The burly, grey-haired man sat in the sunlight at the window seat of his study-room, drinking a cup of bark tea laced with spirits of wine and examining a waxed tablet scribbled with figures. The figures were not reassuring. The sunlight picked out a frayed thread in the gold embroidery on his red outer robe. A rough spot in the silver inlay of his brass cup snagged at his lip. Fair weather or not, this promised to be a thoroughly wretched day.
A discreet knocking sounded from the carved panels of the study's door. The man frowned, got up and went to his parchment-littered heavy oak table, adjusted his orange under-robe to show the embroidery to good advantage, and snapped, "Come in!"
A subdued maid in a plain grey dress opened the door, ushered in the visitor, and silently closed the door behind him. The newcomer, somewhat younger, shorter, and less burly than his host, wore a yellow under-robe and an orange outer one, both bearing somewhat less embroidery than the older man sported. His smile was wide, cheerful, and practiced.
"Greetings, Brother Folweel," he chirped, eyes flicking to the waxed tablet lying close at his superiors elbow. "I assume you've read yesterday's tally?"
"Greetings, Brother Jimantam. Pray sit." Folweel pointed to another carved oak chair. "Yes, I've read it," he said in Murrekeen, in case the maid was eavesdropping. "Most unpromising."
Jimantam settled carefully into the indicated chair, his smile sliding away. "Attendance often falls off at this time of year," he offered, in the same tongue. "So much for the faithful to do: first harvest, second planting, shearing . . ."
"Attendance at services was quite good last summer." Folweel interlaced his fingers and tapped his thumbs together. "The temple was packed last year for the Midsummer ceremony. Yesterday there was overmuch room at the same service. Could it be that our herd is being distracted by . . . worldly concerns?"
"It does happen." Jimantam shrugged. He peered at the parchments on the table, hoping to see one in particular. "Still, the temple income is undiminished. The tally at equinox was most, er, generous."
"The tally at equinox was three moons ago!" Folweel slammed his palm on the stack of parchments. "Its figures displayed the expected increase from the temple's own livestock—at lambing time. The only sizable income we've seen since came from northern sales of wool after shearing. Of course the temple flocks and crops are doing well; we've land and servants enough for that. The problem, dear Brother, is that funds from outside the temple have fallen away. That is the precise problem I wish to discuss with you. Just why is there poorer attendance and fewer donations, pray tell?"
Jimantam shrugged again. "Some time has passed since the last miracle. People forget, they grow distracted. . . ."
"We promised—and delivered—the usual miracle of the flame at the solstice ceremony. It didn't draw enough. The crowd was middle-sized at best, and the donations were small. Why, sir?"
"Well, this is coin-poor land; most trade is done by barter. If the folk simply don't have much coin on hand—"
"Coin? After first harvest and shearing? Oh, come."
"The trade caravans to the north—"
"Went out on time, came back in good time, and should have harvested the usual sufficiency of silver. Besides, even donations in goods have fallen off. Explain me that."
Jimantam spread his hands placatingly. "Worldly distractions," he murmured. "There was the usual plague of fleas, for example."
"I heard something of that," Folweel sneered. "The flea infestation was unusually mild this year—and not because of overmuch purchase of our ointment. Why, think you, was that?"
Jimantam rolled his eyes. "Perhaps some hedge wizard or granny witch has also discovered the secret of making soap, or the virtues of fleabane and garlic. Such knowledge is easy to come by, and another wizard might sell it more cheaply."
"Aha." Folweel leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "If so, then what other wizard would that be?"
Jimantam shook his head, accepting the inevitable. "This new batch of wizards off to the west," he conceded. "They have the appeal of novelty, though that should wear off soon enough."
"Yes, these new wizards." Folweel leaned back in his chair. "The Deese priests, worshippers of a blacksmith's god. They have not confined themselves to making horseshoes and praying over anvils, have they?"
"Who can tell, Brother? I know they've been selling pretty amulets of iron and brass and black glass bits, but that seems harmless enough."
"Harmless? When some of said amulets are sold specifically for protection against fire?"
Jimantam pursed his lips, said nothing.
"I have heard disturbing reports." Folweel picked up a sheet of parchment and frowned at it. "There are many of these priests; they have wealth enough that they've hired much of the local labor to build—or rebuild, as they claim—a good-sized shrine and priest house out in the old ruins. They have skills with metal work that entice a goodly amount of the local trade, and have produced enough goods beyond that to send north for sale. They have much favor with our old friend Wotheng. They have, if you please, set up a school in Ashkell villa where they teach reading, writing, figuring, healing craft, and—think on this—mechanical skills. They teach this to any who will sit and listen, and with Wotheng's help and approval. Do you not see a difficulty there, Brother?"
Jimantam sighed. "We have a rival for the people's affections. Some effort will be required to sway them back again. Another prediction of fire, perhaps?"
"Too soon," Folweel snapped. "And you've utterly missed the danger of that—that school!"
"What danger?" Jimantam was genuinely puzzled. "Our own temple college teaches skills of far greater virtue: magecraft, priestcraft, estate management, merchantry—"
"For our own!" Folweel resisted the urge to tug at his -impressive beard. "We teach our own initiates, and grant a bit of harmless hedge magic to our servants. These—these interlopers teach any who care to listen! Can you not see the difference, and the danger?"
"Er, we take those of more quality, better inclined to -learning. . . ."
Folweel sighed, remembering that he must be patient with this Brother; the man was very, very good at wringing excellent profit from the temple lands and donations. If he knew nothing of true magic, or wider applications of policy, that only kept him from overmuch ambition. One should explain as much as Jimantam needed to know.
"Dear Brother," Folweel said, very calmly, "these folk offer to teach anyone: nobles, scribes, craftsfolk, farmers, or even servants. They teach skills readily useful to anyone, as even the dullest peasant may see. If all the folk have such skills, why need they come to us for service in such things?"
Now Jimantam began to see it. He frowned, counting off on his fingers. "Reading, writing, figuring . . . But they never did come to us for that. The folk always go to scribes for such. We have no competition there."
"Not there, no: but magecraft, and healing simples, and mechanics?"
"Magecraft . . ." Jimantam scratched his chin. "We've had no trouble from the local granny witches, priests of other gods, that sort. Would these be any greater rivals?"
"They very well might be. We have no idea what their magical abilities are." That wasn't the main point, but no profit in telling Jimantam so; it might give him ideas. "Their healing simples and such spells, for example: what if they teach everyone to make and use soap, fleabane, and so on? Who will buy from us, if every shepherd's wife can make plenty?"
"I begin to see the problem, Brother." Jimantam's lips tightened. "This school must be . . . examined."
"And the cult itself," Folweel added. "We must discover what they know."
"It should be easy enough to place . . . students in the school. As to the cult, I don't know."
"That task I think I shall assign to Patrobe. Send him to see me as soon as convenient."
"Gladly, Brother Folweel." Jimantam stood, guessing that he was dismissed and eager to be about his new task, delighted to learn that the shortage of the temples income was not to be laid at his door. "May the blessings of Yotha be upon you, forever and evermore."
"Yotha bless." Folweel waved him off, not even bothering to watch the man leave.
His eyes strayed to the image of Yotha standing against the inner wall between two bookcases. "Fire God," Folweel grumbled, in his native Halasan. If anyone overheard, they'd think he was praying or practicing magic. So be it; of recent years he'd come to think aloud at the image, for lack of more trustworthy ears. "You're very good as a sword, but this problem calls for a stiletto. Rival wizards, several of them, and well-educated by all accounts: was it pure accident they came here too? Or did they recognize a good milking herd when they saw it?"
The image made no answer, only stared broodingly at the lamp that burned perpetually in its hands.
Folweel got up and went to the bookcase, searching among the scrolls penned years ago, back in Anhalas, which no one else in this barbarous country could read. "Mechanics," he muttered, "Medicine, Natural Philosophy. Dangerous, my most useful companion. Not merely of themselves, though that's bad enough. Teach such things, and to the very peasants we need? Monstrous! Suicidal! Are these folk utter fools, or are they keeping the greater knowledge for themselves? The latter, most like. Still, don't they realize the danger? Let common folk learn too much of the workings of the world, and they grow confident. When peasants have faith in themselves, they lose faith in gods and wizards. Where are we then, eh?"
Yotha silently contemplated his cupped flame, giving no reply.
Folweel finally located the scroll he wanted, a large medical text. "So, so . . . Much one can learn as a doctor's apprentice in Anhalas: much of chemistry, at least, and the mechanics thereof. Mysteries of the still-room, indeed. What power hides in strong wine, triply distilled, eh? A fluid that burns, and without even a wick."
He flicked a finger playfully through the flame in Yotha's cup, making the shadows dance across the images face, as if the fire god smiled.
"We've done very well with that one simple trick." Folweel turned the scroll, looking for one section in particular. "Magic alone has power—well-wish or ill-wish, talent and training provide it. Natural philosophy grants knowledge that leads to power . . ." He tapped his finger on the scroll. " . . . such as our useful, most mysterious fire-fluid. But put the two together, my lad—as my old master used to say—and the results are magnified. Heh! I doubt he ever imagined I'd use that knowledge for more than medicine. But then, I doubt he ever thought that Halas could fall. Hard times, these. One must harden one's spirit to match them, use what tricks one can, take on whatever allies may be useful . . . Ah, here we are."
The section revealed in the open scroll dealt with herbs and extracts that affected the mind. Strong drink was listed first, but Folweel passed over it quickly. Opium was next, but he skipped that also; its source plant did not grow in these climes, nor was it available through local trade. The third was belladonna, the description of its properties and uses followed by a list of its herbal sources. Many such plants grew in the north. Folweel ran his finger down the list, and smiled as he read.
The bell in the pigeon tower of Wotheng's house rang twice, then rattled to indignant silence. In the second courtyard, which held the house herb garden, a dozen children and adults of all sizes looked up, startled. Waxed boards skittered off laps as children started to scramble to their feet. Eloti tapped sternly on her slate tablet, and the students hastily picked up their gear.
"Depart in an orderly fashion," she commanded, "and don't forget the song."
The class dutifully lined up and traipsed out of the courtyard, singing in a dozen different keys: "Ayo is for apple, Bith is for barn . . ."
Eloti let her face slip into a smile, watching them go.
The crunch of approaching footsteps on the antique gravel path made her turn. Gynallea, dressed in her usual apron and headcloth, approached with a load of scrolls under one arm and settled beside Eloti on the stone bench.
"I've found some more texts," she said, displaying the collection of scrolls. "One mathematics, two histories, one compendium of medicinal plants, two poetries, and a geography—quite outdated, of course, but still useful. How long, think you, before this lot can read them?"
"This lot? Half a year, at least." Eloti picked up the geography first. "The second class, though, might start on some of these in another moon."
"How have you arranged it? Beginners in the first half of the morning, literates in the second half?"
"Just so. By year's end, I might have my whole day filled with different grades of scholars."
"And by next year, then, will you have scholars advanced enough to enter the House of Deese as apprentices?"
Eloti smiled, seeing where this led. "That would depend upon how prosperous the House of Deese becomes. We can feed, house, and clothe only so many, at present."
"Don't worry about that, dear." Gynallea grinned, patting her knee. "Those little toys you sent north fetched a goodly price. By next year, you'll have fine trade. Surely you can take in another by then."
"Aha." Eloti set the scrolls aside. "Biddon has been plaguing you, too, hasn't he?"
"My dear, what could you expect? He wants to learn more skills, all but worships the ground where you tread, has sworn he's willing to become a lowly apprentice again if you'll but take him in."
"He'll have to master reading, writing, and figuring first. Of course, he does his best at that—he's in the second class already." Eloti shrugged. Biddon had no head for figures and letters, but his pure determination had carried him acceptably far already. "By next year . . . well, perhaps. Certainly by the year after, if all continues as it has done."
"Ah, very good." Gynallea sat back, scratching her belly. "Now, how goes the building at the shrine?"
"Most remarkably," Eloti admitted. "The roof is on, the mill repaired, and the wall goes well. We need do some of the work ourselves on the plumbing, but that can wait until the forge is finished. Oh yes, Omis said to tell Lord Wotheng that we'll need another two hundredweight of firebrick and three hundredweight of clay. The, hmm, 'ladle' will need to be more stout than he'd first thought."
Gynallea shook her head in wonder. "So much brick, clay, charcoal . . . iron and brass I can understand, but the rest is a mystery to me."
"I think I can reveal that mystery to the uninitiated." Eloti laughed. "Only baked clay and firebrick, so far as I know, can withstand the heat of melting iron. The charcoal—oh, I just thought! Lady, don't let the woodcutters and charcoal burners chop down the whole forest, or there'll soon be none left. Make them plant a hundred seed for every tree they cut."
"Oh posh, daughter, we've been doing that for donkey's years. Did you never wonder why the wood on that north hill looks as neat as an orchard?"
"Ah, orchards of oaks?"
"Certainly. Even standing, they're of use; the acorns make coarse flour, or excellent pig feed. Didn't you know?"
"Ah, Lady, I'm always delighted to learn something new."
"There, dear, you may call me Gynna—at least when there are no men about."
Eloti laughed in genuine delight.
They might have spoken more, but Yawth came trotting into the garden to announce the arrival of the second class. Gynallea sighed and got up. "Back to work for both of us, daughter," she sighed. "When this class is over, come find me in the still-room. There are some arcana of equipage design I wish to ask you about."
"Hmm, that would be Sulun's field of knowledge more than mine, but I'll be glad to come. At noon, then?"
Gynallea nodded and walked away. Eloti turned to watch the incoming class, and noted that it was larger than it had been yesterday. She counted noses, discovering one extra; it belonged to a bland-faced young man dressed as a scribe, whom she hadn't seen before. Perhaps he'd kept away until now, believing his skills were adequate, for he appeared quite well fed and well clothed. He had, she noted, brought his own waxed tablets and stylus with him.
"Your name, sir?" she asked.
"Duppa, a scribe," he answered readily, smiling as if he did it often. "I live to the north, near Yedda Stream, by Topa's lane—"
"Very good, sir," Eloti interrupted him, noting the curious looks from the rest of her class. "Take your place, and we shall proceed with exercises in mathematics."
The man dutifully sat and readied his tablets. Eloti turned away to hunt among her original basket of scrolls for the day's text, and also to hide her confusion. Magical training had made her sensitive to the presence and "feel" of other living bodies and minds; she was used to feeling the life-warmth and eager concentration of her students, and normally gave it no thought This man was different. He seemed strangely blank, not there, a disturbing hole in the air where his body was visible, as if he were no more than a moving puppet. If he hadn't cast a shadow, she might have thought he was a very well constructed thought-sending.
Shielded, she guessed. The man was magically shielded, and so intensely that not even the "heat" of his life-force escaped. Was this pure accident, an unintended construction of the man's own mind? Or had it been done deliberately, placed on him by a competent and talented wizard? If deliberate, why? Why should a common scribe need such shields? Unless, of course, he was no common scribe? Some local hedge wizard, studying his competition? she wondered. Best ask Gynallea about him.
That decided, she took up the scroll and proceeded with the lesson.
The new forge was beautiful, clean, and cold: a virgin, waiting to be initiated into the delights of her natural fire. Omis walked around her once again, eyes measuring her splendid dimensions and features, itching to fill and light her properly. There, that enormous bellows made of two whole oxhides, waiting to be geared into the driveshaft from the mill. With such a pump, in such a furnace, he could refine purest iron out of raw, red earth in a day's work or less. There, the great pulleys and chain hoist braced into the new ceiling. Once the huge ladle was finished, he could melt and pour iron by the hundredweight as easily as if it were wax in a cup. There, Sulun's precious lathe and the new grinding wheels, likewise waiting to be hitched to the mill's driving shaft. Gods, what he could make with those. He'd made little but toys since they'd settled here—farming tools, buckles, sockets for wooden wheels, even pins and needles—good quality, but such puny common things, small items readily made in the sturdy little portable forge from Sabis, on his old and admittedly worn anvil. But with tools like these, once they were ready . . .
Omis shook his head and turned away. Patience, patience, he reminded himself. All goes well, better than we could have dreamed just a year ago.
Indeed, a year ago he could never have imagined working in such a manufactory as this. Possibly there was nothing near like it in all the world. What irony to see it here, in this forgotten country estate, when Sabis and all her glory lay in ruins. . . .
Omis turned away from the forge, went to a freshly oiled cabinet under the new workbench, opened it, and tugged out the cloth-wrapped shape within. He lifted the object to the bench, laid it down, and pulled up a stool.
The bombard's outside was still pebble-rough and unfinished, but the interior gleamed like a mirror. She was seamless, flawless, as perfect as human skill could make her, needing only a few finishing touches. Omis didn't ask himself why he felt obliged to work on her whenever he thought of Sabis; her original purpose was long lost, fallen with the city.
Still, the Bombard Project led him on, led all of them still, had led them like a god's sign to settle here in the vestibule of a sulfur mine. Why sulfur, save for firepowder? Why firepowder, save for the bombard? Why the bombard? No answer—yet the pursuit of that idea had brought them here, to safety, protection, promised wealth, even the respect of the local people and the friendship of the local lord. Even a workshop such as this.
Omis cast a glance at the nearer of the two figures carved beside the door. "Deese, thou knowest," he said.
Then he took up a narrow circular brush and a pot of pumice paste, and began polishing the recently drilled fuse hole at the base of the bombard. After this would come the building of its carriage.
He barely heard the footsteps approaching behind him, managed to ignore them until Zeren spoke, almost in his ear.
"Where's Sulun? We have a problem."
Yanados perched on a finished section of the wall, supposedly watching the small flock of goats that foraged contentedly downslope. Under the hood of her cloak, no one could tell at this distance that she was actually watching the work crew busy on the unfinished part of the wall. Biddon sat beside her, clenching his corded hands with the effort not to point. Sulun, Zeren, and Doshi came padding up behind her, climbed the broad stile to the walkway, and peered toward the work gang. Zeren clapped a hand on the blacksmith's shoulder.
"Which one is he?" he asked.
"That'n, sir." Biddon pointed, just briefly. "Yonder thickset fellow in the brown leggin's and yellow shirt. The one up on the stones, layin' mortar. I've seen him before, a'right, comin' to my shop for stone chisels, braggin' to wear me ear off. He's head stonemason of Yotha's temple, and what business, sirs, would he have here?"
"You all know more than I do," Sulun puzzled. "Who is Yotha, and why shouldn't his temple's chief stonemason come to work here?"
"Yotha, according to our friend Biddon, is an ill-tempered fire god," said Yanados, still watching. "His priests came and settled here some eight years back, built a temple some six leagues north, and have been doing well for themselves ever since. As to your second question, the chief stonemason of Yotha's temple is ordinarily paid quite well enough that he'd have no need to come work common labor on our walls. Do you see nothing suspicious there?"
"I see a mystery, and I wish you all would explain it."
"We seem to have some rivals," Zeren sighed. "Yotha's temple was the biggest and wealthiest in Ashkell Vale, before we came."
"What, simple jealousy?" Sulun asked. "How would that explain their mason working here?"
"More nor simple jealousy!" Biddon laughed. "See you all these folk workin' on your priest house, these many moons? Ye've paid 'em for their hire, day by day, not bought their service outright by the year. You folk pay well, too—in good copper and useful spells, not to mention yonder school at Ashkell House. And ye're none so haughty as Yotha's folk, nor has your Deese done harm to any. Need I tell you, then, how many folk would rather come to you than to Yotha's house?"
"We've drawn away many of Yotha's worshippers, you mean? And his priests don't like it?
"Neither like it nor accept it philosophically, I imagine," said Doshi. "So their chief mason has shown up here: for spying, spreading disaffection, spoiling the work, or what?"
"Spying, certainly," Yanados guessed. "We may as well assume the rest, too. Now, what shall we do about it?"
"First off, I would have Arizun inspect that section of the wall," Zeren put in. "See if it's made as well as the rest, or if some charm has been set into the mortar."
"Good thought," said Doshi, turning to go back down the stile steps. "I'll fetch him."
"Now wait," Sulun complained, feeling a bit left out. "What harm can a man do, setting mortar on a wall? What harm can his spying do, for that matter? Why not leave him where he is, lest these—these priests of Yotha send another spy who we don't know?"
Zeren laughed. "Sulun, my wonderfully innocent old friend, think; we've seen whole houses ill-wished, and from a distance. Why not a wall? Or the whole house, starting from the wall? That's the harm our insidious mason there can do."
Sulun thought about that, about the curse placed on Entori House, about the possible effects of such a curse in a house full of hot iron, firepowder, heavy tools—and a cellar full of sulfur. He shuddered.
"Very well, get rid of him. What will happen when his friends learn of his failure, I don't know."
"They'll know we're no fools," said Yanados. "That alone might make them behave better."
"High hopes," Zeren muttered. "More like, they'll just take another tactic. We must be watchful."
"Which is the man?" Arizun asked, climbing up behind them. "Where has he been working?"
Biddon gleefully pointed out the suspect, and the stretch of wall, adding: "There's more I could watch out for you, Masters, did I but live here. Would I not make a good initiate of Deese?"
"Soon, soon," Yanados promised, patting his shoulder. "Once Eloti says you're ready . . . Hey, the lunch bell!"
Sure enough, the iron bell so recently hung in its niche over the front was ringing the announcement for the midday meal. All the workmen on the wall cheered happily, put down their tools, settled the last stones they'd been working on, and sat down to eat. The brown-legged spy made haste to join them.
"Doshi's idea," said Arizun. "That'll give me time enough to go look at the wall." He strode off quietly, dark robe blending with the stone of the walls.
Sulun looked around at his companions and wrung his hands in dismay. "Aren't we worrying overmuch?" he asked. "Now that we've come to a good place, I had hoped we'll stop expecting enemies everywhere."
"Were we so free of foes back in Sabis?" Yanados asked, trying not to sound bitter.
Sulun just shook his head and walked away. Is there no peace, he wondered, to be found anywhere?
Arizun strolled along the new section of wall, running one hand along the stones, keeping an eye turned toward the gang of workmen busy with their meal downslope. Did the brown-legged mason glance this way a little too often? Was he seated so to keep an eye on the wall? One couldn't walk too slowly, then, or seem too interested.
Arizun felt it first as a subtle heat, something like warmth clinging to the shadowed stone, right in the mortared seam between two blocks. He paused to shake an imaginary stone out of his shoe, casually leaning on the wall for support, one hand pressed to the mortar. Yes, the spell was there, probably anchored in a mage sign scribbled into the mortar under the block. He could almost picture the sign, the feeling was so clear. Yes, picture it: no more or less than a script initial in some foreign alphabet, an elaborate letter Y—no doubt for Yotha, very simple and direct. Well, well. Probe further, but quickly; the man might notice. Arizun closed his eyes and dropped for a moment, deeper into the Meditative State that Eloti had taught him to attain and feel with such facility.
Oh, yes: a simple and direct curse, set in the wall, meant to spread through the entire house, partly vitalized already. No doubt it would increase this very night, once the brown-legged spy got home to his friends. Ah, clever.
Arizun ground his teeth in cold, rising fury. He pulled his shoe back on, straightened up, and strolled on down the wall for a few paces more, down to where the completed wall rose over his head and concealed him from the work gang beyond. There he stopped, leaned against the dark stones, reached into his second belt pouch, and drew out a faceted crystal lens. The essentials, as lady Eloti had told him often enough, were quite simple: concentration, visualization, will, focus, purpose. He had will enough; easy for this rage to power it. The crystal would help concentration and focus. Visualization came easily too. Purpose . . . Arizun smiled wickedly. A simple deflection, change of target, would be so utterly fitting—and was much easier than neutralizing the curse altogether. Yes, just a proper deflection to a new target: he had sufficient talent and power to do that by himself. Eloti would be so pleased when he would tell her.
Arizun stared into the crystal, concentrating.
A second ringing of the iron bell signalled the workmen back to their task. They tossed away crumbs, recorked jugs, climbed to their feet, and went back to the waiting stones, derrick, and wall. The senior of the work gang poked at the trough of mortar, shrugged, added a little water, and stirred it in. The rest of the crew shoved another stone down its track of roller logs to the wooden crane and began tying it on. A mason in brown leggings and a yellow shirt trotted around to the back of the wall, up a makeshift wooden stepladder to the top of the present course of stones, and prepared to guide the new block into place.
On the way up, his foot slipped and nearly sent him tumbling off the ladder. He swore, climbing the rest of the way with more care, too busy thinking of his task ahead to question the minor accident.
"Up!" bellowed the senior workman, and the rest of the crew hauled on the crane's tail ropes. The tail sank, the wooden fulcrum groaned as weight came on the ropes, and the tied block began to rise. "Up, up," chanted the gang's senior.
"Now right, right," shouted the man on the wall, as the block rose level with his breastbone. He reached for the trailing guide rope, missed it, leaned further out—slipped and fell flat in the spread mortar.
The work gang below laughed heartily, but didn't let the ropes slacken.
The brown-legged, mortar-daubed man grabbed for the guide rope, and this time caught it. Instead of pulling slowly, he yanked on it in exasperation.
The guide rope snapped taut, catching on one of the support ropes at the near corner of the block. The support rope, dragging along with the guide, pulled free.
The block shuddered for a second, then slid loose of the remaining guides and fell forward.
It tumbled straight into the brown-legged man, carrying him off the wall, and fell on top of him.
The work gang on the derrick fell flat as their ropes suddenly slackened. They all heard the short screech from behind the wall, and the grisly thud. Some cursed, some groaned, some wailed with horror. The bravest got up and ran for the wall at once; the more timorous followed slowly. Up the wooden scaffolding they ran, across the lower course of stones, through the spread mortar to the inner side of the wall—and paused there a long moment, surveying the damage.
It was impressive.
Arizun took good care to arrive after the others, to sound and look surprised. Doshi and Zeren gave him thoughtful looks as he elbowed through the crowd, but they said nothing. Biddon the blacksmith saw him coming and stepped hastily out of his path, throwing him a white-eyed look, like a frightened horse. Yanados gave him a sardonic smile and a hint of an ironic salute. Arizun ignored her, pushed to the front of the crowd, and looked.
The man was still alive, breathing in thin wheezes, fingers scrabbling aimlessly at the edge of the stone. From the waist down, his body was hidden under the tumbled block. The stone appeared to lie level on the ground, perhaps even a bit sunken into it. Blood seeped from under its edges.
"like a berry under a brick," mumbled one of the workmen watching. A small gang of the more muscular in the crowd was trying to dig under the edges of the block and tie on ropes from the crane. None of them looked at the man under the stone, nor, for all their haste, did they seem very willing to lift the block and reveal what lay beneath it.
"Can't last the hour," one of the nearby watchers mumbled.
"Soon, soon . . ." chanted another, his tone reminiscent of prayer.
The ropes were worked under the corners, looped, tied on, drawn taut. "Its tied!" snapped the head of the work gang, keeping his eyes on the knots. "Haul it!"
On the other side of the wall, the rest of the work gang heaved at the crane's tail ropes. The derrick creaked, and the stone began to rise. Sunlight spread beneath the rising stone. The crowd groaned softly, all together.
The man under the block continued whining thinly, noticing nothing.
The gang on the crane lifted the stone until it reached its niche on the wall, then lowered it. The block slipped neatly into place, perfectly aligned, though no one drew the rope to guide it there. A film of blood on its underside stained the top of the mortar.
Arizun turned away quickly. He'd taken two steps toward the house when a hand caught his shoulder. He glanced up, and saw Sulun glaring down at him.
"No, stay and watch," Sulun whispered fiercely, in Sabirn. "That was your doing; you look at it."
"It couldn't be helped!" Arizun hissed back in the same tongue. "All I could do was deflect the curse, discharge it back on him who set it. Otherwise it would have sprung on us."
"No other choice? Nothing else you could have done?"
"No! I couldn't just wipe it away; I don't have that power, and I didn't dare wait for Eloti to come back and help me. All I could do was deflect it, send it back. Gods, I didn't know it would do that. . . .
Sulun dropped his hand and turned away. "Bad beginning," he muttered.
Then he saw the workmen watching him, trying not to look at the body on the ground being bundled into a stretcher improvised of cloaks. He could read their faces clearly enough, see why no one had dropped the ropes off the settled block, guess why no one now was working the crane. Time to say something. Sulun gritted his teeth, pulled his robe around him, and marched up the scaffolding to the top of the unfinished stretch of wall.
"Carelessness," he intoned, "exacts a heavy price. Carelessness can slaughter more than armies. Carelessness is our enemy here—and we dare not drop our guard against it, not for a moment, not out of anger or impatience or distraction. Not ever." One quarter of his mind coolly approved the balanced shape of the speech; another cringed at its grotesque irrelevance. "You see now what harm even a moment's carelessness can do. Be warned, then. Learn the lesson well. Let us never have to learn it again."
The workmen below him nodded solemnly, accepting the words.
Sulun tried to find words to send them back to work, but couldn't think of any. The sound of the crane's ropes slapping the wood made him think of corpses hanging on gallows. No, no more of this, not today.
"Bear that poor man to his home," he said, struggling to get the words clear. "The rest of you, secure the crane, the stones and the tools, and take the remainder of the day—at full pay—to ponder this matter. Er, dismissed." He strode hastily off the stone and down the scaffolding, trying not to hear the amazed murmurs of the crowd as he passed, and headed for the new house. Somewhere among all the food stocks there had to be some strong berry wine, and he needed a few cups of that.
Behind him, the work gang rumbled in amazement.
"Did ye hear that?" said the senior workman. "All of half the day off, and at full pay!"
"What generous folk they be," agreed the nearest. "And wise, too. His talk of carelessness be good sense."
"Aye," noted his neighbor. "Have ye seen, this is the first sore accident since the building work began? The first life or limb lost, in all these moons."
"And that on a new fellow, first day here, who didn't know the workings," another added. "'S'truth, I think he was a stranger here."
"'Tis sure, I don't know him," commented one of the men at the stretcher. "Does anyone here know where his house lies?"
"I do," rumbled Biddon, coming up on them. "'Tis far off north, by the caravan road. Yotha House, and none other."
The workmen stared at him, then at each other, then nodded knowingly.
An hour later, two riders on mules set out from Deese House. Before dusk they reached Ashkell Villa, meeting Eloti on the way and taking her back with them. Gynallea invited them in and set dinner for them at the upper end of the table, calmly as if she'd been expecting them. Wotheng, after his usual custom, asked no questions and discouraged all talk until the meal was finished and the dessert drinks brought out.
"You did say, m'lord," Sulun began, "that if any local wizards tried to harm us, we should bring our complaint to you."
Wotheng glanced sidelong at his wife, then shrugged. "Aye, so we did. What wizards have troubled you folk, and in what way?"
Sulun looked hopefully at Zeren, not certain that he could carry off this little plan. The big soldier launched into the story as smoothly as if he were giving a standard military report.
"Shortly after noon today there was an accident at the construction site on the new Deese House outer wall. A stone slipped from its cradle, crushing a workman. Upon inspection, the wall was found to have been temporarily ill-wished. The injured workman was found to have been a resident of Yotha's estate. Apparently he was attempting to set a curse on the walls when our own protective spells deflected it, causing it to discharge upon the sender."
Wotheng looked calm, mildly interested; his eyelids barely fluttered at the name of Yotha. Still, Eloti noted it.
"We wish to know," Sulun took up the complaint, "just who these people are, why they tried to ill-wish our house, and whether we may expect more of this."
Wotheng puffed at his pipe, harrumphed a few times, glanced again at his wife. "Well, Yotha's some imported fire god," he began. "Came from off to the east somewhere, no place we ever heard of. These priests of his, now, they've some sorcerous powers they claim he gives 'em; came here about eight years ago and set up to the north, maybe five leagues up along the caravan road. They say that Yotha came first, and the priests were only following where he led. What I know is that fires were seen running along the hilltops—running in lines and curlicues, dancing, like. Didn't harm any but stretches of turf; stampeded some sheep, scared some folk out of their wits, and everyone came hollering to me about it."
Wotheng tapped out his empty pipe, refilled and relit it before going on.
"Next day it was, I clearly recall, these priests of Yotha showed themselves in the village. Very fierce and solemn, they were. Proud, too, as if they held themselves too high to speak to the common run of folk. Came asking to see 'the lord of this place,' which was myself, saying they knew the 'source and nature' of the fires. To be sure, I gave 'em audience."
"It was Yotha, they said," Gynallea sneered, pouring herself another berry cordial. "Their triple-damned fire god."
"Oh, aye. They said they'd been following their god's trail for moons, and now they'd found him here. They said they could entice him into a shrine, keep him appeased, keep him from doing mischief, but 'twere best if they did it quickly. Best, in truth, if they could find some empty building already standing—like the old burned mansion up by the north road. Yotha'd be drawn to that, they said, since fire had 'already frolicked there.'"
"And what of all the poor folk living there?" Gynallea added. "Hah, never mind! Go they must, so the priests could set their god trap there."
"Now what was I to do?" Wotheng shrugged. "Here's the people all afrenzy over these fires, here's these priests saying they can put an end to it, and here's only a few poor folk in the way." He sighed and tapped out his pipe.
"What became of the poor folk who were moved out of the mansion?" Eloti asked.
"Oh, many of them weren't moved out at all—just became builders, then servants, at Yotha House. The rest, well, I granted them some sheep and some help building cottages elsewhere. Tricky juggling with land rights that was, too."
"So Yotha's priests took the house, and its lands, I presume," Eloti considered. "And the mysterious fires stopped?"
"Not entirely, no." Wotheng reached for his cup. "Now they danced all over the altar at his ceremonies there. Folk came from leagues about to attend. At other times the fires would scamper out on the bare hilltops and dance a while, and the priests would go out and chant at them a while, and they'd stop. Then the priests took to saying where fire would strike next—this one's house, that one's barn . . ." Wotheng half-turned, frowned at his fireplace and the innocent flames therein. "Folk took to paying good prices to the priests to discourage Yotha's games. See you where that led?"
Zeren, Eloti, and Sulun nodded slowly. "So, Yotha's priesthood soon became rich," Eloti finished. "Now that we've come, they fear a rival for people's attention—and money."
Wotheng smiled sourly. "Be not surprised, friends, if Yotha's fire comes running up to your gates some evening soon."
"We'll not be surprised at all," Zeren growled. "Is the god truly there, think you, or is it only the priests' sorcery?"
"Who can tell?" Gynallea gulped her cup empty. "I have noticed, though, that the god behaves in such fashion as to make his priests powerful and rich—more like some captive demon doing a wizard's bidding than a proper god."
"These running fires," Sulun put in, "how do they behave? Is there anything notable about their appearance that differs from ordinary fire?"
"Oh, yes." Gynallea laughed. "They burn only at night, save in Yotha House, and they run in trails all along the ground: over grass, over bare earth, over stone, even up the walls of houses to pounce upon the roof. I've seen it myself. You remember, lovey, when Poddil's cottage burned?"
"You saw this fire run across stone?"
"That I did. A most amazing sight, it was, too. I could see the fires dancing high and bright when they crossed dry grass or wood, creeping low and ghastly blue when they crawled over stone, but crawl they did: all the way to Poddil's house, up the wall and into the thatch, where they burned high and fierce."
"Wait," Sulun insisted. "Blue, did you say? When they didn't have dry grass or wood to eat, the flames were low and . . . blue?"
"Aye, a most ghastly color for flame."
"I . . . see." Sulun leaned back in his chair, thinking hard.
"Tell me," Eloti cut into the silence. "If you'd had such ill luck with priests and sorcerers come to settle here, why did you accept us so kindly when first we came?"
Wotheng gave her a long look, then a smile. "Because, good lady, when first you folk came hence, we saw that you went straight to the common folk—to our blacksmith, in fact—and freely gave of your skills, in exchange for no more than knowledge. Also, you offered to sell your goods to any who would buy."
"We behaved like merchants, you mean." Eloti grinned.
"Aye, dear," said Gynallea. "You claimed to be priests, but behaved like goodly merchants. Yotha's sort claimed to be priests also, but behaved more like fearsome wizards. See you the difference?"
"Also," Zeren added, fixing Wotheng with a knowing eye, "perhaps we seemed good enough wizards to drive out Yotha's folk, should it come to that."
Wotheng shrugged again, but he blushed a little.
"Well, who else?" Gynallea said stoutly. "You're skilled at such things. You can deal with Yotha and his priests far better than we."
"Perhaps we can," Sulun murmured, rousing a bit. "Perhaps indeed we can. Eloti, how long before you can return to Deese House? We'll need you to lay further protections there."
"Surely you couldn't return tonight," Gynallea protested. "All those long leagues in the dark . . ."
"No, we'll stay until after school tomorrow, and leave at noon," said Eloti. "I doubt Yotha's priests will attempt any . . . visitations of their god tonight."
"The evening still being young," said Sulun, "might I ask if your ladyship has a still-room in the house that I might observe?"
"Why, yes," Gynallea answered, surprised at the change of subject. "I showed it to Goodlady Eloti just this afternoon."
"Hmm. And would you perchance have a distillery there, and possibly some cordial that didn't come out quite right which you could spare?"
"Certainly, good priest. Ah, you have some plans already, then?'
"Perhaps."
Gort and Hobb sat a long time in the donkeycart, arguing, then finally tossing lots to see which of them would go up to the gate of Yotha House to announce the bad news. Gort lost the toss, and tiptoed, trembling, up to the bellpull. Soon enough, a yellow-robed servant opened the door and peered out.
"S-sir Priest," Gort stammered, respectfully wringing his hat in his hands, "w-we've a fellow here as belongs to yer house, what was killed today at stoneworking. Will ye not come take him inside?"
"Bide a moment," said the servant, whipping back inside.
A few minutes later he came back, accompanied by an older, stouter priest in an embroidered orange robe. The senior priest went to the donkeycart, studied the pathetic bundle inside, then signed to the servant. The junior fellow hurried back to the house, leaving Gort and Hobb alone with the corpse and the priest.
"How did this man come to die?" the priest intoned.
"B-beggin' yer pardon, sir, he were careless at the liftin' and the stone slipped its halter and fell on him." Gort got it all out in a rush.
"And where did this happen?"
"Er, why, at the wall-makin', on the new estate to the southwest."
"New estate?" The priest smiled blandly. "What new estate?"
Gort threw Hobb a desperate look. Hobb gulped twice, then took up the tale. "Why, the old house by the ruint village, what Lord Wotheng deeded t'his friends, sir. The place bein' in sad repair, they called for workmen t' mend the walls. Sure, and that must be how this feller come t' be there."
"I see. And how did you come to bring his body here?"
"Er, well, he weren't from 'round our village, sir, but a few folk said they'd seen him here, so we thought he might be one of yer servants. Please, sir, do take him in! It's five long leagues back t' the village again, and in the dark, and all. . . ."
"Yes, we shall take him in."
The servant had returned with three similarly robed companions. The priest snapped his fingers, directed them to the back of the donkeycart, and pointed silently to the sacking-wrapped corpse. The servants lugged the body out of the cart. The priest fumbled among his robes, looking for a coin to give the drivers, but Gort had already snapped up the whip and slapped the donkey to motion. The cart rumbled in a tight circle, then back down the road. The priest watched them go for a moment, then followed the servants inside.
Gynallea's distilling equipment was simple: a glazed, narrow-necked pot corked with boiled wood, a crudely seamed copper tube twisting out of the top, and a simple catch-jar at its lower end. The pot sat on a three-legged iron ring above a small brazier full of glowing coals. The cordial which had gone into the pot less than an hour before was berry purple, but the liquid dripping from the end of the tube was colorless as water though it smelled sharp and strong.
"Wine distilled to winter wine," Sulun recited, watching the drops fall. "Winter wine distilled to cordial, cordial distilled to this. It would require much wine to begin with, or perhaps even strong beer. Does the House of Yotha purchase much wine or beer? Or does its land grow much of berries or barley?"
"Aye to both," murmured Gynallea, fascinated. "'Tis a joke hereabouts, how much the god and his servants drink. But think you they're not just drinking it?"
"We'll know in a moment. 'Twas an experiment my old master Abanuz once showed me. The result would burn hot enough, and steady as an oil lamp, to work small bits of glass or metal. I remembered that the flame burned a most notable blue. . . . Ah, I think that should do. Take away the brazier, before the leftover syrup burns. Thank you."
"Blue fire? Like oil?" Gynallea asked, shoving the brazier out from under the still-pot. "An oil that could burn without a wick? On bare stone?"
"Not an oil: spirits of cordial. Wait . . ." Sulun took a brush and carefully painted a trail of the clear liquid across a wide stone dish. He took a taper from an overhead shelf, held its wick in the coals until it caught, then touched the small flame to one end of the liquid trail.
The liquid caught fire, flared, lighted down its whole length, and burned for several seconds. The flames were blue, barely tipped with yellow.
"Yotha's fire! That's it, certain as day!" Gynallea crowed. "That's what I saw, only ever so much more of it, climbing the wall of poor Poddy's house."
"And the smell?" Sulun persisted, holding the catchbowl under her nose. "Was there a smell like this one?"
Gynallea sniffed long and hard, wrinkling her nose. "I can't recall truly, but I'll swear I've smelled that before—and in Yotha House, during one of the ceremonies where he came to the altar. I thought it but another incense, such as priests use."
"Then I think we've learned the mystery of Yotha House." Sulun frowned as he poured the liquid into a vial. "Spirits of cordial, burning fluid, more volatile than oil: wicked stuff to be playing at. Especially wicked to mix with magic. Do they dare use magic at all with such stuff lying about? Hmm, they must have protective spells all about Yotha House, against just such happenstance."
"I see it well," Gynallea growled bitterly. "They preach against some poor fellow by day, then by night come and splash trails of these spirits though his fields, up to his house or barn. 'Twould need but a spark at one end of the trail to send fire racing to the other. Gods, what a wicked business!"
"And we've threatened it." Sulun corked the vial and stuffed it in his belt pouch. "We'd best put fresh well-wishing circles all about our house, and that right soon. We'd also best finish that stout stone wall as soon as might be, and sheathe the gates with brass."
"Friend Sulun." Gynallea laid a hand on his arm. "Think you that your folk can defeat Yotha's wizards?"
Sulun gave a long sigh. "It's possible," he said. "But I wish it might not come to that."