“It’s worth it,” Luap and the Rosemage said together. Then she fell silent and Luap went on. “No land survives long without trade,” he said. “Especially one so limited in resources as this. If our people are to have a permanent place—for those who can’t, or don’t want to, return—then we must have trade.”
“And overland trade,” the Rosemage said, “will disturb the Finthans less than continued heavy use of the mageroad.”
“I wonder if Raheli would come?” Seri said suddenly. “I would like to see her again.” Aris noticed that Luap had stiffened, but before he could ask why, Luap relaxed.
“I doubt she’ll leave her grange for us,” he said. “But of course she would be welcome.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Luap had made the decision to meet that first caravan at the upper end of the trail from the desert. All along the way, his people had planted bannerstaves; today the narrow pennants snapped loudly in a freshening wind. Blue and white, Gird’s color and Esea’s, alternated. He himself wore the long white gown they had found so practical in the dry heat of summer, and over it a tabard of Girdish blue. He had an uneasy feeling about that, but surely they need not ape the fashion of Girdish peasants, not out here. No one wore those clothes any more; he had put on that worn pair of gray homespun trousers and rediscovered how itchy his legs felt. So he had insisted on some garment of blue, for all of them, and most had chosen the simple tabard.
His scouts had reported the approaching caravan two days before. Last night’s campfires had been at the base of the cliffs; soon they would be here. He was sweating, he realized, with more than heat. He wished he could see. Instead, he heard them first . . . the ring of shod hooves on stone, the echoing clamor of human voices, swearing at some unlucky mule. Then one of the youngsters waved to him, and he went to look over the edge. They were closer than he’d thought, toiling upward only a few switchbacks below, horses and men and mules all reduced to squirming odd shapes by the distance and brilliant sunlight.
One looked up at him, a face sunburnt to red leather, eyes squinted almost shut, unrecognizable. He had hoped for Cob, who had been, as much as any of them, a friend, but he had known how much Cob loved his own grange, how little he would look forward to a long journey into strangeness. The man’s free arm waved, then he looked down again. Luap watched the slow advance. Seasons of waiting had passed faster than this; his throat felt dry, and he accepted the wineskin someone offered without really noticing it. The wine, cool and sweet, eased his throat, but the hot stone must, he thought, be crisping his toes. They would be even hotter, having climbed those sunbaked cliffs in the day’s heat.
At last, the first of the caravan reached the top, two glasses or more after he’d expected them. Too late now to reach the stronghold by dark; they would camp in the pine-wood just below. Luap walked forward to meet the first rider, and proffered the wineskin. The man’s horse stood head down, sides heaving. He was still convinced he had never seen the man before when Cob’s voice came out of that swollen, sunburnt face.
“By the Lady, Luap, you’ve chosen one impossible lair . . . no wonder you travel by magery!”
“Cob! I’m glad to see you!” And he was, even now, even when he half-wished the caravan had not come, that he could sever the ties with Fin Panir. Of all Gird’s quarrelsome and difficult lieutenants, Cob had been the first to shrug and accept him, and the only one whose loyalty to Gird’s luap had never wavered except at Gird’s command.
“And I, you: you could have come out to the grange, your last visit.” That loyalty had not blunted Cob’s tongue, reminiscent of Gird’s own. Now he looked Luap up and down, as Gird might have done. “Gone back to magelords’ dress, out here? That’ll do you no good with the Marshal-General, Luap.”
Luap felt himself flush, and hoped Cob would take it for the heat. “Try it yourself, out here—it’s better in this heat.”
“Not me. I’ll sweat more happily in my own clothes.” Cob took a long pull at the wineskin and grinned. “Ahhh. No need to ask how your vines are doing. That’s good, sweet as I like it. How much farther do we go today?”
Again, like Gird, that ability to switch quickly back to the practical. “The Hall’s a half day or more from here, for such a large group. I thought we’d camp partway: there’s a good spring, and pine-woods. We brought food, in case you were running low. We can be there well before sundown.”
“Good.” Cob’s gaze ran ahead. “Follow the banners?”
“Yes. Shall we wait to start until all are up?”
“No need. As long as someone’s here to point the way and give encouragement.”
Cob led his horse slowly over the rippled stone; Luap walked beside him. At first they did not talk; Cob seemed glad enough to look around. Then he began to ask questions. Luap explained, as best he could, the interlocked system of canyons.
“We don’t go into this one much; the upper end, that we call Whiterock Gorge, has good hunting now that we’ve hunted out most of our own, but as you know all too well, climbing back up from the big one with game would be difficult.”
“That makes sense. How deep is your canyon, then?”
“Not as deep as this, but steep enough going in. We’ll go through a tributary first, a curious place. A rockfall let sand drift in behind it; we’re hoping to improve the soil and use it for farming later. It would make good pasture: the walls go straight up from level sand, like a great wall. If we closed off the upper ends, our horses would be safe there.”
“No wolves? No wildcats?”
“Oh, we have both, but our hunters have thinned them. The wildcat here reminds me of the old tales of snowcats in the southern mountains—remember them? These are gray; you’d think they’d show up against the red rock, but they don’t.” The bannerstaves here led off into deep sand; Luap paused. “I’m sorry, but we’ve a stretch of sand here; the rock takes you to a dropoff no horse can manage.”
Cob sighed. “When I get back to Fin Panir, I will never complain about hard ground or cold again. We had three days of sand at a time on the way, and I learned about it.”
“It’s not long—just to that grove of pines.” Best not tell him now that half the next day’s journey would be on deep sand.
Behind them, the line of sweaty, tired men and animals stretched out; Luap could hear the creaking of saddle leather, the grunts and wheezes of tired animals; men complaining; the pennants snapping in the wind. It seemed to take twice as long to reach the grove as he’d expected, but they were all under its shelter by sunfall.
Those he had left to prepare a meal had created a haven in the wood: a central fire, cushions and carpets laid out for tired men to lounge on, stew, roast meats, and even fresh bread scenting the air. Picket lines for horses and mules stretched back into the trees. By full dark, everyone had gathered around the fire to eat and talk. Overhead, stars glittered brightly in the clear air; Luap almost decided to set no sentries, to emphasize the safety in which his people lived, but changed his mind. Gird’s followers had learned prudence the hard way; it would do him no good with them to seem careless.
He woke in the turn of night, to find Cob beside him, holding his arm.
“Luap—are you sure there’s no one out here but your folk?” Cob’s voice was so low Luap could hardly hear it.
Luap pushed himself up, and yawned. “Not out this way Why? Did the sentries call an alarm?”
Cob grunted. “Your sentries have become too used to safety: they’re asleep. I woke up, went to the jacks, and went to speak to them—but found them curled up as comfortable as boys in a haymow. Then I felt something—nothing I could define, a cold menace—like the look a thief gives in a dark alley.”
At that moment a cold current of air coiled around Luap’s shoulders and down his neck. He shivered, then recovered. “Cob—you’ve not been in mountains before. The night air’s colder than you think, and at the turn of night it feels colder than steel. More than once when we first came, one of us thought something dire had passed, but we came to realize it was only the cold. The night may be still when the sun falls, but later on, these movements of air come, as if they were alive. But nothing more.”