balance.
“I’m sorry.” Justen concentrated, then sighed and wiped the sweat from his forehead as he set a second ward around the apprentice engineer.
“That won’t last,” warned Krytella. “He didn’t set it himself.”
“I know, but maybe the flies will bother someone else and forget about Clerve.”
“How did you do that, Justen?” asked the apprentice.
“I followed the healer’s instructions. But it won’t stay too long, so enjoy it.” Justen pursed his lips. Something about the wards bothered him, not that he could exactly understand why.
“I told you that you could do it.”
Justen grinned.
“You might make a mage or a wizard yet.”
“Hardly.”
“Here comes the bridge. Will we really get to stop?” asked Clerve.
“Of course.” Krytella glanced to her right, where the sun still hung well above the river and the western horizon. “We might even get to see what we’re eating for dinner.”
“It’s supper here.” Berol’s voice drifted forward above the muffled thuds of hooves on the damp clay of the road.
Less than fifty cubits from the bridge stood a kaystone bearing a single name: Lornth. Merwha reined in until the Recluce contingent closed up, then eased her chestnut forward.
More of the hard pink stones formed the two-span bridge over the River Sarron, now scarcely a hundred cubits wide. The paving blocks that comprised the roadway were hollowed with use. An old man with a broom watched from the far end as the Sarronnese officer led her charges across.
Justen glanced over his shoulder after crossing. The sweeper was back at work. “I wonder if each bridge has a sweeper.”
“Probably,” said Nicos. “They’re all clean, and that’s more than I could say about the ones I saw in Lydiar last year. Most of them filthy and grimy.”
On each side of the road stood single-storied buildings. Each building’s walls were smooth-finished, as if plastered, in a pink so pale that it was almost white.
Justen extended his senses to discover that each wall was in fact brick covered with a hard surface. “How do they finish the walls?” He turned in the saddle toward Nicos.
The other engineer shrugged.
“It’s a local cement, I think.” Berol’s voice carried over the echo of hooves on the stone pavement of the town street leading toward a square. “Clay and burned limestone crushed together into a powder. Some of the red clays allow it to dry even underwater. They probably use it for the bridge piers.”
Nicos shrugged; Justen grinned.
The murmur of voices in the central square died away as Merwha led the contingent around to the right. Neither grass nor sculpture graced the square, which was merely an open, stone-paved expanse surrounded by two- and three-storied buildings. Justen saw a chandlery, a cooper’s shop, and a dry-goods store—where one of the traditional maroon Sarronnese carpets, showing four-pointed curled stars, hung in the window. A handful of carts stood in a rough rectangle on the stones in the middle of the square. Less than a score of Sarronnese—peddlers and their customers—were scattered about. All remained silent as Merwha led the double line of riders out of the square and down another stone-paved street.
“…Black bastards.”
“Hush…maybe they’ll help…”
“…don’t know who’s worse…”
Once they had left the square, the murmurs behind increased.
“And they want more of us?” Quentel’s voice carried back from near the head of the column.
A small boy darted from an alley, saw the horses and the seven black-clad riders, and dashed back into the shadows.
Merwha reined up before a long timber-and-brick building. “Your mounts will be stabled here.” She pointed across the street to a two-story building whose facade bore the image of a tilted bowl with liquid flowing out. Under the faded image were the words, The Overflowing Bowl , in Temple script. “You’ll stay there tonight. The Tyrant pays for your lodging,
“I’m sorry.” Justen concentrated, then sighed and wiped the sweat from his forehead as he set a second ward around the apprentice engineer.
“That won’t last,” warned Krytella. “He didn’t set it himself.”
“I know, but maybe the flies will bother someone else and forget about Clerve.”
“How did you do that, Justen?” asked the apprentice.
“I followed the healer’s instructions. But it won’t stay too long, so enjoy it.” Justen pursed his lips. Something about the wards bothered him, not that he could exactly understand why.
“I told you that you could do it.”
Justen grinned.
“You might make a mage or a wizard yet.”
“Hardly.”
“Here comes the bridge. Will we really get to stop?” asked Clerve.
“Of course.” Krytella glanced to her right, where the sun still hung well above the river and the western horizon. “We might even get to see what we’re eating for dinner.”
“It’s supper here.” Berol’s voice drifted forward above the muffled thuds of hooves on the damp clay of the road.
Less than fifty cubits from the bridge stood a kaystone bearing a single name: Lornth. Merwha reined in until the Recluce contingent closed up, then eased her chestnut forward.
More of the hard pink stones formed the two-span bridge over the River Sarron, now scarcely a hundred cubits wide. The paving blocks that comprised the roadway were hollowed with use. An old man with a broom watched from the far end as the Sarronnese officer led her charges across.
Justen glanced over his shoulder after crossing. The sweeper was back at work. “I wonder if each bridge has a sweeper.”
“Probably,” said Nicos. “They’re all clean, and that’s more than I could say about the ones I saw in Lydiar last year. Most of them filthy and grimy.”
On each side of the road stood single-storied buildings. Each building’s walls were smooth-finished, as if plastered, in a pink so pale that it was almost white.
Justen extended his senses to discover that each wall was in fact brick covered with a hard surface. “How do they finish the walls?” He turned in the saddle toward Nicos.
The other engineer shrugged.
“It’s a local cement, I think.” Berol’s voice carried over the echo of hooves on the stone pavement of the town street leading toward a square. “Clay and burned limestone crushed together into a powder. Some of the red clays allow it to dry even underwater. They probably use it for the bridge piers.”
Nicos shrugged; Justen grinned.
The murmur of voices in the central square died away as Merwha led the contingent around to the right. Neither grass nor sculpture graced the square, which was merely an open, stone-paved expanse surrounded by two- and three-storied buildings. Justen saw a chandlery, a cooper’s shop, and a dry-goods store—where one of the traditional maroon Sarronnese carpets, showing four-pointed curled stars, hung in the window. A handful of carts stood in a rough rectangle on the stones in the middle of the square. Less than a score of Sarronnese—peddlers and their customers—were scattered about. All remained silent as Merwha led the double line of riders out of the square and down another stone-paved street.
“…Black bastards.”
“Hush…maybe they’ll help…”
“…don’t know who’s worse…”
Once they had left the square, the murmurs behind increased.
“And they want more of us?” Quentel’s voice carried back from near the head of the column.
A small boy darted from an alley, saw the horses and the seven black-clad riders, and dashed back into the shadows.
Merwha reined up before a long timber-and-brick building. “Your mounts will be stabled here.” She pointed across the street to a two-story building whose facade bore the image of a tilted bowl with liquid flowing out. Under the faded image were the words, The Overflowing Bowl , in Temple script. “You’ll stay there tonight. The Tyrant pays for your lodging,
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