Antiagon Fire (35 page)

“More lamb?” asked Quaeryt as they seated themselves at a table with the other officers, one set off partly in a stone alcove with a narrow stone window above one end, through which cool air flowed, for which Quaeryt was grateful, given the smoky air.

“No. Goat, most likely,” replied Arion. “The land is hard even for sheep, and the goat will be sliced thinly or chopped and cooked for a long time. But it is good.”

“What is there to drink?”

Arion gave a rueful expression. “Here you have a choice of a bitter beer—I would not call it ale or lager—or fermented goat’s milk.” He paused. “The beer is safer, I think.”

Quaeryt glanced at the column behind Arion, carved with figures in a circular scrolling pattern that rose almost to the ceiling. He saw men and horses, hunters with bows, a merchant bestowing what looked like a gem to a man in elaborate garb. What he didn’t see were any women.

“I’ve been looking at the carvings in the stone. They look to be old, and there aren’t any women shown.”

“You’re among the southern hill people here. They’re not truly Pharsi, and the stories say that they were here from the beginning. Unless you know them well, and they trust you totally, you never see a woman, and seldom a girl.”

As if to emphasize that, the servers were all men, and they set the same stoneware bowl, filled with a stew, as well as a stoneware mug, in front of each officer and Vaelora. There were two large pitchers on the table, one sandstone red, and the other white.

“The red is beer,” explained Arion.

The stew was tender, tangy, and not especially spicy, with a touch of mint and a spice he’d never tasted. The beer was so bitter that Quaeryt had to force himself to drink even a swallow of it. Then he imaged away the local brew and replaced it with the lager with which he filled his water bottle, adequate but not particularly good. But then, he didn’t know enough about brewing to image superb lager. Even so, he did the same for Vaelora and was rewarded with a thankful smile … after a briefly puzzled expression crossed her lips.

When he looked down the table, he thought that Khalis had done the same thing, and suggested it to Lhandor. While he couldn’t read their lips, the looks on their faces when they glanced at the pitchers and the comparative ease with which they lifted their mugs suggested they were having little difficulty drinking what was in them.

“How was your stew?” he finally asked Vaelora.

“Not bad … especially with the … change in beverage,” she murmured back.

“I thought it might help.”

“It did. I just hope it’s not necessary for the remainder of the time in Khel.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I hope we can get a good night’s sleep this evening.”

Quaeryt did not miss the slight emphasis on the word “sleep,” but he smiled anyway.

35

As the undercaptains formed up on Vendrei morning outside the Stone Inn stable doors, Quaeryt rode over to where Khalis and Lhandor waited, almost stirrup to stirrup.

“How did you find the local beer?” he asked, smiling.

Khalis looked to Lhandor.

Lhandor laughed softly. “It was awful, sir.”

“But I noticed you two were lifting your mugs rather often.”

“So were you, sir,” replied Lhandor. “How did you find it?”

“As you did,” Quaeryt said pleasantly. “You seemed to find a way to deal with it. Water, wine, ale, lager … what did you manage?”

Khalis grinned ruefully. “Berry juice and water. I tried to image lager, but it was worse than the beer.”

“And you?” Quaeryt looked to the other Pharsi undercaptain.

“Piss-poor lager, sir, but better than the beer,” replied Lhandor.

“What’s in your water bottles?”

“Piss-poor lager,” replied Lhandor.

“Good,” said Quaeryt. “Keep your eyes open today.”

“More so than usual, sir?” asked Khalis.

“Call it a feeling.” Quaeryt nodded, then eased his mount forward to rejoin Vaelora near the head of the column. He was pleased that the two youngest imagers were widening their skills, and not just at his urging.

As Quaeryt and Vaelora rode away from the Stone Inn, Quaeryt could see the innkeeper and the two younger men standing just outside the stone arch over the entry, watching impassively as the column of troopers passed. Very few of the doors in the sandstone cliffs that held the rest of the town had any signboards, but many of those that did bore letters or symbols that Quaeryt did not understand, leaving him with the feeling that they had not so much as ridden through Khel but through a part of Lydar’s distant past.

Just north of Sovahl, the road turned almost due west up a gently sloping dry valley that was little less than a half mille across at its base. Quaeryt saw no sign of any dwellings, nor of livestock or even of goats. Yet the stone road ran straight as a quarrel up the middle of the valley that held only sparse grass and bushes, and little enough of either.

“Tell us more about Saendeol,” prompted Quaeryt. “How big is it? What are the buildings like? The land around it?”

Arion shrugged, then gestured at the stony and near-barren hillsides on each side of the valley. “The land is much like this for the next fifteen milles or so. They call it the stone desert. After that, there are pines and other trees on the heights, and there are tall grasses, good forage in places. There is a small river that runs through the long valley that holds Saendeol. There are many apricot orchards, and the brandy they make from it is well known. The traders of Jariola send ships every year to Pointe Neiman to buy kegs of it.”

“What about the buildings?” asked Quaeryt. “Are they hollowed into the stone?”

“No. The oldest are built of the gray stone like the road. The newest are of sandstone, but they look the oldest.”

“Are there council buildings that are also old?”

“There is only one council building. It stands on top of a round hill, and it is round as well. I do not know what lies inside.”

For the next several glasses, they rode along the old stone road, as level and as well crafted as any of the Naedaran roads and showing less wear, with scarcely a crack or a fissure, through the dry hills until they came to a rise with a scattering of trees, which included bare-limbed broadleaf trees as well as the previous scattered pines and junipers. When they reached the crest of the road, Quaeryt could make out below a moderately wide valley, sprinkled with the orchards of which Arion had spoken, as well as hundreds of houses and buildings set well back from a narrow river. From the highest point on the road, Quaeryt estimated that it dropped almost two hundred yards over several milles as it angled down the comparatively gentle slopes to the base of the valley.

“There is Saendeol,” said Arion.

“The houses aren’t that close to the river.” That was Quaeryt’s first thought.

“That would not be wise. At times, the spring floods are wide and violent. The buildings are all on higher ground.”

That was another confirmation of the age of Saendeol for Quaeryt.

As they rode down to the town, Quaeryt noted that, unlike most towns, the streets were straight and either parallel or perpendicular to the river, creating regular oblong blocks. The buildings all appeared roofed in gray stone or tile. It took him a half quint to locate a building that met Arion’s description of the council chamber, because it was on the west side of the river, directly at the end of an avenue leading westward from the single bridge over the river. There were no other structures on the round hill, and the hill was encircled by a stone avenue as well.

Near the bottom of the incline, still a mille or so from the nearest buildings of Saendeol, a handful of riders in the green uniforms of Telaryn rode toward Quaeryt and first company. As they drew nearer, he recognized Subcommander Calkoran.

“Welcome to Saendeol,” called the Pharsi officer as he reined in his mount beside Quaeryt and Vaelora. “And especially to you, Lady.” His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Lord Bhayar named her as envoy as well,” said Quaeryt.

“He promoted you as well, sir, I see. Well deserved, for both of you … and necessary.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re here to escort you.”

“Where would you suggest we stay?” asked Quaeryt.

“There is a compound to the north of Saendeol. It once held armsmen, but it has not been much occupied in recent years. We have made it usable. The main house is in good repair. We have saved that for you and Lady Vaelora,” said Calkoran. “It is to the north.” He gestured, then urged his mount forward gently.

Quaeryt refrained from smiling at the smoothness with which Calkoran had moved from being surprised at Vaelora’s presence to his immediately accepting her presence. “We need to talk once we’re where we can discuss matters.”

“Yes, sir. We do. There may be … some difficulties.”

Calkoran’s mention of difficulties suggested that matters were not about to run even close to smoothly, but Quaeryt didn’t want to pursue those yet. “How was your journey here?”

“Arion told you, did he not, that we did not travel to Khelgror?”

“He did. He said that the High Council was meeting here. Do you know why they decided to do that?”

“They have not said, but we have asked, as we can, for although we are Pharsi, we wear the colors of Telaryn, and we are not trusted.” There was a slight edge to the subcommander’s voice before he barked a laugh. “They will not trust you, either. As Pharsi we distrust all we do not know. That is one of our curses, and few indeed are left who knew any of us.”

Quaeryt had the feeling that Calkoran had almost said more, but had refrained.

The first houses they neared were built of a pinkish gray sandstone, but had bluish gray slate tile roofs. They were not particularly large, perhaps ten yards by five, but neatly kept. As they entered the town, Quaeryt could see no unoccupied buildings or houses, for the first time since they had arrived in Khel. He also noted that every street was stone-paved, although some of the side streets had sandstone paving blocks with wagon grooves worn into them. The streets and the walks flanking them were not empty, but neither were there more than a few handfuls of people visible, and only two carts and a single rider. None of them gave the Telaryn force more than a passing glance.

Quaeryt found that both surprising and puzzling.

After riding less than ten blocks into the town, Calkoran gestured to a gray stone street heading north. “That is the way to the compound.”

Before long, they had left the neat stone houses behind and rode through an area with orchards on each side of the road. After about a mille, they neared an enclosure of gray stone walls two yards high.

“That is the compound.”

“It looks old,” said Quaeryt.

“It has been here so long as anyone can remember,” replied Calkoran.

Quaeryt nodded. The fact that it was on the north side of Saendeol suggested it had been built to deal with threats from the north when Jovana had been a separate land and Saendeol its capital.

The stone paving continued through the gray stone posts that bore no gates. The only sign of a road to the north was a clay track, showing little sign of use, that diverged from the paved road some fifty yards before the posts and continued northward. Beyond the gates was a paved courtyard fifty yards on a side with two long buildings south of the paved area, and two north. A single dwelling was set on the west end of the pavement. The dwelling was stone-walled, as were all the buildings, with the same slate tile roof, but was square, with eaves that extended almost two yards, allowing the roof to cover the narrow porch that ran all the way around the building. The windows were comparatively wide, and glassed, with equally wide gray shutters, now open.

“The dwelling is for you and the lady. The second long building on the right is for your officers and men. The stables are at the end.”

Quaeryt turned in the saddle. “Major Zhelan … you have command. Settle the mounts, men, and officers as necessary.”

“Yes, sir.”

Calkoran, Quaeryt, and Vaelora rode straight across the paved entry square and reined up just short of the three stone posts with bronze hitching rings.

“Just inside there is a sitting room on the right, a study on the left, then a parlor on the right and the dining chamber across from it,” said Calkoran. “Both have doors to the porch. Then the kitchen and serving areas are on the left, and two sleeping chambers on the right, one large and one small.” The subcommander nodded. “By your leave, sir, I will return shortly.”

“Thank you.”

After Calkoran rode off, Quaeryt dismounted and tied his mount. Vaelora did the same, and they walked up the three stone steps to the stone-tiled porch and inside the small entry hall, which had doors on each side, and a narrow corridor leading straight back.

Two women appeared, bowing gracefully, and speaking in Pharsi.

Despite the fact that Quaeryt spoke no Pharsi beyond a handful of phrases and that Vaelora’s knowledge was most limited, in a short time they had unloaded their gear and put it in the larger bedchamber, a room some four yards by six, with a small attached bathing chamber.

“The bed looks far better than the one last night,” observed Quaeryt.

“The headboard is beautiful,” murmured Vaelora.

Quaeryt had to agree. The oiled wood was the color of honey, but had the feel of great age, and he had to wonder if it had once been almost white. Above a center section of plain wood was a carved scene of men and women working in an orchard picking fruit and placing it in baskets, with carts at each side. Beside the carts were neatly stacked arms—bows, arrows in quivers, and lances laid upon the grass in rows.

“A bit of symbolism, there,” he observed. “A good harvest, with arms at the ready.”

“The Pharsi culture?”

“From what I’ve seen and heard … most likely.”

Through the open window, from which flowed a cool but not chill breeze, Quaeryt heard hoofs on the stone. “That’s likely Calkoran.”

A few moments later they stood in the study of the modest dwelling, where Calkoran rejoined them. Quaeryt did not sit, nor suggest that they do so.