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  As Tycho re-confirmed that he'd locked his wagon's wheels, a messenger cleared her throat. "Yes?"

  "His imperial Majesty requests the honor of your presence at the evening meal," she told him, handing him a blue-tinted piece of metal.

  "Thank you, and I will be there shortly." Tycho bowed a little as he took the metal, as he'd seen the northmen do. The courier touched her forehead with two fingers and hurried away on her errands. That would take much to get used to, Tycho thought for the tenth time at least. Women who were not just washer-women and bed warmers, traveling with such a large group of men... Did they have a woman who acted as sister-lady for the court? Perhaps that was where the merchants had learned the practice, since no other guild appeared to follow the tradition.

  The tradition of the metal pieces had never reached the south, however. Fortunately, Count Mangus had warned Tycho of the practice. "Those invited to eat with His Imperial Majesty are given an enameled metal token," the ambassador explained. "Only a certain number are invited, and a messenger hands the guest a token. The guest returns the token to the cellarer when he reaches the imperial dining tent. They cannot be duplicated while traveling, and so uninvited people are not able to trick their way into His Majesty's presence." The practice sounded a bit odd but then Tycho had never dined at a noble's court, so perhaps unwanted visitors posed more of a problem. He could certainly understand not wanting to be bothered by deliveries or people claiming to be foreign merchants when he dined with his family or at the confraternity meetings.

  Every ten wagons shared a fire and water stand, and a waste pit. The second day on the road, Tycho had stared as some of the men had shoveled the remains of the fires into the waste pit, then put soil back into them. "It keeps the ordure from ruining the water, or fouling the land," one of the northmen had explained. "Do you not do the same?"

  "We dig holes, yes, but each man for himself, well away from camp and away from any running water. Unless a farmer has asked that we use a set place, so that he can collect the night soil."

  That had generated puzzlement. "But what do you do when the ground is frozen?"

  "The ground never freezes." At least, not in most years, and certainly no man with any sense travelled so far in the deep cold of winter that he had to sleep out.

  "Truly, this is an unusual land," the northman had said after much thought, and had gone on to the next fire and pit.

  Tycho did like having warm water to wash his hands and face. A thousand people would foul the streams and springs no matter how much they spread out and tried to be careful, and there were always some who were not careful. In a caravan, those men learned quickly to exercise proper respect for the water. Among a thousand, though... He rolled his sleeves up to the elbow and poured water into a small basin, then rinsed his hands, even cleaning under his nails since he was dining, not just eating camp food. He also rinsed his face and raked his hair into order. He'd begun growing his road beard, so the lack of time for shaving posed no difficulties. Once he finished, he scattered the water from the basin around the grass, replaced the shallow metal pan on the stand, and made his way to the imperial dining tent.

  He had no difficulty locating it. The Great Northern Emperor's tents, wagon-sleigh, and beast corral sat at the center of camp, with the others around him in a series of rings or blocks, as space and land required. Tycho suspected that if attacked, the rings compressed to form a wagon-fort, just as the caravans did every night. Open lanes between the wagons and fires permitted free movement for men and some of the smaller ovstrala. Other men and women also walked toward the imperial tents, and Tycho recognized a few, at least by sight. He'd avoided the court while it stayed in Rhonari, as any wise man would. Great nobles were like the gods—men fared best when they remained contented and distant. Tycho found the proper tent and waited, watching as the two men ahead of him bowed, then offered their tokens to a guard. The soldier took the token and put it into a locked box, then permitted the men to enter. Tycho copied them, and bowed again as he ducked a fringe of leather that hung from the top of the "doorway."

  Three tables, each covered in white cloths, filled the tent. Metal plates holding large portions of flat bread sat on the tables, while spice boxes and what seemed to be bowls of sauces with spoons already in them took up the center, and benches lined the sides. More tables stood against the walls of the tent, and Tycho guessed that the servers would put the food there before offering the next course, as they did in confraternity meetings. A metal cup sat at each place. Since all men and women carried their own spoons and knives, and probably spearing forks if they could afford one, Tycho did not worry about the lack of such tools. The tables formed a large U-shape, with an elaborate chair taking up the center of the crossing table. Gold-touched cups and dishes marked where the greater nobles and the emperor would sit.

  As he glanced around, Tycho felt more than a touch out of place. He had brought his finest road clothes, sturdy but respectable and of the best material that could stand up to heavy wear. Tonight, he wore dark brown trousers, brown boots, a cream-colored shirt, brown jerkin, and dark-blue jacket. The others wore deep blue and grey, although a few of the higher ranks sported white linen. They had someone else to wash for them, of course. Gerta had suggested that her husband might want to bring some of his city finery, but he'd balked. Bright colors attracted attention, and he preferred for eyes to pass over him. He stood out enough as it was, shorter, heavier, darker of hair and skin as well as darker of clothes. Although the former might change as they travelled south, and the others felt the sun's touch. He'd always tanned while on the road.

  "Well met, Master Tycho," one of the men said, inclining his head as he spoke. "I am Trollanus, one of the mages of the court."

  Was he? He wore a sleeveless jacket over a heavy shirt made of blue suede, darker blue breeches, and black boots, with a black cap that flopped in the back, not to the sides as most men's did. Tycho thought he could see some tone-on-tone embroidery on the cap and jacket, but a polite man did not peer at others' clothing, unless he were truly short-sighted or had been invited to look. However, Tycho did not know the northern customs.

  "Master Trollanus." Tycho bowed a little, as he would to one of the guild masters in Rhonari.

  "I suppose by your testing levels I would be a master," Trollanus replied, smiling under a luxuriant white-blond mustache. He wore his hair long for a northman, pulling it back into a braid much as the emperor himself did. Was that the sign of being a mage? Tycho had not considered the possibility before. "Here I am one of many. If I understand correctly, you would call me a, hmm." He hesitated, tipping his head to the side. "What do you call the mages who specialize in clearing water of foulness?"

  Tycho caught himself before he stared. "Ah, the guild mages do not speak of such a specialty, sir. Perhaps a preservation mage, one who keeps miasmas and pests away from foods and spices, and goods such as leather and cloth?" How could the man work magic on flowing water?

  "That will do." Before Trollanus could say more, one of the heralds rang a silver bell. Everyone turned to see the cellarer standing by the head table. The northerners began sorting themselves and finding places, although Tycho saw no cards or tokens that he recognized. "This way." The mage nodded to two empty places half-way up the left-hand table, or the emperor's right-hand table. Surely not? But once he looked closely, Tycho saw a metal wagon no bigger than his thumb at one of the places. "For trade," Trollanus whispered so quietly Tycho barely heard him. Everyone stopped and turned toward the head table, then went to one knee as two guards entered, followed by Hugan, the enormous cat that accompanied the emperor. The cat sat beside the large central chair, and Tycho realized that someone had put a stool or platform there for him, where the wife or hostess usually sat at the host's left hand. Then the Great Northern Emperor himself entered, and all bowed their heads. Tycho heard scraping and then sitting sounds, and a deep, resonant voice commanded, "Rise and be seated."

  The Great Northern Empero
r stood, or sat, at least a head and a half taller than Tycho himself, although they shared equally broad shoulders. Tycho's waist had never been as small as that of the emperor. The man had hair so pale as to be white, fair skin, but dark eyes and ruddy cheeks. His long, rectangular face with strong cheekbones reminded Tycho of some of the carvings of Korvaal or Yoorst, or illustrations of legendary heroes of the Time of Cold. The emperor sported long hair in a braid as thick as Tycho's staff or his wrist. Everyone else began sitting, and Tycho settled onto his portion of the bench, removing his spoon and knife from their pouch when the others did.

  Soup led the meal. The cooks had thickened it with what tasted like mashed root vegetables, and Tycho thought he recognized the spices. The combination was sharper than he was accustomed to. Perhaps the north men needed more hot, moist dishes to counter the cold, dry land of the north? Or were they all moist natured, as it was rumored that the horse breeders of the far eastern plains were all hot and dry natured, which was why they bought bread in exchange for horses. Tycho had not thought about the problem of food, and hoped that Gerta would not find out that he was eating things that opposed his cold, moist nature.

  Stewed meat followed, and Tycho watched as the northerners scooped the thickened mixture onto the bread-plates, added sauces or spices to taste, then ate. He sampled the meat, found it a little bland and fatty, and tried a pale, green-scented sauce that reminded him of summer mint. That cut the fattiness quite nicely, and he enjoyed the results. Was that vinegar in the mint, or something else slightly sour? Tycho chewed and considered the possibilities, and if it would be possible to duplicate the blend, or to obtain the recipe, and trade it to one of the spicers for a discount on household purchases. He kept one eye on the emperor, and noticed that the man ate slowly, seeming to wait until the others were mostly finished before emptying his plate. Did that have a meaning of some kind? Oh, perhaps when His Imperial Majesty finished, it meant the next course had to be served and the former removed, as some southern lords did.

  As the people ate, three musicians set up instruments in the center of the tables and began playing. Tycho did not know what to make of that. No one else seemed to notice, so he continued eating instead of listening to the music. The harpist, drummer, and woman playing an unfamiliar instrument kept the tunes quiet. Conversation flowed around Tycho, and he spoke only when asked a specific question. He did not know ranks yet, and he did not care to cause accidental offense. Trollanus chuckled quietly at some comment, then turned to Tycho. "Master Tycho, do you know ought of magic?"

  "If you mean am I a mage, then no, sir. If you mean that I am familiar with some uses of magic and the rates the guilds charge for spell work, then yes, sir." He chose his words with care.

  "Huh. I had thought that all in the Free Cities had some magical ability, just as we do. Only a little, please," Trollanus told the server, and the woman filled his cup part way. A different server placed a clay jug on the table as well, and Trollanus added water to his cup.

  "Not too much, please," Tycho told the woman, and she filled his cup half-way with a red. He sniffed, then sampled it. It needed water. The flavor tasted almost as strong as some spirits-of-wine, and he was too old to enjoy hangovers while on the road, or at all. Then he turned back to his dining companion. "All men and women can use spells that have been set on onto objects, sir, such as light spells or vermin-repelling charms and medallions. Only those blessed with the ability to work magic actually cast the spells, and each guild oversees the specialties." Given recent events, Tycho would not want to be a notary mage or preservation mage, although so many people believed that the false priests from Liambruu had cast counter-charms and weakened the preservation spells in Rhonari that the local mages might not be feeling their customers' ire much longer. The notaries, though...

  As he looked around, Tycho blinked a little. He had not paid enough attention to the tent. Instead of mage lights, oil lamps hung from the cross pole, providing the illumination. In fact, he saw almost no evidence of magic at all. How curious. Well, if the mages were busy purifying water, or tending to the beasts and wagons, then light might not be that important. And perhaps all were tired from the road, not yet hardened and used to the effort of travel. That happened to southern mages as well as merchants and even their beasts. The idea made sense, and Tycho nodded to himself. If the emperor dined with his own people, perhaps he did not want his mages wasting themselves on luxuries. As he considered matters, he decided that answered all his questions as well as matching what most men of good sense did.

  "Do you suppose the southern king will be reasonable and listen?" A woman across the table and to Tycho's right inquired of another man.

  The northerner shook his head, drank, and replied, "If the gods striking his ambassador for lying under god-oath was not sufficient, and His Majesty not suffering ill from the so-called priests, then executing them by his own hand and magic does not give him pause, then I suspect Sanchohaakon will not accept the Comb as the border."

  The younger man seated on the speaker's right hand leaned forward a little. "The oldest of law books and treaties seem clear enough—the Northern Emperors only accepted the loyalty of those north of the Comb, and that because no one else would restore order and end the fighting that came with the retreat of the ice. Liambruu's lords would not, and so the current king has no claim."

  So the coins were false, or had traded, not been minted north of the Comb. Tycho smiled into his cup, then sipped. Not that it meant anything now, five years after the ambassador's rather dramatic demise, but Tycho appreciated being right. Not that he would mention it to his wife. Gerta had too good of a memory for all the occasions when he had been wrong.

  Candied fruit followed the stew, then roasted fish. The sequence seemed odd. Perhaps the fruit was to ease digestion and allow space between meat and fish, separating them so their natures did not disagree inside the diners. Hot spiced wine followed the fish. Tycho would have preferred a salad, but they were early yet, and finding sufficient greens for the company would tax any steward's talents. Once the fish had been eaten, everyone began breaking the bread-plates and eating those as well. Puzzled, Tycho followed suit. The flavors actually blended, to his surprise, and the sauces had softened the dense bread. The end bits tasted almost sweet, and he mulled over what the secret might be.

  His Imperial Majesty stood, and everyone else rose as well, then bowed. "Go and may the gods bless your night and morning," he chanted.

  "May the gods bless and keep Your Imperial Majesty," the company replied, then bowed once more as he and Hugan departed, followed by the rest of the head table.

  Tycho returned to his wagon, removed his nicer clothes and stretched out in his blankets. He hoped the smoke from all the fires would keep the spring biters away.

  2

  Road Wary

  Vlaaterbe had not changed all that much from the last time Tycho had visited it, and he enjoyed the last taste of civilization before the long journey south. He visited the baths, then delivered some letters that he had been carrying and a small parcel of jewelry and coin that a white-smith had entrusted to him.

  Compared to Rhonari and Maans'hill, Vlaaterbe resembled the top of a table, close to the ground without any hills or elevations not made by the hand of man. Donwah's temple held pride of place, in no small part to placate the Lady of Waters and encourage her not to send the sea upstream. Although Vlaaterbe lay tens of miles upriver from the sea, the river flowed almost due west. Storms from the west marched straight up the channel, pushing water ahead of them and sending the sea well into the land. The same gift that made Vlaaterbe such a good port also threatened the city with inundation every year. For that reason, the streets did not run due east-west inside the walls, but angled to discourage fast-running water. None of the buildings had cellars, either, and many had doors that could be removed to permit the water to run under the building rather than battering against it.

  Tycho ignored the goings on around the imperial
court. Instead he looked at the goods for sale in the market, and visited the temple of Maarserbe, Maarsdam of Vlaaterbe. It felt strange to come from the land side rather than the dock side, but so it was. He bowed three times before entering the blue and grey doors, then knelt and bowed thrice more once he crossed the threshold. "Hail Great Traveler! Thanks for safety thus far, thanks for safe roads to come, hail Great Traveler!" He bowed again, then stood and made a small offering.

  "Greetings," the priest on duty called. "So you seek ought of the god?"

  "No Father, only to pay my respects and offer thanks."

  The priest nodded and approached him. He was younger than most of Maarsdam's priests, and he limped. His sides did not match, one arm and leg shorter than the other. "You are from Rhonari?"

  "Aye Father."

  "Good." The priest leaned on his heavy walking stick. "What precisely happened when the Great Northern Emperor held his court of justice? We have heard stories ranging from amazing to wilder than the last great drowning-storm."

  Tycho could well believe it, given the five day overland travel time, and stories from people who had heard stories. "To be blunt, honored Father, the ground opened up and swallowed the false priests from Liambruu alive, then closed again. I saw it with my own eyes." The satisfied expression on the face of Gember's Daughter had been rather disconcerting.