L. Modesitt - Mage-Guard of Hamor

"So am I," replied Rahl, "but I have the feeling that today was just a respite. What do you know about the town?"

"About as much as you do." Drakeyt laughed. "The scouts didn't see anything unusual. Did you?"

"Some of those bog meadows to the northeast looked like mining pits," Rahl said.

"They dry the best of the turf and use it to flavor the Vyrna. The rest they burn as fuel for their stoves and homes and the stills, of course."

"What will they do when it's all burned?"

"Dig it from somewhere else, I suppose," replied Drakeyt.

"Some have been abandoned for years. The ones that have become ponds don't look that good."

"That's their problem."

Rahl nodded, but he had to wonder. The vegetation around the bog-meadow ponds had looked sparse and weedy, anything but healthy, and the smoke from the distilleries wasn't exactly the most pleasant odor he'd ever inhaled.

As Third Company rode into Fhydala, Rahl concentrated on sensing anything out of the ordinary, but the folk on the road and the lanes only exhibited feelings and expressions ranging from matter-of-fact acceptance to mild surprise. Rahl could detect no signs of chaos beyond those normal for any town or hamlet.

When Third Company reined up in the town square, both Rahl and Drakeyt were pleased to see that there were actually two inns in Fhydala, on opposite sides of the square. The larger inn's signboard depicted a squarish building constructed of what looked to be enormous bricks or brown stones. The letters beneath the simple image read The Turf Inn.

"The Turf Inn?" Rahl wondered aloud.

"That's an old, old name," Drakeyt replied. "Centuries back, some of the poor folks built their huts from turf bricks. It's a way of saying it's an honest and modest place."

The smaller inn was narrower, and its signboard proclaimed it as The Red Coach. Both were without patrons, and both innkeepers were more than pleased to accept the script offered by Drakeyt for use of the rooms and the stables and sheds.

With all the arrangements for feed and food, and inspections of makeshift quarters, it was well past dark before Drakeyt and Rahl were finished with those details. After grooming the gelding and leaving the stable, Rahl went to the small upper-level room he had to himself-next to the one shared by three squad leaders. There was no shower in the Turf Inn, or any inn so far-but Rahl used two pitchers of water to wash up, and on his way down to meet Drakeyt in the inn's public room arranged for one of his uniforms to be washed and pressed. The captain had already settled at a corner table in the public room in the Turf Inn-and the troopers had already left after having been fed, leaving the two officers alone. A slightly smoky fire burned in the hearth as a thin servingwoman appeared.

"We saved chops for you gents. That be all right, with a bit of burhka on the side, and some late pearapple sauce?"

"That would be fine," Drakeyt said. "And to drink?"

"Just dark ale or gold lager… there's Vyrna… but…"

"That doesn't come with what we paid for," finished Drakeyt.

"No, ser."

"Dark ale," said the older captain.

"Gold lager," added Rahl. He didn't care much for drinks he felt he should be chewing rather than swallowing.

"Be right there, sers."

Rahl glanced around the public room. While the old tables were oiled and clean, and the floor swept, the wood of both was worn, and a sense of age and tiredness permeated everything. He'd sensed age in the buildings in both Land's End and Nylan, but not the tiredness. Did order keep tiredness at bay? Or was it chaos constrained by order that did that?

"You're deep in thought, Rahl."

"The place feels tired."

"I feel tired," replied Drakeyt, "and we're not even halfway to Nubyat. We've not seen a rebel force, and we've already lost nearly half a squad to traps and floods."

The servingwoman reappeared with two large mugs. "Your ale and lager. Be just a moment more for your dinner."

"Thank you."

Drakeyt waited until she was well away from the table before continuing. "It's less than fifty kays from here to Dawhut, but we'll have to take it slower from here on in." He took a long pull of the dark ale. "That's because there are all sorts of back roads and hamlets between here and there. According to the maps, anyway, and the old road joins the one we're following some fifteen kays southwest of here. Folks don't think about it, but there are more places to hide when there are more steads and hamlets. In a place where you've only got a score of families over ten kays of road, everyone notices a stranger and whether something's missing. You can't get supplies and food if there's no one around to grow them, either."

"That makes sense." Rahl sipped the gold lager. He was famished, and he wasn't about to drink much on an empty stomach. "You think there are many rebels or supporters in Dawhut?"

"There'll be some. It's big enough to have some people who weren't happy with the way things were going. How many?" Drakeyt shrugged. "That's why the submarshal sent us."

"It would be helpful if we had some idea how far behind he is."

"Far enough to let us flush out the trouble and not close enough to help if we get in too deep. That's what recon in force is all about." The captain looked up as the servingwoman carried two platters toward them.

Neither man spoke for a time once their food arrived.

Rahl ate everything on the platter. He was hungry enough that it all tasted good.

As they were finishing, Drakeyt took a last swallow of ale, then said, "I'm going to run over to the other inn and check how things are going."

"I could check here," offered Rahl.

"I'd appreciate that."

"I need to get into more things with the company." Rahl was tired, and he wanted to write a bit more on his letter to Deybri since he had no idea when he might have another chance, but he also needed to be visible to the troopers as well, and Drakeyt could use another set of eyes.

"I'll meet you back here in the front hall, and we can talk over what you saw." Drakeyt stood.

"I'll be here." As he stood, Rahl noticed the copper on the table, and he added one of his own.

Once outside, Rahl moved across the courtyard and through the darkness toward the end of the stable and the hayloft where second squad was billeted. The door was ajar, and he slipped inside. Ahead, he could sense four men in the corner of the barn, the corner barely lit by a wicked-down lantern. He raised a sight shield around himself and eased forward quietly.

"… never make your point, Cheslyn…"

"… know when to throw and when not to…"

Rahl could sense the chaos around the knucklebones-except it wasn't exactly chaos-and he took several more steps until he was within a few cubits of the gamers. After watching for several moments, he realized that one of the troopers had two sets of bones and switched them when he took the bones for his throws.

"Whose bones are those?" Rahl's voice was quiet, but firm, as he dropped the sight shield.

All four troopers froze.

"I asked whose bones they were." Rahl kept his hand on the truncheon at his belt.

"Ser… we were just having a friendly game."

Rahl waited in the dimness, but no one spoke.

"Are they yours, Cheslyn?"

The burly bearded trooper did not speak, but Rahl got the clear sense of fear that he would be discovered.

"I think you'd better hand me the bones in your hand," Rahl said.

Cheslyn whirled and jumped to his feet, his hand on his dagger.

"Don't even think about it." Rahl's voice was like ice, and he projected order-force behind the words. He extended his left hand. "The bones."

The trooper froze. Then the hand holding the weighted bones moved back toward the slot in his jacket that held the unweighted cubes.