Storm Rising (19 page)

There were things he didn’t need but was not inclined to put into the hands of former enemies—siege engine components and weapons, for instance. But why on earth had the Imperial supply depot been holding six trunks of costumes for veil-dancers? Or all the scenery, props, and costumes needed for a production of
The Nine-Days King?
Or an entire field mews for thirty hunting birds, complete with imping flat-drawered cabinets?

Though I do know why it had that “special tent and accoutrements for the Commander’s recreation.” Duke Clerance can’t even field an army without his mistress, and she can’t do without anything she’s become accustomed to
. That should certainly bring a pretty piece of coin. Best he didn’t let on that it was meant for a courtesan, however. Let the ladies of the town that still had money argue over who obtained what.

There were oddments; insect veiling for swamp
campaigns, white salve and suncoats for desert fighting, camp furniture for officers—a few of this, a dozen of that. Once he had his list, he gave it to his clerks to copy out in Hardornen and send to Sandar, then went about writing up the orders calling for volunteers for harvest work.

Those required very special care in phrasing.
No man receiving special pay for special skills will be accepted for harvest work
. As he’d told Sandar, he did not intend to lose a single skilled builder to pulling roots. He made it quite clear in his orders that he would not tolerate any “interference with or molestation or harassment of the women, married or unmarried, of the farms.” He reiterated that Imperial Army rules regarding civilian women would hold and that there would be officers there to enforce them. He did this very deliberately; without coming out and saying so, he was telling the men that there would be attractive—or, at least, fresh-faced—young farm women working alongside them. They would know that there would be severe punishment for taking liberties with the civilians, but if a young woman and a young man decided to meet some time
after
the soldier was off-duty, and the soldier had proper leave to go off-grounds and conducted himself with respect for the lady’s wishes….

Farm labor might be hard work, but it was easier than building walls, and for those soldiers conscripted from farming families, it would be much more pleasant. And certainly the surroundings—especially surroundings including unattached young women—would be much more congenial.

I might get more volunteers than I can spare. I’d better make arrangements in advance for a rotation of duties so I avoid the appearance of favoritism.

As he sent off the orders and call for volunteers to be copied and posted, something else occurred to him. Romances, serious ones, were bound to come out of this. And, inevitably, marriages.

Oh, gods. I’d better find some local priests. I have to find out what the local marriage customs and laws are.
I’ll have to have the men briefed. Gods, and courting customs; I don’t want to have cases where one party thinks it’s a light flirtation and the other thinks it’s a betrothal! Maybe I had better think about partitioning one of the barracks into cubicles for married quarters. Can we afford that? Or should I just tell married couples to make their own arrangements in town? But if I do that, how do I enforce discipline?
This sort of thing had never occurred to him before; wives and sweethearts were always left behind when the Army marched off. When the men had been confined to the light women of the taverns, he hadn’t had to worry about all that. A lady of negotiable virtue knew what the rules were, and so did her customer. But properly brought up girls of the town and the farms—that was something else altogether—

His hands and thoughts both stilled, as he realized what he was planning.

This is not an encampment anymore. It’s a permanent post. I am
planning for a long future here
.

That was what had been nagging at the back of his mind despite his efforts to deny it. He
could
have chosen a flimsier structure for the barracks plans, something that would last a few years. Instinctively, he had picked the strongest, most durable structure his designers had offered.

This was no longer an armed camp, it was an armed holding. He was allocating the men to serve both camp and town. He was planning for the mingling of both. He was planning for a future that included married soldiers, children, families.

Less and less of what he had learned as a military leader would apply, and more and more of what he had learned as the manager of his own estate.

If
they all survived the mage-storms and the winter.

He pulled his mind and his planning back to the present.
One thing at a time. First, the walls, the barracks, and the harvest. Then worry about what comes next
.

*   *   *

Sandar was evidently overjoyed at the list of barter goods; late in the afternoon his messengers returned from town with answers from the Mayor and Master Kerst. The note from Sandar was good news, but the one from the Master Guildsman was even better. Master Kerst had two stonemasons and their journeymen and apprentices, four brickmasons and theirs, and a Master Builder and his. There were also assorted plasterers, woodworkers, a furniture builder or two, and others that Master Kerst felt might be useful….

Might
be useful? Tremane very nearly did a dance around his desk, which would have either scandalized or terrified his aides, depending on whether they thought he was drunk or mad. He’d resigned himself to rough-finished walls in the barracks and the crudest of appointments; the men would certainly have seen worse in their time. Having skilled craftsmen available meant there would be
real
walls, a floor of something besides pounded earth, real bunks and mess tables for the men. And the answer from Sandar meant he was going to have all this without touching the stores of coin he’d taken from the Imperial coffers!

I wonder if you’d thought about bathhouses or a substitute for latrines?
Kerst’s note continued.
We have men who not only can advise you on both, but who have an idea or two you might want to consider.

Bathhouses
and
latrines? He scribbled off a note in semiliterate Hardornen to Kerst directly.

Instead of the quiet dinner he usually had, he sat down that night with a tableful of men whose conversational topic was not usually considered appropriate over food.

By now, in order to deal with the locals efficiently, both his staff of chirurgeons and his builders had learned Hardornen, so the conversation was held in the local tongue. That was just as well. It was somehow easier to eat and listen to a conversation about latrines at the same time, if it was held in another language.

“—mix with wood ash and ground cob or chopped leaves, then you spread what you get out on drying racks,” said one of the locals earnestly. “Depending on
the weather, in a day or so you get something dry enough to bag, and that’s what we’ve been selling to the farmers to put on their fields.”

“You just need sewers and the treatment site, don’t need sewage tanks, see?” finished his coworker. “Let the sand, gravel, and the rest of it purify the liquid, let it percolate through all the purifying layers, and you don’t run the risk of poisoning our stream or our wells.”

His own men nodded wisely. “We’ve been doing something like this in the cities and on the large estates, but you need magic,” one of them said. “I’ve heard some people had a less sophisticated system on their estates because they didn’t have a house mage. This will work.”

“Well, it gets better,” the first man said, grinning. “Bet you didn’t know if you use the same system on cow dung, minus the wood ash and adding dried wood chips or sawdust, or ground woody plant waste, like heavy stalks, you can burn it.”

“You have to compress it, make it into bricks, but it burns,” the second confirmed. “Now, normally they’d take that cow dung and put it on their fields, but if you offered to trade them weight for weight for
your
dried sludge, they’ll take it, and you’ll have fuel you didn’t have before. See, our stuff don’t smell; it’s dry and easier to handle than what comes off of a muck pile. They’d rather have ours. And we get fuel.”

That got Tremane’s interest. “Not for indoor fireplaces, surely—” he objected.

The two Hardornen sewage experts shook their heads. “No, and not for cooking—unless you like your soup to have that particular flavor.”

“But we don’t need open fireplaces to heat the bar racks!” one of his own men suddenly exclaimed. “In fact—Commander, that would be a wasteful use of burnables. I just thought of an old design used in some of the houses up north—look—”

Tremane had already supplied the table with old documents taken from the depot and plenty of pens; his man seized one of each and began sketching on the
back of an old pay roster while the rest leaned over each others’ shoulders, peering down with interest.

“Look, you have your—your
furnace
here, below the level of the floor, and fed from outside, with a tiny little iron door. Above it, you have a huge mass of brick riddled with tiny chimneys. This works like a kiln, you heat the brick, the brick heats the barracks.” He sucked on the end of the pen for a moment. “Put the door to the barracks
here
, on the far end of the wall, fill up the rest of the end wall with the brick arrangement, and there you are. Two sides sheltered by the earth, two with brick furnaces. Or only one furnace, if you want a barracks kitchen with ovens and a cooking fireplace at the other end.”

Tremane looked the drawing over; it looked and sounded feasible. Put the sleeping quarters near the furnace, the common rooms in the middle, the kitchen at the other end. “It’ll still have to have some arrangement like a smoke hole,” he pointed out, “or all the smoke from lanterns and candles will just build up in there.”

“Yes, but you’ll be using more of the heat from the furnace,” his man pointed out. “And you can burn dung without smelling up the inside.”

“I don’t see anything to object to,” the Chief Chirurgeon said judiciously. “Other than the fact that it will be darker than the eighth hell in there without windows, and I’m bound to warn you that will have an effect on the men’s morale and health.”

“Better dark than freezing,” one of the others muttered, which only confirmed Tremane’s own thought.

“Health you can deal with in their diet; sprouted beans and the rest of that stuff you chirurgeons are so fond of,” he replied. “And as for morale—since they’ll be on duty outside most of the daylight hours, I don’t see a problem—but wait a moment, though,” he added, as something odd occurred to him.

The chirurgeons hadn’t listed a single complaint or difficulty since they made a permanent camp here. “
You
people aren’t having any problems with the
mage-storms affecting you. Isn’t that laying-on-of-hands healing that you do a kind of magic?”

One of the lesser Healers choked behind his hands; the Chief Chirurgeon, a tall, thin, balding fellow with an attitude of aristocratic arrogance, favored him with a frosty smile. “Firstly, although the uninformed think of healing as a kind of magic, it is
not
the sort of magic that you mages are accustomed to using,” he replied, in a lofty, superior tone of voice that made Tremane grit his teeth in response. “Mind you, I am a surgeon; my skills are in the excising of diseased flesh with the knife, in the stitching of damaged tissue with needle and gut-thread. However, I have made certain that I am educated even in those healing arts that I am not equipped to perform.”

As you should have been
, his tone seemed to imply. Tremane simply schooled his features into mild interest and nodded. He had learned long ago to keep his temper under more trying circumstances than this. Strangling the man would accomplish nothing.

Except to make me very happy
….

“So just how does this differ from the magic that I, as a mage, am familiar with?” he asked with exact politeness.

“In the first place, it is performed entirely with the mind,” the Chief Chirurgeon lectured. “The only difference between a self-taught or untaught Healer and one who has gone through training is in the recognition of how to heal things besides obvious broken bones or wounds. The Healer’s mind convinces the patient’s body to restore itself to the perfect state it had before the injury or illness. That is why they cannot correct those who are born with deformities.” He smiled smugly. “That is something only those with my skill can do.”

“All right, but I still don’t understand why you aren’t encountering interference from the magestorms,” he persisted.

“
Because
the Healers don’t work during a storm, when the disruptions in energy are the only things that could interfere with their talent,” the Chief Chirurgeon
replied, as if to an idiot. “Accelerated healing only takes place when the Healer is actively working. The rest of the time, the patient is simply doing what he would under ideal circumstances. Under ideal conditions, our bodies would always repair themselves and throw off disease; the Healer simply reminds the body of what it should be doing.”

“Oh.” He had some vague notion that, basically, the reason the Healers were unaffected was that they were essentially working very small, limited magics of extremely limited duration and at very close range, but he doubted that the Chief Chirurgeon would agree with his particular definition.

Evidently his subordinate didn’t even care for his expression. “Healing just is
not
magic as you understand it,” the man persisted. “There’s an old term for healing and a number of other abilities all lumped together: mind-magic. No one these days ever bothers with most of the other abilities, except a few practitioners of some of the odder religions.”

Mind-magic? Where have I heard that term used before? There’s something very familiar about that term.
“What
are
those other things that were lumped in with healing?” he asked, out of a feeling that the answer might be important.