"Er, no, certainly not."
"Perhaps I'll come bearing good news. You may go."
"That was all she said," Sulun reported later, in the fitful light of the cubicle's one small lamp. "I can't fathom her intentions, except that she wants us to continue."
"Perhaps she's taken a liking to Zeren," Yanados yawned, shoving a drowsing Arizun off her shoulder.
"Our Zeren?" Sulun laughed. "It's not like you to see romance everywhere. What, are you feeling the pull of mating season already?"
"Hardly. But can you think of a better reason?"
"I could imagine dozens, and have no evidence for any of them."
"What was that she said about Jarrya?" Doshi put in, looking up from his precious maps.
"Eh? Why, nothing—except that this Prince Eylas spoke of it." Sulun shook his head. Yanados getting romantic, Doshi getting homesick, Arizun turning mystical, and Ziya fascinated by fire—they were not doing well in Entori House.
"Well then, what is this prince supposed to have said?" Doshi insisted.
"Uhm, something about the fine cattle raised there and in Torrhyn, I think. Nothing of any import or detail. I'm sorry, Doshi. Now, why that odd look?"
"Cattle?" Doshi's frown deepened. "That isn't cattle country, and never has been. The winters are too harsh to keep cattle out-of-doors, and the buildings are all made of stone. . . ."
"I think we've all been awake too long," Sulun hinted, rubbing his back.
"They have to be stone to withstand the winter storms. One can't build very large barns there, not enough to house large herds of cattle. A few milk cows, perhaps, but they're poor beasts by southern standards. Folk there mostly raise sheep."
"Time to sleep, Doshi. We all need our rest."
Yanados took the hint and stood up, dragging Arizun with her. Doshi reluctantly gathered up his maps, but kept worrying at his thought as he shuffled toward the door.
"I don't think this visiting prince ever saw Jarrya. I think he's merrily lying his way through the court. You'd best tell Zeren that when you see him again."
"I will, Doshi. I promise. Now off to bed."
"I think there's no rebellion in the north at all, and we're just as badly off as before, except worse because now the court won't pay as much attention to the northern defenses, and—"
"Good night, Doshi."
"We'd best continue our plans to leave," Doshi finished as Sulun closed the door on his heels.
Arizun, perched near a window as lookout for possible mobs, was the only one to hear the soft tap at the door. He quietly slipped the bar and locks to let Eloti in. She drifted silently as a leaf through the passageway, although the noise from the workyard would have covered ordinary footsteps. Once again, Arizun wondered how the lady managed to travel so easily and unnoticed through the dangerous streets, apparently alone, dressed well enough to attract the attention of a thousand desperate thieves. As always, he thought it best not to ask her.
Zeren was already there with the others, stripped of his armor, helping to pour sand and water into the standing mold. He glanced up as the other two came in, and for a moment his eyes met Eloti's. He blinked, nodded politely, quickly, and turned his attention back to what he was doing.
"Enough water!" Omis snapped. "We don't want to wash the sand out again. There, there . . ." He inspected the wet, packed sand in the thick wooden box, poked it here and there with his fingers, grunted satisfaction, and turned to study the mold itself.
Nearly buried in wet sand, the mold didn't look very prepossessing: a heavy wooden tube, no bigger than Omis's leg, sliced lengthwise. Wet sand surrounded and filled it to the top. Omis picked up a short log, fit it neatly inside the tube until it touched the sand, and leaned on it. The sand compressed a bit, and the log stayed in place by itself. Omis nodded thoughtfully, picked up several squared short logs, and poked them endwise into the box, on top of the sand.
"Everyone pound together," he announced, picking up a large maul for himself. "Remember to beat them all equally."
Everyone else sighed, picked up assorted hammers, and converged on the box.
"May I ask the purpose of this exercise?" Eloti asked, dropping gracefully onto a bench.
"We have to pound the sand tight," Arizun explained, taking a light mallet for himself. "We pour it, wet it, pack it, then pray it stays in place when we pull out the mold."
"Fascinating."
"Damned hard work."
"All together," Omis warned, raising his maul. "Now." He struck a good solid blow on the round log. The others followed suit, almost in unison, on the logs surrounding the mold. "And now. And now;."
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The hammering fell into a smooth rhythm. Water began oozing from the bottom of the box. Inch by inch, the logs drove deeper as the sand compressed. Watching them, Eloti tapped first her foot and then her fingers in rhythm.
Eventually Omis called a halt, pulled out the logs, and inspected the sand. "Hmm, it should do," he decided. "Pour in more sand."
Everyone put down their hammers, picked up bags and buckets, and carefully poured. When the sand level reached the top of the mold, Omis called for the water. The wetted sand sank hardly at all. Omis poked again, studied the sand for a moment, then took up the logs and hammers once more.
It was, Sulun decided, nearly as hypnotic as the droning prayers in the temples on a great holy day. Pound, pound, pound all together, half a dozen arms swinging as one, and the sodden thudding rhythmic as a temple bell. Pound, pound, pound. If concentration, devotion, and perfection made the best defense against magic, not even the greatest wizard in Sabis could touch them this day. Pound, pound, pound. Now if only his well-worked muscles didn't tire and cramp and pain him enough to break his concentration . . . Pound, pound, pound.
The voice sneaked up on him, interweaving so smoothly with the hammer-rhythm that he didn't notice it as anything separate from himself, not until one corner of his mind noted that he'd never heard the words of the song before.
"Low lie the stars over Toslagen's memory,
High hang the flowers from the trees of her tomb."
And was it strange or not that everyone else swayed and swung with the quiet song? Everyone hammering smoothly, rapt as corybantic dancers: pound, pound, pound . . .
"'Care,' sing the birds in the boughs of the cypresses, 'Care, love and care, win you free of your doom.'" Just those few lines, over and over, keeping the rhythm, drawing the arms, the mallets, to swing and pound, pound, pound endlessly, hold the mind tight on the simple action, no stray thought, no deviation, steady as a perfect engine . . . "Halt!" Omis yelled, shaking his head. "We're down." Everyone dropped their assorted hammers, rubbed their arms, and shook their heads as if coming out of a dream. Indeed, Sulun noticed, the level of the sand was down—and packed as tight as fine clay.
Magic! Sulun turned to look at the one person who could have provided that song, the only one not hammering.
Eloti sat waving her fan gently, that faint smile lingering on her face.
"Goodlady." Sulun bowed to her. "I had no idea you could sing so well."