Limits of Power (44 page)

“I cannot help worrying, but couriers will keep the dust in the air between us. Do not fail to send word daily.”

“Of course,” Arian said.

Kieri rode off with his Squires. How different from the previous summer, when he had been beset with visiting princesses and their difficult guardians and had sensed impending war. Now every tenday, Torfinn of Pargun sent a message reporting on the progress of rebuilding or offering advice on the design of a “proper port.” Torfinn wrote as he spoke, and even in writing had a tongue like a rasp, but all that old animosity had burned away. And the king of Kostandan seemed downright friendly, crediting Kieri with Ganlin's chance of marrying royalty in Tsaia.

But the Lady's death made a difference, though not in Kieri's sense of the taig. While she was alive, the elves—when not absent with her—seemed full of purpose, vividly alive. Now, when he saw elves at all, they seemed uncertain, vague, and almost too cooperative. No elves had come to the Midsummer ceremonies.

Still, they had not left the kingdom, and that was to his credit. He had asked their advice on the road west toward Dorrin's domain—which trees might be cut, which must be left—and they had answered sensibly enough. They had been alarmed at the thought of a river port, but mollified somewhat by his intention to use the scathefire tracks as the road to it.

“ 'Tis a pity, in that case, the scathefire did not burn along the river from Riverwash to where you want the port,” one said. He was younger, Kieri had been told, scarcely five hundreds old. The others were horrified, he could tell.

He shook those thoughts from his mind. Today, riding down the scathefire track with fresh green showing at its margins, he need not deal with elves. Today was for today's problems.

Not far ahead, he saw Lady Tolmaric waiting for him beside the road at a new clearing in the forest. Here on her own land, with the time between to get past the worst horrors of Sier Tolmaric's death, Lady Tolmaric seemed like any solid, competent countrywoman. Now she smiled at him less shyly than before.

“We have something to show you, sir king,” she said.

“I can see already you have made progress,” he said, looking around the clearing. He followed her down a lane, expecting to see a farmstead under construction—perhaps even a barn and house completed. Instead, he saw a building as large as a barn but laid out very differently. Stone below, timber above, it looked like … like an inn. Stone steps up to the entrance with a wider door than any farmhouse. Windows to either side. The width, he judged, would allow for a sizable downstairs common room and kitchen. Several chimneys poked out of the tall roof; a streamer of pale smoke drifted from one. A wall of upright timbers to either side, with a gate to the right. The farmer and his family stood before it, bowing.

“We are partway from Chaya to the new port,” Lady Tolmaric said. “I thought—I thought travelers would want somewhere to stop on the way. Some, anyway. It isn't finished…” She looked at him again, clearly worried that he might disapprove. “And right now, Jermys's cows are in what will be the stableyard…”

“It's—it's remarkable,” Kieri said. Most remarkable that she had thought of it and had gained confidence to do it without asking permission. “You're absolutely right: when the ships come, and merchants are busy on this road, they will need a place to stop overnight. An excellent idea.”

“Then … would the king consider … staying here this night instead of at the old place? No one has slept inside yet, and it would be an honor…” She bowed; the farmer and his family all bowed.

“Of course I will,” Kieri said. “But you must also come inside and rest there as well. How did you manage to clear the land and build all this in so short a time?”

“I brought both families here,” Lady Tolmaric said, following Kieri into the building. The flush of embarrassment faded from her face, and her voice steadied. “They had been neighbors before; they did not mind settling together.”

“So … this will be the common room,” Kieri said, looking at the large room. It was bare, just a big empty space, but well lit with its large windows. Doors opened from it—one, no doubt, to the kitchen; something there smelled delicious.

“Yes, sir king,” Lady Tolmaric said. “The kitchen is in use already … the two families together number three full hands. The rest of the furniture will be made by the time there's traffic on the road. Will you come upstairs to see the chamber we prepared for you?”

“Gladly,” Kieri said. He wondered who had designed this building. He had not suspected Lady Tolmaric of such talent—nor the Tolmaric farmers, either.

“You may remember,” Lady Tolmaric said, “that while we were in Chaya, before … before my husband died, we were living in a house we rented. But my husband bade me visit several inns, just to see how they were made. He had already thought of building an inn along the road in case of travelers, if you granted him the right to take new forest land. ‘See what they've got,' he told me. ‘Especially the kitchen and suchlike, and the stabling, too.' So I did.” She was breathless, climbing the stairs. “And then we built it.”

The stairs were broad, well pitched; the rooms on the first floor above opened off a passage that ran the depth of the building, where another stair led upward. Most doors were open, the rooms bare as the common room below. The room she led Kieri to was at the back, with windows open to the yard below. It had a well-made bed with an obviously new-woven blanket and pillows, a table, several chairs, rows of pegs on one wall, and a cabinet with doors and drawers both on the other. It smelled of herbs and beeswax. On the table was a somewhat battered tray with a pitcher and three mugs and a vase with a bouquet of wildflowers.

“It's lovely,” Kieri said. “What a pleasant place! I will rest well here, Lady Tolmaric. Thank you.”

She flushed again. “There's plenty of room for your Squires and all … but we only have the one bed made up.”

“That's fine. This is so much better than what we expected to sleep in.” He moved to the window and looked out. The yard was a long rectangle, amply wide enough for wagons to enter and turn around. At present, posts marked out what would eventually be all the accouterments of a successful inn: the smithy, the stable, storage for fodder, and so on. Already stone walls supported a bracken thatch in one corner, where a gate led out the far end.

“Cow byre,” Lady Tolmaric said, pointing. “Smith's still working outside, but we'll have a roof on by winter. Set all the posts now—they're mostly set—and we can enclose more of the outbuildings.”

“You need a mill,” Kieri said. “Both for grain and for lumber. Is there a swift stream nearby?”

“Yes, sir king. And we've a plan but no time yet to build it.”

“I don't think you need my advice, but I'd make the mill next after you get a roof—even a simple one—on those outbuildings.”

“We want to, sir king, but right now they're building mills near the port. I couldn't find someone who knew how to set up the mill to turn a stone or move a saw.”

“Perhaps I can help with that,” Kieri said. “Do you have a name for your inn yet?”

She flushed again, and tears rose in her eyes. “I wanted to name it for Salvon, but it didn't sound right: Salvon's Inn. Travelers won't know who he is.”

“Your innkeeper could tell them,” Kieri said. “But why not Salvon's Hope? He wanted to build an inn, didn't he?”

“Yes … yes, that's right. Thank you, sir king!”

At the next meal, Kieri met the whole group of them—Lady Tolmaric, the eldest Tolmaric son and daughter, the two farm families. The kitchen was big enough to cook for a small army; they ate around the worktables, silently at first and then talking more freely as they became used to Kieri and his Squires. Only Lady Tolmaric and her daughter had been as far from home as a river town; her account of city life was the only one they knew. Kieri told them of Vérella and Valdaire and Fin Panir—legends to them.

“This will seem a poor place, then,” Lady Tolmaric said, waving her hand at the room.

“Not at all,” Kieri said. “It's going to be a very successful inn, I'm sure, and you will make improvements as you have time and income. Your plan is excellent; right now you lack materials and workers to do more than the good start you've given it.”

“We're thinkin' we can provision it from the farm, sir king,” said one of the men.

“You probably can,” Kieri said.

“How many people will we need to run the inn?” Lady Tolmaric asked. “The inns in Chaya were so full, they said they had extra staff, and they didn't really have time to talk to me.”

“Minimum,” Kieri said, thinking of the little inn far away in Duke's East, “you need cooking staff: a good cook and at least two helpers. You need common room staff—if it's not busy, cook's helpers can serve customers food there, but if it gets busy, you'll need some just for that. Someone at the bar—you'll have drunks to deal with, so that one must be strong and steady. You'll need a guard or two, as well, once you start filling up. Upstairs—someone to clean the rooms, light fires in those rooms with fireplaces. Someone to wash linens. Stable staff to care for your animals and those of travelers and keep them from stealing all the fodder.”

“They would?” Lady Tolmaric asked.

“They do,” Kieri said. “Most travelers are honest enough, but every inn attracts thieves as well. They'll make off with whatever they can carry, and without paying if they can. Collect the money first, and guard it closely. Make sure the blankets are still on the beds, the mugs—” He gestured at the table. “—still in the rooms. Better yet, let them use their own in the rooms or come down to eat and drink. Travelers often carry their own.”

“We don't want thieves and such,” one of the men said.

“Of course not, but you can't have an inn and not have some of them. Be firm and fair from the very first and you'll have less trouble.” He fished in his belt pouch and laid a gold coin on the table. “Even the king should pay his way: I will set the example. You have stated no price, but this would cover the room and board for me and my Squires and our horses overnight. Will that suit?”

“You mustn't,” Lady Tolmaric said, going red and teary-eyed again. “You've done so much—”

“The inn must pay its way,” Kieri said. “Let it start now, with the king's gold Tree.” He smiled at them all. “I am pleased with all of you for your initiative and your work; I want this inn to succeed. So I will pay, and you will allow it.”

Mutters of “Yes, sir king” and “As the king wills” went around the table. Two fat tears ran down Lady Tolmaric's red cheeks; she wiped them away with her sleeve and nodded. “I cannot thank you enough—”

“Except by thriving,” Kieri said.

He slept well that night, and the next day they rode on, taking Lady Tolmaric with them, to see what progress had been made at the port.

It looked, in fact, like a huge muddy mess. A great swathe of forest cut down, a broad ditch of muddy water leading out to the river, and rows of tree trunks sticking out of the muck that remained.

“But those aren't trees,” a foreman explained to Kieri. He was a Pargunese Kieri had hired with Torfinn's help, a man who had helped maintain the Pargunese port and sailed around to Aarenis on Pargunese ships. He spoke Common with a strong accent but was understandable. “They're sections of tree, pounded in as deep as we can make 'em. That's to put the buildings above the spring floods. Might be better if we had stones enough, but we don't. Wood quays will do for now. Had to make it wide enough for ships to pass, and we'd really like a turning basin—but if we want any kind of port by next trade season, that'll have to wait.”

“How's the port over on your side?” Kieri asked.

“They're working on it.” The man spat into the mud. “Fire didn't hurt the structure itself but took ships and buildings. We had stone, y' see.” He looked out at the construction site. “Two ports won't hurt trade at all, my lord. It doesn't at the Immer mouth, does it? More room for ships, more ships come. We don't have the ships now, so it'll be waiting for others to come to us.”

“Are you also a shipwright?”

“No. I've a straight eye, not one for wave-shapes.” He looked around. “This won't look such a mess by freeze-up, sir king. And come spring break-up, you'll have a place for ships.”

When he left the port site, Kieri traveled on to the Honnorgat and then up it, along the rough track that ran from river village to river village. Riverwash, upstream, had grown again, with trade coming in from Tsaia. It looked raw and unfinished, but the stone foundations of some buildings had survived the scathefire, and those already bore new structures atop. Here he intercepted a Royal Courier from Tsaia with a letter from Arcolin and another from the Marshal-General, as well as a long one from Mikeli.

Arcolin's letter was much as he'd expected: Alured the Black almost certainly had the missing necklace and was believed to have captured one of Andressat's sons. Unrest was growing in the south, and Arcolin thought a move might be made along the north road.

The Marshal-General's came as a surprise. Elves in Fin Panir? Demanding that enchanted magelords in the far west be removed? He recalled something about them, but not any details. The appearance of magery in the peasantry was not as surprising. He had half expected news of this sort since Beclan had shown magery. The Marshal-General had convened a special council to discuss this—well, that made sense.

Mikeli revealed that his brother was now showing magery—he had waited to tell his neighbor king only, he said, because he had awaited the Marshal-General's ruling on it—but he had not yet told his Council. He wrote at length about the steps he'd taken to keep Camwyn's magery secret and why, and without actually asking for advice, he hinted that he would be glad of it.