Natural Ordermage (6 page)

Kian moved toward them from where he’d been sitting at the table, but the scrivener did not speak.

“The honey cake needs to be kept moist,” Khorlya added. “So tell her what it is immediately.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You’re going to court a girl, not to exile.” Exasperation colored Khorlya’s words.

He was being told to court a girl he didn’t want to consort who lived on lands four kays from anywhere, and it wasn’t exile?

“Now… you take the High Road south, until you get to the base of the long rise that leads to the Black Holding. There’s a lane that heads east, with two stone pillars there, and a set of horns on the right pillar. You take the lane almost a kay until you get to the fork…”

Rahl listened carefully. The last thing he wanted was to get lost—and then have to admit it and ask someone for directions.

“I hope you have a pleasant day, and if you run into trouble, try to talk before you use that truncheon.” Kian opened the door, a clear sign that Rahl was to be on his way.

“And make sure her day is pleasant, too,” added Khorlya.

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Do better than that,” suggested Kian.

“Yes, ser.” Rahl inclined his head, then stepped out into the sunlight.

Once he began to walk southward, he felt better. The breeze was just brisk enough to be cooling. At the corner, he saw Quelerya and Alamat sitting on the weaver’s porch. He grinned and waved with the hand that wasn’t carrying the basket. “Good day!”

“Good day, Rahl,” Alamat called.

Quelerya said nothing, but Rahl could sense curiosity from the old biddy. He kept walking. As he passed the short lane to Sevien’s dwelling, he glanced down it, but he didn’t see anyone there. He walked almost half a kay before his sandals were on the smooth stone-paved surface of the High Road.

He looked southward. He had at least another two kays before he reached the lane. His eyes strayed to the low black-stone buildings at the distant crest of the rise. Were his parents doing the same thing to him that Creslin’s mother had done to him? He shook his head but kept walking.

Behind him, he heard hoofs, and then a voice called out, “‘Ware on the left!”

He eased to the right side and glanced up as a rider in the black of a Council Guard went by. The woman didn’t even really look at him as she hurried past. She could have offered a greeting, but some of the Guards thought they were so important. He snorted. They were all errand runners for the Council. From what he’d heard and seen, the black engineers in Nylan were the ones who did the real fighting and protected Reduce, not that he was about to say that to either his parents, or Kacet.

And why were they suddenly so intent on his courting Shahyla? While Rahl had seen and talked to Shahyla more than a few times growing up, he’d never walked all the way to her father’s holding. Why was he doing it? Why were his parents so insistent? Was there something to what his mother had said about machines being used to make books?

But wasn’t there something he could do besides learn to become a herder? Or a Guard? He’d much rather be a factor, even, and working with Fahla, he suspected, wouldn’t always be easy. But it wouldn’t be boring. He grinned at that thought.

He looked up and watched as a cart approached. A gray-haired woman walked beside a mare, holding the mare’s leads loosely. The cart held potatoes. They had to be from the previous fall and probably had been stored all winter in a root cellar.

“Good day,” Rahl said politely as he neared her. “Potatoes for the Guard keep?”

“Indeed, young ser. How did you know?”

“It’s end-day, and the markets aren’t open. It would have to be one of the inns or the keep. That’s a lot of potatoes for an inn.” Rahl grinned.

The woman smiled back as she passed.

Rahl continued on his way, occasionally passing, and being passed by riders and wagons. None of the teamsters going his way offered him a ride, and he found that irked him, especially when he thought about the man who had an empty wagon.

Before long, he reached the point on the High Road where it began to climb and found the first set of pillars easily enough although he was blotting his forehead by then. Before setting off- down the lane, he took off his tunic and tied it around his waist. The light undertunic felt far more comfortable, but when he reached the fork, he wasn’t all that much cooler, but he wasn’t sweating as much as he had been.

The right fork wound between two hills. Just beyond the hills were the gate and stone walls that marked the edge of Bradeon’s holding. Rahl stopped and blotted his forehead. He found a spot on the wall shaded by an old pine and sat down to cool off.

After a time, he redonned the tunic and climbed over the wall rather than fiddle with the elaborate latches on the gate. The lane beyond the gate was even narrower and rutted as it rose gentry perhaps ten cubits over a quarter kay.

Rahl studied the lands on both sides of the lane. Those to the north were lush meadows or pastures. He wasn’t sure what the difference was. Those to the south looked to have been more heavily grazed and not so fertile. There were trees scattered here and there, and beyond the walls to the south, perhaps a kay farther on, -rose the scrubbier juniper and pine protected forests, although in places, he could see the greener and thicker growth of leaved trees.

Just below the top of the low rise was a cluster of buildings—several shed-like barns, smaller sheds, and a long gray stone house perhaps twice the size of the one in which Rahl had grown up. As he neared the dwelling, he could see that at least one of the small sheds held chickens. A hissing told him that there were also geese.

Shahyla stood under the eaves that shaded the front porch, clearly waiting for him. She was a tall girl, taller than Sevien, with wavy brown hair cut just at neck level. She had a pleasantly curved figure, Rahl noted, and clear skin. Her nose was crooked, and her left eye twitched. She wore dark brown trousers above scuffed boots and a clean but faded pale blue shirt. When he stepped up onto the porch, she smiled. The boards of the porch creaked.

“You walked all the way out here?”

Rahl grinned. “How else would I get here?” He extended the basket. “This is for you and your family— both the basket and the honey cake in it.”

“Rahl… the basket is lovely.”

“Mother made it for you.”

“Oh… I’m forgetting manners.” She gestured toward the battered bench set against the outside front wall of the dwelling, between the door and the small square window, open to capture the breeze. “You must be hot and tired. It is a long walk. Please sit down, I’ll get you some ale. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Ale would be wonderful.”

“I’ll also put the honey cake in the cooler. That should keep it moist.”

Rahl settled onto the bench, careful not to bang the truncheon on the wood. He did watch Shahyla as she turned and entered the house, appreciating her grace and her shapeliness. Her figure was better than Jienela’s. For that matter, it was better than Fahla’s as well.

He blotted his forehead. He might as well enjoy the afternoon, especially since he was in no hurry to start the long walk back into Land’s End.

Shahyla returned with two large mugs, more like tankards in size. One was half-full, the other almost overflowing. She handed him the full one. “One nice thing about company is that Father doesn’t complain if I have a little ale.”

“Thank you.” Rahl took a swallow. “It’s good.”

“It should be. Father makes his own.” She settled onto the bench beside him.

“You have quite a spread here.”

“It’s the last of the old large holdings near Land’s End.” Shahyla sipped her ale. “It keeps all three of us busy.”

Rahl’s eyes took in the two shed-barns he could see and the chicken shack. “Do you grow everything you eat here?”

“No. We grow a lot, but it’s better to make the cheese and sell it and some of the steers every year than to spend too much time on growing things. We have a house garden, and that helps.”

“You must do a lot here, the cooking and helping with the animals.”

“Ma was a better cook, but Father and Semmelt don’t complain.”

“I’m sure you cook well, and you probably do everything else well also.”

Shahyla dropped her eyes, looking down into the tankard mug. After a moment, she lifted them. “You know I don’t read much. I’ve always had to work, since Ma was so sick. I do know my letters.”

“People make too much over reading,” Rahl said. “Doing is what matters, and you do a lot, more than any woman I know.”

“You’re a scrivener…”

“I’m sure you could read what I write, but it wouldn’t help with the cows or the cheese.” Rahl took another long swallow of the ale. It was stronger than what he got at home, but he had to admit that it was good. He reached out and touched the back of her hand just momentarily, caressing it with order. “It’s quiet out here.” .

Shahyla gave a short, giggling laugh. “It isn’t in the morning. The roosters are crowing, and the cows want to be milked, and Father and Semmelt are shouting about what needs to be done.”

“Until you get everything in order?”

She looked down again.

“You’re the one who keeps everything going, I’d wager.”

“You’re nice, Rahl,” Shahyla said. “Po you like cows and bulls? Or horses?”

“I never thought about it. I haven’t ever ridden a horse or driven a team, and we don’t have a dog. They’d chew, on the binding hides, Father says.”

“They might. We don’t have them because Father says they chase the cows, and it’s not good for the milk.” Shahyla smiled and gave the slightest giggle. “I think that’s because he doesn’t like them. The geese tell us if anyone’s coming, and the cats take care of the rats and other rodents.”

Abruptly, she looked at Rahl. “You didn’t have dinner today, did you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Your stomach was growling. Leastwise, you should have some good cheese and bread.” Shahyla rose. “Come on inside.”

Rahl wasn’t about to object too strenuously. He was hungry, and his stomach had been muttering its discomfort.

Shahyla set him in the chair at one end of an ancient table that could easily have seated more than half a score, and then brought out a huge wedge of cheese and half a loaf of bread that was still warm. “We had plenty left after dinner.” Absently, she pressed the side of her thumb against her left eye to stop the twitching.

“I don’t deserve this…” Rahl grinned at her after several bites of bread and cheese. “But I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

She seated herself on the end of the dining bench to his right, patting her tankard mug before her. “I made the bread.”

“It’s very good. What else do you do when you’re not cooking?”

“Oh… I milk the cows and churn the butter, and take care of the chickens and collect the eggs. The garden’s mine, too, and I do most of the skinning when we slaughter.‘ Semmelt’s too rough, and that’s hard on the hide. Could make a silver’s difference in what we get. I do what needs to be done.”

“What do they do? Besides feed and chase the cattle?”

“Everything.” Another giggle-laugh followed her words. “Yesterday, Semmelt and Father worked all day gelding and marking the male calves. They use a special curved knife. It’s real sharp.” Shahyla slipped off the bench and walked to the sideboard. “Here… see.”

Rahl looked at the knife. It almost seemed to be covered in a shifting reddish white film. Just looking at the knife made him uneasy. It wasn’t the gelding that bothered him; it was the gelding knife. He forced himself to nod. “It looks like it was made for just that.”

“It’s been in the family for a long time, Father said.” She replaced the knife in the drawer and returned to the bench. “Your stomach’s not growling.”

“No… and it thanks you. So do I.” Rahl touched her wrist gently—and briefly.

“What sort of books do you copy?”

“All kinds,” he replied. “I’ve been working on Tales of the Founders.”

“Can you tell me about it?”

“I may not remember everything, but I’ll try.” Rahl took another swallow of ale, then cleared his throat. “Creslin was the son of the Marshal of Westwind…”

He told Shahyla the first two tales he’d copied and was about to start the third when the door opened.

“Ah… it’d be young Rahl, sure as I’m standing here.”

Rahl turned at the rough voice to see Bradeon coming through the doorway, barefoot. “Later, when you have time, Shahyla, if you’d be washing off my boots,” Bradeon went oh. “Semmelt’s still over at the spring.

Another of those clay pipes feeding the field troughs cracked. Made ah awful mess. Some of the cows ripped up the grass there. Take all summer to grow back.“ The herder shook his head.

Belatedly, Rahl eased to his feet.

Bradeon glanced out the small window toward the west, then back to his daughter. The sun was well past mid-afternoon. “I’d be thinking…”

“I know, Father.” Shahyla rose, then turned to Rahl. “Thank you for coming.” She looked to Bradeon. “He brought us a honey cake.”

The herder inclined his head. “Much obliged. Semmelt’ll be even more obliged.” Bradeon settled into the chair at the other end of the table, turning it sidewise so that he could rest his feet on the bench.