"Written? He can read and write?"
"Oh, yes; we're not dealing with a fool here. Papa saw to it that Wotheng knew how to manage and protect the land, had a good eye for petty politics and healthy sheep. Mama, who was something of a cultured lady, saw to it that Master Wotheng learned as much reading, writing, and civilized knowledge as the house library provided."
"House library? How good is it?"
"How should a blacksmith know that? He's never seen it."
"Hmm, if only we can get a look at it . . . But go on, Doshi. Is this the sort of fellow we can impress with our 'wizard' act?"
"I don't think so. His mother gave him enough sophistication to take all notion of magic and religion with a healthy grain of salt. He got a good, basic levelheadedness from both parents. He pays his respects to the gods, their priests, and any magician of proven ability, but he's not the sort to be pulled about by a bit of showmanship and some simple tricks. We'll have to be careful with him, Sulun."
"Understood. What other relatives must we worry about?"
"The sisters were married off to his father's old soldiers, and all have sizable farms of their own—far enough away to have no border arguments with Wotheng—and they're barely seen here except for weddings, funerals, harvest festivals, and the like. They won't be a problem, I think."
"What about the Mistress of the household?"
"Ah, she's quite a match for him; daughter of the second -richest farm-holder in the valley, quite as well educated as Wotheng's mother—who may have arranged the marriage. In any case, Wotheng's parents managed to live long and die peacefully. He has a clutch of children, all grown and married now, likewise scattered of to various farmsteads."
"That's all, then? No wily courtiers milking power behind the throne?"
"No, just house servants, tenants, and a few men-at-arms who double as shepherds and huntsmen. This is . . . very much the country villa it always was."
"Ah. And the mines?"
"What mines?" Doshi innocently dried his face on his undersleeves, noting that Ashkell lacked knowledge of such niceties as towels.
"Dosheee! The sulfur mines!" Sulun tugged furiously at his dangling curls and new beard. "Or black glass mines, as they're probably called now. Don't tell me you forgot!"
"Oh, no." Doshi grinned. "It's just that the blacksmith never heard of them."
"Oh, gods, just ten leagues away by the map, and he's never—"
"It seems that the mines originally belonged to quite another family, no connection at all with the villa. The old invasion did for them, quite thoroughly; oh, no, not wrecked, just abandoned and almost totally forgotten."
"How in the name of all gods can everyone forget about a sulfur mine?"
"By not needing, knowing, or caring about it. Sulun, remember that both the villa folk and the Ancar cared mostly about farming and sheep. The former villa holders cared nothing for the mines, and Wotheng's father knew nothing of them. A good iron, gold, copper, or silver mine would have held everyone's interest, but sulfur? And black glass? Even in their heyday, the mines always made their profit on the trade with the south. When the invasion stopped that, well, no trade means no profit, and no profit meant that the mines were abandoned."
"I see. But they're still there? I mean, the entrances and shafts and all?"
"I heard nothing about anyone filling in any old mine entrances. Why should these shepherds and farmers bother, pray tell?"
"Ah, very good, then." Sulun rubbed his cheeks briskly and considered the best lines of approach. "Gods, was it so few moons ago that we played this game with Entori?"
"We've all learned much since then."
"Indeed. Let's go in."
"Sweet cow, the floor's swept clean enough," Wotheng protested, easing back in the big chair.
"Should have been scrubbed. It still stinks in here. Ah, give me that, Noba; some fresh herbs in this pot, and put it on the fire to boil. There . . ." Gynallea rubbed her hands on her apron and raked her glance around the hall. It could have been better, but it looked well enough in the light through the narrow windows: floor swept, hanging banners reasonably clean, a small table (with a clean cover-cloth, thank the gods) and some comfortable chairs near the fire, a pretty jug of good beer waiting, and the sweet-smelling tea heating in the fireplace. Yes, good enough. She tugged thoughtfully at the kerchief covering her hair. Leave it on or take it off? Look more the housewife or the grand lady? Appear simple and kindly, or imposing? "Hmm, these newcomers went first to Biddon and dazzled his eyes with their skill. That smells of serious craftsfolk, concerned with trade. Best we appear as simple farmer folk, lovey. Lull them, see if they try to take advantage. We can always show our wit and authority later." She patted straying hair back under the kerchief.
"Hmm, just as you say, moo-cow. Hey, Yawth, are they come yet?"
"Just now, Master." The servant bobbed his head eagerly. "They be waitin' at the door."
"Send them in." Wotheng heaved a mountainous sigh. He hated politicking before lunch, but a chance such as this didn't come along every day. Besides, the herb tea had dispelled his headache, and he felt fit enough to take on half the earth at full charge.
The door creaked open and the little company of Deese priests, four of them, came padding down the length of the hall. They looked a bit intimidated by the size of the place, and yes, they'd dressed in good robes and washed well. Aha, they wanted something from him. Wotheng smiled benignly as Yawth made the stuttering introductions. Vona, what strange, foreign-sounding names they had!
"Welcome to the villa of Ashkell," Gynallea purred. "Come sit, and join us in a cup of beer."
The little quartet obediently sat and took cups. Gynallea poured.
"'Tis humble stuff," Wotheng opened, "made of our poor local barley, but 'tis kindly to the tongue." If not to the head, next morning. "Have you come far, then?"
"Far, yes. From Itoma, south," said the biggest, in a bizarre southern accent. "This beer is very good." He drained his cup and reached for the jug in honest appreciation.
Wotheng smiled again. "And what brings a company of pilgrims to these poor lands? We've little here to draw worship or custom." See if that discourages them.
"'Tis a long story, Master," said the slender youth with a Jarryan twang to his words. "As you know, we Sukkti held the southern lands before the coming of the Sabirns. As they marched north, we lost all save Itoma—where our mightiest wizards held fast. . . ."
Wotheng nodded as he listened. He'd long known, from his mother's histories, that the Elder Folk were only the first settlers of the south, not creatures of another order. They'd had a reputation for great magic, but had lost their land anyway—except for the Lost City of Itoma. "I'd always thought that city was a fable, stuff of dreams and fireside tales," he prodded.
"Oh no, sir," the lad enthused. "It stands on a stream of the great river, made of fine grey fieldstone and pale sandstone; in good sunlight, it gleams like silver and gold. The roofs are mostly flat, and held up with many columns. . . ."
Wotheng noted, as the youth went on, the numerous details that only a builder, mechanic, or architect would notice. Clearly, these folk had seen a city of unusual buildings somewhere to the south. Just as clearly, they were well-trained craftsmen—and not just in smithing. Wotheng caught his wife's eye, saw her appreciative nod and smile. "Then how come you to leave so fair a place?" he prodded gently.
"Why, sir, we wished to see those ancient shrines that were so long barred to us by Sabis. Now that their crown has fallen, we dared venture out from Itoma's safety to see what had become of the land and people."