Mage-Guard of Hamor (30 page)

For the remainder of sixday, Rahl rode forward of the main column with the outriders, but a good quarter kay behind the scouts. The road had turned so that its general heading was due southwest, but they encountered only a few local carts and riders, and Rahl detected nothing suspicious. The half squads sent to ask local holders about rebels and armed men reported back that none of the locals had seen either. Rahl accompanied one of the groups, and the holders were indeed telling the truth. The lack of local observation bothered Rahl, but he didn't know what he could do about it except be vigilant. Once again, he'd failed to do something, and once again, it was because no one had told him what to look for. He was beginning to think that no one ever thought about telling others anything of value. Rather, they just came up with vague platitudes and thought they were being helpful. He snorted quietly.

The weather remained chill, but they'd been fortunate because they'd encountered no more rain, and Rahl could not sense any great amount of water in the air. That was encouraging for the next few days, at least. They had not sent any more troopers as messengers, nor had they received any messages from the submarshal's forces. The way matters were going, Third Company would reach Dawhut a good eightday before the submarshal—if not longer.

By sevenday, the rugged and rocky hills had gradually given way to lower, gentler, and more rounded rises, with a mixture of hardwood trees, meadows, and fields, although the tilled ground was winter-fallow. Rahl continued to keep pace with the outriders, checking everything that he could for possible traps or ambushes. He was riding beside Alrydd, an older and graying trooper.

“Still seems strange, begging your pardon, ser, to have a mage-captain riding with an outrider.” Alrydd did not look at Rahl as he spoke, his eyes traversing the road and the areas on each side.

“Seems strange to be riding here, Alrydd.” Rahl paused, then asked, “How long have you been a trooper?”

“Near on twelve years, ser. Was a butcher's apprentice in Sylpa. Figured being a trooper couldn't be any bloodier, and it'd get me out of consorting to the renderer's daughter.”

“Did it?”

“Aye, yes, and that I never regretted.”

Rahl could sense there were other regrets, but did not press. “I was a scrivener, and trying to avoid being consorted to a young woman led from one thing to another, and I ended up a trader's clerk in Swartheld, and then a mage-clerk in Luba.”

“Women, ser…when you're with 'em, you can't do without 'em, except when you wish you could and can't.”

Rahl wasn't certain he followed that line of thinking, but he laughed softly. “They can be a puzzle.” Absently, he reached up and massaged the back of his neck, with his left hand. His head was already aching, and it was only midafternoon.

A low stone wall, no more than waist high, formed a neat border around a small orchard ahead on the left side of the road. With the almost-furled gray of winter leaves, Rahl couldn't tell the type of fruit trees, except that they weren't pearapple or apple.

He stiffened. Was there a hint of chaos there? He reined up the gelding and said to Alrydd, “Hold up.”

The trooper complied without speaking.

“There's something about that orchard, or the wall in front of it.” Rahl eased the gelding forward, but slowly, extending his order-senses.

The grass and weeds in front of the stone wall appeared and felt undisturbed, and so did the orchard, but an area a good ten or fifteen cubits wide behind the stone wall, on the end farthest north and closest to Rahl, had clearly been touched by chaos, if faintly.

“There's something here!” he called back. “Pass the word to the captain.”

“Yes, ser.”

Rahl inspected more closely, but still from a good ten cubits away. Loosely covered with leaves and grasses was an oblong two cubits in width and four cubits in height or depth. He guessed that it was similar to the earlier arrow traps.

He shifted his attention back to the road itself, trying to discover what mechanism the rebels had devised to set it off. There was a wide and flat space in the middle of the road, dustier than the area around it, and without any tracks across it. That had to be the cutter plate that severed the trip rope.

He turned in the saddle as the same pair of older troopers who had disassembled the first trap appeared. “The quarrel plate is behind the wall. It's fairly large.” He gestured. “The spring plate is there. You can see the outline in the road. The rod is still in place. I wouldn't fiddle with it until you disarm the quarrel trap.”

“No, ser. We wouldn't want to be doing that.”

Rahl offered no more direction, but continued to watch as the two went to work.

What the troopers finally lifted clear of the ground between the trees and the walls was a wooden throwing plate with tubes for sixty-four quarrels, and all the tubes were filled. Once they had the plate uncovered and clear of the weighted throwing links, Rahl could sense chaos around the plate more strongly.

“There's a paste smeared on the tips,” said one of the troopers.

“Poison, most likely,” added Drakeyt, who had ridden up shortly before the two troopers had eased the throwing plate away from the mechanism.

Rahl almost nodded. “Why would they use poison on the quarrels?”

“To kill more of us.” Drakeyt's words were dryly sardonic.

“No. The poison would still only kill a few more troopers than the quarrels without poison, but it takes more time and effort, and it's more dangerous for whoever's assembling the device.”

“And it's likely to make the troopers more angry,” Drakeyt added. “You're suggesting that these traps aren't being set by regular troopers or officers. They're either trying to save their troopers for actual battle, or they have something else in mind.”

“Or both.” Rahl had no idea what other idea might be behind the actions of the mages and crafters—it had to be a combination of both—who were setting the traps.

“That sort of treachery doesn't speak well of Golyat or those supporting him. Mythalt's been a good emperor, as emperors go,” replied Drakeyt. “Why would anyone want to support someone who would poison everyday troopers? It says they don't think much of the rank and file.”

“Or they think that poisoned quarrels will make the men less determined in battle.”

Drakeyt shook his head. “Word about the poison gets around, and most of the troopers won't want to give quarter—especially to rebel officers.”

Rahl thought it might just show the arrogance of the rebel mage-guards—and that they were the ones who felt they were above rules, decency, and being accountable for what they did. His lips quirked. They were—until or unless the Imperial forces and mage-guards defeated them.

Drakeyt turned in the saddle to the two troopers breaking up the quarrel-throwing trap. “Wrap up the poisoned quarrels. We'll want to give them to the submarshal when they join forces with us.”

Whenever that might be,
Rahl thought.

Then the captain looked at Rahl. “From here on in toward Dawhut, we'd better check every stead and structure near the road, and all of the side lanes or roads with tracks.”

“I think that's a good idea,” Rahl replied.
For many reasons.

On eightday and oneday, Drakeyt put his stepped-up surveillance and scouting plan into effect. On eightday, Third Company only traveled twelve kays across the low and rolling hills, scarcely more than low rises between ever-more-extensive bog meadows and the steads on the edge of each. A number of the bog meadows looked more like mining pits, stepped downward into darkness.

Oneday was a repetition of eightday, and they still found no sign of rebels, and no one who had seen any or any tracks or other traces. By late afternoon, they had begun to encounter carts and wagons heaped with bog meadow turf creaking southwest on the road.

Ahead Rahl could see another of the old kaystones. Not until he had ridden within a dozen cubits could he make out the name and distance:
Fhydala
–
5 k
. As worn as the letters were on this, the “new” road, he had to wonder how much older the “old” road was.

The still and cold air carried a pungent odor. Rahl sniffed once, then again. He had no idea what the scent was. Even the gelding snorted slightly, and Rahl could sense he didn't care for the odor much, either. “Alrydd? Do you know what that smell is?”

“Can't say that I know, ser. I'd be guessing that it's from the stills. Feromyl said that was one of the reasons he left years back.”

That made sense to Rahl, and, if that were so, he could see why Feromyl, whoever he was, had left Fhydala.

He rode past several oblong small lakes with dark water in them, appearing as though they had once been bog meadows that had been excavated until there was no more turf to be removed, then had filled with rainwater and seepage. After climbing another low rise, he could see the town ahead. Grayish smoke seeped from two tall brick chimneys, one almost immediately to the left of the road ahead and one more than a kay to the right. The one to the left was part of a neatly maintained brick structure. Rahl couldn't make out the structures around the chimney to the right, but he gained the impression that the structures were older and not as well managed.

Drakeyt rode forward and joined Rahl. “We'll ride into the town, and if they seem welcoming, and you don't sense anything, we'll find quarters for the men. We'll run patrols around here tomorrow and stay tomorrow night before we move on. The last eightday has been hard on the troopers and their mounts. I'm just glad you didn't find any more traps today.”

“So am I,” replied Rahl, “but I have the feeling that today was just a respite. What do you know about the town?”

“About as much as you do.” Drakeyt laughed. “The scouts didn't see anything unusual. Did you?”

“Some of those bog meadows to the northeast looked like mining pits,” Rahl said.

“They dry the best of the turf and use it to flavor the Vyrna. The rest they burn as fuel for their stoves and homes and the stills, of course.”

“What will they do when it's all burned?”

“Dig it from somewhere else, I suppose,” replied Drakeyt.

“Some have been abandoned for years. The ones that have become ponds don't look that good.”

“That's their problem.”

Rahl nodded, but he had to wonder. The vegetation around the bog-meadow ponds had looked sparse and weedy, anything but healthy, and the smoke from the distilleries wasn't exactly the most pleasant odor he'd ever inhaled.

As Third Company rode into Fhydala, Rahl concentrated on sensing anything out of the ordinary, but the folk on the road and the lanes only exhibited feelings and expressions ranging from matter-of-fact acceptance to mild surprise. Rahl could detect no signs of chaos beyond those normal for any town or hamlet.

When Third Company reined up in the town square, both Rahl and Drakeyt were pleased to see that there were actually two inns in Fhydala, on opposite sides of the square. The larger inn's signboard depicted a squarish building constructed of what looked to be enormous bricks or brown stones. The letters beneath the simple image read
The Turf Inn.

“The Turf Inn?” Rahl wondered aloud.

“That's an old, old name,” Drakeyt replied. “Centuries back, some of the poor folks built their huts from turf bricks. It's a way of saying it's an honest and modest place.”

The smaller inn was narrower, and its signboard proclaimed it as
The Red Coach.
Both were without patrons, and both innkeepers were more than pleased to accept the script offered by Drakeyt for use of the rooms and the stables and sheds.

With all the arrangements for feed and food, and inspections of makeshift quarters, it was well past dark before Drakeyt and Rahl were finished with those details. After grooming the gelding and leaving the stable, Rahl went to the small upper-level room he had to himself—next to the one shared by three squad leaders. There was no shower in the Turf Inn, or any inn so far—but Rahl used two pitchers of water to wash up, and on his way down to meet Drakeyt in the inn's public room arranged for one of his uniforms to be washed and pressed. The captain had already settled at a corner table in the public room in the Turf Inn—and the troopers had already left after having been fed, leaving the two officers alone. A slightly smoky fire burned in the hearth as a thin servingwoman appeared.

“We saved chops for you gents. That be all right, with a bit of burhka on the side, and some late pearapple sauce?”

“That would be fine,” Drakeyt said. “And to drink?”

“Just dark ale or gold lager…there's Vyrna…but…”

“That doesn't come with what we paid for,” finished Drakeyt.

“No, ser.”

“Dark ale,” said the older captain.

“Gold lager,” added Rahl. He didn't care much for drinks he felt he should be chewing rather than swallowing.

“Be right there, sers.”

Rahl glanced around the public room. While the old tables were oiled and clean, and the floor swept, the wood of both was worn, and a sense of age and tiredness permeated everything. He'd sensed age in the buildings in both Land's End and Nylan, but not the tiredness. Did order keep tiredness at bay? Or was it chaos constrained by order that did that?

“You're deep in thought, Rahl.”

“The place feels tired.”

“I feel tired,” replied Drakeyt, “and we're not even halfway to Nubyat. We've not seen a rebel force, and we've already lost nearly half a squad to traps and floods.”

The servingwoman reappeared with two large mugs. “Your ale and lager. Be just a moment more for your dinner.”

“Thank you.”

Drakeyt waited until she was well away from the table before continuing. “It's less than fifty kays from here to Dawhut, but we'll have to take it slower from here on in.” He took a long pull of the dark ale. “That's because there are all sorts of back roads and hamlets between here and there. According to the maps, anyway, and the old road joins the one we're following some fifteen kays southwest of here. Folks don't think about it, but there are more places to hide when there are more steads and hamlets. In a place where you've only got a score of families over ten kays of road, everyone notices a stranger and whether something's missing. You can't get supplies and food if there's no one around to grow them, either.”

“That makes sense.” Rahl sipped the gold lager. He was famished, and he wasn't about to drink much on an empty stomach. “You think there are many rebels or supporters in Dawhut?”

“There'll be some. It's big enough to have some people who weren't happy with the way things were going. How many?” Drakeyt shrugged. “That's why the submarshal sent us.”

“It would be helpful if we had some idea how far behind he is.”

“Far enough to let us flush out the trouble and not close enough to help if we get in too deep. That's what recon in force is all about.” The captain looked up as the servingwoman carried two platters toward them.

Neither man spoke for a time once their food arrived.

Rahl ate everything on the platter. He was hungry enough that it all tasted good.

As they were finishing, Drakeyt took a last swallow of ale, then said, “I'm going to run over to the other inn and check how things are going.”

“I could check here,” offered Rahl.

“I'd appreciate that.”

“I need to get into more things with the company.” Rahl was tired, and he wanted to write a bit more on his letter to Deybri since he had no idea when he might have another chance, but he also needed to be visible to the troopers as well, and Drakeyt could use another set of eyes.

“I'll meet you back here in the front hall, and we can talk over what you saw.” Drakeyt stood.

“I'll be here.” As he stood, Rahl noticed the copper on the table, and he added one of his own.

Once outside, Rahl moved across the courtyard and through the darkness toward the end of the stable and the hayloft where second squad was billeted. The door was ajar, and he slipped inside. Ahead, he could sense four men in the corner of the barn, the corner barely lit by a wicked-down lantern. He raised a sight shield around himself and eased forward quietly.

“…never make your point, Cheslyn…”

“…know when to throw and when not to…”

Rahl could sense the chaos around the knucklebones—except it wasn't exactly chaos—and he took several more steps until he was within a few cubits of the gamers. After watching for several moments, he realized that one of the troopers had two sets of bones and switched them when he took the bones for his throws.

“Whose bones are those?” Rahl's voice was quiet, but firm, as he dropped the sight shield.

All four troopers froze.

“I asked whose bones they were.” Rahl kept his hand on the truncheon at his belt.

“Ser…we were just having a friendly game.”

Rahl waited in the dimness, but no one spoke.

“Are they yours, Cheslyn?”

The burly bearded trooper did not speak, but Rahl got the clear sense of fear that he would be discovered.

“I think you'd better hand me the bones in your hand,” Rahl said.

Cheslyn whirled and jumped to his feet, his hand on his dagger.

“Don't even think about it.” Rahl's voice was like ice, and he projected order-force behind the words. He extended his left hand. “The bones.”

The trooper froze. Then the hand holding the weighted bones moved back toward the slot in his jacket that held the unweighted cubes.

“You've got them in your hand,” Rahl said coolly. “Just hand them over. In the morning, you can talk to the captain and me.” He could sense fear and fury within the trooper. “Don't make it worse, Cheslyn. Just hand them over.”

“Yes, ser.” The trooper's words were even, but the rage behind them was barely held in check. He dropped the bones in Rahl's hand.

Rahl sensed that they were the weighted bones. “Very wise, Cheslyn. Come see the captain and me first thing in the morning after muster.”

“Yes, ser. I certainly will.”

“Good.” Even in the darkness, Rahl could sense that, had Cheslyn's eyes been crossbows, Rahl would have been spitted to the wall behind him. He stepped back, then raised the sight shield.

His disappearance cooled some of the trooper's rage. Some.

“Cheslyn…you're an idiot…he's killed officers…think he'd hesitate a moment to put you down?”

“…man's got a right to game on his own time…can't take that way…”

Rahl found no other problems with the other troopers in second squad or with third and fifth squad, but he also did not see Khasmyr—the second squad leader—or Quelsyn. That concerned him as well.

Drakeyt was waiting in the small front foyer of the Turf Inn. “How did it go?”

“I didn't see any of the squad leaders, and we had a little trouble,” Rahl admitted. “Some of the troopers in second squad were gaming bones.”

“You didn't see any squad leaders because Quelsyn had gathered them together over at the other inn, and gaming isn't really a problem, so long as they're quiet.”

“The gaming wasn't,” Rahl said. “But using loaded bones and switching them isn't something that ought to be going on.”

Drakeyt looked at Rahl, almost expressionless. “So what did you do?”

“I asked to see the bones—when Cheslyn had the loaded ones in hand. Then I said that I thought I'd better keep them, and that Cheslyn could talk to us in the morning.”

“Why not right then, if you were so intent on stopping the game?”

“The game didn't matter. Cheating your mates with loaded bones does. But if I called him then, there would have been trouble, and we'd lose another trooper, one way or another. This way…if you agree…I can tell him quietly that if I ever catch him cheating his mates again, he'll be the one investigating the rebel traps.”

Drakeyt laughed. “For such an innocent-looking fellow, you have a devious way of thinking, Rahl. What if you catch him again?”

“I wouldn't say a word. I'd just send him into every nasty situation around, and when he finally didn't make it, I'd give the bones to one of his mates, and tell him that Cheslyn had to pay off on his wagers.”

The smile drained from Drakeyt's face. “You mean that, don't you?”

Rahl shrugged. “I haven't been a mage-guard as long as a lot have, but one thing I've learned is that the people who don't heed the first warning don't heed the second…or the third—not unless they get slammed upside the head, and hard.” As he finished speaking, he realized that he sounded cold, and that his words could have been applied to himself.

“What if you were Cheslyn?”

“I was,” Rahl replied. “That's why I know. That's why I'm a mage-guard.”

“A crooked gamer?” Drakeyt was incredulous.

“No. One of those people who didn't listen to the warnings. Once upon a time, I was a scrivener in Recluce…” Rahl ran through a quick summary that left out more than a few things, but wasn't misleading, he hoped, ending with, “…and once I got my memory back, they made me a mage-clerk in Luba.”