Varic woke in gray light. He had grown very tired of gray light. He turned his head, and the light moved. That was better. He felt about with his feet; they were moving. He slid his legs out of the bed, to the floor, and eased himself up. After a few moments of experimentation, he was standing independently. He pulled on his dressing gown, which Midden had placed where he could find it by touch alone, and shuffled out of the bedroom, to the bathroom. Everything seemed remarkably easy.
The stairs stretched away and down. It would not do to fall; his bones were all intact, whatever was awry within his skull. But the muscles were responding well enough that he was almost tempted to hurry.
In the kitchen, Midden’s wife had fried bacon and cut four perfect slices of bread for him, all still warm beneath a cloth cozy. The butter and jam were neatly set by, a spreading knife, dull as a Coron in Parliament, at the ready.
He ate his breakfast with honeyed black tea, and then waited. His stomach seemed to accept the offering. Then he found the bread knife—nearly the length of a Quercian short sword, with a toothed edge—and cut another piece of bread, as thin as he could, buttered and ate it.
He rinsed the knife and dishes and put them up to dry, just as any normal, healthy soul might have done.
Very well, then, his body was his own again.
He opened the door to the basement stairs, brought up the electrical lights below, and descended.
The Dark Room in Varic’s town house was in fact just a cabinet, underneath the stairs, with a waist-high, brass-fitted door. If the shelves inside were torn out, a grown soul might barely be able to crouch inside. This was not a great house, with many residents and house staff; it did not need a large space for the underthoughts of those within. Still, there was a blade trap attached to the complicated lock; Varic was a Coron, and the forms had to be observed.
He put a hand on the door. It was cold, in the warm atmosphere. Or perhaps his hand was only warm by comparison. There were any number of stories about the real and measurable effects of a Dark Room, everything from nightmares to murder induced by exposure to the accumulated malice within. There were always stories, and stories never grew less in the telling. And compared to any given gin house cellar in Cutsail Street or Fiveways End, the toll was modest indeed.
Still, like everyone, Varic had a Dark Room, and like everyone, he kept certain objects locked inside it, things that required special handling but which could not simply be thrown away.
One of the items was an old thumbscrew. He had no idea how old; it could have been Midreigns, though it was very probably newer. The design had not changed much. Varic had found it when he was quite young, in a box of old iron in Corvaric Castle. He hadn’t known what it was—some sort of mechanic’s clamp, he supposed—and had used it a few times to crack nuts, but it was slow and clumsy for that. He kept it as children keep the few things that are genuinely theirs. And then, when he was ten, he saw such a device in use, and the knowledge changed him.
On the top shelf inside was a pistol, an old powder-and-ball weapon with ornate inlay on the stock and gilding on the lockworks. His father had carried it while traveling. Varic had been brought up to know weapons and in his youth had never understood the choice; anyone who expected to need a pistol carried a cartridge repeater. The only exceptions were those who were bound by some kind of ritual, such as a duel—and even there, only the proctor was still required to carry such a weapon. The duelists themselves could use light artillery if they wanted, and it had been known to happen.
Varic had known better than to ask his father for a reason. Much later, after asking was no longer possible, he understood that it had in fact been a kind of ceremony, a Coron saying that he went armed because that was what a strong man did, but he did so merely as a sign, not because he feared for his life.
When the coach was found with Varic’s parents dead inside, the gun was there, still loaded and unfired. That was still a puzzle. There should have been at least one dead bandit. Possibly two; his mother could also load and fire with acute skill.
It was a puzzle, unless the Coron and his wife had been approached by people they had no cause to suspect. But they had been killed by bandits. Everyone in Corvaric agreed upon that.
The weapon was not loaded now. Powder would have gone bad and eventually corroded the lock. And there was such a thing as granting a symbol too much power.
His parents had died more than half his life ago, and he had not been at home when it happened; he had, in truth, found every possible excuse to stay elsewhere. He had gone to Ascorel, and then discovered Lystourel. At fourteen, he had even tried to be appointed his father’s proxy in Parliament. There was an elaborate letter from the Coron’s secretary saying that the Coron had found this an interesting, and a very worthy idea; that he was pleased his son had such serious thoughts.
If that were true, and not the secretary’s flourish, it was the greatest praise Varic had ever received from his father. But it had not happened, for reasons he never knew. Proxies could be refused by a committee, to prevent infants, farm animals, or inanimate objects from being appointed by humorous Corons, but there was no specific age rule, and heirs as young as fifteen had held the job, with various degrees of success.
But it had not happened. A year later, he had been Coron in his own right, and shortly after moved his permanent residence to the City.
His family memories were becoming like a book of old lucives; some were stiffly posed, some candid and awkward, some blurred with motion. Most were at least a little faded. Varic could call back memories of his father; of his humor, which was not all coarse and unpleasant, though his merry moments were rare indeed. He had his own headaches as well, and Varic understood now just how terrible they must have been, though the Coron was incapable of admitting pain. He was just angry, he said, and always had a reason for the anger. And his rage was as visible as lightning, freezing the moment like the luciver’s flash.
Varic wondered, by no means for the first time, if they would understand each other now. He supposed they would, though to what degree he could not know, and he had no clue whether it would have brought them closer.
He also wondered if, had he been in Corvaric when his parents were killed, if something equally sudden might have happened to him. On the rare occasions when he visited now, he was a stranger politely met, and much praised as a good Coron. (The Corons who lived in Lystourel would occasionally call themselves the League of Good Corons.) And he would hold court, and listen to requests. But no one ever suggested that he could do more good if he stayed in his country.
He ought to ask Longlight about that. She would have the humor not to be offended, and her answer would be instructive.
He closed the cabinet on his past once more. He was hungry again. He had a sudden thought of how soldiers on the march, deprived of salt, sprinkled gunpowder on their stolen eggs. There was nothing human that was not connected to food, or death, or both at once.
He went back upstairs and made a pot of tea. Freshet was due shortly. As he carried the service into the parlor, her knock came.
“I hope that you will excuse my dress,” Varic said, plucking at the silk lapel of his dressing gown. “I’m very pleased to see you, but it is still a bit early for me.”
“In my work,” Freshet said, “we are used to seeing any sort of dress and none. The dressing gown is quite usual for consultations.”
Varic saw her to a chair, poured the tea, and sat down. “I suppose that first we should talk about the other night.”
Freshet sat very straight, holding her teacup like a child visiting a strict aunt. “Is milord doing well?”
“His lordship is much improved, thank you,” Varic said. “And he does believe you have been in the forbidding ancestral manors of Corons before now.”
She laughed then, rattling the cup. “Yes, I suppose I have.”
“Mind you, both Brook and I have home manors that are quite out of a glueback thriller. But in the City the crypt and the ruined tower have gone out of fashion.”
“Milord does not frequent the Central Hospital. Are you in fact improved?”
“I will allow you to examine me. But how is Brook?”
“No great change. His breathing is shallower than it was ten days ago, but that in itself is not significant. His pupils are still fixed. Will it please you sit on this chair?”
“I will do it to please you,” he said, and she did smile slightly. She moved his limbs, tapped his knees, and watched the twitch. She tilted a small mirror to shine a spot of light into each of his eyes.
“Your eyes respond normally, as do your muscles. Have you had any other signs? Any bruising or bleeding? Any pain?”
“A few headaches. Nothing severe.”
“Not severe by what standard?”
“I assume that my own measure is what matters.”
“Blinding head pain is not normal for anyone, my lord. It is always a sign that something is wrong.”
“But you are not in a position to say exactly what.”
“You were unconscious for nine hours and could not rise from bed for a day and a half. Doctors see denial all the time, but an event like that gives most souls a little perspective on their conditions.” She paused, drew a long breath. “I will readily admit that our knowledge of the brain is poor. We also know very little of how the liver works or even all its functions, but I can do many tests that will tell me if it is performing well or poorly. And an episode such as you have had is a clear warning. It is certainly true that I do not know exactly what is wrong with you and may well have no means to find out. But I believe you have enough respect for my skill to accept that, if I do not know, neither do you.”
“Point,” Varic said.
“I asked that man Winterhill if he knew anything about your health. He said that he only reported things like that when he was paid to, and he was not at the time for hire.”
Varic laughed. “I do thank you for the care you took in the matter of my indisposition.”
“Your friends managed it all. I had no idea who I was being called to see, or for what reason, until I entered their guest room. It was a surprise. But when one attends Corons and other persons of status, it becomes a familiar sort of surprise. Anyone is entitled to be ill in privacy.
“But I wonder, milord Varic, if there are actually no permanent effects.”
“You did say ‘a temporary collapse, from overstress and exhaustion.’”
“It is apparent that the collapse was temporary, and those were the immediate causes. But there were signs of it being a transient apoplexy. Not definite, but the way your eyes responded to light. The slight instability on your right side—”
“Which has passed.” He held up his cup, balanced on its saucer, without a rattle.
“Which has passed for the present. Milord, a physician who is indirect does no good, and may do considerable harm. I strongly suspect that you have had such symptoms before. Perhaps you have not fallen, but you have stumbled. Am I right that you do not see any physician regularly?”
“You could no doubt learn that from your colleagues.”
“We all observe our patients’ privacy. If you had died, the law would have obligated me to ask. You are still here, so I am asking you.”
“My apologies. You suppose correctly in both cases.”
Freshet said, “Is there anything else it would please you to tell me?”
“No.”
“Very well, then. I take it that I am not welcome here again.”
“You are Brook’s physician and are welcome at any time whatsoever. You are not my physician, however, and while I most sincerely appreciate your assistance and your discretion, that association between us is now over.”
“You seem more concerned that no one hear of this than the possibility that it could cause you to die.”
“That is true. It is a matter of personal priorities.”
“My lord, there are people who care for you. It shows quite clearly in those around you. The couple you were dining with. Winterhill, who one would not take for a soul of sentiment. And milord Brook, who spoke of you nearly every time we met. You will probably not forgive my saying this, but if Brook does not recover, you will need to carry on for him.”
“You’re wrong,” Varic said. “I forgive you that.”
She paused a moment. “There is something else I would like to discuss with you. As regards Brook.”
“Please proceed.”
“A number of years ago I met an Archreader named Shandrey. She’s from Westfaren, though she doesn’t live there now. She has been working for some time on using her Archanum to reach people with limited ability to communicate and, after some success with the deaf and mute, focused on comatose patients. She will be visiting Lystourel shortly, and there is a possibility that she would see Brook.”
“Where does she work now? Ascorel?”
“The Institut Preuszen.”
“I am glad to know that there is at least a traffic in natural knowledge between Lescoray and Ferangard.”
“I do not know all the details. I am given to understand that she has had some successes, though as with any sorcerous method, perfect work is impossible.”
“I ask this very politely: What do you mean by ‘successes’?”
“She has been able to discover whether a spirit endures in an unresponsive body. In at least one case I know of, the person was aware and, after intensive medical sorcery, returned to consciousness.”
“If it can be arranged, I should be very pleased to meet her.”
“I will make the request.”
Varic said, “Brook is much respected in both nations, even among those who disagree with some of his beliefs.”
“It would be a good thing on both sides, then.”
“It would be significant. In such matters, ‘good’ is a judgment that depends on one’s individual interests.”
“I have known milord Brook well enough not to quarrel with you, milord Varic. But I shall still hope.”
“So, I trust, shall we all. Thank you very much, Freshet. You have brought light into my day. Now, Winterhill will be arriving very shortly, with a cab. May I take you somewhere?”
“I have other appointments in the area. But thank you.”
After she had gone, Varic dressed in heavy canvas trousers and a short wool sailor’s jacket. He was not going anywhere formal today; the Parliament had been without him for five days, and its respite could last a little longer.
Half an hour later, Winterhill came to the door, with a cab waiting at the curb. “Where are we lunching?” he said.
“In a swamp,” Varic said. “But don’t worry, I guarantee the food will be good.”
The cab took them to the Blue Rose, where Linnet had a warm and aromatic basket waiting for them. “May I ask after Brook?” he said.
Varic said, “You are always free to ask. I regret that there is no news.”
Linnet looked very worn. “Then I will wait for some,” he said. “Tomorrow I am taking dinner to Clarity and Trevan Dain. Would it please the both of you to come?”
Varic said, “I shall do my best.”
Winterhill said, “I am not a man to turn down the gift of a meal. What do you like to drink with your dinner, Linnet?”
“Oh … I have a wine to go with it.”
“Then a little whisky for afterward?”
“I would appreciate that. If you could find something Alinsever, I believe Trevan is feeling a bit homesick.”
Varic and Winterhill reboarded the waiting cab. Linnet watched them go from the corner door, waving a napkin.
The driver took them down a narrow waterfront road to the undeveloped area on the west bank of the Grand River, not far south of the docks. It was not actually a swamp, though it was certainly moist. Varic gave the driver instructions to return in three hours, and they walked inland to a flat, stony, fairly dry spot. Winterhill spread out a clean horse blanket, and they sat on it to dine on Linnet’s patcakes and apple cake.
“And this,” Winterhill said, “is where the honored Ryeflower and Collier propose to hold their fair?”
“They’ve purchased this plot and have options on two more nearby.”
“Doesn’t appear to be marked.”
“There are a few small signs. Enough to make it legal. And a patrolman wanders by now and then to make sure no one has put up a solid dwelling. There are enough dry places to flop at waterside that it isn’t a problem.”
“Still, following the least requirement of the law is fairly common when running a one-way investment program.”
“Even lawmakers know that.”
“Then what is this about? I will grant you that there hasn’t been a real public fair in the City for so long that people would probably go to one held in high street traffic, but do you really think this ‘Exposition Committee’ has any actual plans of an expository nature?”
“Let’s look at the map,” Varic said, and unfolded a large sheet of paper, spread it on the blanket. He picked up some small stones, dried them with a handkerchief, and weighted the drawing. “We are at present seated at the north of the Avenue of Nations, which will stretch for half a mila to the south, parallel to the Grand. And we have chosen a most excellent location for lunch, as we are in the middle of the Alinsever pavilion, at the precise site suggested for the parc de plaisance. Have you ever seen one of those?”
“Several. They go back to just after the Midreigns, when the nobility were trading the castles for comfortable new houses with real windows and heat. Some of them put in little parks. Depending on how rich and playful the owner was, they’d have fountains, bandstands, courts for games. There’s a huge one at Alin-le-Grand, can easily hold three thousand people without crowding. What goes here?”
“Across the way, there, will be the Ferangarder area. Just across the Avenue of Industry to our north, Lescoray will have the position of honor, and on the fourth corner, either a fourth major country to be decided later, or a market and dining plaza.”
“I’m impressed,” Winterhill said. “Usually these things have every last detail in place.”
“Other countries will take space along the Avenue of Nations, which is to be electrically lit. There’s a note somewhere about ‘persons in the unusual costumes of their distant lands will be on display.’”
“Will the visitors be allowed to feed them?”
“If they’re well behaved, I don’t see why not. About halfway down is the Avenue of Knowledge. Ascorel and other centers of learning are expected to install museum collections there, along with various countries’ Sorcerers’ Guilds. Here’s a Telescopium, although how that’s supposed to work with all the lights it doesn’t say. And there’s supposed to be an ‘Exhibit of Artifacts from the Castle, Lystourel.’ Will that please or worry Falconer?”
“Is there a Dark Room? You’re going to need a big one.”
Varic picked up the map and stood. Winterhill followed suit, and they began walking. “There are all the things one expects from a fair. Museums of the fine and applied arts, plenty of food. The spectacle showgrounds would be that way.”
Winterhill said, in a spec-talker’s chanting voice, “One million and one great beasts under one tent, ladies and gentlemen! Rosie the Educated Horse performing alongside one million mosquitoes!” He looked at the map. “What’s the long, winding line?”
“‘The Light Railway, to carry Visitors about the Site.’ There’s a note suggesting it should be electrical as well.”
“Less coal smoke.”
“True, though the fluid generators will burn coal. Though we’ll need a generating plant somewhere.”
“I take it that isn’t on the map.”
“It is unaccountably missing, along with water supply, sewage, and service roads.”
“This is a dryish patch,” Winterhill said. “Practically a commanding height, in fact. What’s to go here?”
“The Hall of Commerce, which will rent stall space to tradesmen. There’s to be a similar Hall of Earth’s Bounty, with food vendors. The idea, I think, is that everyone who builds their own structure will be free to choose a design. And down there at the end of the Avenue of Nations is the ‘World Center,’ for the countries that want a presence but not an entire building. That should probably be larger. It wouldn’t do to turn a country away because we were short a few steps squared.”
Winterhill looked down the empty space. “So there is Ferangard, and there is Alinsea … and there Nemera and down that way Bodolingo and Coromaestra.”
“There are not many people in Lescoray who have heard of those places,” Varic said.
“There are some in Lystourel. One can see their citizens any day and every night, working in our docklands and basements, hungry and thinking it paradise because they aren’t starving. They come off the ships and never get back on. They do a little better in Alinsea, where if you can do anything around ships, you can at least make a living. One doesn’t hear much about what happens elsewhere. At any rate, from the stories their people tell, their rulers aren’t likely to put up any booths, unless we make it legal to sell the poor.”
Winterhill blew out a long, faintly foggy breath. “I am sorry for that. It’s a good thought, and I can imagine many good things coming from it. But I wouldn’t count on the whole world visiting.”
“No. The world is a very large place.”
“I think you know,” Winterhill said, “that even if Ryeflower and Collier are absolutely sincere about this fair, spectacle show, and parliament of the world all in one, they intend to make a profit out of it, even if it is strictly speaking a lawful profit.”
“I am aware of that. And if they can be forced into making a lawful profit, why should they not have it?”
“I can only give you the answer of a thief and a liar and a scoundrel. It’s because thieves and liars and scoundrels only partly do those things for profit. They do them because they are allowed to. It’s great sport to find a way to ride a cab without paying, and there are more ways to do it than a bailiff has brass buttons. But the ladies and gentlemen who drive cabs carry whips and are good with them.”
“Petty crime is endlessly interesting,” Varic said. “Murder, however complex the plan or exalted the victim, is always a base thing. Grand thefts and swindles are never as clever as they appear in the gluebacks or onstage.”
“They’d never succeed if they were,” Winterhill said. “I once saw A Million Marks at Hazard at the Rose Court with half a dozen souls who made their living doing banks; they treated it as the best comedy ever.”
“Would these have been the people who stole the office receipts toward the end of the run?”
“That is not a thing I would say, milord. Not to a man who is on dining terms with the Chief Justiciar of the country and his first officer. And if I may ask, how did the dinner proceed?”
“Slowly but surely.” He gave a brief recounting of the dinner. “A soul that convinced of his rightness is always dangerous, but there is matter to Cable. He’s not to be trusted with power, but what soul is? And he may point the way to exactly the kind of limits the office must have.”
“The police always believe the law is not entirely for them. Same as the petty criminal.”
“I think Cable is different from either. The law is his text and faith. I believe that he would never cross a limit that Parliament set on the bailiffs, not tolerate the bailiffs ignoring them. There are two problems with this: one is to get the Parliament to enact sensible rules, and the other is that there seems to be no room in the man’s heart for human weakness. He can enforce the law to the uttermost, but justice is beyond him.”
“Perhaps we could change the title of his office,” Winterhill said, and was quiet. Then, “And what impression did you take of Heartsease?”
“That she makes an odd pair with Cable. That she probably does know the difference between people and steam-driven law-obeying machines. And that she is loyal to the Justiciar, but understands very well what he is.”
“That’s at least one thought too many for one spirit to hold.”
They returned to their blanket. Varic poured some more tea; it was nearly cold. “I need your services in gathering information.”
“They are available.”
Varic explained the story Freshet had told, about the Archreader Shandrey.
Winterhill said, carefully, “You told Linnet there was no news.”
“There is no news, yet. There is the possibility that someone will be allowed to examine Brook and the possibility that we will have an answer. That would be news. At the moment, I have not decided whether to agree to this at all. In that decision, I want your help. Shandrey has, as far as I know, been in Ferangard for some years, and I am not asking you to go there.”
“I am pleased to hear that. It could be expensive for both of us.”
“But it would seem likely that she left some tracks when she lived and worked here. Knowing anything would be useful.”
“I will ask discreetly. But I wonder if you are missing a resource that is beyond my own reach.”
“What?”
“The noise among the apprentices of the Sorcerers’ Guild is that you made a very favorable impression on Guildmaster Whetstone, during a particular session of Parliament. It would be surprising if he did not know something about this Archreader. And—for Brook’s sake—he might be willing to share it.”
“That is an excellent thought,” Varic said. “Remind me to buy you lunch sometime.”
“You may be assured of it.”
Varic picked up the map again. Winterhill had something he wanted to say and was not saying. Varic put the map down and folded his hands.
Winterhill gave a small nod and said, “I am about to put my neck in a noose, which my lord will be aware I do not do just every day.”
“Then I shall not interfere.”
“You’re talking about this fair as you used to speak of the new Constitution. I am not suggesting that you have set that project aside—that would be noosing and throat-slitting—but it has been a little time since you have shown an eagerness for, well, anything.”
“Has it?”
Winterhill counted on his fingers. “Noose, knife, leap from a precipice … At Equinoctials, you did show feelings toward your Coron.”
“None of us are quite ourselves at the House.”
“I’ll count that as a touch, since you did not deny that she is ‘your Coron.’”
“I have to deny it every time I enter Parliament House. Now it is only by omission. Do not be the cause of my having to make a public denial, or you can add ‘walks in front of motive’ to your list.”
“I am paid for discretion, my lord,” Winterhill said, and Varic could hear suppressed but real hurt and anger in it. He thought to apologize, but Winterhill went on:
“The point of a Coron’s Fool,” Winterhill said, his voice calm again but acute as a stylet dagger, “is to tell the truth when no one else will. We have an Ironway system, built and maintained at public expense for the benefit of all. My lord Varic can reach the Great Rogue Hills in eight to nine days. The end of the trip is a long ride, but the Palion Silvern would never allow my lord to ride it alone. My lord might also wish to break his journey at Strange House.”
“You forget Brook.”
“I do not. Take him to the House. If a sleeper won’t serve, arrange a special coach—a special train. I know a Palion’s conseil who can smooth the rails. Take the nurse with you, and by all means take Clarity; she can show Strange’s people how to care for Brook, and they can give her a few hours’ rest from doing it.”
“And Trevan Dain?”
“He is a loyal soldier and will go where he is commanded. But he can make sure Brook’s house is occupied—and I do not think it would be wise, and certainly not kind, to leave Linnet alone.”
“You watch people very carefully.”
“It’s a survival trait.” Winterhill took off his hat and waved it like a jester’s taddelix, making a clicking noise in his throat.
For the first time today, Varic’s head had ceased to ache. “Dr. Soonest did not train any fools.”
“I beg to differ, my lord Coron. Capsanjangle is as we speak entertaining the crowned heads of Alinsea, and living better than a Duke doing it. The doctor had many gifts, but perhaps his finest was to see what each of his children could do, and to gentle their way toward it regardless of fashions or frowning souls. Even unto the least of us.”
“I would like to have known him.”
“You have paid for his work to go on. But I have another question, which may be even more suicidal than the last.”
“We can only die once.”
“I have reason to believe otherwise, but let it pass. What, exactly, is it about Corons and the one thing people do that is older than killing? I mean, there are plenty of tales about choosing the wrong partner, but anyone old enough to feel the pull can figure out why you’re not supposed to dip your lord’s duckie without express prior consent from all concerned. And almost all the stories have an ending in which all is forgiven, even if a bit of this and that has been spilled on the way. And certainly storybook Corons fall in love, almost as often as strolling tinkers with hearts of solder fall for them. But not for two Corons. There it’s death if you’re lucky, and death, war, and ruin if you’re not. Why should that be, my lord?”
“Do you want the reason, or the true reason?”
“May I have both? It’s a cold, dark day.”
“You may. Let’s sit on the ground and pretend there’s a fire.” They crouched on the blanket, and Varic said, “Remember that, before Redlance, Corons thought of themselves as kings in their own countries, and in practice some of them were. If you had a strong army, and your neighbor Coron had a weak one, very soon you might have a larger Coronage and a dead neighbor. But doing it that way meant you had to fight, and that’s a story that always has two endings. Even success would eventually inspire your surviving neighbors to join forces and redraw the map.
“But suppose there were two neighbor Corons and one heir between them? Or two heirs with different ideas of dividing the inheritance? Wanting and not having are alike good cause for war.
“That wasn’t good enough, of course. Land and power are things everyone believes they know. So legends were made up about how supernatural vengeance would fall on Corons who joined their lands, and there were some actual wars, though none of them had ghosts or Demons fighting on either side.”
Winterhill nodded. “And what is the real reason?”
“Let me see if I can put it briefly. You have two women before you, and you can’t have both. We won’t ask why that should be. Both make you very happy and are made happy in return. One is a Coron—or a Duchess, if you like—and the other grew up on the streets, a stone-corner rogue same as you, but now is just as wealthy as the Coron. Whom do you go with?”
“The Duchess was misfortunate,” Winterhill said.
“It’s a misfortunate world.”
“What the story would have me say is, because my language and manners and general knowledge of the world are going to sit better with the street maiden, because we have the same instincts, and because if we were to fall in love at all, it would be because we were thrown together by matching circumstances, that I would, then, follow her.”
“That is how stories seem to go,” Varic said.
“Stories are about what we ought to be, not what we are. Stories never say that the ways of our kind lead to mistrust, that our lives require that we constantly be something other than we would wish to be, just to get from day until night and back again. I understand the tale now, brother, and you have brought me to my own understanding, just as Strange would. Should there be anything within that understanding you and my lady Longlight have need of, you would honor me to command it; and I trust you will not take it ill if I say a prayer for both your spirits.”
“It can do us no harm.” Varic rummaged in the lunch hamper, found the last of the apple cake, and broke it to share with Winterhill. “I do not think that anyone, Coron or citizen, would care in the slightest about what Longlight and I did, if they were absolutely certain that it would end in tears and death. It’s the possibility of nothing happening—that all the stories mean nothing—that frightens people.”
Winterhill said quietly, “I’m sorry I made you angry.”
“I’m not angry with you.”
“I know that.”
The cab pulled up on the road, very loud in the still afternoon. They put the debris of lunch in the hamper. Varic looked around the stretch of bog again. “One of the first things we shall need here,” he said, “is rubbish collection.”
They boarded the cab. Winterhill got off at the docks, and Varic went home and gave the driver his gratuity.
He entered the house, hung his coat and hat, and went straight to the secretary desk, to draft a letter to Master Whetstone.
Midden had neatly stacked the day’s post on the desk. There was a large, thick, heavy envelope on the bottom of the pile. Varic moved the letters out of the way and smiled to see the printing there.
He wrote and sealed the Guildmaster’s letter quickly; it was straightforward enough, and the forms came automatically to him. From time to time he glanced at the envelope and smiled again.
It would call for a letter as well, but that one would take some care in the writing.
Parliament House was all but deserted on Shineday. Almost any lengths might be resorted to, to avoid weekend sessions. The various public offices—Records, Taxes, Licenses—kept small staffs in case of dire need, and there were usually a few nonresident Lords of all three branches using the visitants’ offices as free hotel space.
Birch had pointed out to Varic the advantages of looking in on such guests. They were almost always strangers in the City, and quite lonely, and they might be poor Corons (or sorcerers or priests), but they had the same vote as anyone else. Taking a visitant to a pleasant dinner or a play might tip a decision or two.
Varic had asked Master Whetstone to meet him here on this day, because it would be official, but quiet.
The bell on Varic’s office door rang at a few minimi past eleven. Whetstone bowed, and said, “Well met, milord,” with a faint wheeze. “The floors here … are quite a distance apart.”
“The building is sometimes described as ‘a work of giants,’” Varic said. “The public lift doesn’t run on weekends. There’s a service lift, but it’s tucked in the back. Will it please you come in? I can have the porter bring some things.”
As he spoke, he heard Leyva’s voice from down the hall. “My lord Coron,” she said. “And my lord Guildmaster. Two of you. That’s just what we need. Come with me, please.”
Whetstone glanced at Varic, who shrugged. “Well, it is Shineday,” Whetstone said, and they followed her down the stairs. Varic was careful of his steps, and Whetstone breathed hard again, though Leyva did not seem to feel any strain at all on the extremely grand staircase.
Leyva led the party to one of the conference rooms, where Westwind, the Coron Blooms, was waiting. He looked terribly nervous.
Leyva said, “Does this make your count?”
Westwind said, “It will do,” bowed slightly to the other Coron and the Guildmaster, and gestured them inside.
The room was big enough to seat fifty, but there were only eleven present; seated at the front were two hall maids, a handyman with his toolbox, and a stable groom. At the front, a young man and woman were standing before Lady Spiritual Curtmantle. It was suddenly obvious what they had all been drafted for.
The couple were Westwind’s nephew, who worked as a clerk in the Records Office, and the quite young Lady Maris, who had come into the Coronage of Malentaye only a few months earlier.
Whetstone looked around and said, “Four Lords from all three branches. If this isn’t legal, I don’t know what is.” Then he rose, and went to Leyva. Politely, he said, “I was well acquainted with the lady’s father. May I stand for him?” Leyva smiled and went to sit by Varic. Westwind stood with the young man. Curtmantle looked around the room and said, “As we now have sufficient witnesses under the laws of the groom’s Coronage for this service, I shall be pleased to proceed.”
The priest was not known for prolonged oratory. She kept a dignified pace, and the couple were wed after a quarter of an hour. Leyva gave a hand signal, and a butler and a tired-looking pastry cook brought in wine and a decorated cake.
Varic and Whetstone joined in the celebration and congratulated the couple, who seemed very happy and more than a little eager to be gone. Coron Westwind, now that the ceremony was over, seemed fretful at the prospect of filling his nephew’s position and said something distracted about the new groom remaining in his office—“At a significant promotion, of course.”
Lady Maris said, “He is going to be quite busy enough. But do not worry, Uncle. I have seen enough not to let the Seat go empty.” She turned suddenly to Varic. “Thank you for your attendance, milord. And I would like to ask you as one well settled in the City: What would be your view of our staying here and appointing a voice at home?”
“It would be unreasonable for me to speak ill of the practice.” Maris smiled, and Varic said, “From what I know of your country, I imagine you would be much happier at home. You are an overnight away by Ironway, and a few instanti by wire. Pardon me if I have forgotten—was not Sulien your father’s earlier proxy, and is she not still at the court?”
“She is,” Maris said, “and I will certainly ask her. I think she misses the City. Thank you, milord.”
“My lady.”
The party dispersed, and Varic and Whetstone followed Leyva through high-ceilinged corridors to the service lift. It was rather a long walk compared to the stairway, but it was horizontal. When they were back at Varic’s office, Leyva brought out tea and cheese with biscuits—“Enough cake, I think”—and left them alone.
Whetstone said, “You said you wished to ask my advice on a professional matter. I hardly ever have it asked on anything else, but do go ahead.”
Varic explained about the Archreader Shandrey and the possibility of her reading for Brook.
“I see,” Whetstone said, quietly. “What we say here is, of course, private.”
“Thank you, milord.”
“The Archana are not all equal, though we don’t usually put it that way. It’s obvious to most people that, say, an Armiger or an Ironhand isn’t the first choice for healing, any more than they would expect a Chirurgeon to make armor or forge metal. The creative Crafts are the most versatile—but of course, you are well acquainted with the Master Agate.”
“That is so.”
“At another time we must speak of her,” Whetstone said. “But you are aware that her strength is her limitation. I can’t say definitely that an Archreader could not contact a sleeping mind, but it sounds wrong to me. At best, I would have to think of it as divination, and the Lescorial Guilds do not even recognize that as an Archanum. Nor, I should add, do the Ferangarder Guilds.”
“And the Institut Preuszen?”
“Is a justly famous center for medical study, not a sorcerous institution.” He chuckled. “But if we don’t look over walls sometimes, we see nothing.” Then, more seriously, he said, “I am sure you are aware that, in such cases as my lord Brook’s, an Archempathic is often called in?”
“So I have been told.”
The Guildmaster said gently, “Let me see if I can reason it through. You don’t want Brook’s mind intruded upon.”
“I am sure that seems quite foolish.”
“No, it doesn’t. The Archana are hard, but most of them have definable rules—an Armiger’s reach, an Archpoet’s metrics. Entering minds is as different as minds are, and sometimes the minds strike back at an intruder. People think of it as like the conseil, but they have the most rules and limits of all, not least that their particular sorcery is, with very little exception, unshared. I can quite easily understand not wanting to conduct such an experiment with a dear friend, in anything but the most extreme conditions.”
Varic said, “Brook’s condition is not yet at that point, though he cannot remain as he is forever. And there is always the possibility of a crisis.”
Whetstone nodded. “We have both been in Parliament long enough to know that, about some things, we cannot continue to do nothing. Particularly when all of the choices are hard.
“I am not, of course, the National Guildmaster at this time. But the Lystourel Master, along with some others—Ascorel, naturally, Port Rose, Loftgarden, and so on—are kept informed of matters significant to the Craft. Just as some Corons have a wider reach than others.”
Varic nodded.
“I am in possession of a report on Archreader Shandrey’s work. Unfortunately, it does not have any solid conclusions about her rate of success. Now, that is not any kind of a secret; ‘There’s a sorcerer doing something, and nobody knows if it works’ is said all the time. The fact that there is a formal report—and its sources—are another matter. I’m sure you follow.”
“I do.”
“You have more than a little understanding of sorcery, and you know that what we do is uncertain. Let me tell you a thing I believe you’ll understand. From my information, some of the doctors at Preuszen are trying to develop an exact philosophy of sorcery. The Pandekts tried that for generations and gave up. The Quercians tried it, and some of their failures are still infamous. I believe that the Ferangarders are falling into the same error. Not that we all don’t lean that way. We can build a steam boiler that, with a little care, will do just what it’s supposed to—and when one does blow up, it’s almost always because some human being mishandled it. Someday sorcery may be engineering rather than craft, but I don’t think it will happen in my time.” He laughed, without bitterness. “Of course, we all know that sorcerers all live forever.”
“True enough,” Varic said.
“Forgive me,” Whetstone said at once. “I should have recalled that you are close to Strange. Can you tell me how he is keeping?”
“He has said he believes his time is ending. That, too, is in confidence.”
“Of course. Remember me to him when you can. Many of us owe him a great deal.”
Varic nodded.
“As I say, there is nothing very definite in our report on the Archreader. But guilds by their nature see things from a particular angle. I propose to send you a copy, without comments. Tell me what you see in it. Perhaps you’ll find something useful about Brook’s situation; if not, none of us has lost anything. Of course, things being what they are, your copy will not exist.”
“Of course. I would appreciate that very much.”
“Then I will say good afternoon, and thank you for the adventure. If I had spent a usual dozy Shineday, I should have missed the wedding.”
Silvern rolled out of bed, took a moment to orient himself to the room, then walked to the bathroom, struck the gaslight, and prepared to shower. The water was more than tepid but less than hot; Longlight had apologized at least twice for that, but had finally understood that he had done far more bathing in streams and from icy buckets than under Strange House’s worthy piping.
The window was still dark. They were going on a long ride, down the Western coast to collect the man who would make the lucives for Silvern’s land survey.
He dressed in riding trousers and a wool shirt, pulled on his boots and followed the winding path through Longlight’s complicated manor toward the dining room. Partway along he was distracted by a museum-grade crossbow, hanging near a breastplate in the Quercian style. After a few minimi of inspection, he saw that it actually was from the Empire, and he found the hole where an arrow had gone into the legionary’s liver.
—You are very predictable in the morning.
“I suppose I am getting old,” he said aloud to Edaire.
—You are looking at a prize someone took off a dead soldier a thousand or more years ago, and you feel old.
“Point and concetta,” he said, and then silently, Where are you?
—About an hour away from the City. If I can persuade them to come out, I want to give Varic and Brook’s caregivers dinner at the Terminus dining room.
—Even Linnet?
—Especially Linnet. Their cooking may be no better than his, but he shouldn’t have to do all the sweating.
—Who will stay with Brook?
—I made a plan with Winterhill the last time I was through. In secret, so no one could find an excuse. He’ll watch Brook, and we’ll bring him a late supper.
—I suppose Winterhill is used to late suppers.
—I think Winterhill has missed more meals than any five of the rest of us. But yes, I love you.
—You make me mindful of others, and I love you.
—Give my best to Longlight. I’m nearly to the yards. Go and eat, and we will talk later.
He went on to the dining room. Longlight was alone there, in a side-buttoned blue shirt and black riding trousers, with a mutton chop and plenty of bacon and muffins. There was tea to the side, but she was drinking dark beer. As Silvern sat down, she said, “It’s five hours each way, and we’ll only have saddlebags to dine from.”
She pushed a sheet of paper toward him. He read the neat handwriting:
MIDNIGHT
STATION 028 TO STATION 002
FORECAST FOR NORTH COAST ROAD
DAWN TO MIDDAY: CLEAR
MIDDAY TO SUNSET: GATHERING CLOUDS, RAIN NOT LIKELY
AFTER SUNSET: SMALL CHANCE RAIN
ALECTI SHOULD DRESS WARM
Silvern said, “I take it there is more to this than the weather report.”
“Ventry and my secretary have been a pair for a little more than two years now. It’s no secret, but you shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Do they see one another often?”
“When they can. Ventry mostly lives at the weather station, so any company is welcome. The truth is that I can’t spare Alecti very often, which rather makes me the villain. Nobody else will say that, of course.”
“I appreciate being told.”
“Five hours used to seem like a long separation to me. I suppose people learn better.”
“I suppose people do,” Silvern said, and heard Walk lightly inside his head.
They went down to the stables, where their horses were already saddled. They were traveling light, with a little trail food and a change of clothes if the weather forced them to stay at the station overnight. There would be plenty of space for Ventry’s camera and plates without stressing the horses.
Besides Longlight and himself, Alecti, and a spare horse for Ventry, two guardsmen were in the company. Alecti arrived in tan trousers and boots and a dark green hunter’s coat, not unlike one Silvern owned, though hers was heavier and had fur at the cuffs and a broad collar that could be turned up high. Her red hair spilled over it to striking effect, and she had a small green cap with a brim tilted on top.
“Good morning, my lady,” she said in a modest voice. “And good morning, Palion.”
They greeted her in return, and the party set off. As they passed through the town—Silvern had learned its name was Fairport, which seemed reasonable enough given the coast around it—people paused to wave and nod, and Longlight returned the gestures.
They went down the hedge-lined passage they had entered through, and then turned to the right, onto the approach to the Great Coast Road.
It had been a highway for seven hundred years, since Queen Lucie of the Westrene decided to bring her realm together with roads. She had Alinsever ancestry, and the typically Alinsever idea of improving trade had not gone well with her inland Corons, but the coastal lands—which had long been without contact with each other, and overly dependent on their eastern neighbors—set to work. The job outlasted many monarchs, but the road finally reached from warm, green Azaphel in the Southwest to the plainly put Northpoint, farther north even than Corvaric, where the world stopped.
They went through a long notch that had clearly been hand-cut through the rock, and saw the sea.
It was a good fifty steps below them, and the road was climbing ahead. The drop was interrupted by stone outcrops and pinnacles. Longlight gestured to the left, and Silvern saw a light tower to warn ships. There was in fact no safe anchorage between Fairport and a pair of trading towns near the south edge of Longlight’s land, though as always there were places where smugglers and pirates might hide. It was often an advantage for such places to be unreachable from landward.
The edge was comfortably far away, ten to twenty steps. He had been told that it came closer at a few points, but this wasn’t the Perilous Coast Road of gluebacks and stage thrillers; it had been built understanding that it would be used, by day and dark, often by people in a hurry.
From this height, Silvern could actually see the north coast of the next Coronage down; it extended almost due west for perhaps ten milae.
“That would be Berowne?” he asked Longlight.
“Yes. The Coron there was a friend of my father’s; I owe him a visit soon. If it were a clear night, you could see Rowney light out at the end of land.”
“How much night travel is there on the road?”
“Are you beginning your survey?”
“No point in waiting.”
“A fair amount up here and in the south. Between it’s mainly mail and messengers. We patrol it, and there isn’t much danger—a highwayman would have a long ride to any safety. On full-moon nights, it can be quite a beautiful trip.”
She was suddenly quiet.
—What do you think she is thinking of, o man? You thought of me, after all.
—And do you think—
—I know her no better than you. And you recall that the last time Varic met a woman at Strange House who engaged his mind and heart together, it did not end well. It is much too soon to know about this, and the difficulties are obvious even to us, but it is not wrong to hope. Now, my train is arriving at the Terminus, and I shall be busy. I will speak to you over dinner, if our plans go well. And you must tell me about the weatherman.
By midday they had met a dozen small groups of travelers on horseback, two pairs of Coronal guardsmen on patrol, and three donkey carts loaded with goods. They passed signs indicating the way to several towns, and two small villages that were visible from the road; the sound of smithing and the smell of cooking food carried to them.
At last there was a point where the cliff thrust out, a half circle a hundred and fifty steps across. There was a cluster of black buildings, some with towers, one with a circular dome. Framework towers of wood and iron held wind gauges and other instruments. A few sheep were grazing around them.
An elderly man came out to meet them. He said his name was Archilaos—and he looked as if he could have been a Pandektine sage—and led them to the stable, which could have housed twenty mounts and a few carriages, but at present had one spare horse for a patrolman, one for a dispatch rider, and a dozy mule. The guardsmen stayed behind at an offer of lunch and beer, and Longlight, Silvern, and Alecti went through a covered passage into the next building.
They entered a room lined with weather and navigational instruments, cased in wood and brass and glass. There were wall maps, of the locality, the Coronage, the region, the Western coast, and the whole of Lescoray, covered with symbols that Silvern recognized but couldn’t easily interpret without a chart. In the corner was a large, freestanding, high-precision clock with faces for times across Lescoray and in great cities abroad, moon phase, and several that he guessed were astronomical indicators.
Alecti said, “Hello!” loudly and clearly. It was the first word Silvern had heard her speak since they had left the town.
A man entered. He was nearly as tall as Silvern, but bony and thin. That was easy to see, since he was wearing a tan leather vest without a shirt beneath, along with loose leather trousers and soft, well-worn boots.
He bowed to Longlight. “My lady.”
She said, “Ventry, please you meet Silvern, Palion and Armiger, and my guest for the season. Silvern, I would have you know Ventry, chief weathermaster for this Coronage and the five surrounding.”
“Most pleased, Palion,” Ventry said, in a clear and musical voice. His face was sharp-featured but pleasantly smiling; his long brown hair was tied in a queue that fell over his shoulder and nearly to his waist. There, tools and keys hung from a wide black belt.
“Well,” Longlight said, “do go on.”
Ventry spread his arms wide, and Alecti ran from the back of the room straight into them, to be embraced and picked quite off her feet. Ventry might be thin, but he was clearly not weak. Alecti kissed him, and then rested her head on his shoulder. Then he put her down, took her hand, and said, “My lady, there is a small but real chance of rain before sunset. It should be clear tomorrow. If you wish to wait the night.”
Longlight said, “Silvern?”
“I am at my lady’s service.”
She nodded, apparently deep in thought, and then said, “I think we will risk the rain. Your hospitality is always appreciated, Ventry, but it can be rather basic.”
Ventry laughed, said to Silvern, “My lady means that the bathwater here is colder than she has at home. Though there is a very good inn in the town just over the rise, and this trip my lady’s party is small enough for them to accommodate. Does that change your mind?”
“If you are ready to go, we will go.”
“A few plates still to pack. Alecti and I will be just a few minimi. Please, Palion, examine anything that interests you; I do ask that you not disturb the instruments.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
He followed the couple into the next room, where there were five brass-cornered wooden cases waiting. Two were still open, and Ventry and Alecti began placing paper envelopes and small vials of chemicals into them.
This room was a lucivitry studio, with equipment in racks and on tables. It was remarkably neat; Silvern had seen such places that looked like an accident in a glassblower’s shop.
The walls were nearly covered with lucives, most a span or so square, but some enlarged to nearly a step across. The pride of place belonged to an astonishing picture, showing the coast of Berowne—the lighthouse visible at the right—illuminated by a stroke of lightning like a huge tree, trunked and many-branched.
Silvern hesitated, not wanting to interrupt, but finally said, “Did you make this?”
“Ah. Yes. Took a lot of glass to get that. We’re trying to learn more about lightning, for reasons I’m sure are obvious. Haven’t gotten very far, I’m afraid. We’re sure it’s electrical fluid, not that we know everything about that. People get hurt, and sometimes killed, trying to find out.”
Alecti paused in her work.
“My very dear, when you first met me you knew I did not have the sense to come in from the rain. Hm, put that one there.”
They went back to filling the cases, and Silvern looked over the lucives. There were more of lightning, and storms, complex cloud formations, waterspouts. Others showed off the scenery of the region, sharp but beautiful. One, also enlarged, was of Longlight’s manor house, and somehow it managed to make it look like a storybook castle, and not a series of boxes tumbling down a slope. Silvern was quite sure he had the right associate for the task.
And he looked for a picture of Alecti, but there were none here. He supposed they would be elsewhere, and felt a little ashamed at the curiosity. He hoped Edaire’s mind was busy.
The last box was closed. They were not much bigger than full saddlebags and had leather straps to be mounted on a saddle. Ventry explained that only one box held the camera, another carrying a folding support, spare lenses, and other accessories. Three were taken up with plates and chemicals.
“So they’re glass?”
“Not these. We can get glass in Fairport or other large towns, or order it by express in a few days. These are colloidal plates, which are new; they’re chemically made, and slightly flexible. Not as sharp an image as glass, so we’ll certainly carry some of that, but they will do for the majority of landscape work. And they don’t break. We’ll make our prints at the manor or back here.”
As they carried the boxes back through the instrument room, a woman in a black dress came hurrying in the back door. She carried a large and apparently heavy woven basket. “I’m terribly sorry to be late,” she said. “You haven’t been waiting?”
“Not at all. And you know where everything is anyway. My lady, you will recall Marcayl?”
“Of course.”
“Palion Silvern, this is Archwind Marcayl, my first assistant. She’ll be running the station while I’m away.”
The woman looked nervously at Silvern, and said, “Ventry speaks too well of me, honored. I am barely a novice of the Craft, and I’m afraid I have learned too much about weather to want to tamper with it. But I cannot help my Archanum.”
“None of us can,” Silvern said gently. Marcayl’s eyes widened—Silvern felt power touch power—and then she nodded and turned. “Hello, Alecti.”
“Hello, Marcayl.” She put down her box and embraced the other woman. “You’ll ’style Ventry every few days? I know he’s not at all worried about you, but he’ll be fretting for his barometers in half a day.”
“I will, of course. And—” She indicated the basket. “I brought you some lunch from the inn. If you have the time.”
Everyone in the room looked at Longlight, who said, “Perhaps I have been a bit single-minded. And it is going to be a long time to supper.”
There was a large room with a broad table and a window looking south along the coast. Ventry brought in Archilaos and the guardsmen, and they dined on lamb pie, paper-thin fried potatoes, and Archilaos’s beer, nearly black, and delicious. “It’s not that strong,” Archilaos said. “Most of our guests are travelers, so it’s just strength for the journey.”
Ventry disappeared for a moment after dinner and returned wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and a linen shirt under his vest. The shirt had an open drawstring collar and was obviously not for warmth.
They loaded the horses, Ventry gave a few final instructions to Marcayl, and the party started north. Longlight and Alecti rode in front, the guards between, and Silvern and Ventry at the rear.
“If I may ask,” Silvern said, “do you just not feel the cold, or are you proof against it?”
“Despite what Alecti may tell you, I’ve never tested it to the limits. I’m made of water like all of us, so I suppose it could freeze. I’m hot in what most people consider a cool room. I do always go decently covered in my lady’s house, but don’t look for furs.”
“Is this common in your family?”
“Not that I know of. D’you seil my name?”
“No.”
“It’s local. A ventry wind is a northern gale along this coast. I gather I was named when I was a few months along and kept kicking off the blankets. The word originally meant an open window. Westrene is a fascinating speech.”
“You don’t mind my asking.”
“Of course not. I like knowing things, and I’m not comfortable with souls who don’t. Let me ask you something: Do you know more people who don’t mind the cold?”
“They’re born from time to time in Bryna Kóly, and there it tends to run in families. They’re called melegem vani, and they have a reputation for becoming great heroes. Except for the few who become great villains.”
“Legends don’t differ much, do they?”
“Not in our half of the world. Around the other side, I’m told, some things vary a great deal.”
“I’d like to go see that. I’ve been told that in Shayon-Shi they have sea waves that can submerge an island, or wipe out a coastal city.”
“You might not see anything else after that.”
“It wouldn’t matter, if they found my camera and plates. Don’t tell Alecti I said that.”
“Of course.”
“She isn’t easily frightened, you understand. I suspect if we were both there, watching the wave, she’d be preparing the next plate and slipping the last one into a waterproof bag, with the address of the Lescorial Weather Society on the outside and adequate postage.” He paused, looked ahead at Alecti’s back, and then said quietly, “Am I saying too much? I’m not all alone at the station—there’s Archilaos, and Marcayl, and people from the town dropping in for a crop forecast and a cup of tea, and all manner of travelers—but there are long stretches with no one to talk to. Do you know that?”
“Yes,” Silvern said, and raised his ring. “Though my companion and I are conseil. So most of the time there is someone to listen.”
“How long?”
“Eight years. We were together for two years before.”
Quite softly, Ventry said, “Alecti and I spoke of that. As you have seen, our work separates us.”
“We are the same way.” Silvern explained about Edaire’s job.
“I should like to meet her. Though the rails will be a long time bringing her here.”
“You must know that’s one of the things you and I will be looking at.”
“Of course. And all it would take is a few barrels of powder at Wander’s Gate. But I would not say that loud in this country.” He pointed ahead and to the right, where a weed-grown path branched from the road. “Blasting powder is a great shortener of ways. This road is nearly a fifth shorter than when it was first completed. And as for the Gate, the Quercians had very strong ideas about roads. I think that if Wander had lost, they would have straightened it. They would have used axes and wedges, but everyone knows they moved around a lot of stone.”
“Some people say that if the Empire had had guns, they would still be here.”
“Ah, but you are in the Northwest,” Ventry said cheerfully. “If they had had guns, then the first time a soldier dozed at his post we would have had them.”