Clartham before studying the pier: a long structure anchored on round wooden posts—logs stripped and planed roughly into shape—nearly a cubit across. He tapped his staff on the heavy planks, weathered and gray. The dull thud and vibration of the staff against his hand confirmed the pier’s solidity.
At the end of the pier, Trooper Sirle reached the waiting wagon, and with a flick of a whip, the teamster on the seat started the two-horse team toward the Clartham .
Only the faintest vibration traveled up through Justen’s boots. Even with the heavy wagon rolling out to the ship, the pier felt nearly as solid as if it had been built of stone.
XXI
“Easy, horse. Easy…” Justen patted the beast’s neck, taking care not to lean too far forward. According to his limited order-senses, his mount was old, docile, and without even a rudimentary sense of self-identity. Justen’s lips twisted. He’d known statues with more awareness, but at least the gray had no interest in contesting who might be master—a contest Justen felt he probably wouldn’t win with a more spirited mount such as the one Altara rode.
The chief engineer edged the bay up beside him. “How are you doing?”
“That depends on how far we have to go.” The junior engineer glanced at the hard-packed clay that ran in a gentle curve roughly south for about a kay before swinging southwest toward what appeared to be a bridge. His eyes flicked to the heavy gray sky. “I just hope it doesn’t rain for a while.”
“I’m no Weather Wizard, but it probably won’t rain until later, not until after we’re off the road. Merwha says we’ll be staying in the inn next to the barracks in that town ahead.”
“What town?” snorted Nicos. “There’s a bridge and a wide spot in the road.”
“It’s at least as wide as Turnhill,” quipped Jirrl. “Maybe even wider, and this place has a river worthy of the name.”
Nicos opened his mouth, closed it, and grinned. “Fair enough. I suppose I deserved that, even if…” He shook his head. “But Turnhill is a prettier sight, I daresay.”
Clerve, riding behind Nicos on a mare even more swaybacked than Justen’s, smiled broadly. Altara urged the bay forward to rejoin the Sarronnese officer.
Justen’s smile slipped as he swatted at a large fly that buzzed around his right ear. The fly evaded the motion and headed for the other ear, but Justen’s fingers were quicker. “Got you!” He wiped off his fingers on the gray’s shoulder. The horse plodded on.
Another fly buzzed toward him. Justen swatted, but missed.
“Why don’t you set a ward?” suggested Krytella, riding up beside him.
“Wards aren’t exactly that easy when you’re moving. Besides, I’m an engineer, not a mage or a healer.”
“It’s not that hard. It didn’t take Gunnar very long to learn. Let me show you.” Krytella eased her mount closer to Justen and brushed a stray red hair back off her forehead. “Just let your senses feel the pattern.”
Justen closed his eyes and tried to block out visual distractions and the conversations of the other riders. Even so, he couldn’t help but overhear parts of what was being said.
“…not see a lovelier stream than the Eddywash…not like this flowing brown bog they call a river…”
“…Iron Guard and the White lancers…isn’t much left of Deneris…”
Justen wrenched his senses back to the patterns Krytella wove.
“Do you see?” the healer asked.
“Can you do it again?”
As she repeated the gentle order-spinning, Justen tried to mimic her manipulations.
“You almost had it! Try it again.”
Justen tried once more.
“Not quite. I’ll do it again.”
After several more demonstrations by the redheaded healer, Justen finally wove a thin order-web around the gray and himself.
“Thank you ever so much, Master Justen.” Clerve swatted at several flies and nearly fell from his swaybacked mount, his hand swinging past the guitar case as he regained his
At the end of the pier, Trooper Sirle reached the waiting wagon, and with a flick of a whip, the teamster on the seat started the two-horse team toward the Clartham .
Only the faintest vibration traveled up through Justen’s boots. Even with the heavy wagon rolling out to the ship, the pier felt nearly as solid as if it had been built of stone.
XXI
“Easy, horse. Easy…” Justen patted the beast’s neck, taking care not to lean too far forward. According to his limited order-senses, his mount was old, docile, and without even a rudimentary sense of self-identity. Justen’s lips twisted. He’d known statues with more awareness, but at least the gray had no interest in contesting who might be master—a contest Justen felt he probably wouldn’t win with a more spirited mount such as the one Altara rode.
The chief engineer edged the bay up beside him. “How are you doing?”
“That depends on how far we have to go.” The junior engineer glanced at the hard-packed clay that ran in a gentle curve roughly south for about a kay before swinging southwest toward what appeared to be a bridge. His eyes flicked to the heavy gray sky. “I just hope it doesn’t rain for a while.”
“I’m no Weather Wizard, but it probably won’t rain until later, not until after we’re off the road. Merwha says we’ll be staying in the inn next to the barracks in that town ahead.”
“What town?” snorted Nicos. “There’s a bridge and a wide spot in the road.”
“It’s at least as wide as Turnhill,” quipped Jirrl. “Maybe even wider, and this place has a river worthy of the name.”
Nicos opened his mouth, closed it, and grinned. “Fair enough. I suppose I deserved that, even if…” He shook his head. “But Turnhill is a prettier sight, I daresay.”
Clerve, riding behind Nicos on a mare even more swaybacked than Justen’s, smiled broadly. Altara urged the bay forward to rejoin the Sarronnese officer.
Justen’s smile slipped as he swatted at a large fly that buzzed around his right ear. The fly evaded the motion and headed for the other ear, but Justen’s fingers were quicker. “Got you!” He wiped off his fingers on the gray’s shoulder. The horse plodded on.
Another fly buzzed toward him. Justen swatted, but missed.
“Why don’t you set a ward?” suggested Krytella, riding up beside him.
“Wards aren’t exactly that easy when you’re moving. Besides, I’m an engineer, not a mage or a healer.”
“It’s not that hard. It didn’t take Gunnar very long to learn. Let me show you.” Krytella eased her mount closer to Justen and brushed a stray red hair back off her forehead. “Just let your senses feel the pattern.”
Justen closed his eyes and tried to block out visual distractions and the conversations of the other riders. Even so, he couldn’t help but overhear parts of what was being said.
“…not see a lovelier stream than the Eddywash…not like this flowing brown bog they call a river…”
“…Iron Guard and the White lancers…isn’t much left of Deneris…”
Justen wrenched his senses back to the patterns Krytella wove.
“Do you see?” the healer asked.
“Can you do it again?”
As she repeated the gentle order-spinning, Justen tried to mimic her manipulations.
“You almost had it! Try it again.”
Justen tried once more.
“Not quite. I’ll do it again.”
After several more demonstrations by the redheaded healer, Justen finally wove a thin order-web around the gray and himself.
“Thank you ever so much, Master Justen.” Clerve swatted at several flies and nearly fell from his swaybacked mount, his hand swinging past the guitar case as he regained his
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