sneaking was a Forager’s trade, but mounted on these high beasts they were just nice juicy targets.
Rik wondered how well the side of the howdah would stop a musket ball. The flesh of his back crawled as he imagined eyes measuring it as a resting place for a bullet. Too much imagination had always been his curse.
Rik kept a wary eye out for Master Severin but the wizard had shown no further interest, even as they broke camp.
What would it be like to study the deep dark mysteries Severin had been initiated into? He would never know. The laws were strict; only pure-blooded Terrarchs were allowed to pursue the Art. Supposedly only they could study the dark secrets of magic without risking body and soul.
Not that Rik gave a toss about the law. All of his life it had been used to oppress him, and it had once seemed to him that in the Art lay a way of gaining some power over his life, a power that he had never possessed and supposed he never would. Dark as the path of the mage was, — and it was very dark, for madness, degeneration and vice seemed to lie along its entire length, at least for humans — it had always seemed the only real road to wealth and power open to the likes of him.
Despite all the laws and the Inquisition, there were, and always had been, human wizards, and their services commanded a high price. He regretted not learning more from the Old Witch when he had the chance.
By such lures does the Shadow seek to entrap our souls, Rik thought, remembering the words of the priests at the orphanage and shivering, not just with the cold.
He had seen what became of some human wizards before they were taken off to bedlam or the burning stake. He knew the warnings against magic were not simply propaganda put about by the Terrarchs but the simple truth, and yet he was still drawn to the Art.
Enough primitive faith had been beaten into him by the priests at the orphanage to make him fear for his soul because of it. What use was mere earthly power when your immortal soul was in peril? Ah, but what if the secret of terrestrial immortality was in your hands, the wicked part of him countered? What then? Guilt stabbed him and he knew it was this guilt that made him so nervous around the Magister.
He caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. He gripped his rifle tight as he surveyed his surroundings. It was more for reassurance than because he had any great faith in his marksmanship from atop this moving platform. His plan was to duck first and respond later if he caught sight of any would-be sniper. Better a live coward than a dead hero. He would leave the musketry to better shots like Weasel and Leon.
“What is it?” Handsome Jan asked, glancing up from the shard of mirror in which he had been admiring his noble profile. The others held their weapons ready.
Rik saw nothing even as he scanned the undergrowth and jutting rocks. He did his best to ignore the vistas of dizzying drops that were sometimes revealed. It came to him that they must be running parallel to Broken Tooth Pass and that it was even possible that they had crossed the border into Kharadrea. No shots came. The moment of fear departed, leaving only a small residue burning in the pit of his stomach.
“Nothing,” Rik said. “I thought I saw something, but it was nothing.”
The others slumped back against the howdah walls.
They passed a number of small ruined buildings. Some seemed almost like outcrops of stone. Only when he looked closely could he see that the moss-covered blocks had been dressed and shaped. Nonetheless, had they been roofed over they would have been inhabitable, if anyone could have faced the bleak prospect of living in these mountains.
Rik wondered aloud why some poor crofters had not taken them. He had caught enough glimpses of wild sheep and goats on the hillsides to know a living could be eked out here by someone hardy enough.
“Shows what you know,” said Weasel, spitting over the side of the howdah.
“Something you want to tell me, Weasel,” Rik said.
“It’s the feuds. When clans up here feel they have a grudge, they get together and burn out their neighbours.”
That would explain the old scorch marks on the ruins, Rik supposed. Weasel was in full flow now: “And of course when the burned out’s kin find out, they retaliate. And that leads to more burning, and more retaliation, till pretty soon everybody hates everybody else. That’s why there’s so many ruins. A man could make a fortune selling powder and ammunition up here.”
“Is that what you and the Quartermaster been up to then? I was wondering.”
“Hush, lad,” said Weasel. His grin looked a little pained.
“You’d think life would be hard enough up here without them making it harder,” said Leon. He chewed his empty pipe a bit more intently to aid his thoughts. A look of child-like seriousness passed over his face as he concentrated.
“You call this hard,” said the Barbarian. “You have never been to the Northlands of Segard.”
“It’s been my experience that people can always find a way to make things more difficult for themselves,” said the Sergeant.
“Godless heathens,” added Gunther with some venom.
“It’s endless war up here,” said Weasel, not without a certain gloomy satisfaction. “There’s only two things as can make the clans forget their feuds and band together.”
“And what would they be?” asked Pigeon, rather foolishly, Rik thought.
“Banditry. They like to get together and raid the caravans in the pass, and the farmers in the valleys.”
“And don’t we get blamed for enough of that,” said the Barbarian, somewhat too sourly for a man who had done his fair share of rustling. Weasel sucked his teeth and nodded his agreement.
“Lawless heathens,” said Gunther.
“They’re actually pretty god-fearing,” said Weasel, just to be argumentative. “One of the clans, the Malarceans even gave shelter to a Prophet of the Light. That’s how they got the name. They took his…”
“And look how they have disgraced it since…”
“What would be the other thing that unites these wild hill-men?” asked the sergeant, asking the question to change the subject and forestall an argument.
“The sight of a whole bunch of the Queen’s soldiers parading through their land.”
“It’s the Queen’s land,” said Gunther.
“At least as much of it as is on her side of the border,” Rik said, giving his attention back to their surroundings. He had already known the hill-men could be hostile, but Weasel had given his fears expression and put his nerves on edge.
“You will get no argument from me,” said Weasel. “The problem is they think we’re tax collectors or from the Estates.”
It had not been unknown for the Terrarchs to use their military connections to get the army to clear humans off freehold land they coveted. Such a thing had not happened since the Small Revolution, as the laws passed then had given humans some rights to their property, but the hill-men had long memories and little education. Rik could not see them reading any of the broadsheets.
“Who would want this land?” said the Sergeant mockingly.
“Sheep,” said Weasel.
“I don’t think our Exalted lords and masters would take kindly to hearing themselves described as such,” said Leon.
“I meant they would put sheep on the land. Textiles is big business, especially now. Who makes all our pretty uniforms? Who gets the profit of it? Remember — there is a war coming.”
“The Exalted are not to be compared to money grubbing human merchants,” said Gunther.
“Strange that for people who care nothing about money they should have so much of it,” said Weasel. 'Maybe that's the secret.'
“You talk like an Insurrectionary,” said Gunther.
“Not at all. I am merely making an observation. God knows I’ve put down enough revolutionists in my time.”
All of which was true, but Rik could not help but think Weasel had a sneaking sympathy for the revolutionaries. They all did. Most men wondered what it would be like to be masters of their own world once more. Surely the Dark Ages before the Terrarchs came had been terrible, at least according to the Terrarchs, but
