before-or not enough different to indicate anything. But he is used to the forests and irregular hills north of Cyad itself-not the scattered farms and the grasslands of the east that are north of the Accursed Forest and the Great Canal that links the fertile lands between the rivers with Fyrad. "Because the farms are closer together?"
The merchanter shakes his head. "The hills. They're longer here-like they've been stretched out. They get shorter and steeper as you go west. Much more rugged, they are."
Lorn nods.
"You'll see. Are you going to Isahl or Pemedra?"
"Are those the only two choices?" Lorn counters.
"For a new undercaptain, they are. You're probably pretty good with a blade and a firelance, I'd wager. No?"
"Better than many," Lorn admits.
"That's why you're there. Glad you are. Wouldn't travel this route weren't for the lancers. Barbarians be through Syadtar like grease through a goose." The merchanter laughs. "Grease through a goose. Faster than coin spent by a pleasure girl."
The miller sits up. "Begging your pardon, trader, but it be early, and Syadtar is not here yet. Some of us lack the endurance we once had."
"My apologies," offers the young merchanter. "My apologies, ser."
The miller grunts and closes his eyes.
"You'll see," murmurs the trader to Lorn, leaning back with a wry look at the miller before closing his own eyes.
Lorn closes his eyes for a time, but he can no longer sleep to the rumbling of the wheels, and his eyes stray back to the window.
The first sign that the firewagon is approaching Syadtar is the appearance of scattered farmhouses-similar in their green tile roofs, green ceramic privacy screens before the front doors, and the green shutters open but ready to be closed against night or weather. Yet each is subtly different, with a lighter or darker shade of cream or off-white plaster on its walls and with different types of bushes and trees planted to create privacy areas behind the dwellings where the girls and the women may appear without being revealed to passers-by.
Then comes something Lorn has not seen before in Cyador-a white sunstone city wall-one nearly ten cubits high. There are no guards, but the firewagon passes through the open heavy oak gates and well-kept ramparts and twin guard towers.
Past the gates are the wide white-granite streets of the small city, with the scattered green and white awnings, although those are furled in the early light of day, except for one, which signifies a coffee house. Lorn frowns momentarily.
"You're right," says the merchanter, stretching. "Won't be many coffee houses afore long, not with the blight."
"Blight?" Lorn asks involuntarily.
"Order blight-blacks spots on the underside of the leaves, then, poof! No more coffee plants."
"Magi'i will find something to stop it, or the healers," rumbles the district guard commander, slowly straightening on his part of the bench he shares with Lorn.
The firewagon is slowing, and Lorn's eyes go back to the buildings they pass. Syadtar is a miniature of Cyad, at least in that the buildings are all of white sunstone, but smaller than those of the great City of Eternal Light-and there are far fewer of more than one level. The light is more intense, even early, perhaps because there are no trees within Syadtar. Lorn sees none, at least.
"Maybe they will, honored ser, but shipments of the beans have dropped to nothing from the fields north of Fyrad, and those from Geliendra are half what they were last year."
"Don't be underestimating the Magi'i, trader," suggests the district guard commander. "Most of those that have are ashes."
"Ah... yes, your honor. "The merchanter's mustache bobs as he swallows.
"Bah... not that much honor in being a district guard. The lancers have the honor." The older man's eyes twinkle as he winks at Lorn.
Lorn hides a smile, but says, "Without the guard, the lancers would be spread far thinner."
The merchanter looks from one armsman to the other, bewildered, then
The merchanter shakes his head. "The hills. They're longer here-like they've been stretched out. They get shorter and steeper as you go west. Much more rugged, they are."
Lorn nods.
"You'll see. Are you going to Isahl or Pemedra?"
"Are those the only two choices?" Lorn counters.
"For a new undercaptain, they are. You're probably pretty good with a blade and a firelance, I'd wager. No?"
"Better than many," Lorn admits.
"That's why you're there. Glad you are. Wouldn't travel this route weren't for the lancers. Barbarians be through Syadtar like grease through a goose." The merchanter laughs. "Grease through a goose. Faster than coin spent by a pleasure girl."
The miller sits up. "Begging your pardon, trader, but it be early, and Syadtar is not here yet. Some of us lack the endurance we once had."
"My apologies," offers the young merchanter. "My apologies, ser."
The miller grunts and closes his eyes.
"You'll see," murmurs the trader to Lorn, leaning back with a wry look at the miller before closing his own eyes.
Lorn closes his eyes for a time, but he can no longer sleep to the rumbling of the wheels, and his eyes stray back to the window.
The first sign that the firewagon is approaching Syadtar is the appearance of scattered farmhouses-similar in their green tile roofs, green ceramic privacy screens before the front doors, and the green shutters open but ready to be closed against night or weather. Yet each is subtly different, with a lighter or darker shade of cream or off-white plaster on its walls and with different types of bushes and trees planted to create privacy areas behind the dwellings where the girls and the women may appear without being revealed to passers-by.
Then comes something Lorn has not seen before in Cyador-a white sunstone city wall-one nearly ten cubits high. There are no guards, but the firewagon passes through the open heavy oak gates and well-kept ramparts and twin guard towers.
Past the gates are the wide white-granite streets of the small city, with the scattered green and white awnings, although those are furled in the early light of day, except for one, which signifies a coffee house. Lorn frowns momentarily.
"You're right," says the merchanter, stretching. "Won't be many coffee houses afore long, not with the blight."
"Blight?" Lorn asks involuntarily.
"Order blight-blacks spots on the underside of the leaves, then, poof! No more coffee plants."
"Magi'i will find something to stop it, or the healers," rumbles the district guard commander, slowly straightening on his part of the bench he shares with Lorn.
The firewagon is slowing, and Lorn's eyes go back to the buildings they pass. Syadtar is a miniature of Cyad, at least in that the buildings are all of white sunstone, but smaller than those of the great City of Eternal Light-and there are far fewer of more than one level. The light is more intense, even early, perhaps because there are no trees within Syadtar. Lorn sees none, at least.
"Maybe they will, honored ser, but shipments of the beans have dropped to nothing from the fields north of Fyrad, and those from Geliendra are half what they were last year."
"Don't be underestimating the Magi'i, trader," suggests the district guard commander. "Most of those that have are ashes."
"Ah... yes, your honor. "The merchanter's mustache bobs as he swallows.
"Bah... not that much honor in being a district guard. The lancers have the honor." The older man's eyes twinkle as he winks at Lorn.
Lorn hides a smile, but says, "Without the guard, the lancers would be spread far thinner."
The merchanter looks from one armsman to the other, bewildered, then
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