Recluce 07 - Chaos Balance (7 page)

AS NYLAN SET the iron-alloy mix back on the coals to reheat, the alarm triangle rang from the watchtower on the ridge-two doublets.

   Nylan set the hammer on the rack, and used the tongs to ease the metal to the forge shelf. “Traders. I suppose I should go. Do you want to finish this one?”

   “I'd rather work one myself, if you don't mind.” Huldran nodded toward Ydrall, who straightened from the bellows. “That way I can show Ydrall what I'm doing. Besides, you do strange things to the metal. I can't get something you've started working to come out quite right.” Unlike Nylan, who labored over a true anvil, Huldran used the smith's original makeshift anvil, created by bending lander alloy around a stone block and wedging the result between the fork of a green fir sunk into the ground.

   “Traders . . .” mused the smith. “Early this year. I should see why.”

   “You're just tired of doing blades, ser.”

   “I admit it.” The smith took a deep breath. “Let's get two dozen of the best of those local crowbars out from the covered stack in back. I'll have Ayrlyn send the cart for them. Use the good anvil, and have Ydrall try something simple-like spikes-from one of the broken blades.”

   Spikes weren't that simple-nothing was, but she'd have to start somewhere.

   “A merchant's daughter, and I am learning to be a smith,” said the dark-haired young woman. “Mother would be pleased.”

   “And your father?”

   “He would be most offended. That is why I am here.” Ydrall offered a musical laugh at odds with her muscular figure. “That is why there will be others.”

   Nylan didn't doubt that, not from what little he'd seen of Candarian treatment of women. And the mysterious Cyador was supposedly worse? “Let's get the blades.”

   It took only a few trips for the three to stack the Lornian and Gallosian blades that Nylan selected beside the front door of the smithy. Then Nylan headed down toward the tower and the bathhouse. He had time to wash up. In Candar, trading, while not snaillike in progress, was definitely a leisurely pursuit.

   As he reentered the tower from washing and shaving, with only a single cut on his chin and dressed in dark gray leathers, Ryba was coming down the stairs, wearing the lighter gray leathers of the Marshal of Westwind. “You intended to go?”

   “I thought I might be useful. We also could use another anvil and some hammers, if you'd like us to make better progress in training Ydrall.”

   “I'll have the mare waiting for you. Saryn's bringing down mounts from the stable,” Ryba said. “You are getting your blades? Traders around here aren't always the most peaceful.”

   “They're laid out,” the smith confirmed, biting back a retort. He'd been there the last time Skiodra had tried his treachery. So why had Ryba brought it up? Another attempt to put him in his place? Or what Ryba thought was his place?

   He hurried up the steps to his quarters where he strapped on both blades, one at his waist and one in the shoulder harness. He descended more carefully, still cautious about tripping over the scabbard and going down the stone steps headfirst. Except for meeting traders and possible battles, he didn't carry a blade. They just got in the way.

   Everyone was waiting by the causeway by the time he hurried across the stones.

   Ayrlyn held the reins to the brown mare and extended them to him. “We just got here.”

   “Let's go,” said Ryba.

   A chill wind blew across the ridge, coming in from the northeast, as they followed the stone road up toward the watchtower. Farther behind creaked the cart pulled by a single horse. The cart horse was led by Effama, another new guard Nylan knew only by name. “Which traders?” asked the Marshal. “Skiodra's bunch, it looks like,” answered Saryn. “Good thing we've got a full squad.”

   “That's why we do,” affirmed Saryn. “They've all got the engineer's bows.” She stood in the stirrups as they reached the top of the ridge and looked downslope. “They're set up to trade all right.”

   Nylan and Ayrlyn rode side-by-side behind Ryba and Saryn down the damp clay track on the north side of the ridge, a track that should be turned into a metaled road, Nylan reflected. He smiled ironically as he recognized the way he'd thought of the need-not as something he had to do, but something that needed doing. Was he accepting emotionally, not just rationally, the truth.of what Ayrlyn had been telling him?

   “That's an odd smile,” the redheaded healer said.

 
 “I'll tell you later,” he whispered back, hoping his words were lost in the hissing of the wind and the clop of hoofs ... and the more distant creaking of the cart carrying the swords that would be used as trading currency.

   At that, recalling another trading incident, he extended his order senses to the trees that flanked the base of the ridge, but could detect no hidden armsmen or archers.

   “Nothing in the trees,” he reported.

   “Good” .was the only answer from Ryba. Saryn nodded, as if his report were expected.

   The traders, dressed in half-open quilted jackets and cloaks, had halted to the north of the trading banner they had planted in the flat and damp ground at the foot of the ridge. Seven traders stood, hands very clear of their blades, behind the banner, with ten others farther west, tending the horses and the three carts.

   As Ryba and Saryn reined up, then Nylan and Ayrlyn and the armed guard squad following, led by Llyselle, for a long moment, the sole sounds were those of the wind and the breathing of the angels' mounts.

   Skiodra, still the biggest man among the traders and wearing in his shoulder harness the huge broadsword he had always carried, stepped forward and offered a lopsided smile. “I am Skiodra, and I have again returned.” While the trader continued to speak in old Anglorat, the local language seemed almost second nature to Nylan now. Across the back of Skiodra's hand was a scab, and Nylan could almost sense the pus and pain beneath, the white chaos of infection.

   He looked at Ayrlyn, and she nodded.

   “Greetings, trader.” Ryba's voice was polite, indifferent. She was no longer worried about having things to trade, not with the plunder of nearly two thousand armsmen stored in Westwind.

   Skiodra bowed deeply. “Your fame has carried far, honored angel, and all of Candar bows to your might. We bring more supplies. I had hoped you might have blades to trade.”

   “We do have a few,” said Ryba.

   Skiodra looked at the mounted riders. Nylan got the picture, and, handing the mare's reins to Ayrlyn, dismounted and walked forward.

   “You still do not let many others do the speaking, O mage?”

   Mage? Even after his successes in mastering certain of the “magical” order fields of the world, Nylan certainly had no illusions about his being a mage. Or an armsman, he thought, despite all the hardware he carried.

   “They are warriors, Skiodra.” He shrugged.

   “Aye,” offered the big trader. “Warriors indeed. But now is the time to trade.”

   The first cart-as had always been the case-not only bore Skiodra's banner, but was filled with barrels.

   “l.have the lord of flours, not just from the fertile plains of Gallos, but from those heads grown on the flattest and darkest bottomland in Candar.”

   “You have grown more eloquent, Skiodra,” Nylan said, ignoring Ryba for the moment. “I hope we do not pay for such eloquence.”

   “It is good flour. The very best.” Skiodra offered Nylan a bow nearly as deep as the one accorded Ryba. “You as a mage should know good flour.”

   “We all appreciate good flour,” agreed Nylan. “But the softer flour does not always store as well as that from harder grains.” That was a point he'd picked up from listening to Blynnal.

   “I forget, O honored mage, that you came from a long and distinguished line of usurers,” responded Skiodra. “A line that must extend across the heavens back into the days of the « most ancient. Still, I must insist that this is good flour, the best flour. You can store it longer, far, far longer. At a silver and a copper a barrel, I am offering you angels my very best price.”

   “Last year, your very best price was nine coppers a barrel, and the harvests in the lowlands were good.”

   “O mage, your memory extends as far as your ancestry. But it is harder and longer to travel the Westhorns in the spring, when mud clings to hoofs and heels and wheels.” Skiodra bowed. “Take pity on an honest merchant.”

   Nylan wanted to laugh, for Skiodra was known for almost everything but honesty-unless he knew his customer was as willing to slaughter as to trade. At the same time, the smith tried not to sigh. After seasons, even, the trading sessions never seemed to change, and the haggling seemed almost routine, a ritual that was required.

   “Can't we get on with this?” said Ryba quietly, shifting her weight on the big roan, her fingers touching the hilt of the Westwind blade.

   “Pity is fine for charity,” Nylan offered, “but bad for trading. Six coppers a barrel.”

   “Six coppers! That is not trading; it is robbery. No, it is murder, for we would all die of hunger ere we returned to our ruined homes.” Skiodra touched the tip of his broad mustache. “You have mighty black blades, but can you eat that cold metal until your harvests come in? Or your guards, will they not grow thin on cold iron? A fair man am I, and for a silver a barrel I will prove that fairness.”

   “Aye,” said Nylan. “A fair profit that would be. Fair and fine enough to bring you smoked fowl on gold and chains of silver round the necks of all the women around you.” Nylan offered a broad and amused smile.

   “I trade in good faith, mage. In true good faith.” The big trader rolled his eyes.

   “I scarcely question your faith,” answered Nylan. “Only your price.”

   “You are a mage. Oh, I have said that, and said that, and the whole of Candar knows how mighty you are, but your father could not have been a mere usurer, but a usurer to usurers. You would have my horses grub chaff from the poorest miller's leavings.”

   “At eight coppers a barrel, because I would reward your efforts to climb here, you would still have golden bridles for your mounts.”

   “Not a single barrel at nine coppers. Not one,” protested Skiodra. “The harvests were good, as you say. But the traders from Cyad had already cleaned the granaries in Ruzor.”

   “Someone is always trading,” Nylan offered.

   “There were floods in Cyador, they said. Nine coppers a barrel-that will break me with what I paid because flour was short. But I, the noble Skiodra, knew that you could use flour.”

   “How about ten barrels for a gold?” Nylan offered, sensing the growing chaos and tension in Skiodra.

   “Done, even though you will ruin me, mage.”

   “If all were so successful at being ruined, noble Skiodra, all the world would be traders.”

   Skiodra frowned momentarily.

   Ryba's face was cool as she watched Nylan haggle.

   Ayrlyn's eyes took in both the traders and the Marshal, and her eyes went to Skiodra's hand again. Quietly, she dismounted and passed the two sets of reins to Saryn.

   Skiodra frowned as the healer stepped up, and he paused in his description of the anvil in the cart.

   “A token of good faith,” Ayrlyn said, and her fingers brushed his wrist, settling there-lightly.

   Perspiration beaded on the trader's forehead.

   Nylan wanted to laugh at the man's fear, but instead he only let his own senses follow Ayrlyn as she eased the forces of order around the infected hand and pressed out the chaos and infection.

   “Now,” she said. “It will heal properly.”

   Skiodra swallowed, and began to sweat even more as the healer remounted, sending a faint smile to the big trader. The faintest of frowns crossed Ryba's countenance, then vanished.

   In the end, a half-dozen blades paid for not quite two dozen barrels of wheat flour, a barrel of maize flour, two barrels of kerneled corn for the chickens, the second true anvil that Nylan had wanted, two large wedges of cheese, and a keg of nails.

   “Do you have to go through all those charades?” Ryba asked as the guards rode back up the ridge, the cart creaking behind them, while Skiodra and his entourage headed slowly westward along the road that wound toward Lornth.

   “They seem to expect it,” Saryn said, looking back over her shoulder at both the departing traders, and at the darkening clouds that foretold a possible late afternoon storm. “Ayrlyn's little effort knocked something off the prices, too, I'd bet.” Ayrlyn brushed her hair off her forehead, but said nothing. “What do you think, Ayrlyn?” asked Ryba.

   “Skiodra's heart wasn't in it. He's afraid of us.”

   “You certainly added to that,” pointed out Ryba.

   “If he died from that infection, and with the lack of medical knowledge here, he could have, then we'd have to break in another traveling trader.”

   “I'd rather not,” said Nylan, recalling how long it had taken to convince Skiodra.

   “So why is he here now?” asked Saryn. “Westwind isn't exactly the crossroads of Candar, and he's afraid of us.”

   “Business is bad elsewhere,” hazarded Nylan.

   “The war ... it couldn't have bankrupted Gallos or Lornth-not over a few thousand armsmen.”

   “Something else, then,” said Nylan. “The floods in Cyador.”

   “Are you sure he wasn't inventing that?” asked Ryba.

   “I don't think so.” Nylan shrugged. “I don't know. We'll have to keep our ears open.”

   “With all the travelers flocking through the Westhorns?” Ryba snorted.

   Behind her, Nylan and Ayrlyn exchanged glances.

   “This is the first time Skiodra hasn't tried something,” Saryn pointed out.

   “It's also the first time since we wiped out two armies,” replied Ryba, unsheathing one of her blades and running through an exercise with it.

   Behind them, Effama flicked the leads to the cart horse, and the cart creaked slowly through the damp ground uphill toward the top of the ridge and the stone road that would make the descent easier.

   “I'd like to have gotten more flour,” Nylan said to Ayrlyn. “But he didn't have any, and he knows we'll buy it. That's why I think he was telling the truth about the floods.”