The Legacy of Gird (132 page)

"Perhaps." Seri stared awhile longer, then shook her head sharply. "Well. We're not going to build a trail straight down
this
. We'd better look for a place where we can. Maybe where the water comes down. . . ."

They worked their way east, staying close to the edge and looking over at intervals. This canyon narrowed rapidly at the bottom, while the upper levels were still far apart, and soon Aris spotted a sheer cliff with a waterfall. "That won't work," he said. "Even if it's passable from above, imagine that in a storm—it would wash out any trail we built."

They headed south and west again, crossing their own tracks, and found a place where a dry wash wrinkled the surface, deepening rapidly toward the edge. "It will be another cliff," Seri predicted. But when they looked, some flaw in the rock had formed a great fissure. Broken chunks the size of buildings stepped down toward the desert below. Aris looked at it doubtfully.

"I supposed we could try—go down as far as we could—"

Seri snorted. "We shouldn't be stupid twice in one year. We've already gotten into trouble—or what could have been trouble—when we used that robbers' trail without thinking about it. We're supposed to be Marshals—now think. If we go down, and can't get back up—"

"I could use the mageroad," Aris said, for the sake of argument. He enjoyed feeling more daring than Seri, rare as the chance was.

"If you slipped and cracked your head," she said, "I couldn't use it, and couldn't heal you. No—let's find some way to recognize this from below, and then figure out how to go around."

"From Dirgizh?"

"Right. From the old caravan route they spoke of. Now let's see. . . ." She lay flat, her head over the edge of the cliff, and looked toward the fissure, then the stream below. "It would be nice to have a grove of trees—"

"No trees." Aris said. He sat, his legs dangling over enough space to stack five cities cellar to tower, and looked over at the facing cliffs. Their fissure seemed to line up with a skinny spire of rock, much thinner than the Thumb, on that side. He pointed it out to Seri; her eyes narrowed.

"Yes . . . but from down there the line will be different. Let's see . . . we can see the stream, so if you stood on this side of it—"

"We should be mapping this," Aris said suddenly, wondering why they hadn't thought of that. Before she could remind him that they had brought nothing to map with, he said, "I know—we can't. But if we draw it on the stone several times, we should be able to remember it." He rolled back from the edge, and broke some brittle sticks from one of the stiff, spiny bushes that dotted the upper plateau. They drew what they saw, until both agreed on the proportions and shapes, and could reproduce it anew.

By then it was late afternoon; they would have trouble making it back to the pine wood by dark, let alone back to the stronghold.

"No one can see us use the mageroad here," Aris said. "Let's do it." Seri nodded, and he found a sand-covered stretch, back from the edge, and graved the pattern carefully with his stick. The late-afternoon wind howled up the cliff, blowing sand into the pattern even as he drew it; he had to rework the pattern with deeper grooves, and then decided to mark it out with pebbles instead. Seri wandered about at a little distance, looking alternately at the great space below and beyond, and at the curious black hill behind them.

Suddenly she stiffened, and said, "Aris!" He looked over, to see her staring back at the confusing jumble of rock near the upper end of the little valley.

"What?"

"Something moved." She backed toward him.

"Look out!" he said sharply; she had nearly stepped on the end of the pattern he had completed with pebbles. She looked down, moved aside.

"Sorry," she said. Her dagger was out, he noticed with some astonishment. "Aris, something's over there—"

"Too far to bother us, if you let me finish the pattern and get us on the mageroad."

"I don't like it," Seri said. Aris placed the last three pebbles, stood, and took her hand.

"Then we'll leave. Come on, Seri, it would be stupid to wait here for whatever it is; it's getting late, the sun will be in our eyes—"

"Oh, well." She relaxed suddenly, and stepped carefully where he pointed. "It's probably only one of those wildcats—"

And they were back in the great hall, where their arrival brought bustle and excitement, and a summons from Luap to tell him what they had found.

"So this is what we think, sir," Aris said, summarizing their long report. "We need to approach from the lower end, both to locate the old caravan route east, and to find out if that water we saw is good. Then we'll need to consult with the best stone-carvers—you know I can't do that—and it will take at least a season of work to cut a passable trail for pack animals, and make sure it doesn't fall. If we can go now to the Khartazh, and find out about the caravan, perhaps next summer—after the fieldwork's done—work could start on the trail down. And the trail from here to the upper valley, and the trail out to Dirgizh, which really should come first."

"But what about the distance overland to Fintha?" Luap asked. "Won't you need to go all the way to Fintha to be sure that's where it comes out?"

"Well go to Fintha, surely," Aris said. "But we think the horse nomads will tell us about the eastern end of the trail—and the merchants in Dirgizh and the next town south may well know about this end. Convincing someone to try it may be difficult . . . but I've noticed the merchants show an interest in renewing that old trade."

"With your permission," Seri put in, "we'd like to start by going to Dirgizh, as soon as possible, and follow the old caravan route east—then turn north and see if we can find our notch."

"How long do you think that will take?" asked the Rosemage.

"Hands of days," Seri said. "We don't know until we've gone. But it must be done sometime—"

"And then we'd go to Fintha," Aris said. "Take our horses, and go visit the horse nomads . . . they liked us well enough before."

"What you're telling me," Luap said, "is that it will be more than a year before we have a way for a caravan to come here—let alone before one actually comes. Two years, more like, or even three. . . ."

The Rosemage shrugged. "When we started, remember, we didn't know if anyone would ever discover an overland route; I think even three years sounds remarkably quick."

"The question," Aris said, "is whether this is worth all the effort. People will have to work on the trails instead of other things—"

"It's worth it," Luap and the Rosemage said together. Then she fell silent and Luap went on. "No land survives long without trade," he said. "Especially one so limited in resources as this. If our people are to have a permanent place—for those who can't, or don't want to, return—then we must have trade."

"And overland trade," the Rosemage said, "will disturb the Finthans less than continued heavy use of the mageroad."

"I wonder if Raheli would come?" Seri said suddenly. "I would like to see her again." Aris noticed that Luap had stiffened, but before he could ask why, Luap relaxed.

"I doubt she'll leave her grange for us," he said. "But of course she would be welcome."

Luap had made the decision to meet that first caravan at the upper end of the trail from the desert. All along the way, his people had planted bannerstaves; today the narrow pennants snapped loudly in a freshening wind. Blue and white, Gird's color and Esea's, alternated. He himself wore the long white gown they had found so practical in the dry heat of summer, and over it a tabard of Girdish blue. He had an uneasy feeling about that, but surely they need not ape the fashion of Girdish peasants, not out here. No one wore those clothes any more; he had put on that worn pair of gray homespun trousers and rediscovered how itchy his legs felt. So he had insisted on some garment of blue, for all of them, and most had chosen the simple tabard.

His scouts had reported the approaching caravan two days before. Last night's campfires had been at the base of the cliffs; soon they would be here. He was sweating, he realized, with more than heat. He wished he could see. Instead, he heard them first . . . the ring of shod hooves on stone, the echoing clamor of human voices, swearing at some unlucky mule. Then one of the youngsters waved to him, and he went to look over the edge. They were closer than he'd thought, toiling upward only a few switchbacks below, horses and men and mules all reduced to squirming odd shapes by the distance and brilliant sunlight.

One looked up at him, a face sunburnt to red leather, eyes squinted almost shut, unrecognizable. He had hoped for Cob, who had been, as much as any of them, a friend, but he had known how much Cob loved his own grange, how little he would look forward to a long journey into strangeness. The man's free arm waved, then he looked down again. Luap watched the slow advance. Seasons of waiting had passed faster than this; his throat felt dry, and he accepted the wineskin someone offered without really noticing it. The wine, cool and sweet, eased his throat, but the hot stone must, he thought, be crisping his toes. They would be even hotter, having climbed those sunbaked cliffs in the day's heat.

At last, the first of the caravan reached the top, two glasses or more after he'd expected them. Too late now to reach the stronghold by dark; they would camp in the pine-wood just below. Luap walked forward to meet the first rider, and proffered the wineskin. The man's horse stood head down, sides heaving. He was still convinced he had never seen the man before when Cob's voice came out of that swollen, sunburnt face.

"By the Lady, Luap, you've chosen one impossible lair . . . no wonder you travel by magery!"

"Cob! I'm glad to see you!" And he was, even now, even when he half-wished the caravan had not come, that he could sever the ties with Fin Panir. Of all Gird's quarrelsome and difficult lieutenants, Cob had been the first to shrug and accept him, and the only one whose loyalty to Gird's luap had never wavered except at Gird's command.

"And I, you: you could have come out to the grange, your last visit." That loyalty had not blunted Cob's tongue, reminiscent of Gird's own. Now he looked Luap up and down, as Gird might have done. "Gone back to magelords' dress, out here? That'll do you no good with the Marshal-General, Luap."

Luap felt himself flush, and hoped Cob would take it for the heat. "Try it yourself, out here—it's better in this heat."

"Not me. I'll sweat more happily in my own clothes." Cob took a long pull at the wineskin and grinned. "Ahhh. No need to ask how your vines are doing. That's good, sweet as I like it. How much farther do we go today?"

Again, like Gird, that ability to switch quickly back to the practical. "The Hall's a half day or more from here, for such a large group. I thought we'd camp partway: there's a good spring, and pine-woods. We brought food, in case you were running low. We can be there well before sundown."

"Good." Cob's gaze ran ahead. "Follow the banners?"

"Yes. Shall we wait to start until all are up?"

"No need. As long as someone's here to point the way and give encouragement."

Cob led his horse slowly over the rippled stone; Luap walked beside him. At first they did not talk; Cob seemed glad enough to look around. Then he began to ask questions. Luap explained, as best he could, the interlocked system of canyons.

"We don't go into this one much; the upper end, that we call Whiterock Gorge, has good hunting now that we've hunted out most of our own, but as you know all too well, climbing back up from the big one with game would be difficult."

"That makes sense. How deep is your canyon, then?"

"Not as deep as this, but steep enough going in. We'll go through a tributary first, a curious place. A rockfall let sand drift in behind it; we're hoping to improve the soil and use it for farming later. It would make good pasture: the walls go straight up from level sand, like a great wall. If we closed off the upper ends, our horses would be safe there."

"No wolves? No wildcats?"

"Oh, we have both, but our hunters have thinned them. The wildcat here reminds me of the old tales of snowcats in the southern mountains—remember them? These are gray; you'd think they'd show up against the red rock, but they don't." The bannerstaves here led off into deep sand; Luap paused. "I'm sorry, but we've a stretch of sand here; the rock takes you to a dropoff no horse can manage."

Cob sighed. "When I get back to Fin Panir, I will never complain about hard ground or cold again. We had three days of sand at a time on the way, and I learned about it."

"It's not long—just to that grove of pines." Best not tell him now that half the next day's journey would be on deep sand.

Behind them, the line of sweaty, tired men and animals stretched out; Luap could hear the creaking of saddle leather, the grunts and wheezes of tired animals; men complaining; the pennants snapping in the wind. It seemed to take twice as long to reach the grove as he'd expected, but they were all under its shelter by sunfall.

Those he had left to prepare a meal had created a haven in the wood: a central fire, cushions and carpets laid out for tired men to lounge on, stew, roast meats, and even fresh bread scenting the air. Picket lines for horses and mules stretched back into the trees. By full dark, everyone had gathered around the fire to eat and talk. Overhead, stars glittered brightly in the clear air; Luap almost decided to set no sentries, to emphasize the safety in which his people lived, but changed his mind. Gird's followers had learned prudence the hard way; it would do him no good with them to seem careless.

He woke in the turn of night, to find Cob beside him, holding his arm.

"Luap—are you
sure
there's no one out here but your folk?" Cob's voice was so low Luap could hardly hear it.

Luap pushed himself up, and yawned. "Not out this way Why? Did the sentries call an alarm?"

Cob grunted. "Your sentries have become too used to safety: they're asleep. I woke up, went to the jacks, and went to speak to them—but found them curled up as comfortable as boys in a haymow. Then I felt something—nothing I could define, a cold menace—like the look a thief gives in a dark alley."