Quiet Magic (2 page)

With all the advice they'd been given
no one had explained exactly why some bridge crossing times were
better than others. He'd not been prepared for this slow confusion
of people, carts, and wagons and the strange impromptu shelters
that people raised--either against the night or against the sight
of the bridge, waterfall, and river far below.

It had taken an incredible amount of
time for them to move through the bustle, ignoring last minute
attempts to sell this or that special luxury for an absurdly low
price. Littlebrook could not buy what he wanted--as the troop
wouldn't wait for a rendezvous--and what was most for sale were
bits of jewelry, or silver and gold.

The bustle had perhaps gotten busier
when folk saw the crow; they'd gained space but lost time as
onlookers had gawked at the sleepy rider behind Slate. It hadn't
helped that they'd arrived bridge-side just as the traffic flow was
reversed, and had to wait for twenty wagonloads of goods and twice
as many riders and dozens of folk on foot crossed from
Lamonta.

Once or twice the crow had muttered
when someone spoke loudly, but for the most part he was a quiet
passenger, and Slate had seen it go slit-eyed as he'd finally
turned and given the command to cross.

The troop had come willingly enough
onto the bridge. Littlebrook, even, had started across without
comment after receiving his orders. Perhaps it was that Arbran,
pulling the pack pony, rode behind Littlebrook for the moment.
Arbran being silent, what could an experienced hand like
Littlebrook say?

Grayling went more willingly than
Slate; but Grayling had come through the trip across the sea well
enough and trusted Slate, despite the rumble of the river and the
tremble of the bridge.

"Mist means crowds," had said the herb
man, and well did he know the truth! For who but the senseless
would cross this ancient, trembling structure when one could see
the river beneath one's feet and watch entire flocks of birds
happily pass beneath as if there were nothing overhead?

Why, too, had none explained that as
the mist disappeared entire caravans might abandon their crossing,
or delay it until the night made seeing the river
impossible?

Slate watched the far end of the
bridge rather than looking from side to side. They faced a
steep-walled pass, curving out of sight into the mountain range
that blocked the setting sun already. The bridge led into a
surprising darkness, though portions of it were still in
light.

He'd told his men to ride single file,
call in case of trouble, but otherwise to look ahead only. Now
Slate followed his own advice. In part he wanted to avoid looking
down at the waterfall a few hundred paces away--that fell to the
river a few thousand paces below--and in part he wished to pay
attention to the soldiers and other officials on the far side. What
magic he might face he couldn't know. But troops and taxmen? Those,
at least, he could be alert for.

He would have preferred for the Rove
Troop not to have been noticed. Yet that was impossible with the
crown of hawks still circling above. Only those already on the
bridge when the troop arrived had not given way before them, though
DaChauxma rode with weapons sheathed and house-flag
furled.

In front of him was a cart pulled by a
pony between wooden drawbars, who from time to time was helped by
two women who pushed against crossbars on either side of the draw;
when they'd seen him behind them they'd nearly fled the bridge and
only some resolute word from one to the other had changed their
minds. Was it the bird? Was it himself, a foreign
soldier?

He sighed. It didn't matter--it could
just as well be the bridge and the roaring of the water and the
lowering night as his face or the crow. Slate, too, was
nervous.

Here they were as trapped as on ship,
or more so, for on board there had always been the vague chance of
surviving going over the side. Ahead was a threat more visible than
any he'd imagined on that ocean crossing, for he could see
stonework set back from the bridge, stonework that smacked of
hidden archers, and of troops in waiting. What a pass to guard,
with the bridge your ally! Crossing that height with but some board
between a man and his doom could be enough to unnerve an enemy
without having soldiers to deal with as well!

Now they moved slowly by the covered
section in the center of the bridge where, for a moment, Slate felt
a little more secure. The crow riding behind muttered something and
Grayling pranced a half-step, but both settled down immediately.
This was not a place for a nervous horse.

Slate involuntarily glanced over the
side rails into the river gorge, surprised and relieved at the
depth of the darkness there, but more surprised at how fast that
darkness was falling all about as they waited for their turn at the
bridge-gate.

There was smoke ahead now as torches
were lit; a runner was making his way around the permanent
emplacements on the hillside beyond and around the curve of the
hills, and another moved across the bridge, lighting flickering
fires in the great ceramic urns on the side of the bridge as the
shadow out of the gorge rose palpably.

Torch-light illuminated what looked to
be a stone corral beyond the bridge-end, large enough for eight or
ten good-sized horses. The place was cluttered with bundles, kegs,
oddments, several crates, and leather carrybags of many
kinds.

Only the pony-cart ahead of him was
still on the bridge now, in front of it the counter-weighted wooden
swing-arm that acted as gate for the travelers. The several wagons
on the other side of that gate were inspected rather casually, two
men on a side. The inspectors moved like tired men, thought Slate,
men all too likely to be bored or cross...and he'd seen them
administer no test, give no challenge.

From behind came a familiar sound,
distracting Slate. The sound was of a small pony or two pacing
steadily, their step punctuated by "hah!"

Slate turned involuntarily, perhaps
waking the crow, who blinked and rustled about a bit but said
nothing. Behind him his men had also turned, and saw a remarkable
sight in the dimming light.

Herbalist Farer was making hurried
headway across the bridge. Travelers were letting him by, as if his
"hah!" was an order. Then the bridge was too crowded, and the
herbman paused. He raised a hand as he saw Slate and mouthed the
words "too late!"

Slate smiled and sketched a salute
before facing front and relaxing back into the saddle--had the
herbman really expected to cross so quickly?

Ahead now was a commotion. The wagons
were being passed through and the cart ahead was moving up. At the
same time new guards and inspectors were arriving. There were
different uniforms now and Slate recognized a change of shift. Just
as well, he thought, to get a fresh crew and get through
quickly.

That idea went from his head almost
immediately though. The new inspectors began one at the front and
one at the back, as well as one in conversation with the cart
driver. They looked at each section of the cart as if they'd never
seen one before, using lanterns to cast light beneath the cart.
They knocked and listened carefully.

Nearby a small wooden dais was now
occupied as well, by an ornately dressed man on a wooden bench.
Slate flinched, for the dais had its own light, as if it were lit
from within. No need for smoky torches or any such to disturb the
man who sat there. Magic! And that man must be magic, too, for
Slate had not seen him arrive in the stand for all his
attention.

The man on the dais stood, as if
Slate's glance disturbed him. Slate did not look away. The man
spoke to a soldier standing guard; that solider looked swiftly at
Slate and his band, and hurried toward the inspection
area.

Slate felt his sword stir, as if it
was being...careful. He rested his elbow on the edge of the hilt,
and could feel the very tiniest of energies about it. Not immediate
danger, perhaps, but wariness.

The guard from the dais reached an
inspector at the horse's harness, and tapped him quickly on the
back. The inspector turned, outraged, but when he saw who it was
his outrage became mere surprise, and when he took in the wave
toward the bridge--clearly indicating Slate and his troop--he
snapped to alert and called out to his comrades.

"We are done with these. Let them
pass. The Bispham himself will lead the next
inspection!"

* * *

THE BISPHAM STOOD before Slate, his
armed guards and border troops about him like a cloak of power. It
seemed to Slate that the man needn't display his armed might so
readily, given the wondrous array of wands of power he had tucked
about his amazing, purple garb. He'd even wore on his head an
overcap of conical construction, like an imitation of wizard caps
of old, that glittered with gemstones in the torch
light.

The Bispham bowed--actually a very
slight nod.

"How very pleased I am to be here at
the border to welcome you, Rove Captain Slate. News of your coming
has preceded you, and we were quite expecting an army to appear on
our doorstep. And how pleasant that you should have delayed until
nightfall, which is my shift this moon!"

Slate bowed, considered his words,
wished yet again that a witch had not called his name...and wished,
too, that they'd been permitted to stay ahorse. He disliked the
whole of this: it smacked too much of theater for his
taste!

"I am but a Rove Captain with a small
troop, as you can see. If tales have sprung up claiming us more
than that I apologize. There was no need to bring your..." here he
hesitated, then smiled wryly. The dread had gone from him, despite
the insistent low vibration of the sword.

"You have the better of me sir, I have
not your name and..."

There was a modest laughter, quickly
hushed, among the soldiers.

"No one has my name, or may have it
for mere conversation," came the reply tartly. "I am the Bispham of
the Bridge, carrying on the tradition of proper judging of people
permitted to complete the Carrsbritch Crossing. You may call me
‘Sir Magician,' or if you prefer ‘Bridgemaster'. As you must know,
Lamonta is a peaceful, law-abiding place. We permit travelers to
visit, to pass through, and even to engage in commerce, as we find
that the prosperity of all depends on the such.

"We do, insist, however, that no one
may bring in to Lamonta items which do not properly belong to them,
and if they do bring such items, they must not be permitted to
carry them farther but must relinquish them to our care, that we
might return them to their proper owners or find those who might be
able to utilize them if the proper owners are not about. It is the
duty of The Bispham of the Bridge to keep such order here;
elsewhere there are others of my rank to keep order if need
be..."

Slate closed his eyes briefly,
nodding. This was why the costs of some goods fell as one closed on
the border. Not because they were common in Lamonta--but because
they would be contraband on this side of the bridge!

"And so, Rove Captain, we must inspect
your troop as we inspect all other travelers. You'll note that some
travelers have discovered on their own that they have somehow come
to carry things whose ownership is unclear --and they have
willingly divested themselves of all such here in the Stonekeep
where such goods are held until their rightful owners might be
ascertained. You and your men are welcome to take advantage of the
few moments left of sunglow to make your own inspection of the
goods you carry before we make ours."

At that point The Bispham pulled from
its hook one of the many wands he carried, and waved it about
meaningfully.

"Understand, Captain, that we are able
to identify items that are not traveling with proper ownership or
permissions. If need be, I am empowered to enforce penalties, as
well."

"Thank you, Bridgemaster. I will
confer with my troop to ensure that none carry aught but what they
should."

Slate turned to his men warily, eyes
searching the faces of two in particular. Littlebrook, whose grasp
of items was likely better than his grasp of ownership, and Arbran,
who'd fled his home that he not suffer the fate of far too many
younger sons in houses of influence. Arbran had even brought one of
his father's swords to their first meeting, claiming his right to
carry it....

"We are told," he said gently. "I
trust none of you have any doubt of what we are being offered. We
have the opportunity here to give over anything that we carry under
false pretense. I cannot speak to the penalty, except that we are
somewhat outnumbered and on strange ground to boot. So, please, do
not hesitate."

His men looked at him, and at each
other. None made move one.

"I take that as an answer I can
deliver to the magician, then?"

His men nodded, one by one, even
Littlebrook, even Arbran.

"So shall we say," he said carefully.
Slate nodded to each of them, felt that slight tingle of danger in
the sword, and turned to face The Bispham.

"I am told that none carry good they
should not, Bridgemaster."