The Four Forges (45 page)

She spread her skirts, putting herself between the well and Tolby. She tried to think of what it was she could say.

“Well?”

“I use the well for wash water, Da. The birds and animals drink from it. I think it’s clean. I dredged it out.”

“You think.” He did not stand, but his words came growled about the pipe stem. “Rivergrace, it’s not something you can know.”

“You taught me. Good water grows good things.” She spread her hand at her little side garden, where flowers had begun to bloom, and herbs fringed the borders, a garden she used for the laundry only, for cleaning and scenting.

“Well was boarded for a reason.”

“Yes, sir. Seasons come and go, and sometimes things change.”

He stood. A puff of smoke obscured his expression briefly. “I’ll get a well digger in here. They’ll know why it was boarded, and if it’s clean now. Meantime . . .”

“No more buckets?”

“No more. It’s a fair walk to the other water, have Keldan draw for you. He needs the exercise.”

“Aye, sir.” She watched him walk away, shoulders bowed in thought. The clothes billowed at her elbow, fresh and pure-smelling in the sunlight.

“BREGAN OXFORT WANTS an audience,” Tiiva said, shuffling through papers scattered upon her lap desk, and she tilted her face up toward Lariel, waiting for a response.

“Private or in general conference?”

Tiiva frowned slightly as she reviewed the letter again, more closely, as if trying to decipher hidden meanings within the spare lines. “He doesn’t state, although given his status, I should imagine he expects a private audience.”

Lariel stood at a window, watching the streets below, her thoughts hidden as if she wore one of the veils affected by those outside their holdings. The glass showed its primitive workmanship, slightly warping the view, and aging with a faint amber tint, but most architecture in the Kerith lands still merely used shutters that swung to an open windowsill, to be closed at night. The glass attempted to reach a higher level of civilization. Below, she could see the flow of people upon the streets, the Vaelinar-blooded distinct by virtue of their slenderness and height, and the veils they wore, long flowing veils on the women, and eye-shielding kerchiefs on the men, bandannas over the head, knotted at the back of the head or neck. The fashion had begun decades ago, merely a fad she’d thought, but now it seemed decorum in the city. When had she missed this? Was it both a flaunting of the blood and a hiding of it? A hiding of the eyes which denoted who carried the magic within them and who did not?

Already weary of the thought of meetings, she realized Tiiva waited for an answer, and carefully meted out her reply, knowing she could not slight the merchant prince. “I don’t care to treat with him privately, but I will give him time to tell me what is on his mind. Negotiations of any kind, however, will be done at the general Conference.”

“Fair enough.” Tiiva bent over paper, and her pen scratched faintly as she answered the trader’s request. “That will fill your morning tomorrow, before luncheon, and in the afternoon, there are tradespeople, crafters, and the like hoping to see you.”

“Of course.”

“Ferstanthe sends greetings and will arrive on the morrow, as will ild Istlanthir.”

“Is Tranta coming?”

“I’m told he’s recovered somewhat, and yes, he will be here although he may tire quickly.”

Lariel’s attention flicked back to the window and its view. “He is lucky to be alive.”

“No one knows it more than he. He doesn’t remember the fall, but he dreams of falling, a dichotomy which he holds may give him more answers someday.”

“What about Bistane?”

“Arriving this eve. And the ild Fallyn are here somewhere already, I’m told.”

Lariel nodded. “All right, then.” She drew herself up as if bracing herself. “Thank you, Tiiva, and you’re dismissed.”

She rose gracefully, lap desk in her hands as she gave a deep curtsy and left, a guardsman closing the door behind her. Lariel twitched a curtain from the window in irritation. A dried aromatic leaf drifted down from the hem as she did, and fell to the floor at her toes. Neither Jeredon nor Sevryn were about or could be found, and she didn’t like that at all, though she knew she could hardly be out and about without drawing attention. She disliked Conferences and treaties with a passion. It was a dance without music or passion, a coldly stepped intricacy of intrigue and displomacy and deceit. Circumstances forced her to attend this summer, when she would rather have postponed it, but she no longer dared delay. Sevryn required seasoning as her Hand, and she now had the pressing need to track the welfare of the Andredia, and she had to find a way to look east as well, to see what attracted the ild Fallyn’s attention.

She could not discount the old trick of looking in the opposite direction. To look to the west, however, would chill her blood. The Raymy lay to the west, across the seas and held at bay by the Jewel of Tomarq. They were shielded, were they not? Yet that very harbor’s vulnerability was why the Conferences had usually been held in Calcort. Just in case, as it were.

The heavy rustle and sweep of skirts told her Tiiva returned, rather more quickly than expected. Lariel glanced over her shoulder.

“Trader Oxfort is without. He asks if you can see him now and spare both of you setting an appointment later?”

“Fine. Send him in, then.” Neither dressed regally nor veiled as seemed to be the mandatory custom now, Lariel sat down at the small dark-red burnished table and waited. The young fox had undoubtedly planned to hit her early with his demands.

Bregan Oxfort came in, an afternoon sun hat in his right hand, the white straw brim curled slightly as if bent to the man’s tension. By any standards, the trader was a handsome, striking man, even with the weakness in the one leg, braced by a metal support that showed Vaelinarran craftsmanship in all its clever forging. It enveloped his leg from ankle to mid-thigh, hinged and caged over the knee. He used a cane on the left side for strength and balance, but other than a slight limp, the weakness that had been there last time she’d talked with him seemed far less. She had no doubt the cane was as much an affectation and for attention as aid. Even the mahogany color of the tainted skin on his right side did not deter from his looks, but then, the hue appeared among the Vaelinars naturally from time to time. Ironic that among the Vaelinars he detested, he would have been accepted regardless of skin color. Her own father had had a huntsman of just such a rich mahogany tone. Oxfort bowed. “My lady queen.”

“Trader Oxfort.” With a smile, she inclined her head to his bow. “Not your queen, of course. Be seated and be welcome.”

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I promise I won’t be long.”

“No great petition to put aside the Ways?”

He smiled wryly. “Would you entertain such a petition if I produced it?”

“Did I any other time?”

“Of course not.” Bregan rested his cane on the tabletop between them. “I do wish to discuss the Ways with you, however, in particular the Ferryman.”

Unsurprised, Lariel tilted her head slightly, waiting.

“I am not asking that he be abolished. As I mature, I have developed an appreciation for his abilities. A ferry under his guidance has never failed upon a river known for taking many a boat, with its crew and cargo, to their deaths.” Bregan flicked a finger in the air, a mild homage.

“I’m glad you see his value.”

“Reluctantly, yes. However.” The trader paused, as if counting his thoughts. “What I ask is not for myself. My family has made its fortune and continues to do so. What I ask for is a tiered fee system for traders. We have many young people out on the roads now as our provinces grow. Their profit margin is narrow, and ofttimes they have every spare coin they can raise sunk into their caravans. I ask that the medallions we place on our caravans, by which the Ferryman determines his toll, be modified to reflect this, rather than only the size of the caravan itself.”

His request interested her, for its selflessness if no other reason. “And your guild would monitor these medallions and newborn traders?”

“Of a surety.”

“We would have access to your records if necessary?”

“As always.” Bregan smiled into her examining gaze.

Lariel pondered his words before responding. “The Ferryman is not of my House, as you know, so I will have to bring this before the Conference. However, it seems a fair request, and you can consider my recommendation to be given.”

The trader smiled slowly. “That is all I can ask.” He pulled his cane back toward him and stood, leaning on it slightly. “I promised it would be brief.”

“For a trader, remarkably so.” She winked at him, standing herself. “I’ll send word to you as soon as it is discussed. It may not pass this season, but I will do what I can to see it’s justly considered.”

“My thanks, my lady queen.” With a bow, he let himself out, his cane tapping on the flooring, his walk steadier to hear than it looked.

A dangerous man still, she thought. Any infirmity there seemed more postured now than real. She would have to remember that. He’d been one of the greatest swordsmen in the provinces till his accident. Jeredon and Sevryn told her he’d switched hands, and his prowess had returned, and a left-handed swordsman was even harder to face than a right-handed one. Yes, Bregan Oxfort was a good deal more dangerous than he seemed physically. She’d no doubt there’d been a slender but deadly blade sheathed within his cane, as well. Had he considered using it? She put that thought aside. He’d laid it between them as if surrendering a weapon without actually doing so. No, she was not his target. Yet.

 
 
Garner stood with Rivergrace and Nutmeg, watching the well digger and his assistant. The digger stood nearly as wide as he was tall, a bald-pated Dweller with massive forearms; the Bolger assistant in his shadow held a long pole over his shoulder that balanced two buckets. The digger scratched a bushy eyebrow of far more hair than the top of his head had surely ever held. “I have this well in my recollections,” he stated slowly. “But let’s be testin’ the water first, to see if it’s good. Been some problems about, though few and far between, thank th’ Goddess of earthborn waters.”

Garner’s face twitched as if holding something back, and he squeezed the hand he had on Rivergrace’s wrist. Nutmeg leaned over to look into the well’s depths, sun gleaming bright coppery highlights off her abundant hair as the digger undid a small cage from his belt. The digger hefted it in the air for them to see. “This here’s a tufted songbird. We use ’em in the mines for bad air. Their bodies are delicate, like, and they know first of everyone if something poison is sneaking into the air, fumes and th’ like. In the well she goes.”

The little songbird flittered on the perch of her reed cage, fluffing up her yellow-and-white feathers. Her song had merged with the wild birds about, and Grace hadn’t heard it at first. She could hear her now, though, distinctive and musical.

“It won’t kill her, will it?”

“My birdie? Nae, lass, I’ve had her for many a year, as th’ life of songbirds go.” His seamed face deepened in a smile for her.

“Good, Master Fancher,” Garner told him. “Hurt the bird and Rivergrace will have both our hides.”

The digger let out a rumbling chuckle. “As long as she sings, th’ air down there is pure; rock basin of the well and stuff will not be leakin’.” He went to his knees and tied a long rope tether to the cage and lowered it down, slowly, gently, the cage swinging at the tether’s end. The songbird whistled and sang merrily, voice getting thinner and thinner and then echoing a bit, but never failing. He left her down there for long moments till, with a satisfied grunt, he began to haul the cage back up, never letting the tether sway too much so that the reed imprisonment would not bounce off the rock sides. Once out, he put a finger through the reed bars, scratched the little bird’s chest, and set her home on the ground in a patch of shade.

“That’s all there is to it?”

“Nae, nae, much more to it.” He jabbed a thumb at the Bolger. “Put a bucket of biter fish down, Smik.”

The Bolger set down his pole, unhooked a bucket, and brought out a container riddled with holes and did much the same as his boss had with the songbird, lowering the container down till it splashed into the deep water below.

“Now, we wait. Let the fish swim about a bit in their jar.” He squatted down as did Smik, both of them listening as if they could actually hear the movement of tiny fish way below.

“If they live, then our well’s good?”

“Probably. The proof of th’ pudding, though, is if it’s drinkable, isn’t it?”

“Who do you have for that?” Garner looked extremely interested.

“I try it on my farm animals.”

“Goats can eat or drink cursed near anything.”

The digger laughed. “Ain’t that the truth!” Fancher scratched his other bushy eyebrow. “I use another critter or two, watch its health.”

“Ever been wrong?”

“Never, but there’s allus a first time, eh?” He winked broadly at Garner. “ ’Course, th’ easy part about testing for bad water is, if th’ client drinks it, he dies and there’s nae one about t’ complain, see?”

Nutmeg gasped, and Garner said, “Meggie, he’s pulling your leg. Any well digger who brought up bad water would be hog-tied and put out in the desert to dry.”

“So’s to speak.” The digger winked broadly at Garner again, and beckoned for his helper to haul up the fish. The container came up leaking everywhere, before it was set back in its own bucket of water, and they opened the lid to see tiny silver fish darting back and forth in apparent good health and excitement.

“Now I’ll be drawin’ a bucket to take back and test, and I’ll be lookin’ through my recollections about this particular well.” The digger thumped Garner on the back. “Tell th’ master Farbranch you’ll be hearing from me in a day or two.”