Chapter V: Travel Troubles
Stefir suddenly stopped. “I almost forgot. Jessar, hold your scabbard steady for a moment.”
The Lynx complied, giving Ogador a puzzled glance. The prince smiled back in a don’t-worry kind of way.
The chronologist removed one of his ubiquitous vials from a pocket over his chest. “You Galbardians have developed a very practical fashion. A wizard could get used to it.” The small metal container was sealed with a wax plug, which Stefir extracted. He then handed the container to Jessar. “Pour some of the fluid into my hands,” he said as he cupped them together.
Jessar complied and watched curiously as the wizard rubbed the oily compound onto his hands. Next, he reached for the Lynx’s scabbard, but the half-elf stepped back. “Do not worry, it will do no harm to the leather.” The chronologist proceeded to rub his hands over the sheath, leaving no hint of oiliness. Once he’d massaged his hands over the entire length, he resealed the vessel and returned it to his chest pocket. “There,” he announced.
“What was that supposed to do?”
The wizard smiled smugly, closed his eyes, and waved first one hand and then another over both Jessar’s and Ogador’s weapons. Slowly, they dissolved into the scintillating haze the Lynx had seen the day before with the prince’s sword. “Remind me not to use that on my razor. Nice trick.”
Ogador patted his blade. “Jessar, don’t take this wrong, but I’m happy to be leaving Silarom.”
“Although I’m not too fond of the circumstances, I’m glad, too,” the Lynx agreed. “The last time the both of you left wasn’t much better. Say, that reminds me, what happened after you left?”
“Well, as it turned out, the vessel we boarded put into Port Lieniera in Walanar. Of course, that fit the good wizard’s plans just fine,” Ogador elbowed Stefir, “but my purse was getting light after financing, as always, both mine and Stefir’s lodging and transportation.”
Jessar cast the prince a guilty look. “I’m sure it didn’t help paying my fare on the voyage to Silarom either.”
“No, no, Jessar. That was different. I was under a legal obligation as one of your mother’s executors to pay your keep and passage back here. Stefir, on the other hand….”
“As I have tried to explain on numerous occasions, operating a chronological research facility is an expensive proposition.”
“Maybe if your staff didn’t live in their own private chambers you wouldn’t find it so costly. Besides, you’re always gone anyway, wandering around rooting in trash heaps looking for juicy tidbits.”
“First, they are not ‘trash heaps’ but archaeological digs. Second, I search for answers to the puzzle of Prophecy. Third, you cannot expect my associates, themselves spell weavers of great renown, to live in squalor. And, fourth, if you would reduce your consumption of spirits and renting of companionship by even half, you could afford to send half the Langbardian fleet across the Serpent’s Gulf.”
“Say again? I don’t rent—“
“Gentlemen! Ogador, you were saying….”
“Yes, anyway, the only ship leaving Walanar with a fare I could afford was bound for Mutaron the mutat city, unfortunately. As a prince of the West-realm, I’m not very popular in the Independent Mutat Nations, since they are allied with the Emperor against us, so I disguised myself as a concubine slaver and purchased two particularly attractive, pure dancers on the uptown district market.”
The chronologist rolled his eyes. “See, what did I tell you, Jessar? He came up with yet another excuse for wenching.”
“I don’t know, Stefir, it sounds as if he had little choice.”
“You tell him, Jessar. So two days later, I sailed for Mutaron. At the market there, with the last of my tiaras, I purchased the fastest horse team and wagon I could afford, and I traveled up the Tradeway to the nearest outpost. I freed the two slave girls, who were enormously grateful,” the prince smiled, winking at Jessar, “and I shed my disguise. I dispatched a messenger pigeon to Solona, headquarters of my Winged Horse Flockades. Soon, a flight of winged horsemen swept into Anaris’Tar to escort me back to my post. And two days later, my older half-brother Galathor relieved me as Exemplar on schedule.”
“I thought you cherished leading the Winged Horsemen?”
The prince looked wistfully into the sky. “Yes, Jessar, my command there and my days as a Border Scout I will cherish forever. However, when I had to leave the Academy at Balta, I sealed my fate. Only a Sphinxed Knight or a Governor of Walanar may step to the throne under West-realm’s Laws of Succession.”
“But what if the king dies?”
“The Lords of the Second Table are empowered to decide who inherits the throne in that case, but historically that body has nearly always selected the youngest son of the deceased regent. So, you see that I had to give up my post at Solona to take governorship of Stefir’s land. Many in the Second Table had urged me to do so the moment King Mendanor went missing.”
“It’s all very confusing, Governor, I suppose I should call you,” the Lynx observed.
“I agree it’s confusing, but you can still call me Ogador. While I tarried in Baldunel, Walanar’s capital, one of the men from my old Border Scout company arrived. He had learned of some initiatives by the Emperor that might indicate the evil lord was making preparations to start the fabled War of Chaos, including a great fleet of galleons. Some might argue that he’s winning the War without the rest of the Undying, but if the Emperor really summons his evil brethren -- well, if the War of Chaos is truly imminent, then we in the West have but one choice: To invoke the Veinal Vows.”
Jessar shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ogador, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. What are the Veinal Vows?”
Stefir’s forefinger went up. “Nine thousand years ago, after the Second Exodus at the beginning of this age, during the first Council of Countries, ambassadors from all the lands of the Veinous, or at least those who acknowledged Arien as their God under the Creator, swore the Veinal Vows. The Emperor and his priests were thought to have been vanquished at the end of the first great age, the Age of Innocence. In fact, however, as I discovered at the start of this third age, he completed a terrible ritual that preserved himself and his priests as the Undying. Yildren, avatar of Arien, discovered the Emperor’s plan, however, and, sacrificing his very essence, became the Cube of Incarceration, the artifact that was to imprison all the Undying. As we now know, however, the evil one somehow managed to escape the imprisonment and fled the Sacred Realm. He founded his evil realm at New Varbistron and has been searching for the Incarceration Cube ever since. Since Ainar, sibling of Yildren, tossed his brother’s embodiment into the Bottomless Lake, locating the object has proved, at least until recently, futile. If the Undying One frees his brethren from the Cube, Prophecy states that even the united might of all the Civilized Countries will likely fall in the War of Chaos.”
“Woah. Come up for air, Stefir. I’m sure Jessar wanted the answer before we must camp tonight,” the governor chided before turning to the half-elf. “Jessar, the seed of the matter is that several reputable diviners believe the Emperor will soon have or may already have the Cube. Some mutat supposedly found it in Cavernous Cauldron, and, based on this sign and my old comrade’s intelligence, I intend to call everyone’s chips to the table at the Council. The Queen has informed Plasis that I have claimed opening rights at the Council. Most of the Eastern Civilizations have ignored our emissaries’ calls for aid in the past, but maybe they’ll listen now. If the Cube isn’t enough to convince them, wait until they hear that the Emperor has built a fleet of seagoing war galleons. It is almost unfathomable that someone besides Langbard has resolved the navigation problem to permit crossing the Serpent’s Gulf and open-ocean voyaging. Perhaps the threat that the Emperor will bring the war East will be enough to solidify the East’s resolve.”
By the time the prince finished his update, the friends had traversed half the distance to the eastern limits of Silarom. The manicured estates here gave way to a desolate wasteland. Charred trunks of long-dead trees leaned haphazardly. Ogador peered around in confusion. “Jessar, what happened here?”
“These blocks memorialize the Great Plunder. The king’s mystics preserved this place in its destruction. It’s my countrymen’s perverse way of reminding themselves to fear and hate foreigners.”
The prince looked down at the paving stones. “Jessar, I’m ashamed of what my people did so long ago. It was reprehensible, but I never imagined it might still fuel the fires of isolationism here.”
Even to Jessar, who knew about the illusory magic, it seemed as if a pall of smoke still clung to the air.
Stefir sniffed and looked around through narrowly slit eyes. “There is magic at work here, not just in the preservation of the charred remains, but also in maintaining an ashen odor. Someone goes to a lot of trouble and expense to preserve this spectacle.”
Ogador stared disapprovingly at a blackened skeleton resting near the foot of a charcoaled stump. “No deaths are recorded in our history of the affair.”
“You cannot expect to burn an entire city without casualties, Ogador. But, if it makes you feel any better, few died. The skeleton there is not real. It, too, is just another inflammatory device, devised by a paranoid king.”
They fell silent and passed the zone of death into yet more estates, although few scentwood trees towered here. After a moment, the chronologist broke the silence, “Jessar, when will we reach the stables?”
“They are at the eastern edge of town. Growing tired already?” the Lynx smiled at the prince.
Ogador didn’t miss the queue. “Jessar, the wizard grows old, and I think he misses his staff to lean on as he walks.”
“What I miss is the days before you began to plague my life. And if I grow tired of anything, it is only your company, piteous prince.”
“My, but aren’t we testy today, oh wearisome wizard.”
The Lynx regretted he’d started their argument anew. “Stefir, the governor here was good enough to bring me up to date, but what about you? And have you learned anything about my father?”
“As the governor said, we made passage to Walanar, where I took a coach to Beldunel –“
“At my expense, of course,” the prince pointed out.
The chronologist leaned in front of Jessar to cast a disapproving glance at Ogador. “I had to choose between carrying a pouch of tiaras or extra magical reagents for my spells. You seemed to appreciate my reagents about the third time I summoned a wind to speed our crossing of the Gulf.”
“As I was saying, Jessar, I spent several moons at my research facility studying the star paths and navigating the River of Time. Then I journeyed to Wedroth, West-realm’s capital, to my other abode to check on the progress of a mystic developing an aspect of the spell with which I hope to identify your patron star. You did remember to bring some pollen?”
“Of course,” Jessar lied, wondering how he’d ever explain to his friend that the key reagent for the spell went up in the smoke of his gardens.
“Good. Now if we can find a giant glow worm, I will be set for the casting.”
“That should be easy once we get to the frontier. The elves fighting the Border Wars are plagued by them often enough. Anyway, Stefir, you were saying….”
“Yes, after seeing that my subordinates were making progress, I had a falcon rider friend of mine visit. He flew me to an archaeological dig I sponsor in the ruins of Arkaivia. Long ago it was the City of Knowledge, but a volcano buried it shortly after the Emperor’s armies overran it in the first millennia. One of my best men there had unearthed some crucial relics describing the Dooms. It was while I worked there that a messenger brought word about the Cube. I spent almost a year trying to trace down the artifact with little success.”
Jessar waited patiently since he had asked Stefir two questions, but the wizard began scratching Siltentwing’s neck.
Ogador smiled. “Jessar, you can always tell when Stefir is uncomfortable because he scratches rather than smoothes the owl’s feathers.”
The wizard jerked his hand away, and flicked his wrist in a signal that sent the owl speeding away overhead.
“I’m glad you did that, Stefir. It’s not that I don’t like the fellow, but don’t you think it’s kind of pointless to make our swords invisible if Silentwing is sitting on your shoulder? And aren’t you going to answer our friend’s second question?”
Stefir glared at the prince and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I fear I have not been as successful as you probably hoped. I started by questioning the man who delivered Ogador and I the orders to meet you in Plasis. Four years ago, when we received those orders, he was a captain of the winged horsemen. A blue-robed lord of the West-realm had visited him. Although the lord bypassed the usual chain-of-command, he wore the broach of office, the First Table, no less, which gave him the right to do so. Since the lord said he would brief the captain’s superiors and stressed the message’s importance—“
“Did he get the lord’s name?”
Stefir smiled pedantically and raised his finger. “As I was about to point out, this lord did not give his name, and the captain never saw him again. Even at the level of the First Table, comprised of the brothers of the king as well as his uncles, there are no less than seventy five, thanks to West-realm’s absurd Concubine Laws.”
“Wizard, you shouldn’t condemn those who feather your nest. The laws are designed to guarantee there will be a male heir. Since their enactment, we’ve not experienced another Kin War.”
“Yes, I do stand corrected. And I suppose all the mysterious deaths of heir princes that have occurred with frightening regularity throughout your history were just suicides in the name of honor to ensure the best qualified regent rose to the throne?”
“Well, the Concubine Laws are nothing compared to the Solon Ring Turners.”
“If you remember your history, Prince, it was the Ring Turners that earned the Solon their sterility and eventually led to the Dooms,” Stefir stated emphatically. “You cannot argue with that, can you?”
The governor sulked. The Lynx at least understood that it was a mistake to take on Talan’s chronologist about a historical matter.
“Anyway, Jessar, the airman carried the orders to us and, as you know, Ogador and I met you in Plasis. Given that there is an average of one slave ship a week mooring there, I found it interesting that this lord of the West-realm somehow knew, almost a year ahead of time, when the Langbardians would sail you back, especially considering you still had nearly twelve years remaining on your contract before your return. So, while I was in Wedroth, I took a jaunt to Solona to find the good captain again. I explained how your mother was missing and your father exiled and that you remembered nothing of your captivity on Langbard. His sympathy for your situation was so great that he permitted me to cast a mind probe on him.”
Stefir put his fingertips to his forehead. “That spell has never failed me on those rare occasions that people permit me to use it anyway. However, with the airman, it revealed nothing—“
“Stefir, it didn’t work on me either,” Jessar reminded.
The wizard snapped his fingers. “You know, Jessar, you are absolutely correct. It just occurred to me that since I have known you, events have caused me to rethink some of the things I have previously taken for granted regarding the arcane laws, and every one of these occurrences is directly connected with you.”
A smile stretched across the chronologist’s face. “In fact, I must explore this when I next scan the star paths; I may be able to turn that connection into a thread I can use to unravel a few mysteries.”
They Lynx smiled back. “Good, Stefir. I’m glad something may help.”
“Anyway, back to my story. When I used the mind probe, which I might mention has never failed me before you and the captain, Jessar, the winged horseman knew nothing more than what he had told me the first time. In fact, there was a peculiar cloudiness in his mind. This was not a mind wall, which at least several dozen wizards in Talan are skilled enough to employ, however. No, it was more like the fog in your mind – the screen protecting the memories of your past. Of course, I did not attempt to negate it. I had already stretched wizardly ethics—“
“Oh? I’d never heard wizards had any ethics.”
“Ogador, our ethics are what keep us from taking advantage of you mundanes.”
The Lynx was losing patience with the delays. “Stefir, the story?”
“Yes, well, anyway the only explanation I have, and this is just a theory, is that the shields in both your minds might be the result of the Langbardian narcosists’ amnesia drugs.”
“So what you know about my father is –“
“Jessar, the only thing I know about your father, and of this I am not certain, is that he is, or was, a prominent man of the West-realm.”
That was hardly news. Jessar’s father had to come from the West: Why else would Ogador, heir prince of the West-realm, and Stefir, West-realm’s crown wizard, be dispatched to meet him, a freed slave? Maybe his father was a war hero, since the mysterious lord had chosen a captain in the Air Cavalry as his messenger. The Lynx’s hopes had been so much higher; he couldn’t help being disappointed. He stared at the cobbled road.
“Next, I turned to the star paths. I did not know and certainly was not going to ask the star name of the captain, and it took me a fortnight to discover it by examining the star paths of Ogador and I. From there, I tried to find the star of the lord who had given the orders, but the whole affair was lost in a complex nexus that might require years to unravel.”
A nexus – great! Jessar didn’t know much about how the wizard divined not only the past, but also information regarding the infinite range of possible futures just by studying the heavens. To the Lynx, it was almost surprising that the Starlord, who forged the star rings in his Observatory, permitted others to tap the star paths.
By the time Stefir had finished his brief, they were approaching the edge of town. Ahead, crossing the road some twenty feet overhead was a span between two scentwoods, one on either side of the way.
The prince looked at the structure in confusion. “Why is it necessary to build a bridge over this road? I see no logic in it.”
“Remember that we are looking for a stable, Ogador, and, if you were a Galbardian elf paranoid of outsiders, you would have to figure out some way to build it above ground,” the wizard said pedantically.
Jessar searched the fenced pastures beside the road, but he saw no horses.
Stefir seemed to have noticed the same thing. “Jessar, can you think of a reason the horses are not afield this long after sunrise?”
On their right was a gate accessing the southern pasture. Behind it was an elf, sweeping manure from a wooden decking. Ropes extended from the platform’s four corners to large pulleys in the tree above.
“No, Stefir. Excuse me,” the Lynx called to the elf.
The elf wiped his hands on a smock and came to the gate. “Yes, what can I do for you?”
“We need to buy some horses,” Jessar replied.
“Now isn’t that something. First, the most lovely elwen I’ve seen in years comes by wearing her working skirt all askance, and she wants to buy some horses. Then some Yitrava from that gypsy camp outside town scares off my whole herd.”
“The elwen, did she buy the horses?”
“Yes, but I didn’t get them saddled before the Yitrava scared them all off, except the one the elwen wanted.”
“What happened to the elwen?”
“She leaped up on the horse bareback like she was some kind of frontier plainsman or something and off she went like the wind.”
The Lynx slapped his hand on top of the fence post and stamped his foot in frustration. “Now we’ll never catch up with her.”
“Maybe not, but if you wait a few days, the witch promised my horses would be back.”
“And you believed her?”
“Yes. She gave me this,” the horseman held out a censer. Woven through the chain and sticking into a hole in the smoke chamber was a lock of hair.
“A Yitrava’s summons,” the chronologist observed.
“What?” Ogador asked, attracting the elf’s attention for the first time.
The horseman peered carefully at Ogador for a moment and gasped, “a man!” Then he dropped the broom and ran.
“Great, Ogador,” the wizard snapped, taking the same tiny vial from his hip pocket as the day before. Stefir again clenched his left fist and chanted, “Or yeltok artumon alto, slipra.” He uncorked the vial and let lose a syrupy drop of black fluid before completing the sorcery with, “Lavek idron.“
This time, without the prince’s interference, the spell worked, and the running elf halted motionless in mid-stride, in an off-balance pose that should have toppled him.
Jessar shot the wizard a curious look.
“I stopped time for him. Do not worry, he will be back to normal in a few minutes.”
“That’s useful. How—“
“I am the Chronologist,” Stefir exclaimed in exasperation, “and we had best move on before he is able to set the authorities on us. Now, Ogador, just shut up from now on when we are around Galbardians.”
The friends ran. Soon they reached the intersection of Infamy Avenue, which continued eastward toward Lerum and the Galbard Thruway, which headed north to Bilaron. They took the northern route and were soon running up a hill.
“The gypsy camp is just over this hill,” Jessar gasped, hearing the roars of load beasts ahead.
They slowed to a walk as they topped the hill, where the Lynx expected to find a tent city full of Galbard’s less fortunate, the migrating Gelvenum, the gypsies. Only in the tent city of Gelvarol, on the outskirts of Bilaron, did the migrants have a permanent home. The rest of their camps were temporary, moving from one site to another throughout the realm. The treebound Galbardians, the Holvenum, had often considered deporting the entire gypsy nation, but the trouble was that the sedentary elves needed their itinerant brethren. The gypsies served a vital role in the realm, for they conducted most of the trade, with different tribes specializing in certain goods. Also, since they tolerated foreigners, the gypsies carried on what little international commerce occurred. In fact, several tribes actually migrated throughout the Eastern Civilizations for lucrative profit, including occasional black market dealings.
With their nomadic lifestyle, the gypsies had few non-essential belongings. Perhaps because they had so few possessions, those they owned were remarkable in color, decoration, and composition. Of all they had, however, nothing was more garish than their flowing, multi-colored clothing.
Sure enough, standing in the middle of the road ahead was the Yitrava from last night, along with an elf in the striped pantaloons of a gypsy male. Both faced half away, watching the rest of the tribe pull out in their huge, color-splotched tent wagons, drawn by Lurgans, their low-slung, wide-bodied horned reptilian load beasts.
The elwen gestured excitedly--she had noticed the travelers. She grabbed the elf’s arm. When her escort turned, Jessar saw the scarred face that had haunted his dreams. So, the mob leader was a gypsy.
The Yitrava hastily set her brazier on the ground. She waved her hand over it and flames burst forth.
Ogador grabbed his sword hilt. “I don’t like this.”
Jessar had seen this before. “She’s starting a spell.”
The prince bolted forward, Jessar one step behind.
Stefir moved, too. He grabbed something from one of the pouches in his belt. Jessar couldn’t see it, but somehow he knew it would be a sponge. The wizard began a hasty chant.
Ahead, only thirty strides from the Yitrava, Ogador drew his long sword. Jessar headed for the scarred elf and removed the peace string from his own blade, hoping this would be the chance to complete the quenching of it, as the prince had said this morning. To defend himself, the brightly clad elf extracted a gypsy dagger from the voluminous sleeve over his wrist.
Meanwhile, behind Jessar, Stefir took another item from his belt. It was now a five way race, and the outcome looked too close to call.
The witch threw some kind of dust onto her fire and pointed at the travelers. In that instant, Jessar knew who had won the race.
Confirming the Lynx’s supposition, an intense lethargic wave swept through his body. In mid-step, he felt as if he were plodding through a mud pool. He struggled just to finish another pace. Every step demanded tortuous effort. Ahead, his intended adversary laughed and returned his dagger back inside his sleeve. With the half-elf’s leaden motions, the gypsy could easily have dispatched him with little more effort than slicing fruit. Why didn’t his nemesis simply finish him now?
Concentrating, Jessar willed his head to turn back to Stefir. In a ponderously slow arc, the wizard’s hand, along with the sponge, rose. Deep sounds unlike any human or elf ought to make droned from his lips. Jessar ceased his futile struggling and watched. In agonized sluggishness, the chronologist dropped the folded cloth in his other hand, releasing the sand within to fall at its normal rate. Then the wizard finished mouthing his guttural tones.
The resistance against Jessar’s muscles relaxed so suddenly that he fell. He rolled over, seeing Ogador sprawled on the ground where the witch had been – it had been a very close race. Only Stefir still stood. Jessar got up and surveyed the campsite. The gypsies were gone.
“I hate it when you do that.” The prince stood and retrieved his sword.
“You would rather I let the spell wear off itself? We might have walked the couple of hundred strides to the campsite by midnight. The Silarom guards would surely have taken us if we stayed like we were. Of course, if I had my staff, I would have beat her with my flux dispersion spell.” The wizard retrieved the cloth he’d dropped, sprinkling more sand into it from yet another of his corked flasks.
“Of course, and if you had wings you’d be a fairy.”
Jessar chuckled. It earned him a look almost as scorching as the one Ogador got from Stefir.
“Stefir, I don’t understand why she didn’t just paralyze us like she did Mishar last night,” the Lynx observed.
“Are you disappointed, Jessar, or would you, like the good prince, like to spend a century or two in Avril’s stockades?”
The prince dusted off his pants. “Relax, Stefir. Did I ever tell you that you’re a poor loser? Why can’t you answer his question, and while you’re at it, just what was that pot hanging on a chain that the stable master had?”
“Sorry, Jessar,” Stefir said, making no motion to treat Ogador similarly. “As witches go, she is not the most powerful Yitrava who ever walked the lands.”
“She was enough to sour your dough,” the prince remarked while Jessar turned away to stifle a laugh.
The chronologist blessed the prince with his most withering stare. “Perhaps if your own wits hadn’t been so dulled by all the stout last night you might have reached her in time.”
Ogador sheathed his weapon and looked at Stefir expectantly.
“She had not the strength of flux to paralyze the three of us simultaneously, so she opted for the slow metabolism effect. As for her censer, it is a witch’s device that, once lit, will summon her back to its bearer instantly. It is quite useful, something few wizards can even approach with conventional spells. The hair was the Yitrava’s, and the object is often used to alert the witch of a great need or to seal a promise of trust.”
“Sounds like it could come in handy,” the Lynx said as he too dusted himself off.
“Yes, it has its uses, but it also has its limitations, for a witch can fabricate only one such device at a time.”
The prince said, “You needn’t worry about trying to make one for me, Stefir. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me one that, when I light it, you disappear.”
“I would much rather put my efforts into an instrument that would simply shut you up. Now, be silent.”
Stefir closed his eyes for a moment. “Silentwing is following the gypsies. They are moving as if a troop of spirits were after them. Well, at least they are appropriately afraid of our might.”
“Right, Stefir, our display was enough to scare the beard off a dwarf. What are you thinking? With our sorry display, they wouldn’t be afraid to sick a pet hamster on us.”
The chronologist had come alongside the Lynx and prince, but was pointing to the side of the road ahead. “Perhaps you are right and that is the power of which they are terrified.“
Traced in chalk on the surface of the cobblestones, was a vaguely familiar symbolic representation of an animal. In fact, it looked like the face of a cat. Jessar snapped his fingers. “It’s like last night. Remember the charcoal sketch the Yitrava made? This is another lynx.”
“Yes, I believe you are correct, Jessar.”
Ogador bent over the lines and pointed at some secondary symbols, including a small circle atop a line and nine small side-by-side vertical strokes.
Stefir kneeled to study them. “The marks below the cat I understand. Among many illiterate peoples, the first symbol,” the wizard pointed at the circle, “represents the sun just after dawn. It is symbolic for the season of Growth. The nine lines indicate that today is the ninth day of that season. What the cat means, well, since the witch named you the lynx last evening, Jessar, there is only one reasonable explanation, as you noted. Still, it is not a common hieroglyph. Have you any experience with the hieroglyphs of the Gelvenum? Do you know what the lynx means to the gypsies?”
“No to both, other than what the witch said last night. I didn’t even recognize the date.”
Stefir nodded and stood. “Although we may not know exactly what the cat signifies, it is an omen in many cultures. Unfortunately, its nature varies. Among the wandering Wesari, the lynx embodies mystery, which they cherish. The folk of the frontier to the north associate the lynx with freedom, which they value. The mutats of Rothland—“
“Woah, spare us, please, Stefir. As always, you are missing the one piece of information we need.”
“And, also as always, you can offer nothing that might help.”
“That’s because, unlike you, I know too much.”
Stefir shook his head theatrically. “I confess, you lost me there.”
“What I mean is: it takes an idiot to understand an idiot. I'm shocked you can’t decipher the cave-drawings of your fellow illiterates.”
Would they stop to argue even if they were sinking in a quagmire? “Gentlemen. I think we should consider the circumstances. This symbol is obviously meant to communicate something to other gypsies passing this way. Since they are illiterate, they must use these kinds of signals to communicate between tribes. Judging by the way they’ve evacuated this camp, I’d have to say this is a warning. If it is a lynx, and if it’s referring to me, I sure can’t understand why they’re so afraid.”
Stefir smiled at Jessar. “The voice of reason prevails…. You are right, Jessar. The message is not for us, so we should continue with our journey. If we don’t find some means of transportation faster than our own feet soon, we will not make the Rending in time, and Kazir cannot afford to wait for fear that the berg may upend.”
Ogador scowled. “As much as I hate to agree with you, that makes sense, Stefir.”
Following the dusty claw prints of the gypsies’ load beasts, the travelers passed the campsite. Normally a tidy people, the Gelvenum had obviously left in a great hurry. Debris, highly uncharacteristic of the gypsies, littered the site. Even a few stubbornly rooted tent stakes remained.
Just beyond the site, the cobblestones gave way to riverbed gravel. The Lynx had never ventured this far. Even the mysterious cat symbol couldn’t quench his excitement. The lands on his maps would soon unfold before him, lands of which he’d only daydreamed before.
Interrupting Jessar’s thoughts of places unknown, a staccato snap punctuated the hymn of the springtime hardwood forest about them. Startled birds ceased their song, and the undergrowth rustled with the scurrying of small beasts. Startled, he looked to the wizard beside him and noticed that Stefir now held his staff.
Answering Jessar’s unspoken question, Stefir explained, “I would rather not be caught again without the full magical resources available to me, now that we have passed out of the city. I believe the risk to our concealment efforts is warranted.”
Silentwing apparently sensed his master’s desires and swooped to a silent landing on the chronologist’s shoulder.
For several marches, the friends traveled on in silence, each lost to his own thoughts. The Lynx wondered idly how Sabretha fared. Somewhere ahead she rode bareback on her mount – yet another skill Jessar lacked. It made him feel inadequate. How could he hope to know or learn more than a tiny fraction of what her nine thousand years of experience had earned for her. Repeatedly, he found himself thinking it was unsafe for the solowen to be journeying alone, and each time he had to remind himself that she’d roved probably most of Talan all by herself. From all indications, it didn’t appear likely that he’d find himself at her side for any future travels.
As they walked northward, the road gradually narrowed to the width of a single wagon. The highway passed through a blackjack and hickory forest, with an occasional scentwood towering above. Thorny undergrowth clogged the gaps between the trees, while a pleasant carpet of bermuda bordered the road.
When the sun peaked, they arrived at another deserted gypsy campsite, cleared from the undergrowth among the hardwoods. The travelers left the road to lunch atop the lawn.
Again they found the lynx message, outlined in pebbles atop the grass. Jessar and Stefir stared at it. Ogador ran his fingertips along the dust and gravel. “Consistent, aren’t they? They’re gaining an hour on us for every three we travel.”
Stefir, obviously in one of his contemplative moods, simply grunted acknowledgement and walked over to the nearest scentwood. Silentwing snapped open an eye and pivoted his neck to an impossible angle to scan the branches overhead. Apparently satisfied, the owl shut his eyes again.
“The bird seems content on your shoulder. You must know some dark secret from his past to keep him with you at all.”
The wizard looked first at the sleeping owl on his shoulder and then peered down his nose at Ogador. “The only reason I will not have Silentwing poke out your eyes for that remark is that I so dislike awakening him. After all, he needs his sleep so he can hunt your minute rodent kin.”
They shared the rations and Jessar passed his waterskin around.
Finally, Ogador sighed and looked around. “This would really be a nice place to spend a few days. I believe I hear a stream running a little further from the road back there.” He pointed vaguely to the east. “This country is beautiful. Jessar, you and your people are fortunate to live in such lands.”
The friends returned to the highway. Tiring of hiking without conversation, the Lynx decided to coax Stefir out of his reflective mood. “Ogador, you mentioned my countrymen and that reminded me of something Stefir said yesterday about how my countrymen treated you.”
As Jessar had hoped, the wizard perked up; he even chuckled lightly. He raised the index finger of his right hand, which, for once, Jessar actually welcomed. “Do you mean you do not know? I should think you would have more control over your own staff.”
“Sometimes I can understand why Ogador jibes you, Stefir. You have a maddening habit of protracting simple explanations.” Jessar gave Stefir a playful glance.
The prince smiled. “This tale would be a belly wiggler if it weren’t true, but unfortunately it’s quite real.”
Stefir turned serious. “Yes, Jessar, you may not find this as amusing right now as you may in the future. Anyway, after we moored in your harbor yesterday morning, some official served the captain with a writ from the office of the foreign minister, and, unless your beard is grave moss, I believe you still hold that title.”
What was happening? In his years of service as foreign minister, Jessar had never issued any writ, had no office, and certainly retained no staff. “Please, refresh my memory. Just what is it I supposedly wrote?”
“Jessar, you are taking this quite well. It was a well-written writ, I must say. Anyway, you will recall that, some five years ago, while you were still indentured, in fact, you somehow decreed the Protection of Foreigners (and other Undesirables) Measure. It stated, in part, that foreigners must be protected from a certain element of Galbardian society that had a rather narrow-minded view of Talan, believing that foreigners were known to be all godless heathens and thereby subject to rightful extermination. Thus the document specified that protection would be necessary at any time that the Crown invited foreigners (or other undesirables) onto Galbardian soil. It also made note of the scarcity of bodyguard resources available due to the war.”
“I’m getting the chaff of it, Stefir. What was the wheat of it then?”
“Your Measure concludes, ‘…It is hereby declared that such foreigners (or other undesirables) should be eligible for a per capita and ad valorem tax to defray the cost of the aforesaid protection.’ The writ then levied a tax against the ship, its crew, and passengers. And, since the tax could easily buy our vessel, I can only assume you are attempting to acquire your own fleet.”
The wizard raised his finger higher. “Ogador however, in one of his rare moments of adequacy, settled for only half the amount your writ demanded, though I wager it still put a dent in his personal wealth.”
“I should say so!” Ogador agreed. “After our last trip, by the time I got back to West-realm, you had drained my coffers down to a few coppers. I had to draw a substantial sum from my personal treasury to augment my official funds. Now, however, after King Avril’s tax and damages at The Mariners’ Asylum, I have just under two hundred tiaras left.”
The Lynx thought of the expenses ahead: a border tax, ferry fee, giant turtle fare, Plasis head tax, and incidentals. Even if there were no unplanned costs, Ogador’s funding sounded marginal at best.
The chronologist had obviously performed the same analysis. “Yes, that may prove to be a problem. I cannot believe you did not come better prepared.”
“Woah! You can’t believe I didn’t come prepared? Wizard, you go too far! Just how much coin did you bring?”
Stefir shoved his empty hand into his waist pocket and extracted a few coins, which he proceeded to manipulate with a thumb over his open hand. “Two, no three, coppers, a silver, and two gold half moons.”
“Walanar half moons! They’re not even tiaras! And it’s not enough to buy us room and board for a single day in the kinds of establishments you insist upon. You accuse me of lack of preparation when you have only that?”
“Ogador, I’m afraid I have nothing to contribute either,” Jessar admitted.
“Oh, you’ve already provided more than the wizard. Remember our provender? Besides, I can’t blame you for not having currency in a land that functions by barter.”
“Is there no consulate from which you can draw?” the wizard asked.
Ogador gave the wizard a you-know-better-than-that look. “Wizard, you are well aware that the first consulate on our journey won’t be until we get to Veinous City. You’re just going to have to tighten your belt and hope that all the fairy dust you have in all those vials and pockets is enough to get us by until then.”
Jessar stamped his foot on the dusty road in disgust. “I can’t believe the King. The nerve of that bandit to tax the prince to near poverty and then just look at the protection it’s bought us,” he swept his arms around demonstratively.
“Jessar, look on the bright side: The tax may be the only reason the authorities have not already arrested us.”
“I’m forced to agree with Stefir, Jessar. If Avril leaves us alone, the tax will be well worth it.”
“Well, it didn’t save my gardens,” Jessar observed, struck by the unfairness of it all.
“We have a bigger problem, Jessar. Without horses, we will never get to the North Veinous River in time to meet Bidmaron and Kazir.”
“Perhaps we can hire horses from a farmer ahead,” the Lynx said.
“I hope so.”
“I’m sure they’ll wait for us if we arrive late.”
“True, Ogador, but Bidmaron feared other parties might be interested in the artifact frozen within the iceberg. Also, this delay may keep us from reaching Plasis before the Days of Doom, and that might be disastrous.”
Jessar asked, “What are the Days of Doom?”
“The followers of Hadna, God of Chaos, have a festival at every full eclipse of the sun. The navigators of Langbard, experts at astronomical calculations, put the next eclipse for this region some time a little over one moon from now.”
“A festival doesn’t sound so bad.”
“This is no ordinary festival, Jessar. For the eighteen days to follow, commemorating the Dooms, the Hadna worshipers kill anyone unlucky or foolish enough to leave their homes.”
“Oh. It doesn’t sound like we want to be in the middle of a journey then.”
“Exactly my point. Yet if we cannot find horses, we might well be traveling still when the eclipse arrives.”
They continued again in silence. The Lynx had put himself into a sullen spirit as he languished over the damage to his mother’s estate. He barely noticed as they crossed Ogador’s stream a little further down the road on an old brick arched bridge. On the far side, the gravel gave way to loose-packed bare earth. Wagon wheel tracks and claw prints covered the road.
Ogador paused to study the signs. He pursed his lips and nodded. “As I thought, the tribe of gypsies is about three hours ahead. They are pushing their load beasts hard.”
Their path began to angle eastward--away from the coastline--and the land folded into gentle hills. They crossed four more creeks that afternoon and passed another empty gypsy camp. By that time, the etched lynx symbol in the bare earth of the roadway hardly surprised them.
As the sun set, Jessar struggled with the oppressive weight of his pack. His shoulders, back, feet – everything – ached. The wound almost throbbed with the steady pain there. His arms kept going to sleep from the straps’ pressure on his shoulders. Every moment became an agony. All he thought about was stopping, but he knew Ogador planned to hike several more hours.
He forced himself to raise his eyes from the road. Ahead, on the left, he saw another of the gypsy campsites in the twilight. Opposite the empty site, someone leaned on a fence. And next to him stood an eight foot long trident.
The elf stood and yelled, “Ahoy!”
Jessar glanced questioningly at Ogador. The prince shrugged as they plodded on.
The elf ahead grasped the weapon and leveled it at the three travelers. He didn’t look Galbardian. In fact, his golden hair reminded Jessar of the Langbardian sailors, which the elf confirmed when he spoke with the heavy accent of the islands. “Which of ye be the Lynx?”