'A fortnight without rotation.' Kestrel smiled. 'A long time without distraction. Tell me, how have things fared on the border for those who might wish to pass?'
The two men-at-arms turned suddenly silent and resumed their place in line. Kestrel noticed the glower of the sergeant who sat in the apprentice's chair. 'My business is with the journeyman,' he said. 'What he has learned from all who have sat here certainly is not the fault of your own fine squad of men.'
Kestrel watched the sergeant relax back into the chair as he walked down to where the journeyman worked his craft. As he approached, he noticed the hatchet-sharp nose that split the thaumaturge's elongated and melancholy face and how, with eyes furrowed with concentration, he arranged more than two dozen pieces of twine in front of him, each with a hair glued down its length from the head of a different man. The journeyman mumbled something that Kestrel could not quite catch and then began deftly to weave the strings into a stout rope the thickness of a man's thumb.
Simultaneously a second hair from each of the clippings before him disentangled from the rest. Like worms on a hot griddle, they danced toward one another and then began to intertwine. In a perfect mimicry of the weaving of the journeyman, the hairs wove into a tiny replica of the rope but with a diameter smaller than the shaft of a pin.
'What is your greatest length?' Kestrel asked as he approached.
'Over ten times the height of a man but with a carrying strength for its size greater than anything but the strands of a spider's web. You have no need for bulky ropes of hemp or cotton when you can possess such compact beauties as these braids.'
'Only ten times? Oh, then it is a pity.' Kestrel backed away. 'I was hoping for something more the distance from here to the quay.'
The journeyman looked up from his work. His eyes ran over Kestrel's rumpled tunic and he frowned. 'Even with the aid of thaumaturgy which weaves the tiny strands as quickly as if they were readily handled twines,' he said, 'what you request would take much effort to produce. Each short length must be knotted together. You speak of something measured in golden brandels rather than the mere coppers of Ethidor. Are you sure you do not waste my time?'
Kestrel paused a moment before answering. Then he shrugged and smiled. 'Perhaps you are right. There are probably others who have what I want directly on hand.' He turned to go and, with what looked like an afterthought, tossed a brandel onto the table amid the braids of hair. 'For your trouble,' he said.
The journeyman eyed the coin as it spun to rest on the rough surface. He looked at Kestrel a second time and then apparently made up his mind. 'Luthor, to the master's den,' he commanded. 'Fetch the other braidings with length of ten. I will knot them all together for a price that would be most fair.'
As the apprentice scampered off, the journeyman called out to Kestrel, who was halfway back to the wagon. 'Here, I will show you how it is done while we wait,' he said. 'Watch as I join together the short length I have just made with another of similar size.'
Kestrel hesitated a moment but then continued toward the wagon.
'You ask of the border,' the journeyman continued. 'Perhaps there is something of interest I can tell you to pass the time.' He waved his arm at the remaining apprentice, now working on the next who stood in line. 'There is much that we learn from those with whom we trade.'
Kestrel turned slowly and shrugged. 'I have heard that many are the numbers who mill about in the bogs.'
'And for no real purpose,' the journeyman answered quickly. 'Our own Prince Rupert's troops are there merely because his alchemists could not abide by each other's agreements with the miners of Procolon-ambushing and waylaying each other's shipments of galena and other lead ores as they came south to the foundries. When Celibor rips his mind from lusting after some wench, he is the worst, and his rivals little better. It is no wonder old Queen Vendora dispatched a garrison to guard the way.
'Then Rupert's pride could not stand the presence of Procolon's banners on his soil. So his own legions were dispatched to ensure that none remained on this side of the border. And now they sit staring at each other, with no traffic at all going either way.'
'None at all?' Kestrel asked.
'A month ago, a small wagon about the size of yours attempted to run past Procolon's lines, after bribing some squad on this side of the marsh.' The thaumaturge shrugged. 'Their archers gave him no chance to speak before everything was consumed in flame.'
'And writs of safe passage?'
'A profitable business.' The journeyman laughed. 'I can point you to a dozen scribes who would gladly write the most impressive documents for a suitable fee. The trouble is that the men who walk the Procolon line are as testy as ours. They swing their swords first and then ask their sergeants if it was the proper thing to do.
'But never mind all of that. Let me show you how I will make the length of braid that you request.' The journeyman positioned two lengths of woven rope in front of him, the strands in each one cemented to individual hairs. He grasped a single twine from the end of each and with nimble fingers knotted them together. Then he selected a second pair, interwove them with the first and joined them together as well. Proceeding methodically, a pair at a time, he spliced the ends in a strong bond.
Kestrel did not follow the motions of the two corresponding braids of hair but he knew what was happening. They too were becoming knotted and bound in exactly the same way as the easier to manipulate ropes in the hands of the thaumaturge. The laws of 'like produces like' and 'once together, always together' were being used to perform a perfect simulation.
Instead, Kestrel was looking in the direction in which the apprentice had sped away. When he saw a blur in the distance that indicated the young man's return, he suddenly reached out and tapped the journeyman on the shoulder.
'The sergeant seemed a little perturbed that his men might talk of the border,' he said quickly. 'What do you suppose he thinks when he hears the same words come from you?'
'What I have said will cause no harm,' the journeyman answered. 'He is concerned only about the regulations laid down by his captain.'
'Still.' Kestrel pointed at the brandel lying where it had fallen. 'How would you explain that a stranger was willing to pay gold for what he has heard?'
'But you said that is for-'
'I see his frown deepen.' Kestrel smiled back to the sergeant waiting for his men. 'Perhaps the two of us should go over together and explain.'
'No, the braided-'
Kestrel reached down and deftly scooped up the coin. 'On the other hand, perhaps it is best for everybody if this transaction never took place.'
Before the thaumaturge could say more, Kestrel glided back to the wagon and climbed aboard. Just as the apprentice came panting up with coils of the tiny rope about both his arms, Kestrel motioned the mare to start away. The only problem was merely getting across the border, he remembered thinking. It looked as if it was not going to be quite so easy.
The afternoon faded into darkness while Kestrel pondered how to proceed. He had slowly navigated the wagon up and down the streets of Menthos a dozen times, looking at all the shops and factories, but no inspiration had come. With a growing fatigue, he studied in the encroaching dimness the last of the foundry fires as they winked out for the night. Somehow, the solution to getting past two lines of armed men and into Procolon had to involve the large works of alchemists, but he could not quite put all the elements of a solution together.
Kestrel glanced at Astron, sitting patiently at his side. The demon had halted all his questions when he had been told that interruptions would not be appreciated for a while. Kestrel glanced back into the interior of the wagon at Phoebe's still slumbering form. He sighed. He was bothered about that little detail as well.
What good had it done to rescue her from the other wizards, if she remained in a semianimate state under the control of a demon? Sooner or later, someone would get suspicious about a woman in a trance, wearing the robe and logo of a wizard. Word would surely get back to her peers. Crossing the border would be difficult at best, and Phoebe in her condition was an added complication.
On the other hand, if Astron were to release Phoebe from his domination, Kestrel was not sure what would
