Liar's Oath

Chapter Twenty-eight

Luap had made the decision to meet that first caravan at the upper end of the trail from the desert. All along the way, his people had planted bannerstaves; today the narrow pennants snapped loudly in a freshening wind. Blue and white, Gird’s color and Esea’s, alternated. He himself wore the long white gown they had found so practical in the dry heat of summer, and over it a tabard of Girdish blue. He had an uneasy feeling about that, but surely they need not ape the fashion of Girdish peasants, not out here. No one wore those clothes any more; he had put on that worn pair of gray homespun trousers and rediscovered how itchy his legs felt. So he had insisted on some garment of blue, for all of them, and most had chosen the simple tabard.

His scouts had reported the approaching caravan two days before. Last night’s campfires had been at the base of the cliffs; soon they would be here. He was sweating, he realized, with more than heat. He wished he could see. Instead, he heard them first . . . the ring of shod hooves on stone, the echoing clamor of human voices, swearing at some unlucky mule. Then one of the youngsters waved to him, and he went to look over the edge. They were closer than he’d thought, toiling upward only a few switchbacks below, horses and men and mules all reduced to squirming odd shapes by the distance and brilliant sunlight.

One looked up at him, a face sunburnt to red leather, eyes squinted almost shut, unrecognizable. He had hoped for Cob, who had been, as much as any of them, a friend, but he had known how much Cob loved his own grange, how little he would look forward to a long journey into strangeness. The man’s free arm waved, then he looked down again. Luap watched the slow advance. Seasons of waiting had passed faster than this; his throat felt dry, and he accepted the wineskin someone offered without really noticing it. The wine, cool and sweet, eased his throat, but the hot stone must, he thought, be crisping his toes. They would be even hotter, having climbed those sunbaked cliffs in the day’s heat.

At last, the first of the caravan reached the top, two glasses or more after he’d expected them. Too late now to reach the stronghold by dark; they would camp in the pine-wood just below. Luap walked forward to meet the first rider, and proffered the wineskin. The man’s horse stood head down, sides heaving. He was still convinced he had never seen the man before when Cob’s voice came out of that swollen, sunburnt face.

“By the Lady, Luap, you’ve chosen one impossible lair . . . no wonder you travel by magery!”

“Cob! I’m glad to see you!” And he was, even now, even when he half-wished the caravan had not come, that he could sever the ties with Fin Panir. Of all Gird’s quarrelsome and difficult lieutenants, Cob had been the first to shrug and accept him, and the only one whose loyalty to Gird’s luap had never wavered except at Gird’s command.

“And I, you: you could have come out to the grange, your last visit.” That loyalty had not blunted Cob’s tongue, reminiscent of Gird’s own. Now he looked Luap up and down, as Gird might have done. “Gone back to magelords’ dress, out here? That’ll do you no good with the Marshal-General, Luap.”

Luap felt himself flush, and hoped Cob would take it for the heat. “Try it yourself, out here—it’s better in this heat.”

“Not me. I’ll sweat more happily in my own clothes.” Cob took a long pull at the wineskin and grinned. “Ahhh. No need to ask how your vines are doing. That’s good, sweet as I like it. How much farther do we go today?”

Again, like Gird, that ability to switch quickly back to the practical. “The Hall’s a half day or more from here, for such a large group. I thought we’d camp partway: there’s a good spring, and pine-woods. We brought food, in case you were running low. We can be there well before sundown.”

“Good.” Cob’s gaze ran ahead. “Follow the banners?”

“Yes. Shall we wait to start until all are up?”

“No need. As long as someone’s here to point the way and give encouragement.”

Cob led his horse slowly over the rippled stone; Luap walked beside him. At first they did not talk; Cob seemed glad enough to look around. Then he began to ask questions. Luap explained, as best he could, the interlocked system of canyons.

“We don’t go into this one much; the upper end, that we call Whiterock Gorge, has good hunting now that we’ve hunted out most of our own, but as you know all too well, climbing back up from the big one with game would be difficult.”

“That makes sense. How deep is your canyon, then?”

“Not as deep as this, but steep enough going in. We’ll go through a tributary first, a curious place. A rockfall let sand drift in behind it; we’re hoping to improve the soil and use it for farming later. It would make good pasture: the walls go straight up from level sand, like a great wall. If we closed off the upper ends, our horses would be safe there.”

“No wolves? No wildcats?”

“Oh, we have both, but our hunters have thinned them. The wildcat here reminds me of the old tales of snowcats in the southern mountains—remember them? These are gray; you’d think they’d show up against the red rock, but they don’t.” The bannerstaves here led off into deep sand; Luap paused. “I’m sorry, but we’ve a stretch of sand here; the rock takes you to a dropoff no horse can manage.”

Cob sighed. “When I get back to Fin Panir, I will never complain about hard ground or cold again. We had three days of sand at a time on the way, and I learned about it.”

“It’s not long—just to that grove of pines.” Best not tell him now that half the next day’s journey would be on deep sand.

Behind them, the line of sweaty, tired men and animals stretched out; Luap could hear the creaking of saddle leather, the grunts and wheezes of tired animals; men complaining; the pennants snapping in the wind. It seemed to take twice as long to reach the grove as he’d expected, but they were all under its shelter by sunfall.

Those he had left to prepare a meal had created a haven in the wood: a central fire, cushions and carpets laid out for tired men to lounge on, stew, roast meats, and even fresh bread scenting the air. Picket lines for horses and mules stretched back into the trees. By full dark, everyone had gathered around the fire to eat and talk. Overhead, stars glittered brightly in the clear air; Luap almost decided to set no sentries, to emphasize the safety in which his people lived, but changed his mind. Gird’s followers had learned prudence the hard way; it would do him no good with them to seem careless.

He woke in the turn of night, to find Cob beside him, holding his arm.

“Luap—are you sure there’s no one out here but your folk?” Cob’s voice was so low Luap could hardly hear it.

Luap pushed himself up, and yawned. “Not out this way Why? Did the sentries call an alarm?”

Cob grunted. “Your sentries have become too used to safety: they’re asleep. I woke up, went to the jacks, and went to speak to them—but found them curled up as comfortable as boys in a haymow. Then I felt something—nothing I could define, a cold menace—like the look a thief gives in a dark alley.”

At that moment a cold current of air coiled around Luap’s shoulders and down his neck. He shivered, then recovered. “Cob—you’ve not been in mountains before. The night air’s colder than you think, and at the turn of night it feels colder than steel. More than once when we first came, one of us thought something dire had passed, but we came to realize it was only the cold. The night may be still when the sun falls, but later on, these movements of air come, as if they were alive. But nothing more.”

“Huh.” Cob’s head, in the starlight, looked frosted; Luap could not see his expression. “Well. If you’re sure. But you might have a word with your sentries, just in case.”

Luap groaned inwardly. Get out of his warm blankets to rouse sentries to watch for nothing? But nothing less would satisfy Cob, and after all, the sentries were supposed to be awake. He nodded, pushed the blankets aside, shivering again at the cold. “I’ll stir them up. If nothing else, all these horses might draw a wildcat.” Cob rolled himself back in his blankets, and Luap headed for the sentry posts.

Cold, clear air chilled his face, his hands; when he breathed, his chest felt bathed in ice. Even under the pines, starlight trickled through; beyond the trees, he could see a silvery glow over the silent land. A horse stamped, in the picket lines, and another was grinding its teeth steadily. Luap heard nothing he should not hear, and nearly fell over one sleeping sentry in the speckled shade.

He shook the man awake. “Wha—what’s wrong?” It was Jeris, one of the youngest he had brought with him.

“You’re supposed to be standing guard,” Luap said. “Marshal Cob got up to use the jacks and found you all asleep.”

“I—I’m sorry.” In the dark, he couldn’t see Jeris’s face, but the voice sounded worried and contrite enough. “There was nothing—and it was so quiet—and . . . and cold, and . . .”

“I understand, Jeris, but with all these horses we must worry about wildcats or wolves. We haven’t cleared this plateau, you know.”

“Yes, my lord.” The words came smoothly; in the dark, off guard, Luap suddenly realized how that would sound to Cob and the others.

“Don’t say that,” he said sharply. “They don’t use that anymore. Just call me Luap, or sir, if you must.”

“But my—but, sir, it’s not respectful—”

“Respect includes doing what I ask, doesn’t it? Don’t use ‘my lord’ while our guests are here. It will upset them.” And would Jeris remember? And remembering, would he obey? Or would he, in the spirit of youthful investigation, ask Cob why it would upset them? Luap shook his head and moved to the next post. Sure enough, all the sentries were asleep, and as he went from post to post, Luap himself began to feel a vague unease. Wouldn’t one have stayed awake? Wouldn’t one of them have wakened at the turn of night to use the jacks, as Cob had? For that matter, why were all the travelers sleeping so soundly?

But he could not hold that anxiety when he got back to the clearing; he wrapped himself again in his blankets, finding to his dismay that none of his body warmth remained, and was asleep before he realized it. He woke at the sound of the cooks working about the fire; half the travelers were out of their blankets already. For a moment or two, he lay quietly, trying to remember what had bothered him in the night, but he couldn’t. It was a morning as clear as the day before, too beautiful for dark thoughts.

They started early, before the sun could strike heat from the rock. Down from the pines, into a narrow rocky defile. When they came around a knob to see the little tributary canyon below them, Cob drew rein. “So that’s your future pastureland. You’re right: it’s perfect. There’s even water.”

“And quicksand,” Luap said. “But we’ll work that out. Be sure you follow the stakes.”

Down the length of that little valley, so oddly shaped with its nearly level floor and its vertical walls. Then up again, into the morning sun, to climb around the rockfall, back into the shadow of the main canyon.

Luap led the way down that steep slope, uneasily aware that the signs of magic in use were all about them, plain to be seen if any of the visitors wanted to notice. Would they? Would they know what those smoothly carven walls meant? Would they realize that the natural canyon had not been blocked by natural falls of stone, filled with natural fertile terraces ready for planting? Cob knew, of course; he had explained it all to Cob. And the Council of Marshals knew, in theory—he had come out here to train the mageborn in the right use of their powers. But he knew they had no idea what that really meant, and the common yeomen in this group would never have seen magery used in all their lives. How would they react? In his mind’s eye lay the image of this land as he and Gird had first seen it . . . he could still hear Gird’s dismissive “not farm land.” Now each crop gave its own shade of green, its own texture, to the terraces; smooth green fans of grain, bordered by rougher, darker bushes yielding berries and nuts, a ruffle of greens and redroot vines. The fruit trees, just coming into bearing. . . .

“I thought Gird said this was no good for farming,” said Cob, just behind him.

“We worked hard on it,” said Luap.

“Mmm. You must have. You couldn’t have taken this much soil, not through that little cave. Two sacks, is what I know you took.”

“No, we didn’t.” He left that lying, and hoped Cob would do the same.

“Magery, I suppose,” Cob said, and spat. “Well. It’s what you came for, after all, isn’t it? A place for the magefolk to do their magery without upsetting anyone?”

Even from Cob he had not expected that quick analysis and calm acceptance. Luap nodded. “Yes—although we had peace in mind more than magery to start with. And here it can’t be used against anyone.”

Cob peered up at the canyon walls. “No—unless enemies come upon you, which doesn’t seem likely. The horsefolk don’t come within hands of days of here, and who else could there be? Have you found any folk at all?”

“West of these mountains is flat land, with a caravan trail and a town—Dirgizh—that’s a waystation for a folk called the Khartazh. They have a king somewhere north. They don’t come into these mountains; they claim they’re haunted by evil spirits.”

Cob snorted. “Whatever you are, you’re not evil spirits—unless they mean whoever was here before you and carved your original hall.”

“I doubt it’s either,” Luap said. “Until we smoothed the trail, it was difficult for people, and impossible for horses. Robbers laired in the mountains just east of the trade trail and preyed on travellers; I think the king’s men just didn’t want to worry with ’em. It’s easier to say mountains are haunted than to admit they’re too rough for your taste.”

“That’s so. Like a junior yeoman I had in my grange back east, who was sure some mageborn had magicked his hauk. He could not believe he was really that clumsy and weak. It took me three years to convince him that he was his own curse. Speaking of that, how’s young Aris?”

“Curse? Aris?”

“No, I’m sorry. He’s his own blessing, I was thinking, unlike Tam back home. Are he and Seri still like vine and pole?”

Luap grinned. “Yes, but not married. You’d think they were still children.”

“It may be best. Seri’s not one to mother only her own children. What does she do?”

“She’s our Marshal: insists on drill, cleaned those robbers out of the mountains between us and the trade route, set up guardposts—”

“Good for her.” Cob’s horse slid a little and he grunted. “You couldn’t get out of here in a hurry, could you? Going up must be slower.”

“That’s one reason we’d like to keep some horses in that upper valley,” Luap said. “Every time we take a party up and down this trail, we have to rebuild it. Foot traffic’s not so hard on it; if we could climb up then ride out, that would help.”

“The merchanters we travelled with kept going west and south; they say there’s another trade route that way . . . and they’ve always wanted a shortcut. Do you think your—Khartazh, was it?—are on the other end of their road?”

“Oh yes. They talk about a time—probably before we were born—when caravans went east to Fintha every year. As near as I can tell, that trade declined after the fall of Old Aare, and stopped almost completely after the war started. If that trade resumes—and I hope it will—I would like to see caravans here; it would be a shortcut for them, and good for us. That’s why we built the trail you climbed up, from the lower plain; I hoped to bring in caravans. But the trails are so rugged, maintaining them would be difficult.”

Now they were off the last switchback of the trail, into the pines. He watched as Cob drew a deep breath. “Ah—this is better. Some shade for my face, a cool breeze.” Here, two horses could go abreast; Luap reined in to let Cob come up beside him. “This is the last time I make this trip, mind. You can travel the mageroad with no more trouble than walking out of a room; I’m not blistering my old skin again just to see you.”

“I’ll take you back the mageroad, if you wish,” Luap said.

“We’ll see,” said Cob, eyeing the green terraces, the flowering bushes, the berries, “Maybe I’ll just stay here and live off your mercy.”

Luap pointed. “Up there—that’s one of the lookout posts Seri had us build.” Cob squinted upward, blinking against brilliant light.

“Good to see out of, but cold in winter, I’d think. And if a wind blows—”

“No one’s fallen off yet.” Luap enjoyed Cob’s awestruck look. He liked knowing he’d surprised the man; he heard the murmurs from those behind with the same pleasure.

It was just on midday when Luap turned across the stream to the sunny side of the canyon; the walls seemed to shimmer in the light as if painted on silk. The little arched bridge, so delicate against the massive rock walls, rang to the horses’ hooves. Cob stared at the narrow cleft of the side-canyon as if he could not believe it. “We’re going in there?”

“Yes. It’s not all a tumble of rocks; there’s a trail.” Again in single file, they rode up, into the cleft with its hidden pockets of old trees. The lower entrance stood open, as always in good weather. One of Seri’s junior yeomen stood guard beside it, proudly aware of his good fortune.

“Go in and tell them the caravan’s come safely,” Luap said. “We’ll need help with the horses.”

“Yes, Luap,” said the boy; Luap was glad for once that Seri’s young trainees tended to scamp the courtesies. He slid off his horse, and took Cob’s reins.

“Here—go on in and let Aris put a salve on your face if he can’t heal it. I’ll water your beast.”

“I’m all right, here in the shade.” Cob leaned against the rock, watching the others come up, and Luap handed the reins of both horses to one of his people who had come running out. That one did murmur “my lord” as he took the horses away; Luap hoped Cob hadn’t heard it. Another appeared with a tray and tall cups of water slightly flavored with an aromatic fruit from Khartazh. Luap handed one to Cob, who was looking up at the great pines, around at the rock walls. “I wouldn’t have believed it without seeing it, that’s certain. And how you’ve managed to raise food in it—that’s another wonder. Gird would have been proud of you, Luap.” He sipped the drink, then smiled and emptied the cup. The servant took it and refilled it.

“I’m glad you think so.” He wondered if Cob would still think that way when he’d seen how comfortable a life he and his people had achieved in so few years.

“Luap . . . I’m not here to check up on you.” Cob’s shrewd glance widened to a grin as Luap felt his face burning. “There—you see? You did think I would act as the Marshal-General’s spy.”

“Sorry,” Luap muttered. So he had heard the servant’s words.

“You should be! When have I ever agreed with him? No, if you and your folk are happy out here, and living comfortably and at peace, this is what I hoped to see. And if you transgress some one of the Marshal-General’s many little rules, he won’t find out from my report—not that he could do anything if he did. You’re growing your own food; you’re not taking anything from the granges any more.”

“I see him when I report,” Luap said. “I suppose I’ve come to think of you—of the others—as mostly like him.”

“We’re not. At least, not all of us. So settle down, will you, and quit looking so nervous. If you’re playing prince out here, and all your people kiss your feet, it’s your business. I won’t, but if they want to, they can.”

Luap forced a chuckle. If only he could believe that—but Cob, he knew, would not lie. Perhaps he did have a friend in this sunburnt old peasant. “I confess, then, to allowing more deference than I would have in Fin Panir.”

“Deference! Is that what you call it?”

Luap shrugged. “If you mean showing respect—”

“For rank and not for deeds. Yes. Although I suppose you have shown them deeds enough, out here, even if those deeds were magery.” Cob nodded to the growing cluster of Girdish riders now dismounting and milling about the stronghold entrance. “We’re making a tangle here—where would you have us go?”

“Which is greater, fatigue or curiosity?” Luap countered. “We have guest chambers, of course, and bathing chambers to wash off the trail grime. Or you can begin with food. Or you can let us drag you all over, showing off.”

“I must admit food sounds good,” Cob said. “I want to see that grand hall you told us about, but then food . . . and that lot had better start with something to eat.” He beckoned to a younger man. “You may remember Vrelan, my yeoman-marshal.”

“I do indeed,” Luap said, smiling. Vrelan looked old for a yeoman-marshal now, and he wore the blue tunic of a Marshal.

Cob nodded. “Yes, he’s Marshal Vrelan—just finished his training this last winter. We’re finally training Marshals faster than establishing new granges, so we old ones can have replacements and the younger ones can get experience before taking on a whole grange. Considering my age and failing health—” by the tone of this voice, he was quoting someone he did not like, “—the Council decided that a younger Marshal should come along to report on your settlement. The Marshal-General would have sent Binis—”

Luap almost choked. Cob was grinning broadly.

“I thought that would get your attention. But I insisted on Vrelan, for his expertise in horsemanship and wilderness travel; Binis still rides like a sack of redroots.” He cleared his throat and spat.

“Marshal Cob!” That was the Rosemage; Luap was surprised that it had taken her this long to appear. He had half expected her to meet them in the upper valley. She hugged Cob, then turned to Luap. “Seri says there’s another gang of robbers holed up in those canyons somewhere; the Khartazh had a caravan attacked north of Dirgizh. We got the message yesterday. She’s taken half the regular guards the long way around, and I’m about to leave to take the high trail and try to spot them from above. She wanted me to wait until you were back in the stronghold with your guards.”

“Is Aris with her?”

“Yes, but Garin’s here if anyone in Cob’s group needs help.”

“Then I suppose we’d better set the usual doubled guard, and let you go. Who’s your second this time?”

“Liun, and he’s up on top checking all the guardposts. He’ll be down to report to you.”

“Well, then.” Luap shrugged at Cob. “I’d better get to work; come along if you like, and we’ll get something to eat as we go past the kitchens.” He felt almost pleased by the otherwise bad news. Cob would see how well Seri and the Rosemage had organized the militia; he would see busy, hardworking people, not idlers. The Rosemage turned away and strode rapidly up the passage. “Just let me tell Jens—” Quickly he gave his orders to one of the boys to provide food and a guide for Vrelan and the others. Then he headed for his own office, with Cob trailing.

It had become so natural to him that he hardly remembered his first feelings of awe and nervousness at being underground. Cob’s wide eyes and quick breathing reminded him. “It doesn’t bother you at all?” Cob asked, when Luap looked back, having just remembered Cob’s lameness. He slowed, waiting for Cob to catch up, then forced himself to stroll as if he were not in a hurry.

“Not any more. It did at first, but we’ve been here now for several years and the walls don’t cave in and the light never fails.” He pointed out store-rooms, kitchens, the great water reservoir, as they passed them, and explained where the cross-corridors went. They came at last to the corridor behind the great hall, and the chamber where Luap had chosen to do his work. His scribe had heard him coming, and was looking out the door.

“Ah, Luap: did the Rosemage find you?”

“Yes—she’s on her way. Where’s the Khartazhi message?”

“Here, my lord.” He handed over the woven pouch, like a miniature rug, in which such messages were carried. Luap opened it, and looked it over. The king begged his assistance in the capture or destruction of lawless robbers who had attacked two caravans in the past thirg—a thirg, Luap knew, was about six hands of days. The king’s captain thought the robbers might number fifty—an unusually large band. The message finished with the flowery compliments he had come to expect in any communication from the Khartazh. “We could not send a formal answer, my lord, until your return . . . the messenger is waiting.”

But Seri had already gone, as if she had the right to anticipate his commands. Luap wondered why some were born with the will to act, and others always awaited permission. “Then I’ll dictate it now,” he said. “Or—better—write it in my own hand. This is Marshal Cob, by the way, an old friend from Fintha. Why don’t you fetch Garin, while I’m writing, and see if he has some salve for sunburn?”

“I can go,” Cob said. “No need to bring anyone to me.” Luap saw his gaze flick around the room, noticing the thick patterned carpets, the wall hangings, the stone ink-dishes, the racks of scrolls. He smiled at Luap. “I’m glad Vrelan will see this.” Just enough emphasis on Vrelan to make his meaning clear to Luap . . . a visit from Binis would have been a disaster.

“I won’t be long,” Luap said. He pulled a clean scroll from the rack kept ready for him, and stirred the ink his scribe had been using. Cob nodded and withdrew; Luap hoped Garin could ease that sunburn—it almost made his own face hurt to look at it.

By the time Cob came back, he had finished that message to the king’s captain, and seen his messenger on his way. He had also approved the revised watch-lists Liun submitted, and suggested to his personal staff that they minimize the formal courtesy for the duration of Cob’s visit. The scribes flowed in and out of his office with reports, messages, requests; he dealt with them easily, as always, sensing around him the whole settlement in busy, organized activity. When Cob came in, Luap smiled at him and said “Now—you must come see what I found when I first came by the mageroad.”

Cob’s reaction to the great hall was as strong as Luap could have wished. He looked up and around. “This is . . . this is . . . it’s all magery?”

“No—not now; it’s real enough. It was done by magery, though, and not by ours. The Elder Races built it; they have never told us why, or why they abandoned it.” No sense in repeating the vague warnings he had been given; if he didn’t understand them, Cob certainly wouldn’t.

“And those are the arches.” Cob walked toward them, as Gird had, with perfect assurance that he could do so. Of course, he had not come by accidental magic. Cob looked up. “Harp, tree, anvil, hammer . . . and the High Lord’s circle. This is the one that appeared when Gird came?” Luap nodded. “I’d have been scared,” Cob said.

“I was,” Luap said. “Do you want to go up and see it from above?” He nodded at the spiral stair.

Cob shook his head. “Not today; my foot’s climbed as far as it wants. Let’s go find one of those kitchens full of food, eh?”

Luap smiled, and led him slowly back the way they had come. Cob seemed to notice everything. “Big as this place is, I’m surprised your people are moving out into the canyons: why do the work to dig out a separate dwelling?”

“Convenience, mostly. It may not look it, but the lower terraces are a half-day’s walk down the canyon: it’s easier to live beside the fields. And it’s like the old palace at Fin Panir . . . living in a small house is easier. To have privacy here, you have to spread out into all the levels, but when you’ve done that, you’re a long way from the kitchens or the bathing rooms, or even a way out. Some things we have to do here, but families, in particular, seem to want their own dwelling.”

“Ah. And do they make these dwellings the old way, or by magery?”

“By magery, for the most part. Most are small, one room deep and several wide, just in from the rockface. You saw the way this stone breaks, leaving wide arches? They build within that, using magery to help shape the broken stone into blocks and then lift them to form walls.” He grinned at Cob. “They’re very odd-looking houses, by eastern standards, but they’re comfortable. Tomorrow or the next day I’ll take you visiting.”

By the next morning, all the travellers had rested and were eager to satisfy their curiosity. Some went out to the terraces in the main canyon to see how the mageborn farmed; some explored the passages of the stronghold itself, getting lost repeatedly. All climbed the spiral stairs at least once, to look out over the tangle of canyons and have the locals point out where they had been riding the day before.

“When will Seri and Aris be back?” Cob asked Luap at the midday meal. Luap shrugged.

“I don’t know. It depends on which canyon the robbers are in. Look—” He put his hand down on the table. “This—my hand—is the mountain we’re in—as if we were in the wrist. On the west end, six fingers stick out, with canyons between them—they could be in any one of those. That’s why the Rosemage went up here—” He pointed to his knuckles, “—to see if she could spot them from above and let Seri know.”

“Why not have a permanent settlement there, and then you’d know?”

“It’s the size: you don’t realize how far away that is. And those canyons face west, picking up all the summer winds, very hot and dry: you can’t farm in them.” Luap reached for another slice of bread. “We’re very few, you know, in a very large land.”

“So you do this king’s work for him, catching his robbers . . . ?”

“They’d prey on us if they could; some tried.” Luap remembered those early encounters with an echo of the same fear he’d felt then: his people were so few, so vulnerable. “Once the Khartazh realized we were settlers, not brigands, it made sense for us to help keep those canyons clean of trouble.”

“Ummm.” Cob blew on his stew, as if it were still hot. “And what do you get from this agreement?”

That was, of course, the problem. “Not a great deal yet,” Luap admitted. “But we can grow more food here than they can in the desert below the mountains. We take in fresh food to Dirgizh—the nearest town—for trade; they have superb weavers and smiths.”

“Do they know you’re mageborn?”

Luap pursed his lips. “They know we do some magery; I’m not at all sure they understand what ‘mageborn’ means to you and me. The king’s ambassador, when he first came, saw Aris healing. They have legends, they say, of the builders of this stronghold, and at first thought we might be those beings, or their descendants. We haven’t tried to conceal our powers, but neither have we tried to exaggerate them.” Much. He thought Cob would probably not approve his strategy of subtly encouraging the Khartazh to think the powers they saw were the least of those actually held.

“They’re a very formal society,” he went on. “A very ancient, complex empire by their own account, and their craftsmanship and language support that. In our encounters with them, we have had to adopt a more formal, ornate style than is common in Fin Panir.” He let himself chuckle. “I confess I rather like it—it’s like a dance, making intricate patterns.”

Cob looked at him. “I can see you would like that, but do the patterns mean anything?”

“All patterns hold power,” Luap said. Cob’s eyes widened; he realized he’d quoted a proverb learned from the king’s ambassador. “The elves say that,” he said, which was also true. “That’s what they said when I asked how the mageroad works, why the magery alone wouldn’t do, or why those without magery could not use the patterns. Patterns hold power, and those with power can both find, and use, the power in patterns.”

“The patterns of language and manners as well?” Cob asked. “Are you saying that those with the most elaborate manners have the most power?”

“I—never quite thought of that,” Luap said. He liked the idea; certainly it had been true in Fintha before the war. Would the peasants, who now had the power, develop more elaborate manners because they had it? Or did it work only the other direction? “I did think that the patterns show where the power is, in a way. The Khartazh, for instance: they have different ways to say something depending on the ranks of the people involved. That reveals the way their society is organized; if you know there are eight ways to say something, you know there are at least eight different ranks.”

“Or eight different crafts,” Cob said. “Each has its own special terms.”

Luap wondered if he were missing the point on purpose, and decided not to pursue it. He wanted Cob to see how much they had accomplished, how well they were doing, not quibble over the interpretation of Khartazh social structure and language. “Would you like to see the farm terraces this afternoon, or would you rather visit one of the outlying homesteads?” Either one of those should provide plenty of innocuous conversation, he thought.

Cob frowned thoughtfully. “I’d like to see the farmland, I suppose. See what you’ve made of those two sacks of earth. But—is it all in the sun?”

“Not all of it. We’ll take care of your sunburn.” Luap asked the cooks for a loaf to take along, and led Cob down the side-canyon, back across the bridge, and into the shade of the pines.

“We can stay in the shade, here, while I explain what we did. In another glass, the sun will be off this terrace, and you can dig in it if you wish.” He leaned against a tree-trunk and Cob leaned beside him. “Gird was right, in what he said: there was not a flat bit of earth in this canyon larger than my hand. But there was water—the stream—and Arranha knew how terraces worked. Now the little terraces you know—the ditches and dykes every farmer uses to keep wet fields drained and slow runoff on slopes—are the same idea, but we had to build bigger ones. The rocks came from the walls, by magery as I told you before. Then we had to shape and place them, some by magery and most by hand. That left us with a series of rock walls across the canyon—and notice all the terraces are fan-shaped, with curving walls.”

“Because straight ends wouldn’t stand flood?”

“Right. The canyon widens downstream—it doesn’t look much like it, but it does—so the terraces reflect that shape. But what we had when I came to you for soil was a lot of broken rock heaped into the walls that now form the lower edge of each terrace. Look upstream there—” Luap pointed; Cob leaned out to see a curving, breast-high wall. “Downstream, the terraces are lower; the stream falls less rapidly. That wall is thicker than it looks—Arranha told us how far back to slope it so that it would hold. But that left us with spoon-shaped hollows to fill with soil. We had broken rock for the base, and plenty of sand—good drainage—but nothing with which to make good soil for grain and vegetables.”

“So you brought two sacks of earth, about enough for two healthy redroot plants. . . .”

“And doubled it by magery. And doubled that. And doubled that. I know—” Luap held up his hands at the look on Cob’s face. “I know, it seems impossible. It did to me. The only reason I rode off with two sacks was that Binis was with me, and I wanted to be free of her more than I distrusted Arranha’s numbers. The short of it is that the mageborn used to have the power of doubling many things, but lost it—for misuse, of course. Some fool couldn’t resist doubling gold and jewels, and another tried to increase crops. But earth was not under the ban: we could double a clod of dirt to two clods, and that two to four clods, and so on. Arranha said it would be enough, so we tried it. And it worked.”

“But doesn’t it take—I mean, I thought the larger the magery, the more power it took—the more it cost you.”

“That’s true. Supposedly the doubling should have been the same no matter what amount we doubled. But we couldn’t think of it like that, so as the amounts grew larger, it was harder. What we had to do was double small amounts many times.” Luap grinned as he remembered just how difficult and time-consuming that had been. He explained to Cob, who after awhile began to see the humor in magicians having to haul one sack of soil a few feet, double it, and haul it another few feet and do it again. “And when I think that I almost dumped it out loose—that would have been a real mess. If we’d had to move it shovelful by shovelful from one terrace to another—”

“How long did it take?”

“Longer than I planned for. We didn’t make a full crop that year.” He pointed. “We didn’t finish upstream from that one, or go farther downstream than—the third, there, with the tall tree beside it.”

“What about wood? I notice you haven’t cut this area recently.”

“We get most of our wood up on top—the very top of the mountain is heavily forested. Down here, we use the trees for shade—as you see—and as shelter for the herbs we need. Aris has found that some of the natives are also medicinal, but we have gardens of the same ones you’d find in Fintha.”

“But as your population grows, will you have enough cropland?”

Luap shrugged. “If not we’ll spread into neighboring canyons, as I said. This year we should have a good surplus. In another few years, the fruit trees should be bearing, too.”

Cob nodded; if he was the friendliest of the Marshals, he was also the one Luap respected most, and most wished to have respect him. The rest of that visit went as Luap had hoped, although he and Cob were both disappointed that the Rosemage, Aris, and Seri did not return until the last day before the caravan must return.

“It was all very complicated,” the Rosemage said. “They asked if we could give testimony at the trial, and then there was a message from the caravaners, sent north from Vikh, the next town south. Had you arrived safely, they wanted to know. The captain had to hear all about Cob and the new trail—he thought we would fly them in by magery, I think. Anyway, it all took much longer than we expected, or we’d have come back by the mageroad, if only for a day. We have messages from their king, by the way.”

“And I have a letter for you, from Raheli,” Cob said. He handed it to the Rosemage, who opened it and began reading.

“I wish I’d known,” she said ruefully. “This needs an answer—I wish I could take time off and visit her—”

Luap, who had opened the king’s message pouch, shook his head. “Not now, I’m afraid—he wants to send his heir to visit. We’ll have a lot of work to do beforehand.”

“One thing after another,” the Rosemage said, shrugging. “Tell her I will come as soon as I can, Cob—and I wish we’d had more time.”

But if they would return safely by the overland route, they must leave now. Cob would not take the mageroad and leave others to travel the hard way, and they all knew how the Marshal-General would react to the sudden eruption of horses, mules, and people into the High Lord’s Hall. The Rosemage went with them to the edge of the mountains, and watched until they were safely down into the desert below.

“We’ll be back,” Cob bellowed cheerfully from halfway down. “Or someone will.”