‘Are you really all that desperate to witness miracles, Berit?’
‘She could do it,’ Berit insisted.
‘All right. So what?’
‘Aren’t you the least bit curious about it?’
‘Not particularly,’ Khalad shrugged.
Ulath and Tynian wore bits and pieces of the uniforms of one of the few units of the Tamul army that accepted volunteers from the Elene kingdoms of western Daresia. The faces they had borrowed were those of grizzled, middle-aged knights, the faces of hard-bitten veterans. The vessel aboard which they sailed was one of those battered, ill-maintained ships that ply coastal waters. The small amount of money they had paid for their passage bought them exactly that – passage, and nothing else. They had brought their own food and drink and their patched blankets, and they ate and slept on the deck. Their destination was a small coastal village some twenty-five leagues east of the foothills of the Tamul mountains. They lounged on the deck in the daytime, drinking cheap wine and rolling dice for pennies.
The sky was overcast when the ship’s longboat deposited them on the rickety wharf of the village. The day was cool, and the Tamul Mountains were little more than a low smudge on the horizon.
‘What was that horse-trader’s name again?’ Tynian asked.
‘Sablis,’ Ulath grunted.
‘I hope Oscagne was right,’ Tynian said. ‘If this Sablis has gone out of business, we’ll have to walk to those mountains.’
Ulath stepped across the wharf to speak to a pinch-faced fellow who was mending a fish net. ‘Tell me, friend,’ he said politely in Tamul, ‘where can we find Sablis the horse-trader?’
‘What if I don’t feel like telling you?’ the scrawny net-mender replied in a whining, nasal voice that identified him as one of those mean-spirited men who would rather die than be helpful, or even polite. Tynian had encountered his kind before, small men, usually, with an inflated notion of their own worth, men who delighted in irritating others just for the fun of it. ‘Let me,’ he murmured, laying one gently restraining hand on his Thalesian companion’s arm. Ulath’s bunched muscles clearly spoke of impending violence.
‘Nice net,’ Tynian noted casually, picking up one edge of it. Then he drew his dagger and began cutting the strings.
‘What are you doing?’ the pinch-faced fisherman screamed.
‘I’m showing you what,’ Tynian explained. ‘You said, “what if I don’t feel like telling you?” This is what. Think it over. My friend and I aren’t in any hurry, so take your time.’ He took a fistful of net and sawed through it with his knife.
‘Stop!’ the fellow shrieked in horror.
‘Ah – where was it you said we might find Sablis?’ Ulath asked innocently.
‘His corrals are on the eastern edge of town.’ The words came tumbling out. Then the scrawny fellow gathered up his net in both arms and held it to his chest, almost like a mother shielding a child from harm.
‘Have a pleasant day, neighbor,’ Tynian said, sheathing his dagger. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how much we’ve appreciated your help here. You’ve been absolutely splendid about the whole affair.’ And the two knights turned and walked along the wharf toward the shabby-looking village.
* * *
Their camp was neat and orderly with a place for everything and everything exactly where it belonged. Berit had noticed that Khalad always set up camp in exactly the same way. He seemed to have some concept of the ideal camp etched in his mind and, since it was perfect, he never altered it. Khalad was very rigid in some ways.
‘How far did we come today?’ Berit asked as they washed up their supper dishes.
‘Ten leagues,’ Khalad shrugged, ‘the same as always. Ten leagues is standard on level terrain.’
‘This is going to take forever,’ Berit complained.
‘No. It might seem like it, though.’ Khalad looked around and then lowered his voice until it was hardly more than a whisper. ‘We’re not really in any hurry, Berit,’ he said. ‘We might even want to slow down a bit.’
‘What?’
‘Keep your voice down. Sparhawk and the others have a long way to go, and we want to be sure they’re in place before Krager – or whoever it is – makes contact with us. We don’t know when or where that’s going to happen, so the best way to delay it is to slow down.’ Khalad looked out into the darkness beyond the circle of firelight. ‘How good are you at magic?’
‘Not very,’ Berit admitted, scrubbing diligently. ‘I’ve still got a lot to learn. What did you want me to do?’
‘Could you make one of our horses limp – without actually hurting him?’
Berit probed through his memory. Then he shook his head. I don’t think I know any spells that would do that.’
‘That’s too bad. A lame horse would give us a good reason to slow down.’
It came without warning: a cold, prickling kind of sensation that seemed to be centered at the back of Berit’s neck. ‘That’s good enough,’ he said in a louder voice. ‘I’m not getting paid enough to scrub holes in tin plates,’ He rinsed off the dish he’d been washing, shook most of the water off it and stowed it back into the pack.
‘You felt it, too?’ Khalad’s whisper came out from between motionless lips. That startled Berit. How could Khalad have known?
Berit buckled the straps on the pack and gave his friend a curt nod. ‘Let’s build up the fire a bit and then get some sleep.’ He said it loudly enough to be heard out beyond the circle of firelight. The two of them walked toward their pile of firewood. Berit was murmuring the spell and concealing the movements of his hands at the same time.
‘Who is it?’ Again, Khalad’s lips did not move.
‘I’m still working on that,’ Berit whispered back. He released the spell so slowly that it seemed almost to dribble out of the ends of his fingers.
The sense of it came washing back to him. It was something on the order of recognizing an accent – except that it was done when nobody was talking. ‘It’s a Styric,’ he said quietly.
‘Zalasta?’
‘No, I don’t believe so. I think I’d recognize him. It’s somebody I’ve never been around before.’
‘Not too much wood, my Lord,’ Khalad said aloud. ‘This pile has to get us through breakfast too, you know.’