The Sword & Sorcery Anthology (40 page)

“Wild honey,” Toma said. “The hill people gather it and trade it to
us for workable iron.”

“I see.” Tain regarded the Kleckla home for the second time that
morning. He wasn’t impressed. It was a sod structure with an interior
just four paces by six. Its construction matched the barn’s. Tain had
gotten better workmanship out of legion probationers during their
first field exercises.

A second, permanent home was under construction nearby. A
more ambitious project, every timber proclaimed it a dream house.
Last night, after supper, Toma had grown starry-eyed and loquacious
while discussing it. It was symbolic of the Grail he had pursued into
the Zemstvi.

Its construction was as unskilled as that of the barn.

Rula’s eyes had tightened with silent pain while her husband
penetrated ever more deeply the shifting paths of his dreams.

Toma had been an accountant for the Perchev syndicate in Iwa
Skolovda, a tormented, dreamless man using numbers to describe the
movements of furs, wool, wheat, and metal billets. His days had been
long and tedious. During summer, when the barges and caravans
moved, he had been permitted no holidays.

That had been before he had been stricken by the cunning infection,
the wild hope, the pale dream of the Zemstvi, here expressed rudely,
yet in a way that said that a man had tried.

Rula’s face said that the old life had been emotional hell, but their
apartment had remained warm and the roof hadn’t leaked. Life had
been predictable and secure.

There were philosophies at war in the Kleckla home, though hers
lay mute before the other’s traditional right. Accusing in silence.

Toma was Rula’s husband. She had had to come to the Zemstvi as
the bondservant of his dreams. Or nightmares.

The magic of numbers had shattered the locks on the doors of
Toma’s soul. It had let the dream light come creeping in.
Freedom,
the
intellectual chimera pursued by more of his neighbors, meant nothing
to Kleckla. His neighbors had chosen the hazards of colonizing Shara
because of the certainties of Crown protection.

Toma, though, burned with the absolute conviction of a balanced
equation. Numbers proved it impossible for a sheep-herding, wool-
producing community not to prosper in those benign hills.

What Tain saw, and that Toma couldn’t recognize, was that
numbers wore no faces. Or were too simplistic. They couldn’t account
the human factors.

The failure had begun with Toma. He had ignored his own
ignorance of the skills needed to survive on a frontier. Shara was no-
man’s-land. Iwa Skolovda had claimed it for centuries, but never had
imposed its suzerainty.

Shara abounded with perils unknown to a city-born clerk.

The Tomas, sadly, often ended up as sacrifices to the Zemstvi.

The egg of disaster shared the nest of his dream, and who could
say which had been insinuated by the cowbird of Fate?

There were no numbers by which to calculate ignorance, raiders,
wolves, or heart-changes aborting vows politicians had sworn in
perpetuity. The ciphers for disease and foul weather hadn’t yet been
enumerated.

Toma’s ignorance of essential craft blazed out all over his
homestead. And the handful of immigrants who had teamed their
dreams with his, and had helped, had had no more knowledge or skill.
They, too, had been hungry scriveners and number-mongers, swayed
by a wild-eyed false prophet innocent of the realities of opening a new
land. All but black sheep Mikla, who had come east to keep Toma
from being devoured by his own fuzzy-headedness.

Rula-thinking had prevailed amongst most of Toma’s disciples.
They had admitted defeat and ventured west again, along paths
littered with the parched bones of fleeting hope.

Toma was stubborn. Toma persisted. Toma’s bones would lie beside
those of his dreams.

All this Tain knew when he said, “If you won’t let me pay, then at
least let me help with the new house.”

Toma regarded him with eyes of iron.

“I learned construction in the army.”

Toma’s eyes tightened. He was a proud man.

Tain had dealt with stiff-necked superiors for ages. He pursued his
offer without showing a hint of criticism. And soon Toma relaxed,
responded. “Take a look after breakfast,” he suggested. “See what you
think. I’ve been having trouble since Mikla left.”

“I’d wondered about that,” Tain admitted. “Steban gave the
impression that your brother was living here. I didn’t want to pry.”

“He walked out.” Toma stamped toward the house angrily. He
calmed himself before they entered. “My fault, I guess. It was a petty
argument. The sheep business hasn’t been as good as we expected.
He wanted to pick up a little extra trading knives and arrowheads
to the tribes. They pay in furs. But the Baron banned that when he
came here.”

Tain didn’t respond. Toma shrugged irritably, started back outside.
He stopped suddenly, turned. “He’s Rula’s brother.” Softly, “And
that wasn’t true. I made him leave because I caught him with some
arrowheads. I was afraid.” He turned again.

“Toma. Wait.” Tain spoke softly. “I won’t mention it.”

Relief flashed across Kleckla’s face.

“And you should know. The man with the horns. The...
Caydarman? He spent part of the night watching the house from the
grove.”

Toma didn’t respond. He seemed distraught. He remained silent
throughout breakfast. The visual cues indicated a state of extreme
anxiety. He regained his good humor only after he and Tain had
worked on the new house for hours, and then his chatter was
inconsequential. He wouldn’t open up.

Tain asked no questions.

Neither Toma nor Rula mentioned his departure. Toma soured
with each building suggestion, then brightened once it had been
implemented. Day’s end found less of the structure standing, yet the
improvement in what remained had Toma bubbling.

VI

Tain accidentally jostled Rula at the hearth. “Excuse me.” Then,
“Can I help? Cooking is my hobby.”

The woman regarded him oddly. She saw a big man, muscled and
corded, who moved like a tiger, who gave an impression of massive
strength kept under constant constraint. His skin was tracked by a
hundred scars. There wasn’t an ounce of softness in or on him. Yet
his fingers were deft, his touch delicate as he took her knife and pan.
“You don’t mind?”

“Mind? You’re joking. Two years I haven’t had a minute’s rest, and
you want to know if I mind?”

“Ah. There’s a secret to that, having too much work and not
enough time. It’s in the organization, and in putting yourself into the
right state of mind before you start. Most people scatter themselves.
They try everything at once.”

“I’ll be damned.” Toma, who had been carrying water to the sheep
pens, paused to watch over Tain’s shoulder.

Turning the browned mutton, Tain said, “I love to cook. This
is a chance for me to show off.” He tapped a ghost of spice from
an envelope. “Rula, if we brown the vegetables instead of stewing
them....”

“I’ll be damned,” Toma said again. He settled to the floor to watch.
He pulled a jar of beer to his side.

“One should strive to achieve the widest possible competence,”
Tain remarked. “One may never
need
a skill, but, again, one can’t
know the future. Tomorrow holds ambushes for the mightiest
necromancers. A new skill is another hedge against Fate’s whimsy.
What happens when a soldier loses a limb here?”

“They become beggars,” Rula replied. “Toma, remember how it
was right after the war? You couldn’t walk a block....”

“My point made for me. I could become a cook. Or an interpreter.
Or a smith, or an armorer, according to my handicap. In that way I was
well-served. Where’s Steban? I asked him to pick some mushrooms.
They’ll add the final touch. But don’t expect miracles. I’ve never tried
this with mutton.... Rula? What is it?”

Toma had bounced up and run outside. She was following him.

“It’s Steban. He’s worried about Steban.”

“Can you tell me?”

“The Caydarmen....” She went blank, losing the animation she
had begun showing.

“Who are they?”

“Baron Caydar’s men.” She would say no more. She just leaned
against the door frame and stared into the dusk.

Toma returned a moment later. “It’s all right. He’s coming. Must
have spent the day with the Kosku boy. I see his flock too.”

“Toma....” Fear tinged Rula’s voice.

“The boy can choose his friends, woman. I’m not so weak that I’ll
make my children avoid their friends because of my fears.”

Tain stirred vegetables and listened, trying to fathom the situation.
Toma
was
scared. The timbre of fear inundated his voice.

He and Rula dropped the subject as if pursuing it might bring some
dread upon them.

Steban had collected the right mushrooms. That had worried Tain.
He never quite trusted anyone who wasn’t legion-trained. “Good,
Steban. I think we’ll all like this.”

“You’re cooking?”

“I won’t poison you. The fish was good, wasn’t it?”

Steban seemed unsure. He turned to his father. “Wes said they
were fined five sheep, five goats, and ten geese. He said his dad said
he’s not going to pay.”

Dread and worry overcame his parents’ faces.

“Toma, there’ll be trouble.” Rula’s hands fluttered like nervous
doves.

“They can’t afford that,” Toma replied. “They wouldn’t make it
through winter.”

“Go talk to him. Ask the neighbors to chip in.”

“It’s got to end, Rula.” He turned to Tain. “The Crown sent Baron
Caydar to protect us from the tribes. We had less trouble when we
weren’t protected.”

“Toma!”

“The tribes don’t bother anyone, Rula. They never did. Hywel goes
out of his way to avoid trouble. Just because those royal busybodies
got themselves massacred.... They asked for it, trying to make Hywel
and Stojan bend the knee.”

“Toma, they’ll fine us too.”

“They have to hear me first.”

“They know everything. People tell on each other. You know....”

“Because they’re scared. Rula, if the bandits keep pushing, we
won’t care if we’re afraid.”

Tain delivered the meal to table. He asked, “Who are the
Caydarmen? The one I saw was no Iwa Skolovdan.”

“Mercenaries.” Toma spat. “Crown wouldn’t let Caydar bring
regulars. He recruited Trolledyngjans who escaped when the Pretender
overthrew the Old House up there. They’re a gang of bandits.”

“I see.” The problem was taking shape. Baron Caydar would be,
no doubt, a political exile thrust into an impossible position by his
enemies. His assignment here would be calculated to destroy him.
And what matter that a few inconsequential colonists suffered?

Tain’s motherland was called Dread Empire by its foes. With cause.
The Tervola did as they pleased, where and when they pleased, by
virtue of sorcery and legions unacquainted with defeat. Shinsan did
have its politics and politicians. But never did they treat civilians
with contempt.

Tain had studied the strange ways of the west, but he would need
time to really grasp their actuality.

After supper he helped Toma haul more water. Toma remarked,
“That’s the finest eating I’ve had in years.”

“Thank you. I enjoyed preparing it.”

“What I wanted to say. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t anymore.”

Tain considered. Toma sounded as though he expected to share
his company for a while.