“Don’t this weather ever let up?” One-Eye
whined. For a week we had slogged northward, had been victimized by
daily showers. The roads were bad and promised to get worse.
Practicing my Forsberger on wayside farmers, I learned that this
weather had been common for years. It made getting crops to town
difficult and, worse, left the grains at risk from disease. There
had been an outbreak of the firedance in Oar already, a malady
traceable to infected rye. There were a lot of insects, too.
Especially mosquitos.
The winters, though abnormal in snow and rainfall, were milder
than when we had been stationed here. Mild winters do not augur
well for pest control. On the other hand, game species were
diminished because they could not forage in the deep snows.
Cycles. Just cycles, the old-timers assured me. The bad winters
come around after the Great Comet passes. But even they thought
this a cycle among cycles.
Today’s weather is already the most impressive of all
time.
“Deal,” Goblin said, and he did not mean cards. That
fortress, which the Company took from the Rebel years ago, loomed
ahead. The road meanders beneath its scowling walls. I was
troubled, as always I was when our path neared an imperial bastion.
But there was no need this time. The Lady was so confident of
Forsberg that the great fortress stood abandoned. In fact, close
up, it looked ragged. Its neighbors were stealing it piece by
piece, after the custom of peasants the world over. I expect that
is the only return they get on taxes, though they may have to wait
generations for the worm to turn.
“Oar tomorrow,” I said as we left the wagon outside
an inn a few miles past Deal. “And this time there will be no
screwups. Hear?”
One-Eye had the grace to look abashed. But Goblin was ready to
argue.
“Keep it up,” I said. “I’ll have Tracker
thrash you and tie you up. We aren’t playing
games.”
“Life is a game, Croaker,” One-Eye said. “You
take it too damned serious.” But he behaved himself, both
that night and the next day when we entered Oar.
I found a place well outside areas we frequented before. It
catered to small-time traders and travelers. We drew no especial
attention. Tracker and I kept a watch on Goblin and One-Eye. They
did not seem inclined to play the fool again, though.
Next day I went looking for a smith named Sand. Tracker
accompanied me. Goblin and One-Eye stayed behind, constrained by
the most terrible threats I could invent.
Sand’s place was easily found. He was a longtime member of
his trade, well-known among his peers. We followed directions. They
led me through familiar streets. Here the Company had had some
adventures.
I discussed them with Tracker as we walked. I noted, “Been
a lot of rebuilding since then. We tore the place up
good.”
Toadkiller Dog was on point, as often he was of late. He stopped
suddenly, looked around suspiciously, took a few tentative steps,
sank onto his belly. “Trouble,” Tracker said.
“What kind?” There was nothing obvious to the
eye.
“I don’t know. He can’t talk. He’s just
doing his watch-out-for-trouble act.”
“Okay. Don’t cost anything to be careful.” We
turned into a place that sold and repaired harness and tack.
Tracker yakked about needing a saddle for a hunter of large beasts.
I stood in the doorway watching the street.
I saw nothing unusual. The normal run of people went about their
normal business. But after a while I noted that Sand’s smithy
had no custom. That no smithery sounds came forth. He was supposed
to supervise a platoon of apprentices and journeymen.
“Hey. Proprietor. Whatever happened to the smith over
there? Last time we were here he did us some work. Place looks
empty.”
“Grey boys is what happened.” He looked
uncomfortable. Grey boys are imperials. The troops in the north
wear grey. “Fool didn’t learn back when. Was into the
Rebellion.”
“Too bad. He was a good smith. What leads regular folks to
get into politics, anyway? People like us, we got trouble enough
just trying to make a living.”
“I heard that, brother.” The tackmaker shook his
head. “Tell you this. You got smithery needs doing, take your
custom elsewhere. The grey boys been hanging around, taking anybody
who comes around.”
About then an imperial strolled around the side of the smithy
and crossed to a pasty stall. “Damned clumsy,” I said.
“And crude.”
The tackmaker looked at me askance. Tracker covered well,
drawing him back to business. Not as dumb as he appeared, I noted.
Maybe just not socially adept.
Later, after Tracker expressed a desire to think on the deal the
tackmaker offered and we departed, Tracker asked, “What
now?”
“We could bring up Goblin and One-Eye after dark, use
their sleeping spell, go in and see what’s to see. But it
don’t seem likely the imperials would leave anything
interesting. We could find out what they did with Sand and try to
reach him. Or we could go on to the Barrowland.”
“Sounds the safest.”
“On the other hand, we wouldn’t know what we were
headed into. Sand’s being taken could mean anything. We
better talk it over with the others. Catalog our
resources.”
Tracker grunted. “How long before that sutler gets
suspicious? The more he thinks about it, the more he’s going
to realize we were interested in the smith.”
“Maybe. I’m not going to sweat it.”
Oar is a city like most of substantial size. Crowded, Filled
with distractions. I understood how Goblin and One-Eye had been
seduced by Roses. The last major city the Company dared visit was
Chimney. Six years ago. Since then it has been all the hard times
and small towns you can imagine. I battled temptations of my own. I
knew places of interest in Oar.
Tracker kept me on the straight line. I’ve never met a man
less interested in the traps which tempt men.
Goblin thought we should put the imperials to sleep, give them
the question. One-Eye wanted to get out of town. Their solidarity
had perished like frost in the sun.
“Logically,” I said, “they would get a
stronger guard after dark. But if we drag you down there now,
somebody is sure to recognize you.”
“Then find that old boy who brought the first
letter,” Goblin said.
“Good idea. But. Think about it. Assuming he had perfect
luck, he’d still be a long way from here. He didn’t
catch a ride like we did. No go. We get out. Oar is making me
nervous.” Too many temptations, too many chances to be
recognized. And just too many people. Isolation had grown on me out
there on the Plain.
Goblin wanted to argue. He had heard the north roads were
terrible.
“I know,” I countered. “I also know the army
is building a new route to the Barrowland. And they’ve pushed
its north end far enough so traders are using it.”
No more argument. They wanted out as much as I. Only Tracker now
seemed reluctant. He who first thought it best to go.
“Don’t this weather ever let up?” One-Eye
whined. For a week we had slogged northward, had been victimized by
daily showers. The roads were bad and promised to get worse.
Practicing my Forsberger on wayside farmers, I learned that this
weather had been common for years. It made getting crops to town
difficult and, worse, left the grains at risk from disease. There
had been an outbreak of the firedance in Oar already, a malady
traceable to infected rye. There were a lot of insects, too.
Especially mosquitos.
The winters, though abnormal in snow and rainfall, were milder
than when we had been stationed here. Mild winters do not augur
well for pest control. On the other hand, game species were
diminished because they could not forage in the deep snows.
Cycles. Just cycles, the old-timers assured me. The bad winters
come around after the Great Comet passes. But even they thought
this a cycle among cycles.
Today’s weather is already the most impressive of all
time.
“Deal,” Goblin said, and he did not mean cards. That
fortress, which the Company took from the Rebel years ago, loomed
ahead. The road meanders beneath its scowling walls. I was
troubled, as always I was when our path neared an imperial bastion.
But there was no need this time. The Lady was so confident of
Forsberg that the great fortress stood abandoned. In fact, close
up, it looked ragged. Its neighbors were stealing it piece by
piece, after the custom of peasants the world over. I expect that
is the only return they get on taxes, though they may have to wait
generations for the worm to turn.
“Oar tomorrow,” I said as we left the wagon outside
an inn a few miles past Deal. “And this time there will be no
screwups. Hear?”
One-Eye had the grace to look abashed. But Goblin was ready to
argue.
“Keep it up,” I said. “I’ll have Tracker
thrash you and tie you up. We aren’t playing
games.”
“Life is a game, Croaker,” One-Eye said. “You
take it too damned serious.” But he behaved himself, both
that night and the next day when we entered Oar.
I found a place well outside areas we frequented before. It
catered to small-time traders and travelers. We drew no especial
attention. Tracker and I kept a watch on Goblin and One-Eye. They
did not seem inclined to play the fool again, though.
Next day I went looking for a smith named Sand. Tracker
accompanied me. Goblin and One-Eye stayed behind, constrained by
the most terrible threats I could invent.
Sand’s place was easily found. He was a longtime member of
his trade, well-known among his peers. We followed directions. They
led me through familiar streets. Here the Company had had some
adventures.
I discussed them with Tracker as we walked. I noted, “Been
a lot of rebuilding since then. We tore the place up
good.”
Toadkiller Dog was on point, as often he was of late. He stopped
suddenly, looked around suspiciously, took a few tentative steps,
sank onto his belly. “Trouble,” Tracker said.
“What kind?” There was nothing obvious to the
eye.
“I don’t know. He can’t talk. He’s just
doing his watch-out-for-trouble act.”
“Okay. Don’t cost anything to be careful.” We
turned into a place that sold and repaired harness and tack.
Tracker yakked about needing a saddle for a hunter of large beasts.
I stood in the doorway watching the street.
I saw nothing unusual. The normal run of people went about their
normal business. But after a while I noted that Sand’s smithy
had no custom. That no smithery sounds came forth. He was supposed
to supervise a platoon of apprentices and journeymen.
“Hey. Proprietor. Whatever happened to the smith over
there? Last time we were here he did us some work. Place looks
empty.”
“Grey boys is what happened.” He looked
uncomfortable. Grey boys are imperials. The troops in the north
wear grey. “Fool didn’t learn back when. Was into the
Rebellion.”
“Too bad. He was a good smith. What leads regular folks to
get into politics, anyway? People like us, we got trouble enough
just trying to make a living.”
“I heard that, brother.” The tackmaker shook his
head. “Tell you this. You got smithery needs doing, take your
custom elsewhere. The grey boys been hanging around, taking anybody
who comes around.”
About then an imperial strolled around the side of the smithy
and crossed to a pasty stall. “Damned clumsy,” I said.
“And crude.”
The tackmaker looked at me askance. Tracker covered well,
drawing him back to business. Not as dumb as he appeared, I noted.
Maybe just not socially adept.
Later, after Tracker expressed a desire to think on the deal the
tackmaker offered and we departed, Tracker asked, “What
now?”
“We could bring up Goblin and One-Eye after dark, use
their sleeping spell, go in and see what’s to see. But it
don’t seem likely the imperials would leave anything
interesting. We could find out what they did with Sand and try to
reach him. Or we could go on to the Barrowland.”
“Sounds the safest.”
“On the other hand, we wouldn’t know what we were
headed into. Sand’s being taken could mean anything. We
better talk it over with the others. Catalog our
resources.”
Tracker grunted. “How long before that sutler gets
suspicious? The more he thinks about it, the more he’s going
to realize we were interested in the smith.”
“Maybe. I’m not going to sweat it.”
Oar is a city like most of substantial size. Crowded, Filled
with distractions. I understood how Goblin and One-Eye had been
seduced by Roses. The last major city the Company dared visit was
Chimney. Six years ago. Since then it has been all the hard times
and small towns you can imagine. I battled temptations of my own. I
knew places of interest in Oar.
Tracker kept me on the straight line. I’ve never met a man
less interested in the traps which tempt men.
Goblin thought we should put the imperials to sleep, give them
the question. One-Eye wanted to get out of town. Their solidarity
had perished like frost in the sun.
“Logically,” I said, “they would get a
stronger guard after dark. But if we drag you down there now,
somebody is sure to recognize you.”
“Then find that old boy who brought the first
letter,” Goblin said.
“Good idea. But. Think about it. Assuming he had perfect
luck, he’d still be a long way from here. He didn’t
catch a ride like we did. No go. We get out. Oar is making me
nervous.” Too many temptations, too many chances to be
recognized. And just too many people. Isolation had grown on me out
there on the Plain.
Goblin wanted to argue. He had heard the north roads were
terrible.
“I know,” I countered. “I also know the army
is building a new route to the Barrowland. And they’ve pushed
its north end far enough so traders are using it.”
No more argument. They wanted out as much as I. Only Tracker now
seemed reluctant. He who first thought it best to go.