Wotheng Woshka's-son, Baron of Ashkell, woke to unwelcome sunlight and a twinging hangover. He pulled the sheepskin blanket up over his head, rolled against his wife Gynallea's soft buttocks, and crept back toward sleep.
Gynallea gave him a kick, and grunted: "'S morning."
"Don' care." Wotheng burrowed deeper into the goose-feather pillows.
"It's morning. Get up." Gynallea back-kicked him again. "Work to do."
"No work yet," Wotheng insisted, pulling a pillow over his head. "Yawth hasn't knocked yet."
"Yawth came earlier, knocked, and said something about newcomers. We should go see."
Wotheng counterfeited a creditable snore.
Gynallea sighed, took a deep breath, tightened her belly muscles, and let loose a trumpeting fart.
Under the blankets, Wotheng got the worst of it. He choked, wheezed, and erupted out of the blankets, roaring, "Gods jam your arse with a pine tree, woman! Aaagh, that was cruel."
"That was last night's beer." Gynallea crawled out of the tumbled blankets like a venerable sow from the best wallowing hole. "Tell me no sad tales of hangover, lovey; I drank as much as you."
"Well, who asked you to sit up so late?" Wotheng grumbled as he lugged himself out of bed, idly scratching his bare hide.
"You did, remember?" Gynallea plodded to the nearest carved chair, where her undershift lay. "You wanted my good wit with numbers when those poor North Hill farmers came whining about why they'd have to delay their taxes."
"Ah, right . . ." Wotheng studied his wife's broad buttocks as she tugged the shift over her head. Fart upon headache or no, he hadn't much to complain about; a good clever wife with such a fine, buxom shape was better than most men could claim. And no doubt, the headache would improve after a mug of Gynallea's bitter bark tea . . . plus half a dozen fried sausages and some hotcakes and a handful of coddled eggs, and some bread with jelly, and . . . "Ah, what were those farmers whining about, anyway? Do you remember?"
"Oh, yes." Gynallea batted her tangled brown locks with a pig-bristle brush. "'Twas that Folweel again."
"Oh. Gods, not again." Wotheng knuckled the last of sleep out of his eyes. "What did he do, set a curse of fire on the poor fools' cowsheds?"
"Sheepsheds. We agreed to take part of the taxes in rough-roasted mutton, remember?"
"Gods. Ah, p'raps your cooks can turn it into sausage fit for siege food." Wotheng hunted the bedposts for his clothes. The underbreeches and small shift smelled suspiciously overused. He tossed them in the corner reserved for ripe laundry, went to the clothespress, and hunted for fresh smallclothes. "Vona blast that pesky wizard. We have to do something about him before we all turn poor, but what, hey?"
Gynallea shrugged into a clean enough outer skirt and glanced about for her stockings. "Sneak into his holding and poison his food stores? Set his thatch mysteriously afire? Dig a deep pit and lure him into it? I don't know, lovey. My kindred raised no wizards."
"Nor did mine." Wotheng sat down to pull on his stockings and overbreeches. "Don't I wish it so, my sweet moo-cow. Don't I wish I knew any wizard who could steal into Folweel's hold without half a dozen curses bringing bricks down on his head. Four good men died trying that. Four, remember. I'd not ask anyone to be the fifth. Give me some better plans, sweet cow, for I'm all shat out of them."
"Do I find any, lovey, and I'll tell you. Let's to breakfast and see what Yawth's news is."
"Aye, aye. And I suppose I should go look at that old ruin Busho was whining about. . . ." Wotheng paused, one foot half into its shoe, hearing faint noise at the door. "Yawth, stop dithering about the door and come in!"
The door swung open and a gangling servant half-fell in. "As ye wish, m'lord," he dithered. "Begging yer pardon, but there's much to tell of, hap'nin' downstairs."
"Then tell it," Wotheng snapped, putting on his other shoe.
"Why, sir, there's these strangers come to the gate early this morning: all robed in fine grey cloth, with a big wagon and two great mules all hung with chains and bells and charms and whatnot made of right good iron and brass what twinkled like gold. Most rich folks they must be, nigh a dozen of 'em, all bearin' wands an chantin' the praises of Deese of the Forge in most outlandish High Speech. . . ."
"'Deese of the Forge'?" Gynallea turned around, forgetting her half-laced bodice, which flopped down to her hips. "Who might that be?"
"They say . . ." Yawth's dark eyes grew wide and round in his long face. "That be the ancient Sukkti name for Clong, the blacksmith's god. Oh, that's put Biddon and his shop all in a dither! They be talkin' with him now, swappin' forge wit like brothers in the same trade. 'Tis a sight to see, I grant—"
"Sukkti?" Gynallea gaped. "What are these folk, to be toying with old magic names? Do they claim to be dealing with ghosts of the Elder Folk, then?"
"Er, no, Mistress. They claim . . . they say they are the Elder Folk. They say they hid out in the Lost City of Itoma, far away south, until the last of their old conquerors were overthrown. Now, beggin' yer pardon, they say that with Sabis fallen, they've come out of hidin' and wish to visit their old holy grounds again. That's what they say, Mistress."
"Gods!" roared Wotheng, making Yawth jump. "Not more plaguey wizards!"
Gynallea waved him silent with a quick gesture. "Sukkti? And wizards? And what have they been about since they got here?"
"As I said, Mistress: they came this morning when the villa's gates opened, and went straightway to Biddon's shop. They greeted him in the name of Deese of the Forge, and then fell to shoptalk. They've done naught else as I know, and they be there now, if ye'd care to come see."
"Indeed we will," Gynallea smiled, tapping plump fingers on her chin. "Leave them be; we'll come presently."
"After breakfast," Wotheng put in. "Go bid cook have our plates and cups ready—and I want bitter bark tea, hear?"
"Oh, aye, Master. I hear ye right well."
"Then be about it!"
"Aye, sir. Aye, goin' now." Yawth bowed clumsily, two or three times, and hurried out the door.
Gynallea closed it after him, then turned to her husband with a broad smile. "Sukkti wizards, no less? And serving Deese of the Forge?"
"More damned wizards," Wotheng snorted, hauling on the last of his clothes. "Flocking in like crows to the corpse. Gods, we'll all be earing turnips and wearing straw. Vona, what have I done to deserve—"
"Hush, lovey, and think. A fresh breed of wizards, knowing the Elder Folk's magic, and serving a forge god. Now tell me, from what god or spirit does Folweel get his powers?"
"Yotha the fire, of all the nasty-tempered devils, though I swear 'tis a good question who serves whom. Those wicked predictions of fire that always come true—you know well it's that damned wizard's doing, whether he takes power from Yotha to do it, or sends Yotha to run the errands himself."
"Forge and fire, lovey. Think: do you see a possible rivalry there?"
Wotheng looked up, recognizing that purring tone in his wife's voice. "Ah, you have a plan, my sweet moo-cow?"
"Ah, lovey, lovey, in all your mother's fine books, did you never come across the wise fable of fighting fire with fire?"
Wotheng slowly mirrored her smile. "Or, set a wizard to fight a wizard? Heh! whichever wins, we'll be no worse off than before."
"Possibly better, lovey. Let us go visit these new wizards, shall we?"
"Right after breakfast, sweet cow. Right after breakfast."
Biddon, the villa's blacksmith, peered so close to the anvil that occasional sparks struck his nose. Gods, yes, this stranger knew his business well; if the scars on his massive arms hadn't told tale enough, the man's obvious skill with the hammer was proof. Biddon hung on the magician-smith's every word, wishing these folk were more understandable or that he knew more of the old High Speech.
"Five times," the stranger was saying. "Hammer five times, at least, and (incomprehensible) with a bigger bellows between. This (unintelligible) iron needs plenty. Fold like this—see?—each (impossible) time. Don't bother shaping it until the last hammering. (Unguessable) sheep-fat in the flux . . ."
Biddon nodded eagerly, straining to understand and remember. He could see the axehead taking shape under the blows, its edges showing a grain as fine as oak wood. Gods, no, he'd never seen anything like that. How well would it cut? How sharp an edge could it take? How long would it last? He couldn't wait to find out. There, now: another toasting in the hard-blown coals . . .
"Ah, it's ready," said the stranger, hefting the glowing axehead in his fine set of tongs. "Where's the (incomprehensible) trough?"
"Oh, here. Here." Biddon shoved forward the stone tempering trough with its unaccustomed load of chilled hog fat. "Be it cold enough?"
"(Unintelligible) enough," said the wizard-smith. He dropped the glowing axehead into the trough and stepped back quickly.
Clouds of vaporized grease, reeking of burned bacon, filled the shop like holy incense. Everyone coughed madly and made jokes about roast pork that were barely heard through the lively sizzling.
Another, more familiar, voice coughed also.
Biddon flinched, then peered through the dissipating clouds.
Sure enough, as if the smoke had conjured him, there stood Lord Wotheng himself. Worse, Lady Gynallea stood beside him,
Biddon whispered a quick prayer to all his family gods, bowed low, and began making excuses.
"Oh, hush," Gynallea waved him off. "Tell us what this visitor is working upon so marvelously."
Biddon gulped in relief. "Why, he was but showin' me a better way to make this axehead, m'lady. And a fine piece of work it be, too. Soon as it's cooled and fitted to the handle, ye'll surely see how nice it does."
"We'll leave that work to your hands," Wotheng grinned. "Meanwhile, let not our guests think we're poor in hospitality. Come up to the big house, visitor, and share a cup or two with us. Eh, do you folk speak Torrhyni?"
Another, more slender, stranger stepped forward and bowed low. "We speak it a little, good sir," he said, with an accent that hinted of time spent in Jarrya. "And we thank you much for your invitation. Pray give us some time to wash, and we'll visit you directly."
Wotheng and his lady exchanged looks and smiles. "Soon, then," the lady purred. The pair turned and marched graciously out of the blacksmith's shop, not glancing back.
Biddon wiped sweat and grease off his forehead. "Oh, that were a bit of luck, there. Master and Mistress both be pleased with ye. 'Twere the axehead done it, I'll wager. Eh, I keep the wash trough outside there. . . ."
The wizard-smith murmured untranslated thanks and went outside. The younger wizard ran his eyes admiringly over Biddon's anvil, then leaned closer and asked conspiratorially, "What's the Master's name? And his lady? And, er, what sort of folk are they?"
Biddon was grateful enough to answer at some length.
Doshi caught up with the others at the wash trough, where they'd been idling a while to wait for him.
"The wagon's safe," Sulun murmured in his ear as they both bent over the trough. "Only you, me, Zeren, and Eloti are going in; the rest are watching the gear and the mules. What did you learn?"
"Quite an earful." Doshi splashed water noisily on his face. "Our host, Wotheng, is the son of a clever old Ancar soldier named Woshka. The old man came through here a generation ago, recognized good sheep country when he saw it, and was tired of soldiering anyway. Besides, I suspect he knew he'd get little of the loot of the richer lands once the big commanders were done with them. Perhaps the deciding factor was the buxom daughter of the then master of this villa—which wasn't called Ashkell then, by the way. That happened after Ashkell town proper was sacked and burned, leaving this as the largest surviving settlement."
"Get on with this, Doshi."
"Ah, right. Well, the old lord volunteered to stay behind and keep the roads open when the rest of the Ancar horde moved on. He persuaded the last owner of the villa that a few trained Ancar men-at-arms would be good protection from bandits, then married the squire's daughter and settled down to protect, tax, and manage the land. By all accounts, he did a fairly good job of it, and his Torrhyn-Sabirn wife took care of the rest. Wotheng was their only surviving son, though there are a couple daughters married off here and there."
"How does he handle his . . . subjects?'
"Well, Wotheng has enough practical intelligence and muscle to maintain his authority without having to fall back on his Ancar connections—in fact, he's barely spoken or written to them in all these years. This place is wonderfully isolated from the rest of the Ancar horde."
"Written? He can read and write?"
"Oh, yes; we're not dealing with a fool here. Papa saw to it that Wotheng knew how to manage and protect the land, had a good eye for petty politics and healthy sheep. Mama, who was something of a cultured lady, saw to it that Master Wotheng learned as much reading, writing, and civilized knowledge as the house library provided."
"House library? How good is it?"
"How should a blacksmith know that? He's never seen it."
"Hmm, if only we can get a look at it . . . But go on, Doshi. Is this the sort of fellow we can impress with our 'wizard' act?"
"I don't think so. His mother gave him enough sophistication to take all notion of magic and religion with a healthy grain of salt. He got a good, basic levelheadedness from both parents. He pays his respects to the gods, their priests, and any magician of proven ability, but he's not the sort to be pulled about by a bit of showmanship and some simple tricks. We'll have to be careful with him, Sulun."
"Understood. What other relatives must we worry about?"
"The sisters were married off to his father's old soldiers, and all have sizable farms of their own—far enough away to have no border arguments with Wotheng—and they're barely seen here except for weddings, funerals, harvest festivals, and the like. They won't be a problem, I think."
"What about the Mistress of the household?"
"Ah, she's quite a match for him; daughter of the second -richest farm-holder in the valley, quite as well educated as Wotheng's mother—who may have arranged the marriage. In any case, Wotheng's parents managed to live long and die peacefully. He has a clutch of children, all grown and married now, likewise scattered of to various farmsteads."
"That's all, then? No wily courtiers milking power behind the throne?"
"No, just house servants, tenants, and a few men-at-arms who double as shepherds and huntsmen. This is . . . very much the country villa it always was."
"Ah. And the mines?"
"What mines?" Doshi innocently dried his face on his undersleeves, noting that Ashkell lacked knowledge of such niceties as towels.
"Dosheee! The sulfur mines!" Sulun tugged furiously at his dangling curls and new beard. "Or black glass mines, as they're probably called now. Don't tell me you forgot!"
"Oh, no." Doshi grinned. "It's just that the blacksmith never heard of them."
"Oh, gods, just ten leagues away by the map, and he's never—"
"It seems that the mines originally belonged to quite another family, no connection at all with the villa. The old invasion did for them, quite thoroughly; oh, no, not wrecked, just abandoned and almost totally forgotten."
"How in the name of all gods can everyone forget about a sulfur mine?"
"By not needing, knowing, or caring about it. Sulun, remember that both the villa folk and the Ancar cared mostly about farming and sheep. The former villa holders cared nothing for the mines, and Wotheng's father knew nothing of them. A good iron, gold, copper, or silver mine would have held everyone's interest, but sulfur? And black glass? Even in their heyday, the mines always made their profit on the trade with the south. When the invasion stopped that, well, no trade means no profit, and no profit meant that the mines were abandoned."
"I see. But they're still there? I mean, the entrances and shafts and all?"
"I heard nothing about anyone filling in any old mine entrances. Why should these shepherds and farmers bother, pray tell?"
"Ah, very good, then." Sulun rubbed his cheeks briskly and considered the best lines of approach. "Gods, was it so few moons ago that we played this game with Entori?"
"We've all learned much since then."
"Indeed. Let's go in."
"Sweet cow, the floor's swept clean enough," Wotheng protested, easing back in the big chair.
"Should have been scrubbed. It still stinks in here. Ah, give me that, Noba; some fresh herbs in this pot, and put it on the fire to boil. There . . ." Gynallea rubbed her hands on her apron and raked her glance around the hall. It could have been better, but it looked well enough in the light through the narrow windows: floor swept, hanging banners reasonably clean, a small table (with a clean cover-cloth, thank the gods) and some comfortable chairs near the fire, a pretty jug of good beer waiting, and the sweet-smelling tea heating in the fireplace. Yes, good enough. She tugged thoughtfully at the kerchief covering her hair. Leave it on or take it off? Look more the housewife or the grand lady? Appear simple and kindly, or imposing? "Hmm, these newcomers went first to Biddon and dazzled his eyes with their skill. That smells of serious craftsfolk, concerned with trade. Best we appear as simple farmer folk, lovey. Lull them, see if they try to take advantage. We can always show our wit and authority later." She patted straying hair back under the kerchief.
"Hmm, just as you say, moo-cow. Hey, Yawth, are they come yet?"
"Just now, Master." The servant bobbed his head eagerly. "They be waitin' at the door."
"Send them in." Wotheng heaved a mountainous sigh. He hated politicking before lunch, but a chance such as this didn't come along every day. Besides, the herb tea had dispelled his headache, and he felt fit enough to take on half the earth at full charge.
The door creaked open and the little company of Deese priests, four of them, came padding down the length of the hall. They looked a bit intimidated by the size of the place, and yes, they'd dressed in good robes and washed well. Aha, they wanted something from him. Wotheng smiled benignly as Yawth made the stuttering introductions. Vona, what strange, foreign-sounding names they had!
"Welcome to the villa of Ashkell," Gynallea purred. "Come sit, and join us in a cup of beer."
The little quartet obediently sat and took cups. Gynallea poured.
"'Tis humble stuff," Wotheng opened, "made of our poor local barley, but 'tis kindly to the tongue." If not to the head, next morning. "Have you come far, then?"
"Far, yes. From Itoma, south," said the biggest, in a bizarre southern accent. "This beer is very good." He drained his cup and reached for the jug in honest appreciation.
Wotheng smiled again. "And what brings a company of pilgrims to these poor lands? We've little here to draw worship or custom." See if that discourages them.
"'Tis a long story, Master," said the slender youth with a Jarryan twang to his words. "As you know, we Sukkti held the southern lands before the coming of the Sabirns. As they marched north, we lost all save Itoma—where our mightiest wizards held fast. . . ."
Wotheng nodded as he listened. He'd long known, from his mother's histories, that the Elder Folk were only the first settlers of the south, not creatures of another order. They'd had a reputation for great magic, but had lost their land anyway—except for the Lost City of Itoma. "I'd always thought that city was a fable, stuff of dreams and fireside tales," he prodded.
"Oh no, sir," the lad enthused. "It stands on a stream of the great river, made of fine grey fieldstone and pale sandstone; in good sunlight, it gleams like silver and gold. The roofs are mostly flat, and held up with many columns. . . ."
Wotheng noted, as the youth went on, the numerous details that only a builder, mechanic, or architect would notice. Clearly, these folk had seen a city of unusual buildings somewhere to the south. Just as clearly, they were well-trained craftsmen—and not just in smithing. Wotheng caught his wife's eye, saw her appreciative nod and smile. "Then how come you to leave so fair a place?" he prodded gently.
"Why, sir, we wished to see those ancient shrines that were so long barred to us by Sabis. Now that their crown has fallen, we dared venture out from Itoma's safety to see what had become of the land and people."
Wotheng flicked another glance at his wife. This didn't quite make sense; something was missing. "How came you safe past the fighting?" he temporized.
"The war came not nigh Itoma," the big one answered. "It passed us by, and we came north behind it."
Wotheng shrugged and looked to his wife.
"A long, hard journey it must have been," she tried.
"Oh, yes," the youth replied. "We made our way by selling small magics and forge work. Would you care to see some of our wares?"
Wotheng noted the tallest of the four giving the lad a small nudge with his elbow. Aha, the manner of merchants hoping to make a sale—and taking care not to advertise too quickly. Craftsmen, merchants, and wizards: better and better. "Oh aye, but let's not be hasty when there's a good jug yet to finish. But say, what brings you forge folk to our humble villa? We've little trade here, and I've never heard of any holy ground hereabouts."
The youth chewed his lip and looked imploringly at the tall, thin pilgrim, who leaned forward and took up the tale.
"In truth, m'lord, there is an ancient shrine some ten leagues west of here," he said, in the same heavy southland accent as the first man. "'Tis the place where black glass is found, which has sacred uses for such as we. Do you know the place?"
Wotheng stared blankly. Ten leagues west: that was steep foothill land, stony and thin of soil, no good for farming, poor pasturage even for sheep. He'd used it occasionally for running sheep a month or two of the year, and no more. None of his relatives or tenants would take it. There were a few ruins there, but nothing of value in them. "Ey, yes I do. That's where a small town stood, back before my father came here. 'Tis my land—poor for farming, but you might graze some sheep there. I know of no shrine."
The tall stranger didn't seem disappointed. "The shrine is a . . . formation of the rocks, and mostly valued for the black glass. If it lies on your land, might we have your permission to visit there?"
Wotheng glanced at his wife again.
"Why, surely," Gynallea smiled. "We'll happily send a guide with you. Do you wish to stay awhile there, we can give you some food and drink to take—poor stuff, but filling. But of what use is the shrine, and the black glass?"
"We would make the black glass into tools and amulets," the tall one replied readily. "When cut properly, black glass takes a fine edge—suitable for small cook-knives and surgeons' blades. Also it makes fair jewels, not so costly that common folk could not afford it, yet handsome enough that quality folk would not take scorn to wear it. Also, it can be made into meditation gems, useful for small magics."
Wotheng and Gynallea looked at each other and grinned. So, these pilgrim-smith-merchants hoped to set up trade, did they? Very good. But now to the serious question.
"Small magics?" Wotheng straightened in his chair. "What sort of magics, sir? We have hedge wizards and granny witches enough, the gods know. What manner of magic do you folk do?"
The tall pilgrim shifted a bit, looking almost embarrassed. "Well, simple well-wishing, of course, and some healing and crop--blessing—Kula the Mother being the consort of Deese—but mostly we deal with forge work, trade craft, mechanical work, that sort of thing."
"Forge work?" Gynallea leaned nearer. "Do you then call, er, Deese to your forge fire to aid your work?"
"Er, yes, something like that. Mostly we call him to encourage excellence of work, protection, inspiration, and so on." The pilgrim glanced at his fellows, giving them a quick smile. "With his help, we do produce work of fine quality—and most difficult to ill-wish or damage."
Gynallea and Wotheng exchanged triumphant looks.
"Protection?" Gynallea almost purred. "Deese, then, gives you control—er, and safety, of fire?"
"Eh? Oh, yes m'lady. We take good care to do that."
Wotheng's smile stretched wide. "How marvelous. Could you show us a bit of your magic? We have so few amusements here. . . ."
The man shrugged, almost resignedly, and reached into his robe. "In fact, I have a small spell here," he murmured, bringing out a tiny packet of folded parchment. He got up and went to the fire, waving his other hand in a circle above the packet and chanting softly in a strange tongue. To Wotheng, listening carefully, it sounded as if the pilgrim were saying: "Pie are square, pie are square, Deese make this work right, pie are square . . ."
He tossed the packet into the fire, and raised both hands in an invocatory gesture.
Behind them, Gynallea thought she heard one of the pilgrims humming softly.
The packet exploded in a poof of smoke and a shower of sparks. Simultaneously, the teapot began whistling.
The fire flared bright and high for a moment, shot through with colored flames: red, blue, green, and purple. Then it sank back to normal, not spreading, nothing changed. The teapot whistled on, throwing clouds of fragrant smoke out into the hall.
The pilgrim turned, smiling—half apologetically, it seemed—toward his hosts and comrades. He inclined his head in a brief bow, which appeared to be aimed at the smallest of his company, the one who hadn't yet spoken.
"Excellent!" cried Wotheng, clapping his hands. "Safe control of fire! And so colorful, so marvelous. Oh yes, you'll find much call for your skills here, Sir Wizard. Ah, say, where had you folk planned to spend the night? Our house is a humble thing, but we can easily fit your company under our roof."
"Well, we had hoped to go look at the shrine while the weather is good."
"Splendid, good fellow. I'll send guides to escort you—and do you need mounts for your friends? But do be back in time for dinner; you'll find the food good, if plain, and the portions generous."
The pilgrims accepted the help with mixed eagerness, but seemed quite willing to start at once and be back for dinner. A brief exchange of pleasantries—and another yell to Yawth to go fetch Tinnod from his sheep and collect some horses—and the little company departed for their pilgrimage.
As the noise and crowd faded, Wotheng and Gynallea exchanged broad and silent grins. Wotheng poured out the last of the beer for himself, and his wife took a cup of the tea from the fire.
"Lovey," she stated firmly while spooning honey into her fragrant cup, "We must persuade them to stay."
"I'll see to it. Do you think they can deal with Folweel?"
"They if anyone. Encourage them to buy that western pasture and settle here. Tell them tonight about the merchant caravans to the north, speak of the good prices they could get for their goods, the cheapness of food and cloth and other staples hereabouts—"
"Sell that land? Why not rent it to them? Why should I give it up?"
"Lovey, lovey, that land is all but worthless and those folk are valuable. They may shy away from being tenants, being at a master's beck and call, after being freeholders so long in their own city—oh, we must ask them more about the Lost City, when there's time. The land may not draw them strongly—you've seen it, and 'tisn't attractive—so we must lure them with a bargain no one but a fool would refuse. Sell it to them, and cheaply. Give it to them outright, if you must—but however 'tis done, keep them here."
"Aye, aye . . ." Wotheng considered. "Their goods alone, never mind their magic, could add much to the wealth hereabouts. Do I tell them I—heh! and I alone—can get their goods transported and sold north, at good price, and do they take up the bargain, we might gain more for such simples than we do for our wool. Hmm, perhaps I should make that part of the price for the land."
"Dangle what lures you can, lovey, but get them to stay."
An hour before noon the odd little company arrived at the site of the old mine. Tinnod, a wizened tenant shepherd, rode on a borrowed donkey beside Doshi on a shaggy pony, grumbling about weather and rents and bad luck with sheep. Doshi pretended to listen raptly while running his eyes over the surrounding land. Omis and Zeren, on scrawny horses kindly loaned from Wotheng's stables, rode next in line, murmuring quietly to themselves. Everyone else rode in the wagon, Sulun driving and Eloti beside him.
"What did you make of our host?" Eloti asked. "I suspect there is more to him, and his wife, than they showed us."
"To all accounts they're no fools," Sulun considered. "They were intrigued by our, er, magic, but not frightened of it. They do seem pleased with us, possibly for the promise of goods to trade, and I think it would not be difficult to get their permission to settle here."
"Indeed, they seemed pleased to have us . . . hmmm, and if this is the land you asked about, I think I know why."
The barely visible dirt road led between low hills to a steep one, with some few ruined buildings climbing its slope. A sullen stream meandered down from higher hills beyond, promising drinking water but little else. The soil was thin, poor, showing tan and bald between clumps of coarse grass and brush. As the slope rose the soil thinned further, showing outcroppings of lichened rock like bones emerging through the sunken hide of a corpse.
"Not a pretty place," Sulun agreed. "No good for farming, as our host said. Neither do I see much graze for sheep. To a man mainly concerned with those activities, such land would surely seem worthless. If the mines are still here, not blocked nor worked out, it would be worth the effort to persuade Lord Wotheng to sell."
"Remember to look reluctant when you ask him." Eloti smiled. "Or would you prefer that I undertake the negotiations?"
"Lady, no one of us could do it better. Hmm, but where, now, is that mine?"
Ahead, Doshi turned his pony toward the ruins. His eyes flicked back and forth between the stony hill and the unrolled map in his hand. Tinnod rode reluctantly after him, voicing disquiet about the unnerving ruins and the possibility of ghosts, even in broad daylight.
"I think that's it," said Sulun. "Let's see how close we can get the wagon."
The road actually improved as they approached the ruins, showing traces of ancient paving suitable to heavy loads. Its course led past roofless shells of old houses, up to the largest ruin at the high end of the former town. Here the stream had been diverted, through still intact stone-lined ditches and pipes, to pass under the remains of a millhouse attached to the chief building. The road ended there, but still there was no sign of a mine opening. The old building was as big as a good-sized barn, with a doorway more than wide enough to accommodate the mules and wagon. Despite Tinnod's warnings, the convoy passed inside.
The central part of the roof had come down, leaving a pile of rubble in the middle of the wide, cobblestoned floor. To either side, though, the stone walls of large workrooms had kept enough roofing to hold out the weather.
Sulun halted the wagon at the edge of the central rubble pile, set the brake, and tied it. Eloti got out and went to the wagon bed to fetch tethers and nosebags for the mules. Doshi, Omis, and Zeren dismounted and tied their animals' reins to assorted stones and fallen beams. Tinnod stayed on his donkey and shivered in the dusty sunlight.
The company gathered around Sulun, who cast a warning glance toward Tinnod, who didn't notice. "These ruins don't look very promising," he began, "but there may be much of value buried hereabout. Have we lamps? Torches? Good. Let's search, then. No less than two together."
"I be stayin' right here," Tinnod announced stoutly. "Gods know what all might lurk in old corners."
"Right you are." Sulun smiled. "Stay you here to guard the beasts, the wagon, the womenfolk, and the children, and we'll—"
"Women?" Tinnod perked up. "And children too?"
"Why, of course." Eloti pulled down the hood of her cloak, revealing her notably feminine face, set in a punctiliously proper look. "Did you think the priests of Deese and Kula were forbidden to marry?"
"Eh, no, I hadn't thought that, ma'am." Tinnod blushed, tugging his forelock. "Whatever ye need, ma'am, I be glad to help."
"Fine." Eloti smiled sweetly. "Come out, children, but mind how you play."
Vari, grinning, hustled the children out of the wagon, followed by the rest of the apprentices. Tamiri and her brother promptly toddled off in all directions, delighted at the chance to stretch their legs and explore.
"Don't let them wander too far, now," Vari rumbled at their guide.
Tinnod, looking slightly poleaxed, got off his donkey, hobbled it quickly, and hurried after the children.
"That should keep him occupied," Eloti murmured to Sulun. "Take your lamps and go seek."
Sulun, grinning, broke out the lamps and lit them. "Watch the flames," he warned quietly. "If they suddenly spurt, or change color, get back into open air."
The others nodded understanding, formed teams, and parceled out the lamps. Sulun found himself teamed with Omis and Arizun. Seeing the others make for the side rooms, he led the way around the rubble pile to the back wall.
Sure enough, behind a fall of timber and masonry, there stood another doorway. Beyond lay only a vast darkness and a musty smell.
Sulun thrust the lamp within, watched as it burned tranquilly, then hitched up his shoulders and led the way inside.
Two steps past the doorway, and they saw that they were in a tunnel. The walls were roughly hewn from the dark hill-stone, but the floor was sanded smooth, save for the faint ruts of cartwheels. In a few more steps they found the remains of a cart: large, square-built, stout, but with one axle broken and the front wheels collapsed.
It was piled to the top with butter-yellow sulfur.
Omis and Arizun poked fingers into the heap of yellow gravel, their eyes met, and they smiled. "Enough here alone to keep us in firepowder for a year," Sulun marveled. "But let's go on."
At the end of the tunnel the walls fell away on deeper darkness, with the faintest draft of a breeze flowing from somewhere unseen.
"Must have cut ventilation shafts," Omis murmured, then stopped as he noted the faint echoing of his voice.
Sulun, keeping his eyes on the smoothed floor and his lamp held high, took the first steps into the echoing dark. He heard Omis and Arizun gasp behind him, stopped, and looked up.
He stood in a hall of columns, stretching as far as the light spread and doubtless far beyond. The roof was higher than his arms could reach, rough-cut as the walls and columns.
Roof, columns, and floor were sulfur-yellow, with occasional streaks of obsidian black.
Sulun carefully lowered his lamp, keeping the flame away from the butter-colored stone. "We've found it," he said, amazed that his voice was so calm. "I'll wager, if we follow the wheel tracks we'll find another cart, plenty of discarded miners' tools, and a wall of sulfur thicker than anyone can guess."
"And here," Omis whispered, "an unsuspected fortress, hidden in the earth."
"Earth Goddess temple," Arizun added. "We should make images of Kula and Deese to place by the entrance. . . ."
"We should go back to the others before we're missed," Sulun decided, "and before our talkative guide—who no doubt reports to Wotheng—guesses that we've found something of interest."
"In which case, he will doubtless raise his price." Arizun grinned and turned back to the tunnel. "Let's go, then—and plan our tale to Wotheng."
On the journey back to Ashkell villa, Omis and Arizun rode ahead with Doshi and their guide, while Sulun conferred with the others in the wagon.
"Even the outer building could be fortified," Zeren noted, "which is nothing to ignore in times, hmm, and places, like these."
"Those side rooms were shops," Yanados added. "One of them houses a mill that once turned by that stream. The stones are intact, though much of the wooden gear needs replacing—"
"Omis's ironwork would do better," Vari cut in. "We'll have to ask our host about sources of iron."
"—and we'd have to replace the paddle wheel, but once we have the mill running—"
"We could fix the house with stones from the others," Ziya piped up, surprising everyone. "Make the whole house out of stone, so it won't burn."
"Yes, good thought," Eloti answered quickly. "But where would we put the forge and the larger tools?"
"That big central room, once the roofs on—or even before," said Yanados. "We could use the other side rooms for kitchens and sleeping cubicles."
"Hmm, only with much work," Vari grumbled. "I think we'll need to add more rooms, sooner or later. And a kitchen garden. Hmm, and a surrounding wall."
"Should we bother trying to raise sheep on the surrounding land?" Zeren asked. "We'll need some animals for food, in case of . . . hmmm, siege, famine, other disasters."
"Goats, more likely," Vari sniffed. "They give less wool, but more milk. A few pigs, some poultry . . ."
"How would we feed them? How much of this grudging land must we plant and coax into yielding?"
"Just a little for the birds, I think. Goats can feed themselves well on almost anything, and a few pigs could made do with slops from the kitchen, and perhaps a bit of grain."
"Is it decided, then?" Eloti asked. "Are we determined to settle here?"
Sulun looked at everyone in turn. "Do any oppose the thought?" he asked.
No one did.
"So be it, then." Eloti smiled, a little grimly. "If we bargain well, we may get the land cheaply. Restoring the buildings, however, will be more of a task than we can manage ourselves—and it will cost dearly." She patted the thick oak chest she sat on. "I suspect that our Sukkti treasure will be largely used before we're done."
"Wherever we can manage for ourselves, Lady—" Sulun began.
"No, no regrets, my friend. If we succeed, I'll count it as well spent." Eloti's smile changed to something slightly more wicked. "Now, shall we discuss tactics for bargaining with Wotheng this evening?"
Dinner that evening was a whole roast suckling pig stuffed with apples, boiled green beans with bacon, thick wedges of sheep-milk cheese, roasted grain sweetened with berries, sweet pears pickled in honey, fresh rye bread with new butter, cider, perry, beer, and berry cordial. Everyone in the household, with the exception of the two outer guards, ate at the same huge trestle table. Sulun, remembering his days in Entori House, noted that the only division between the masters' and servants' sections were the bowls of salt, pepper, nutmeg, and vinegar formally arranged in the middle of the table. The servants, he noted, were well and warmly dressed—if in much plainer cloth than Wotheng and his wife—and all seemed healthy and well fed. They also talked freely, laughed loudly, and showed no particular fear of the personages at the high end of the table.
I've known worse masters, Sulun thought, stuffing himself with a clear conscience. The food was well cooked, if a trifle short on spices, and the assorted drinks were superb.
After the dishes were emptied and cleared, Wotheng dismissed the lower table diners with a brief hand clap. Sulun noticed that a few of the servants chose to stay, and that this was not remarked upon.
Wotheng called for more jugs of beer and cordial, and for his pipe: a tiny wooden bowl with an attached hollow stem, filled with some resinous chopped leaf which he lit with a spill of burning wood from the fire. The apprentices watched, wide-eyed, as Wotheng calmly inhaled the aromatic smoke and seemed to enjoy the taste. Sulun guessed that the leaf was some manner of medicinal incense, and the pipe arrangement was certainly more efficient than a Sabisan-style incense burner.
"So, my friends," Wotheng began comfortably, pipe in one hand and full cup in the other, "did you find your shrine today?"
"Ah, yes," Sulun agreed with a mournful sigh. "It's in most wretched condition: all the images gone, the building all a wreck, half buried in rubble. Simply restoring would take, oh, moons and moons."
"Ah, but it could be repaired?"
"Oh yes, and the priest house as well, but . . ." Sulun rolled his eyes, "Good gods, the work! The expense! We wondered most seriously if 'twould be worth the trouble, or if we should just continue north to the next shrine."
"Ah, how sad." Gynallea cast a quick look round the cluster of guests. All of them looked mournful. Yes, they might truly consider moving on. "But how can you be certain that the next shrine will be any better? The gods know, all the lands north of here suffered far worse in the wars."
"True, true." Sulun shrugged expansively. "But what can we do?"
"Ah, well." Wotheng waved expansively. "The rent there would be very cheap—oof!" He threw a quick glare at his wife, and rubbed his ankle.
"Rent?" Sulun rolled his eyes piously. "Ah, 'tis hopeless, then. By our most ancient tradition, the land dedicated to the god must belong to the god—of whom we priests are but servants. We were hoping to purchase the land outright, but seeing how much work must be done there, well, the expense . . ."
"Now, now, it need not be so costly as all that." Gynallea seized Sulun's nearer hand and patted it warmly. "Much of our custom hereabouts is done by barter. I'm sure that we could arrange a fair trade for the purchase price—" she glared at her husband "—of the land. Your smithy work, for example. Perhaps you might purchase title to the land in exchange for, say, forging goodly blades for our household guard, or some such work, in perpetuity. 'Twould be easy enough, for folk of your skill."
Sulun was about to say yes, enthusiastically, when his memory snagged on the words "in perpetuity." While he was thinking that over, Omis spoke up.
"Ah, good Lady, how could we serve your own blacksmith so? Biddon is a fine workman, and an honest fellow. How, then, should we take his custom away from him? 'Twould be a poor service to a fellow smith."
Wotheng and Gynallea blinked over that, momentarily set back.
Eloti seized the moment to speak up. "Good hosts, 'tis true we have more of smithcraft than poor Biddon does. But how, then, if we were to repay your kindness by teaching the fellow our skills? Then you would have a smith upon your villa who could work iron as well as we, and you'd not have to journey ten leagues every time a horse threw a shoe."
"Oh, aye," Wotheng muttered. "Well for Biddon and his household, and we'd make some little gain thereby, but to purchase a whole stretch of land . . . And how much, said you, that you wished?"
There was momentary confusion while Doshi produced the pertinent map and unrolled it on the table. Wotheng raised his bushy eyebrows and peered closer.
"I've never seen a chart so fair," he commented. "What, be there towns, cities, all that hereabouts, and I never heard thereof?"
"This is a copy of a much older map," Doshi explained, surreptitiously scattering a pinch of salt over certain items on the chart. "This is how the land lay before the great invasions. Many towns and villas you see marked herein be long gone, cast to the winds of fate and war. I suppose there are many new towns now, built in the years since, that this map's makers never knew."
"A well-made copy of that chart could help make up the price of the land," Gynallea purred.
"We are always willing to share learning," Eloti smiled sweetly, "for that too is part of our trade."
"Hmm . . ." Wotheng traded significant glances with his wife. Both of them could read, write, and work figures; hardly anyone else within twenty leagues could do so, which had proved a constant inconvenience. Here, now, an idea caught fire and blazed.
"Well, now, there's a bit more of a fair price," said Gynallea. "Would you make a school, also, and teach whomever we sent you, that would be worth as much as, hmm, the price of a small field."
"Here it is," Doshi cut in, pointing to the map. "This hill, and the ruins upon it, and the field below where the two lesser hills come nigh the stream. That's all the land we need or ask."
Wotheng grinned behind his pipe. That was a piddling acreage, in such poor land as that. "Ey, yes, I'd agree that a school and a goodly map would almost be worth the purchase price, even for so much land as that." He smiled at his wife's anxious look. "Cast in also a simple agreement, and I think we may call the bargain fair."
"Agreement?" Sulun worried. "Concerning what matter, m'lord?"
"Why, just that if you folk should choose to sell your wares beyond Ashkell and its holdings, you shall bring the same to me to sell for you." Wotheng winked at Gynallea, grinning. "I know the roads, aye, and the towns north, and the times when the merchants' caravans come by, and the usual prices as well. Let me arrange the selling for you, friends, and you'll profit more handsomely than ever you could by yourselves."
He held his breath, marshalling further arguments: the danger of bandits, the usefulness of his men-at-arms, his knowledge of the other lordlings to the north.
"Yes!" said Sulun, eager to close the bargain and be done. This Wotheng would make a better patron than any he'd had before. "Certainly, m'lord."
Wotheng beamed.
"Ah, but at what commission?" Eloti purred. "We should agree, before putting seal to any parchment, what part per hundred of the sales shall be yours, and what part ours."
Wotheng narrowed his eyes, but still smiled. Aha, these smith's women were quite as clever at bargaining as his Gynallea. Priests or no, these folk were good merchants, and could make his holdings prosperous. "Well, seeing that we shall share the labor—you of making, myself of peddling—should we not share the profits equally? Say, half and half?"
The others looked at each other. Eloti only smiled and leaned closer, and settled in for a good half-hour's dickering—sure of her element as a bird in the air.
Wotheng closed the bedchamber door while his wife put down the candle. Then they fell upon the creaking bed, grabbed each other, and rolled back and forth, giggling like mischievous children. The hysteria stopped only when Wotheng jabbed himself on Gynallea's brooch, and pulled away swearing.
"Gold in hand, lovey," Gynallea chuckled, sitting up to unfasten her clothes. "One way and another, gold in hand!"
"Umm, yes," Wotheng grinned, sucking his poked palm. "Gods, but they've good wit—and they're rich. Rich! Sweet moo-cow, we're going to be rich!"
"Hah, don't milk the cow before she's bred," Gynallea snickered, pinching his near buttock.
"Let me get out of these clothes and we'll celebrate," Wotheng snorted, tugging at pesky ties and buckles.
"Hee-hee! And you thought the bargaining was done when they signed the parchment and you gave them the deed to the land. Ho, ho!"
"Ah, my cow, you know I always sit about after a good trade, free with the jug, just in case other dealings might be offered. . . . Vona's balls! Woman, can you get this knot undone?"
"Here, turn toward the light. Yes, but whose thought was it to ask them what repairs they'd need to make, what supplies and workmen needed, eh? Eh?"
"So, you got in the first word. I'd have said it soon enough. Ho, they'll have the old mill going, will they? But only for grinding ore? Hah! Do we suffer a siege, or the new mill take storm damage again, we'll have another mill to use at need."
"And where else would they purchase timber, and raw iron? Where else to get the workmen, tiles, mortar, seed, and breeding stock they want? To and fro, the trade shall go—with us and our children to profit, both ways. Yes, lovey, this has been a golden evening."
"Golden, yes." Wotheng rubbed his hands together, smiling from ear to ear. "Show it to me again, dear love."
Gynallea opened her hand with a flourish, letting the candlelight fall on the gleaming gold coin centered in her palm. "A full ounce, I'll wager." She smiled. "Did you ever see the like?"
"Never, sweet cow. Who would have thought a band of pilgrims had such coin about them? And surely that can't be the only one."
"Surely there's more to come; years' worth, with the bargain we sealed. And all this, for our pledge of goods and workmen for barely half a year! Happy enough they were to get it, too. I'll vow, the poor things have no idea of prices hereabouts."
"Hmph, they'll learn soon enough when it comes to selling their goods. Still, once I begin selling in the north—and perhaps in the southlands, soon enough—they'll be content with the bargain. Come, blow the candle out, sweet cow. Let's to pounding the mattress."
Gynallea set the coin down carefully beside the candle, and blew out the flame.
In the creaking darkness, before plunging seriously into the task at hand, Wotheng thought to ask, "Oh, did you say aught to them about Folweel?"
"Mmm, in a manner of speaking, while you were poking up the fire."
"What manner of speaking, cow?"
"Why, lovey, I simply mentioned that other small priests and hedge witches might grow jealous of their prosperity and favor, and if any such did so, they should come complain to me. That was plain enough."
"Oh, aye . . . I suppose that suffices as warning. Move your thigh over."
Gynallea giggled. The bed creaked.