impressive trunks in the woods south of Land’s End in Recluce and some of those Recluce trees dated back to Creslin and Megaera—the mythical Founders. The trees in Hydlen felt older, even if they weren’t bigger. But the trees of Recluce reportedly had been planted by the ancient order-masters. That would have given any tree a certain advantage.
Trees or no trees, I kept riding, and the clouds eventually broke enough that once or twice in the afternoon there were patches of sunlight.
XII
East of Lavah, Sligo [Candar]
After drawing back the drapery that covers the shelves of the rough bookcase against the cottage wall, the man in brown smiles. His eyes stop on each volume, as if to drink the words and the knowledge within.
“What you could tell…” He laughs. “What you do tell. What you are already telling!” Then he shakes his head. “For so long, so long, you have been hidden.”
The clopping of hoofs on the hard ground outside drifts through the half-open window by the crude door. Sammel lets the cloth drop across the front of the case, leaving what appears as a draped but narrow table.
He turns and walks to the door, which he opens. He steps out and stands on the crude stone stoop, looking westward toward the small river valley that holds the town, although Lavah is more of a hamlet than a town.
On the stoop he waits for the two figures who have tethered their horses to the rude hitching rail beside the first of the irregular stones that form a rough walk to the cottage door. The high thin clouds turn the sun’s golden-white light into a bright grayish-white.
“Greetings.”
“Greetings be to you, Master Sammel.” The thin trader walks toward the cottage.
Sammel steps inside and walks to the crude table, where he picks up a single scroll.
“What is there of value in a scroll?”
“This one contains a way of separating natural waxes and fats. It will give you a means to make better candles.” Sammel hands the scroll to the trader.
“Better candles? When they have gas lamps on Recluce? And good oil lamps in Freetown and Hydolar?”
“How many candles are sold every year? How many people buy lamps and how many buy candles?” Sammel shakes his head. “People will pay more for better candles.”
The thin trader nods his head. “Aye…I suppose so. Theryck would pay for it. He’s the renderer in Tyrhavven.” He sets a pouch on the table and steps back.
Sammel leaves the pouch where the trader placed it.
“Master Wizard Sammel, begging your pardon, ser, but what do ye suggest we do about the Duke’s taxes?” The shorter trader glances nervously from the man in brown to the doorway of the small cottage.
The cold light coming through the window glistens white.
The trader wipes his forehead and tugs at his salt-and-pepper beard.
“I doubt that Duke Colaris will be worrying about trying to collect taxes in Sligo for much longer.” Sammel’s voice is smooth and deep. He smiles politely.
“What’s that mean?” The shorter trader halts his pacing by the door to look at the balding wizard.
“Refuse to pay his taxes. He has no claim over Sligo.”
“An’ maybe not, but he’s got an army, and that’s something we don’t.” The thin trader studies the white shaft of light coming through the window, and finally lifts his arm through it. The sparkling white dust motes dance, and the sunbeam shimmers enough to cast faint shadows on the dark walls.
“Then wait,” counsels Sammel. “Make an excuse to his tax-collectors. There will be more than enough chaos in Freetown to keep them and the Duke busy before long.”
“You saying that Duke Berfir’s goin’ to strip the hide right off old Colaris? Don’t see how as that can be, seeing as Colaris’s got near on twice as many troops.”
“Then why do you bother to consult me? You know more than I do.” Sammel’s voice remains calm, almost soft. He smiles a warm smile, focused into a distance the others do not see.
The thin
Trees or no trees, I kept riding, and the clouds eventually broke enough that once or twice in the afternoon there were patches of sunlight.
XII
East of Lavah, Sligo [Candar]
After drawing back the drapery that covers the shelves of the rough bookcase against the cottage wall, the man in brown smiles. His eyes stop on each volume, as if to drink the words and the knowledge within.
“What you could tell…” He laughs. “What you do tell. What you are already telling!” Then he shakes his head. “For so long, so long, you have been hidden.”
The clopping of hoofs on the hard ground outside drifts through the half-open window by the crude door. Sammel lets the cloth drop across the front of the case, leaving what appears as a draped but narrow table.
He turns and walks to the door, which he opens. He steps out and stands on the crude stone stoop, looking westward toward the small river valley that holds the town, although Lavah is more of a hamlet than a town.
On the stoop he waits for the two figures who have tethered their horses to the rude hitching rail beside the first of the irregular stones that form a rough walk to the cottage door. The high thin clouds turn the sun’s golden-white light into a bright grayish-white.
“Greetings.”
“Greetings be to you, Master Sammel.” The thin trader walks toward the cottage.
Sammel steps inside and walks to the crude table, where he picks up a single scroll.
“What is there of value in a scroll?”
“This one contains a way of separating natural waxes and fats. It will give you a means to make better candles.” Sammel hands the scroll to the trader.
“Better candles? When they have gas lamps on Recluce? And good oil lamps in Freetown and Hydolar?”
“How many candles are sold every year? How many people buy lamps and how many buy candles?” Sammel shakes his head. “People will pay more for better candles.”
The thin trader nods his head. “Aye…I suppose so. Theryck would pay for it. He’s the renderer in Tyrhavven.” He sets a pouch on the table and steps back.
Sammel leaves the pouch where the trader placed it.
“Master Wizard Sammel, begging your pardon, ser, but what do ye suggest we do about the Duke’s taxes?” The shorter trader glances nervously from the man in brown to the doorway of the small cottage.
The cold light coming through the window glistens white.
The trader wipes his forehead and tugs at his salt-and-pepper beard.
“I doubt that Duke Colaris will be worrying about trying to collect taxes in Sligo for much longer.” Sammel’s voice is smooth and deep. He smiles politely.
“What’s that mean?” The shorter trader halts his pacing by the door to look at the balding wizard.
“Refuse to pay his taxes. He has no claim over Sligo.”
“An’ maybe not, but he’s got an army, and that’s something we don’t.” The thin trader studies the white shaft of light coming through the window, and finally lifts his arm through it. The sparkling white dust motes dance, and the sunbeam shimmers enough to cast faint shadows on the dark walls.
“Then wait,” counsels Sammel. “Make an excuse to his tax-collectors. There will be more than enough chaos in Freetown to keep them and the Duke busy before long.”
“You saying that Duke Berfir’s goin’ to strip the hide right off old Colaris? Don’t see how as that can be, seeing as Colaris’s got near on twice as many troops.”
“Then why do you bother to consult me? You know more than I do.” Sammel’s voice remains calm, almost soft. He smiles a warm smile, focused into a distance the others do not see.
The thin
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