Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (16 page)

WHITE PUFFY CLOUDS, intermittently spaced, scudded out of the north and across the green-blue sky, occasionally obscuring the mid-morning sun, but not enough to keep Nylan from perspiring.

   The road had carried them farther westward, and it had been more than two days since they had left the hills covered with ironwoods that had flanked the eastern side of the road. At least, so far they hadn't seen any more ironwoods. A kay to the west of the road that generally wound northward was a line of trees that Nylan suspected followed a river. He blotted his forehead as the mare carried him over a low rise that overlooked a wide valley filled largely with cultivated fields. ' On the right side of the road was a low stone pedestal bearing a kaystone. The ornate Anglorat lettering, surrounded by a chiseled frieze of grain sheaves, declared Duevek.

   “Sculpted kaystones, now?” asked Nylan.

   “Oooo . . .” murmured Weryl, drooling whitish fragments of travel biscuit across the front of the carrypak. Nylan was glad that Istril had sewed the pack from shipsuit synthetics, because it washed easily and dried quickly-both qualities a necessity to keep it from reeking.

   Beyond the kaystone the road widened enough so that it would carry two wagons abreast, although it remained rutted and packed clay.

   “Prosperous-looking town,” Nylan said.

   “They're the dangerous ones.” Ayrlyn's eyes flicked ahead. On the low hillside on the northeast side of the town was a complex of white-walled buildings that resembled a Neorat villa-not that Nylan had ever seen one except on a screen.

   “That has to be the local lord's place-or whatever they call them.”

   “Lords or holders-they're addressed as 'lord' or 'ser,' ” said Ayrlyn.

   Weryl waved a hand, and Nylan broke off another corner of the hard travel biscuit.

   “You've given him a lot of biscuits.”

   “Not that much. They expand in his mouth, and he spits out about half. They keep him awake and happy. That means we get to sleep more-or haven't you noticed?”

   “I've noticed him sleeping more at night. That doesn't go for his father, the lecherous cad.” She grinned as she spoke.

   “I haven't heard any complaints.”

   “Who would listen?”

   Nylan tried not to grin. Best not to continue that conversation.

   At the base of the hill, before entering Duevek proper, they rode past a white-plastered house with a red tile roof and a matching barn or stable. In the corral beside the stable were what looked to be hogs.

   “Definitely prosperous,” Nylan said.

   Dark splotches in the road showed where potholes had been filled, and even the smaller cots had been recently painted or plastered.

   Nylan absently provided the water bottle to Weryl as the mare carried them toward the square ahead-the first true square Nylan had seen, with buildings on all four sides around a walled section of green grass and bushes from the center of which rose a statue of an armed man on a horse brandishing a hand - and - a - half blade.

   A green-framed sign of a huge golden cat hung from a green bracket outside the painted white inn. Unlike the first inn Nylan had seen-Essin's Black Bull-this sign had both the image and the name, if in old Anglorat, painted below in crisp green letters.

   As they rode into the square proper, a thin man in a dark-green tunic peered out from the doorway of what appeared to be a cabinetmaker's shop. His eyes lighted first on Ayrlyn, and then upon Nylan. Abruptly, he stepped out and shut the door-quietly-and scurried down the brick walk to the next structure, a narrow building that featured a basket and a half-keg over the door. In turn, that door shut, and three figures- one of them the man in the green-fanned out across the square.

   Three serving women darted from the Golden Cat and quickly fastened all the ground-level, dark green shutters before they disappeared back behind the firmly shut and iron-barred wooden door. Two women in brown bearing heavy baskets suddenly turned and ran back down a side street, leaving both baskets on the porch of the cooper's shop.

   “Keep riding,” said Ayrlyn.

   “Are they always this friendly?” asked the smith.

   “This is the polite way,” said Ayrlyn. “Be thankful you don't have people with iron implements and torches marching toward you.”

   “Oh.”

   Out of the stable by the Golden Cat burst a rider who spurred his mount northward on the road ahead of the two angels. The rider never looked back, but rode as though a troop of angel lancers were chasing him.

   “That's not good,” Ayrlyn said. “Let's move a bit faster.”

   Nylan urged the mare to a fast walk, wondering why a single rider was not good after a whole town declared its rejection of them.

   As the two rode out of the square, watching as doors and shutters closed as or before they passed, Nylan glanced to the sky as darkness fell across the road and left them in shadow. Were the clouds getting thicker?

   “Was it like this last year?” he asked.

   “Yes. In about half the towns.”

   Nylan patted Weryl's leg gently.

   By the time they reached the end of the town proper, every shutter was closed, and the sun had come out again.

   Ahead and on the right side of the road lay the villa.

   Weryl squirmed in the carrypak, and Nylan smelled a certain familiar odor. Not now. Then he shrugged. Weryl didn't care if his timing was inconvenient.

   Along the lane that led up to the Neorat villa rode nine men on horseback, all in brown. The squad rode through the arched gate and drew up in a single line, with one man in front.

   “What now?” Nylan glanced at the healer.

   “What do you think?”

   “Keep riding. Ignore them. If they're serious they could ride us down anyway. Their mounts are fresh.” Nylan's mouth felt dry, and he could smell both dust and his own sweat.

   “We could string them out.”

   “That's plan B-if they attack,” suggested Nylan. The memory of how awful he'd felt three days earlier in Henspa was still fresh in his mind, and he didn't want to think about the episode with the bandits.

   He looked down at Weryl. Ayrlyn was right-he needed a better arrangement for his son.

   The squad leader waited as Nylan and Ayrlyn neared the gate. The second mount in the row behind the leader whuffed and pawed the hard clay.

   Nylan wanted to lick his lips or touch the blade hilt at his waist. He did neither, but kept riding, letting the mare's easy steps carry him toward the waiting armsmen.

   “Angels ... you're not wanted here,” announced the blond squad leader, drawing his hand - and - a - half blade from the shoulder harness, but extending it downward until the tip touched the clay.

   “We gathered that,” said Ayrlyn. “We are not imposing on your lord's hospitality.”

   “The road is yours, as it is to all travelers,” replied the armsman. “Yet, best you remain on the road until you are well clear of Duevek.”

   “We intend to do so, ser,” answered the healer. “And we thank your lord for his respect for the way of the road.”

   “He respects the way of the road, but not angels who travel it.” The armsman added, “You have been warned.”

   “We have been warned.”

   Nylan looked at the armsman, and smiled. “Those who would do violence because others are different. Those who would deny welcome to those who seek to treat all equally. Those who reject angels because angels have declared women and men are equal ... all those also shall be warned.” He could feel his eyes flash.

   The blond officer started to raise the blade.

   Nylan looked evenly at the mart as the mare carried him almost abreast of the squad leader. “And any man who raises a blade against an empty-handed angel will die.”

   After a moment, the big blade dropped.

   Nylan looked ahead, but let his senses follow the armsman. He had no desire to be spitted from behind.

   None of the armsmen moved.

   Not until they were a good half kay farther north along the road did Ayrlyn speak. “That was dangerous, Nylan. These boys are half crazy, and they think women are lower than horse manure.”

   “I'm just busy getting the word out,” Nylan said lightly, trying to settle the slight queasiness in his stomach, and knowing his action had been foolhardy. “They'll remember, and they might even find out what happened in Henspa.”

   “Nerliat once said that unseen fires flowed from you. They do.” She shook her head. “That man won't ever forget what you said. Of course, he may try to kill you on sight if he has an excuse, but he won't forget.”

   “I hope not.” Nylan swallowed. Why was he essentially spreading the gospel of Ryba?

   “Because it happens to be right,” answered Ayrlyn.

   He looked at her. “I didn't say anything.”

   “You felt it strongly enough that you might as well have. You were wondering why you were spouting the party line of a place that effectively kicked you out.”

   Nylan looked back over his shoulder, where the dust showed that the riders were returning to the villa. “I don't know which is scarier-that I said what I said, or you know what you know.”

   Ayrlyn laughed.

   After a moment, so did he.

   Overhead, the clouds thickened, and a distant roll of thunder announced a coming storm.

THEMPHI WALKED SLOWLY northward along the wall, his white boots gray, each step stirring ashes. Well ahead of him marched the peasants and a detachment of foot, each man bearing a pitch torch, each torch being applied to any trace of green that remained. After the torches came others, with once-sharp axes and mattocks. Behind Themphi followed teams of oxen with knife-edged but deep moldboard plows.

   A rider in the green uniform and white sash of a Mirror Lancer rode across the field toward the wall and toward the white wizard.

   “Ser wizard!” Jyncka's face was tight and pinched as the Mirror Lancer officer reined up.

   Themphi stopped, glanced at the gray smoke that swirled everywhere in thin trails, then rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the throbbing in his temples. Slowly, he turned and looked up at the mounted officer. “Yes?”

   “Forestnorth-you had me go there to enlist some of the younger peasants to help with pushing the forest back?”

   “Yes,” said the white wizard, tiredly. “I did. Do not repeat what I told you. I know what I said.” He rubbed his forehead again, leaving ash smudges at his temples.

   The officer moistened his lips. “There's no town, not now. Just forest, and the houses are already crumbling. We could not reach the wall. Some of the thickets, brambles now, are chest high.”

   “The people?” asked the wizard, his voice wooden.

   Jyncka shrugged, his eyes going to the yoked oxen that turned the soil behind the white wizard. “There are stun lizards, forest cats, snakes-I lost one lancer. I didn't see any bones. One peasant woman-she was an old crone. I caught her hobbling away-she said that the people fled. They wouldn't fight the forest.”

   “Send men to ride the entire wall. Make sure they are the type that can remember and report what they have seen.”

   “The entire wall?”

   “The entire wall. All ninety-nine kays of each side. I do not wish to repeat myself.” Themphi started to lift his hands again, but stopped. “Take over here. Have them extinguish the torches, and return to Geliendra.”

   “Ah . . . yes, ser wizard.”

   “Don't you understand, Jyncka? We have not cleared an area half the size of Forestnorth, and we have a wizard and an apprentice, and fourscore men with torches and axes and mattocks and oxen and plows.” The wizard turned. “Fissar!”

   The thin youth in white tunic and trousers smeared with dark gray scurried up. “Ser?”

   “Get our mounts.”

   “Yes, ser.”

   Themphi looked back to Jyncka. “I want a report on how much the forest has expanded.”

   “Would it not be faster-?”

   “For me to use a glass?” Themphi laughed. “First, I am exhausted. Second, it takes time and energy to scree every cubit of the wall. I will use the glass once I have the reports from your men. Once I have regained some strength. Successful use of the white forces requires planning, not just spewing out power mindlessly. Some... even in power... have great difficulty understanding that.” He walked slowly away from the cracking stones of the white wall toward the distant corner of the field where Fissar was untethering two mounts.

   After a moment, Jyncka urged the horse forward, toward the torches.

NYLAN GLANCED AT the winding road that followed the eastern bank of the river and that looked almost identical to innumerable other stretches of winding road between the low hills of Lornth and along the river-or it would have looked similar except for the misting rain.

   He blotted the combination of sweat and rain off his forehead and peered through the falling water. “I don't see any way stations, and our reception in most of the towns hasn't been the warmest.”

   “The weather's been good, at least for most of the time.”

   “Except for the first hamlet, and that other afternoon.”

   “Don't get picky with me, almighty smith.”

   “Sorry.”

   “Waaaaa . . . waa-daaa-daa!” said Weryl firmly. His silver hair was plastered to his skull, and he had squirmed almost continuously in the carrypak since the rain had drifted over the river from the northwest.

   “There's a larger dwelling ahead, below that second rise, and some outbuildings. Maybe we can pay to get a shed or something over our heads.”

   “If they don't slam the shutters in our face.” Nylan paused. “Are you still sure about this feeling you had? About Lornth being a better place?”

   “I still have it.” Ayrlyn wiped moisture away from her own face.

   “['wouldn't want to be any place that you had a bad feeling about.”

   “Thank you, ser engineer.”

   Nylan winced. “Sorry.”

   “You should be. Again.”

   The chestnut whuffed and shook her head, sending more droplets across both Nylan and Weryl.

   “Nooooooooo...” said Weryl, waving his hands, and wiggling his legs, almost drumming them on the damp leather of the saddle.

   “I don't care about child psychology,” said Ayrlyn. “He knows what 'no' means.”

   Nylan had the feeling she was right. . . perhaps about too many things.

   They rode downhill and then back up the low rise to the holding, centered on a plaster-sided house that had once been white, but now appeared gray. A line of gray smoke swirled from the stone chimney.

   “Hello ... the house!” called Nylan.

   “Hello the house?” asked Ayrlyn.

   “What else could you say? Welcome, some angels?” Nylan shifted his weight in the saddle, wondering just how chafed he was going to be from riding in damp trousers.

   A man with a red and gray beard opened the door and stepped onto the narrow porch. The rain rolling off the roof put a thin curtain of water between him and the angels.

   “What ye be wanting?” His eyes went to Ayrlyn, then to Weryl. “Wet travel for a child.”

   “We had hoped you might have a dry place where we could stay,” said Nylan.

   “I be no inn,” said the man. “Herder in a hard land.”

   “We're not asking for charity,” Nylan said. “Nor even that you open your house-just a dry shed.”

   The man shrugged, then looked at Nylan intently. “You one of those angels?”

   “I've been called that, but I'm a man who's had to travel with his son, and we're wet. I can offer you some coppers for a dry place-a shed, a barn.”

   “I don't know.” The herder looked at Weryl, who looked back, somber-faced. “I suppose you would not harm the hay shed, and you could put the mounts in the animal shed. They be not nipping, do they?”

   “They never have yet.”

   “Fine.” The red-bearded herder looked at Weryl again.

   “You get settled, and you can pay as you think is fit. A moment-need to get a waterproof.”

   When he ducked back into the house, Ayrlyn looked at Nylan. The healer looked back, raising her eyebrows.

   The smith shrugged.

   “Follow me.” The herder stepped down onto the damp ground and into the rain. The angels followed him around the dwelling to a narrow structure, unpainted wood darkened by the dampness. The herder opened the door, little more than three planks fastened to two boards. “Hay shed.” He pointed to a three-walled shed with a slanted roof. “Animals there. Plenty of room. Flock's up in the lower pasture. Like the rain.”

   Nylan dismounted and fumbled out three coppers. “Thank you.”

   The herder took the coins. “Well is there.” He pointed to the stones mortared into a circular form midway between his house and the hay shed. Then, with a quick look at Weryl, he nodded, turned, and trudged back through the rain, now falling even more heavily.

   Both Nylan and Ayrlyn were soaked by the time they had unsaddled the mounts and carried their gear, and Weryl, to the hay shed. The shed was still half filled with hay, stacked in small circular bales bound with straw braids. Dust swirled around them in the gusting winds that entered with them, despite the dampness of the air.

   “At least, it has plank floors. And it's dry.” Ayrlyn closed the plank door, leaving them in the gloom that was not too dark for Ayrlyn, nor any bother for Nylan, not with his night vision.

   “Lots of splinters,” added Nylan, pulling one from his finger. “Be careful when you put down things.” He rubbed his nose, once, twice, then sneezed.

   “Daaa-daaa!” Weryl windmilled his arms in response to the sneeze.

   “You can drape the bedrolls over that beam there for a while. It's dry enough.”

   Nylan rubbed his nose again, thisx time holding back the sneeze, and then extracted Weryl from the carrypak, and then his son from soaking wet clothes. Once he had Weryl in a dry outfit, he straightened and looked to the bedrolls.

   “I'll get some water, and hope it's not too bad. Trying to separate the chaos from it-I get tired.” Ayrlyn wiped more water from her forehead as she looked at the door, almost as if she dreaded going into the rain.

   Weryl sat in a pile of hay, and tried to chew on one of the pale yellow-brown stalks.

   As he eased the second bedroll over the thick timber, Nylan looked from Ayrlyn to his son. “I'll get the water. I can do that. It's better than getting sick. You watch our friend, and make sure he doesn't eat too much straw.”

   The healer smiled faintly. “I need to get out of these clothes.”

   Nylan smiled. “I hope you do.”

   “You're impossible. You were impossible when you were wounded.”

   “I'll get the water.” He eased open the door and hurried toward the well. Each impact of his boots sent mud flying.

   After lifting the bucket, he took a deep breath and concentrated, trying to use the dark lines of force to separate out the unseen reddish-whiteness that was chaos-or infection- and trying not to think about the apparent engineering impossibility of what he did.

   “Just think about different laws . . . different laws, that's all.”

   The water didn't look that different when he poured it into the two bottles, except marginally clearer.

   He headed back to the hay shed, closing the door behind him and then setting both water bottles on the plank floor. “The water wasn't too bad.”

   “Good.” Ayrlyn, wearing only a dry shirt extracted from her pack, looked out the door before closing it. “It's raining hard.”

   “I'd say so.” Nylan wiped water from his hair and face, then stripped off his shirt and walked to the corner where he wrung out a stream of liquid. Then he hung his shirt next to Ayrlyn's damp clothes. He pulled off his boots and did the same with the rest of his clothing, then extracted a shirt and trousers that were only marginally damp.

   “Nice figure,” commented Ayrlyn.

   “I notice you changed while I was getting water. That wasn't fair.”

   “Some things aren't.” Ayrlyn spread some straw on the planks beside Weryl and eased herself down, very carefully.

   Weryl reached for her, and she picked him up. “In a moment. Daddy will get out the food.”

   Nylan pulled on the trousers. Then he emptied the food pack, taking out the last section of the yellow brick cheese that left an aftertaste of goats or... something, four travel biscuits, and three strips of dried venison. “Not much left to eat.” He sat on the straw between Weryl and Ayrlyn. “We need more food.”

   “We should reach Lornth tomorrow.”

   “Will anyone sell us food?” He broke off a section of biscuit and handed it to the silver-haired boy.

   “I don't know. We'll have to see.” Ayrlyn sliced two thin slivers of the yellow cheese and handed one to Weryl, the second to Nylan. She cut another for herself.

   “Tomorrow, let's see if we can buy anything from the herder. All he can say is no.”

   “He won't if he can spare it,” Ayrlyn prophesied. “Hard coin is too hard to come by. It always is for agricultural types.”

   “I hope you're right.”

   They ate silently for a time. After that, in between chasing Weryl around the hay shed, Nylan packed away the remnants, remnants that were getting slimmer and slimmer. He paused. “It's still raining.”

   “I'm not tired . . . and neither is our little friend.”

   “Why don't you sing something,” Nylan suggested, “something that you'd like.”

   “Do you think our friend would stand still long enough?”

   “He's tired, but not sleepy.”

   “I'll try.” Ayrlyn walked over to the lutar case and extracted the instrument before sitting on one of the hay bales.

   Nylan picked up Weryl and sat on another bale across from her.

   At the first sound of her fingers tuning, Weryl's eyes flicked toward the singer. “Ooooo . . .”

   “I'm not that good, Weryl, but I appreciate the flattery.” Her fingers crossed the strings. “How about something cheerful?”

   “Fine with me,” Nylan said, “and with Weryl, I'd guess.” Ayrlyn cleared her throat and began.

   "When I was single, I looked at the skies.

   Now I've a consort, I listen to lies,

   lies about horses that speak in the darks,

   lies about cats and theories of quarks ..."

   “Aaaalaaan . . . daa, daaa,” said Weryl as she finished the tune.

   “I think that translates as 'more.' ” Nylan laughed.

   “Well. . . we'll give him a song about you.”

   “Not that one.”

   “Why not?”

   “It's awful.”

   “You'll just have to get used to it.” The healer grinned in the gloom, and her flame hair glittered with a light of its own.

   "Oh, Nylan was a smith, and a mighty mage was he.

   With lightning hammer and an anvil of night forged he,

   From the Westhorns tall came the blades and bows of the night.

   Their lightning edges gave the angels forever the height...

   "Oh, Nylan was a mage, and a mighty smith was he.

   With rock from the heights and a lightning blade built he.

   On the Westhorns tall stands a tower of blackest stone,

   And it holds back the winter's snows and storms all alone. ..."

   “All right, all right,” said Nylan as he picked up Weryl and began to rock the child. “Something softer?”

   “You don't mind the Sybran song?” He shook his head.

   "When the snow drops on the stone

   When the wind song's all alone

   When the ice swords form in twain,

   Sing of the hearths where we've lain..."

   Midway through the second stanza, Weryl lurched in Nylan's arms, his fingers grasping, and for a moment, Nylan saw the chubby fingers actually touch the silvered note that hung in the gloom.

   The smith blinked, and only silvered dust motes shimmered in the air-and vanished.

   The child was oddly silent, an enigmatic smile across his lips.

   Ayrlyn glanced toward Nylan. “He saw the notes.”

   “We saw the notes. Because of him?”

   She shook her head. “Did we ever look?”

   The question bothered Nylan. Where else had he failed to look? How much else was there that he had not seen because he had not realized it could be possible?

   Ayrlyn's fingers flicked across the strings, and Weryl settled back as Nylan rocked him and the singer hummed gently.

   Outside, the rain drummed on the shed roof.