In the Caves of Exile Read online

  “One of Erken's men just came in,” Corlin said. “I sent him to get food and sleep; he must have burned the grass between the valley and here. The planting's started, and when Larig came away, they'd finished rough-roofing two houses. There's been rain the past days, enough to keep everyone damp. They'll use the houses to shelter the planters and guard for now. Larig said they measured out a pelt of land around each. Ifney sent word there's land and to spare for the numbers of us. There'll be a pelt of land per household and land left for the herds, up-valley. They're leaving the parameters of the valley, north and east, unparceled so Telean and the other villages can stay together.

  “Marckl sent word that they're hard at work on the docks. Erken says Nar will be able to use them long before we're all moved, and the warehouses are marked out. Marckl wants more of his men—he gave Larig the names—who helped him box and drain river bottom land. That way he says there won't be flooding down there every spring.”

  Whoever and whatever he needs,” Ylia said. “And we'll send word back that we have this coin, if they have needs they can't otherwise meet. We won't need to be totally dependent on future trade or alms now.”

  “No,” Corlin said. “And we can afford to get our exiles brought north, and up-river. We'll be able to afford to feed them, once they're here.”

  “It's progressing, Mothers grant it continue so,” Golsat said, and warded himself covertly. He flushed as he glanced up and Ylia winked at him. But his eyes were drawn back, as were everyone else's, to the coins in the center of the table.

  Levren laughed; he'd seen the superstitious gesture, too. “They will. But we should keep in mind the Narrans want our wool and they're willing to pay well for it.” He smiled, his gaze went distant. Blessed Mothers, I'll have my family here. Soon.” He looked up then, aware he'd spoken aloud, and the smile became rueful. But no one laughed, and the only smiles were understanding ones: Everyone knew how much Levren loved his large family and how keenly he missed them, though he seldom said so. It'll be lively for certain, when his Lennett comes here. Ylia thought, and bit back a grin. She could almost see the same thought running through Golsat's mind, by the suddenly wary look in his eyes. Levren's eldest daughter adored her father, patterned herself as much after him as one of her flamboyant temperament could—and passionately fought Ilderian, her harassed mother, for sword training, “Like Ylia!” She'd unintentionally alienated Golsat—and many others—early on with her outspoken ways. No, there wasn't much chance of things being dull, not with Lennett about.

  “We won't forget,” Lossana said. She was turning one of the silver coins over, rubbing her fingers against the raised lettering, around its edge. “And if the Narrans want our cloth, they'll have it, all we can spare. And best quality. They'll get nothing we would not wear ourselves.” She let the coin drop with a faint click, touched her daughter's shoulder. “Wake up, child.”

  “I wasn't sleeping, Mother.” Lisabetha was drooping, though: swordwork was more wearing than she would ever have thought, and she was spreading herself too thin: afternoon hours helping the kitchen women gather greens or grind flour for bread in addition to long and arduous searches in the distant recesses of Aresada. Evenings, they carded wool the Narrans had brought that sheared from Nedaoan sheep, and the wonderfully long and silky wild goat hair Lossana had discovered clinging to the bushes high above the caves. There was stuff to find for dyes, pots of color to tend, wool to spin—some of the village elders who were not able to forage or hunt were carving old fashioned drop spindles; and the women were keeping them busy all the daylight hours and long after dark.

  And after all these things had been done, there were still tasks, for Lisabetha was working on her bride-box, though there was little finery for it save the length of silk and silver thread Ysian had left her. The thread was enough to begin a deep and complex border, and she worked on it late hours, while she waited for Brelian to come in from guard.

  “We'll need a count of this,” Corlin said. “And a decision, where it should go.”

  “That we can work on now. We already know what we need.” Marhan shifted. “The Mothers know we've talked it enough! More beasts, all kinds.” He held up a hand, turning fingers down one at a time. Lisabetha shook herself awake, drew writing materials to her and began noting items as they were named. Grewl was in a meeting of his own, with the Chosen, that Jers had called. He hadn't dared miss it to attend Ylia's council. “Metal for smelting new weaponry. We've nowhere near enough swords, or points for arrows and spears. Leather for boots. The game we've brought in isn't sufficient for, that.”

  “Fruit trees,” Golsat took up as the Swordmaster paused. “We've no seed, no saplings, nothing like that. And grapes. And salt.”

  “Paper,” Lisabetha said, “ink, fine tips for pens. Wax for seals.”

  “Lanterns and lamps, until we have metal to spare from weaponry, and time to make our own,” Levren added. “We're already running out of proper light here. By the time we reach the valley, we'll have nothing but fire, torches and too hastily made candles:”

  Ylia laughed. “And perfumed Osneran soap! We all smell of smoke and imperfect washing!” And, soberly, “It comes down to lists, once again, doesn't it? I hope to never hear that word again, after this year. Speak with people, find out what's needed, things we can't do without and can't make or grow or fashion substitutes for. We'll see what we can buy through Nar.”

  They stayed awhile longer, passing the coins around, handling them as though none of them could otherwise believe they were real, talking about what-they could do with the sudden wealth, though, if it had been distributed among, the people at Aresada, it would have come out to less than a coin each. Put to use in trade, it spelled wealth in a way none of them would have considered a year before: saved lives over the coming winter.

  A boat lay at anchor the next morning, an hour past dawn; the Narrans were learning the River and making faster and easier progress against it. And they were working at the route itself: Crews were cutting trees and brush back from the bank in a dozen places to make paths for harnessed horses, two portage trails were already cut, and two of the men who had enlarged their harbor half a dozen summers back were planning the widening of a side branch halfway between Nar and the valley so as to pass by a treacherous rapids.

  Kre'Darst had left a shipment on Marckl's new docks: tools and fishing nets. They had brought on three bales of raw wool, bags of meal and salt, two crates of plain, dark cloth for immediate need, a keg of nails for building looms, wire and strong twine for heddles. Plus bundles of clothing and shoes gleaned from the folk for Nedaoan children.

  “I've also promise of grains and casks for ale,” Kre'Darst said over a hot, if bland, breakfast, “but I held back on that, thinking you'd rather be settled in first.”

  “Not that we'd mind the ale,” Ylia said. “But we'll be better able to spare the women to make it then. At present, everyone is involved in keeping us fed and clad.”

  “We can get you chickens,” the Narran offered. “And geese. The latter make better eating, but for eggs, you'd want the chickens.”

  “We have a few birds, but not enough,” Corlin ‘said. “We'd want both. And those we can keep here, so if you have any the next trip, we'll take them then.”

  Thank the Mothers for such men as I have. She'd wondered often, when she watched her father share decisions with his council, how he could bear the constant wrangling, the time it took to reach a decision they could all accept. But though there was much she and the Narrans could manage between them, it was so much easier to let someone like Corlin take care of it for her; his experience far surpassed hers, and it would leave her free to maintain cheerful relations with the Narran Captains even when they came to arguing over amounts and qualities as they might well later on.

  “We badly need needles, plenty of them. What few we have are traded back and forth, and half of them are already bent. If many more snap, we'll be in deep trouble.”

  “Needles
,” the trader noted on his board. “Chickens, geese. There'll be saplings, coming with Tr'Harsen in another 5-day or so. He got them from Yls. Apple and cherry.”

  “Good.” Ylia scowled at her bowl but dutifully emptied it. Malaeth was watching her closely.

  “Now, the other trees you mentioned,” Corlin said. “If you truly think they can handle mountain winters, we may as well try them.”

  “They should do well, Osnera's westlands are plateau, and they grow beautifully there. We got enough for you to test. Your people should like them, and it'll be a good prospect for us as well, since if you have peaches and pears we won't need to trade Oversea for brandies. You're easier to bargain with than the Osnerans.”

  Ylia smiled. “That's worrying; my council won't like it if you get that much the better of me!”

  “No chance of that,” the Narran grinned, “not with Lord Corry to make the contracts.”

  “Speaking of contracts,” Corlin said, “if you have the cloth ones with you, bring them along, we'll go and look them over.”

  “Do you need me?” Ylia got the last bite of her breakfast down—it was stone cold, thick and gluey—and let the trader hand her to her feet. Corlin shook his head.

  “If we need your signature, we'll find you. But I know you've other things to do this morning. And it'll be awhile,” he added, with a sidelong glance at Kre'Darst, who sighed good-naturedly.

  “Of course it will, with you, sir, it always is!” He reached into an inner waterproofed pocket and brought out a thick sheaf of papers. “Lead on, then, we'd best get started.”

  To have a home again, a roof instead of stone icicles, to have floors of real wood and dressed stone and cool tiles, rugs instead of dirt and slick, uneven limestone and puddles—real walls with real glass windows, shutters where there was not yet glass, in place of stone and stone again, and drafts and threads of chill air—they are right, who say the most basic of needs can bring also the greatest pleasure. Even though I doubtless could do without such human needs, I found their lack nearly as painful as the Nedaoans did.

  18

  The weather had taken a turn, as it always did this time of year; North to South and all across the Plain. One 5-day what sun there was was blunted by a spring-chilled wind, or wind drove little squalls of rain before it. There were night fogs and now and again, still, a little frost. And then, suddenly, it was warm and the sky a brilliant blue, cloudless bowl overhead. It would stay that way, almost continuously, until past harvest. Summer had come.

  The luck was holding, still: Planting Month had come and gone, with the farmers working all daylight hours and through the night when the moon permitted. The results were heartening: throughout the valley grain was ankle-high and the household gardens were up and growing rapidly. The fruit trees the Narrans brought had been planted near the stream, close to what would eventually be the City walls. All anyone could say for them, so far, was that they hadn't died. But that itself was encouraging.

  Three 5-days passed: the Narrans kept busy ferrying Koderrans up-river to the new City, which was just as well, since the folk still at Aresada were growing short-tempered after so much privation, lack of privacy, short rations and uncommonly hard ground for sleeping. Ylia's council debated the matter earnestly, and decided that in order to avoid bloodshed it would be best to begin sending people on to the valley as quickly as possible. Most of them would be of more use there anyway, and the weather was dependable enough that folk could sleep on the grass until they could put roofs over their heads.

  More people came in from the South, a draggle of twenty-three young men, several women, a handful of children. The old moutain-hunter Verdren had found them, brought them partway and then sent them on, advising them to keep within the western foothills, to stay out of the mountains until they must head east to the Caves, and to travel with caution. And he'd sent word for her: he'd search the foothill villages south of Yenassa, send her any folk he found. Then he'd search north. She didn't expect him to find anyone; then; too, she hadn't expected this most recent clutch of villagers.

  At last, only the weavers—Lossana and Lisabetha among them—and Ylia and her women, her twenty new guardswomen, a number of guardsmen under Golsat, the herds and herders were left at Aresada. The looms had stayed busy, and Lossana was reluctantly allowing them to be dismantled and moved as a length of cloth was finished. Ylia was still elbow deep in lists. She and Lord Corry were working up the contracts with Nar.

  She wasn't ready to make the move herself, yet; there was too much that needed finishing where she was. And Erken had asked that she remain until the last. “They've a surprise brewing for you, the folk. Don't disappoint them.”

  “Surprise?” But he wouldn't be drawn. And she was so busy, the thought of it didn't stay with her long. On top of everything else, there was going to be a Midsummer Fest, a proper, true Fest, with all that implied. And though it might not be so grand as past ones, there would still be sword and bow contests, minstrels and jugglers, games and foot races. The craftsfolk of Koderra had sufficient time and goods from their trading in Yslar to set up booths, and if none were as stocked as they had been, they would at least be there.

  This year there would be plenty of Narran traders, and a Narran embassy from the Lord Mayor himself.

  This was an important change in status for Nedao. There had always been trade between the lands, but Nar had never installed a permanent ambassador, and now they intended to send the Lord Ber'Sordes, who had served long years as a Liaison in Osnera. Honor indeed!

  The final folk left Aresada a 5-day before Fest opening. The looms were dismantled, the last of the cloth safely aboard Tr'Harsen's Crayfish. The weavers and the looms would travel to the nearly-completed docks on Tr'Harsen's boat; the herders, the herds, a guardof Erken's men and several of Ylia's young swordswomen would travel overland.

  Ylia and Nisana stood on the bridge and watched them out of sight. Ylia sighed. “I've never worked so hard in my life, cat! I think. I could sleep right through Midsummer.”

  Nisana snorted. ‘You couldn't possibly! There'll be enough noise to deafen folk clear out by the River. I,’ she added darkly, ‘intend to continue my usual custom, and to leave the vicinity for all five days and not to return until they've done discussing who won what, and why, and who should have instead.’

  “Nice for me,” Ylia remarked mildly. Nisana snorted again.

  'They'll have you so busy, you'll forget all about me.’

  “I doubt that.”

  'Anyway, it's settled. Are we going to stand on this ledge all afternoon, or can we leave now? And you bridge, I want to see how you're progressing.’

  'Cat, I swear—!’

  'Don't. Just bridge.’

  Odd, how she'd lost her fear of bridging, that night in the Tehlatt camp. Golsat's near loss had pushed her beyond fear, and it had simply never come back. Odd, too, that it should have been Golsat's peril; it had been a like incident that had won the xenophobic Bowmaster past an irrational fear of his own. She still avoided it when she could. It was exhausting, too demanding, even with Nisana's training. Small use, if she drain herself of Power and could do nothing once she had bridged. So far, fortunately, that kind of decision had not come up.

  She placed them close to the River but within the trees, so as not to startle anyone who might be near when they just suddenly appeared. They stepped onto the road, and walked out into the open. Ylia stopped and blinked. The road bore straight for the small river, the town, and the Tower looming above all.

  Tower—it didn't register until they came into the open, and she could all at once see it clearly. Erken had set the City on the rise she'd chosen, away from the woods. “Cat, look at that, look at it!” she whispered.

  Nisana's fur rippled, very like a shrug. ‘It's nice. They've come on well since I saw it last.’ And as Ylia cast her a dark look: ‘It wasn't surprise from me, you know. It's your folk, your Tower. If they'd consulted me,’ she added judiciously, ‘I'd have said
to make it taller, and not so wide, it's proportioned like Koderra and that wasn't properly balanced either.’

  'I think that was what they intended, cat.’

  'So it was. Are you going to stand and gawk at it all day, or can we view it closer?’

  They walked up Marckl's road toward the City. Ylia gazed around her in astonishment: One thing to be told what work was accomplished, another thing entirely to see it, and she hadn't been here since—well, no, not since she'd come back that second day for samples of the soil.

  It might have been a different place entirely, save that the mountains had not changed: Where there had been dirt and wiry grey-green grass, there were now huts and fields, some already fenced. There were barns and gardens: recognizable millet knee-high to the man pulling weeds in one near plot. Hard against a hill, not far away, grey-clad Chosen hard worked on a long, low dormitory that would house their kind; others were setting fence and still others were between building and fence; planting and weeding.

  There were people busily thatching roofs, people beyond that putting a final side to a cow shed. A small girt with an enormous staff came down the narrow track between two grain-fields, half a dozen brown geese honking and chucking angrily before her. Two old women sat on a doorstep, spinning, and a third stood in the doorway plaiting greens for a luckpiece to fasten to the lintel. It was active, it was happy; it was home.

  They came to a wide, low stone bridge, only rough-finished: planks were still not cut to size and rattled underfoot. Beyond this was a blaze of brilliant pink: the fruit trees were in full, heady bloom. And beyond the orchard, the marketplace.

  It was neat and organized, as Koderra's had never been, since that one had grown any-which-way in an already crowded space between the King's Tower and the Gates. This was laid out in three long rows of stalls, a clean-swept square at its end. Houses were set around the market and ranged north of it, stopping just before a series of barracks that would house Erken's and Corlin's unmarried armsmen and those male household armed Ylia took to her personal service. The training and workout grounds were half finished; the armsmen who were not riding guard around the valley were busy nailing the wooden shingles on the last long, low building.