end were riderless, and a dark splotch stained the leather of the last empty saddle.

The stink of sweat and blood hung over the riders like fog, not obscuring the taint of chaos that also clung to them and to the sabers they bore. To my senses, the blades shimmered like dull-red embers.

Clink, clink…clink
…

“Make way…make way…”

…clink…clink
…

Neither prisoners nor bodies trailed the empty horses.

Looking at Bostric once the cavalry passed, I shook my head. “Bad news.”

He nodded, and we kept walking.

The Tap Inn had not changed. Even without a fire in the front hearth, the main room was smoky, as acrid as before.

“Lerris!” Perlot had been waiting, and I hurried over, leaving Bostric to his own devices.

“Sorry. We worked a shade late, and then we had to wait for the prefect's troops.”

Perlot gestured around the table. “This is Jirrle, his son Deryl, Rasten, and Ferralt. Usually, Hertol is here.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “This is Lerris, who has decided to follow Dorman's tradition and give me a run for my money, or would if he hadn't decided to make children's furniture better than regular pieces.”

They all chuckled at that, and Perlot pulled out a chair. “What will you have, Lerris?”

I had to grin sheepishly. “Just redberry, mast—”

“Just Perlot, Lerris. Just Perlot.”

“What's this about troops?” asked Deryl.

I shrugged. “Don't know, but about a score of cavalry rode back in. They lost, it looked like. Empty saddles, and no prisoners, and they looked tired. Some of the horses…” I shook my head.

“Hell…” muttered the man at the far side of the round table. “He's out squabbling with the autarch again.”

The same thin girl with the scar across her face appeared next to Perlot. Her face was still thin, but a bulge below her apron indicated she had been more than merely flirting with someone. “What else, masters?”

“Redberry for Lerris, here, and I'll have another beer.” The craft-master handed her his heavy empty mug.

“…the autarch's already proved, after the way they dispatched those rebels from Freetown…”

“I take it that the prefect should avoid trouble with Kyphros?” I asked politely.

Jirrle cleared his throat. “Gallos has a proud history, and the autarch should honor that history and the natural geography…”

“What he means,” added the balding Ferralt with a grin, “is that the prefect wants old Gallos back, as well as some other territory…”

“Ferralt!” snapped the older man. “I said what I meant.”

“He's on the prefect's advisory council…” whispered Perlot.

“Are all the autarch's soldiers women?” I asked.

“Hell no,” added Deryl, setting his mug on the table with a thump. “Just the best ones.”

Thunk! Thunk!

“Here's the red stuff and the beer. Two, please.”

I handed two coppers to the woman. Perlot looked surprised, but did not protest.

“Women soldiers are uncivilized,” added Rasten.

“What he means,” explained Ferralt, “is that they only fight when they know they can win.”

“Like that one Torrman was complaining about?”

“The black-haired one the autarch promoted over his cousin?”

I swallowed a deep pull of the redberry. “Could someone explain?”

Rasten glared at Ferralt, who grinned. Finally, Ferralt shrugged. “Torrman is married to my sister. His cousin is also Torrman, except he took service with the autarch because the former prefect—that's a long story. Anyway, the younger Torrman was in line to be sub-commander, except a new squad captain pulled some stunt with water and wiped out the Freetown rebels without a single casualty.

“The autarch promoted her instead. Torrman challenged her to a duel, and the bitch made him look silly. So he played dirty and threw something in her eyes. That didn't stop her. Instead she took off his sword hand—blind, he swears. The autarch gave him a pension—and a warning.”

“You believe that?” I asked. I did, but I wanted to know whether Ferralt had something else in mind.

“It's true,” interrupted Jirrle. “The bitch is from Recluce. The autarch, damnable bitch as well, doesn't care. She only cares if her troops are the best.”

A momentary silence dropped over the table.

“Lerris, what brought you here?” asked Perlot, almost desperately.

“Recluce, I'd have to say.” I took a sip from the mug, trying to figure out how to tell the truth without being deceptive myself. “As I told Perlot here,”—I gestured to the crafter—“after leaving my apprenticeship, I was trying to make my way in Freetown, when the old duke ran afoul of Recluce. The rains came and turned the meadows to swamps. The clouds never left, and then the duke was dead, and wizards were running all over the place.” I winced inside at the slight exaggeration. “So I took what I had and got a pony and left.”

“Why did you come so far, and where were you from?” asked Jirrle.

I shrugged. “As I told Destrin, I'm technically only an apprentice. I don't have any guild certification. Hrisbarg was too small to support another crafter, and,” I raised my eyebrows, “have you seen Howlett and Montgren?”

That brought a chuckle from everyone but Jirrle, and I continued before he could ask me again where I was from. “As for Jellico, you can't walk the streets without a permit and a seal. So what could a poor apprentice woodworker do? What would you have done?” I addressed the question to Deryl.

“I guess I would have come to Fenard, just like you did. How did you get across the Easthorns?”

“It wasn't easy. It was cold, because I couldn't afford to stay in the inns there.” And I couldn't, but not for reasons of cost. Still, the misrepresentation hurt. “The heavy snows hadn't fallen, but I had to wait until a caravan cleared one snowfall from the road. I was afraid poor Gairloch would be skin and bones by the time we got to Passera.”

“How did you get into Jellico?” asked Rasten.

“Anything else around here?” asked the serving-girl.

“Nothing for me,” said Perlot.

“Nor me,” I added.

“Another mug.”

“Me too.”

“Not here.”

“I was lucky, ran into a healer, and traveled with him for a while, but he had business in Jellico.”

Jirrle frowned, even as he sipped from the heavy brown mug.

“Where did you get that design for the chair you did for Wryson?” asked Perlot quickly.

“I looked through Dorman's plan book, then just made some changes to make it more suitable for Wryson.”

“He's a diplomat,” chuckled Ferralt. “Ingenious way of bracing it. Do you mind if I try that?”

“Not at all. You might find a better way, though. I did that in more of a hurry than I would have liked.” Or than Uncle Sardit would have advised, either.

“Why the child's table?” That was Rasten.

“That started out as a project for Bostric. He's turned out to have a real feel for the woods, and I wanted to give him something that…well…” I finally shrugged, hoping they would understand.

Even Jirrle nodded slowly, although the frown never left his face.

“Maybe we ought to do more work like that,” began Deryl. “Some of the gentry pay well for garb for the little ones. Why not furniture? I once heard about the miniature palace in Hamor.”

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!
The girl dropped the heavy mugs on the table like mallets, one after the other.

I glanced over at the table where the apprentices sat. They looked more relaxed, which reassured me. Bostric seemed positively loquacious.

“…then…he talks about grains, grains, and more grains, about feeling the wood, like you could see right through it…but it's scary sometimes, because I get the feeling he can…”

“Hell…all of them can…why they're craft-masters…”

“One each, gents,” snapped the serving-girl, her tone crisper and shorter than the first time I'd been at the Tap Inn.

“What other projects do you have lined up?” asked Jirrle slowly.

“Not a lot. We're still scrambling. There's a corner chest, and a dower piece, and another couple of benches for the Horn Inn…”

“There will be more,” added Perlot, “with all the praise you're getting from Wessel.”

“We do the best we can…”

As the door opened, I turned to look, and realized it was pitch-dark out.

“What about…” began Ferralt as he looked at Deryl.

“I'm going to have to leave.” I eased out of my chair. “Destrin's not feeling that well, and I never fed the pony…”

“Won't you stay a little longer…?” grumbled Jirrle.

I could tell his words were false, yet he wanted me to stay.

“I wish I could.”

“Perhaps we could hear more the next time,” added Perlot.

I just nodded. In no way did I want to tell more than I had already. On the way out, I stopped by Bostric's group. “You can stay a while.” But I didn't wait for an acknowledgement.

“…doesn't seem that scary…”

“…not all that old…”

As I stepped out into the night, I tried not to sigh. Sooner or later, and probably sooner, the speculation would push me into giving away too much. The afternoon clouds had cleared, and the stars glittered, with the new moon just a crescent above the western horizon.

Further down the market street, the lanterns from the Horn Inn flickered with the breeze that brought the scent of cut hay from the fields to the north of Fenard.

Jirrle—the man bothered me, had bothered me from the first time he had inspected my boxes in the open market.

Even as early in the night as it was, the streets had cleared, the good and solid citizens for the most part having headed home. In Fenard, work started with the dawn. I suppressed a yawn, remembering that I had put off cleaning out Gairloch's stall.

I rubbed the end of my nose after the acrid odor of burned grease left a lingering itch, then picked up my steps as I passed the first cross-street toward the square from the Tap Inn.

Halfway toward the next cross-street, I stopped, almost paralyzed by the feel of disorder ahead. After turning, I took several quick paces back and into the shadows, wishing I had my staff with me.

Click…clink
…The sounds were faint, almost inaudible.

A cloak of reflection slipped around me, and I hoped I was doing the right thing, that the danger ahead was merely that of armed assassins, and not a chaos-master.