Chapter IV
IV
The old Roman road was our most direct route west to the border. Jacques set a punishing pace. He was mounted and ready each morning before dawn and we set camp well after dark.
He was also quite unpleasant company. My concerns about his injured arm were rebuffed with steely courtesy and any attempts at conversation were treated as an imposition.
By the end of the first week, our food supplies were almost gone thanks to the proud and silent game of brinksmanship that had developed between us.
I refused on principle to spend my own money on food I would be obliged to share with him, so I endured trail rations and forage with stony fortitude.
Jacques, in turn, seemed quite happy to spend no money at all and would have subsisted on bootstrap soup just to spite me.
Is it a game? What is the matter with him? I fumed to Sarmodel.
So Jacques rode and slept and ate in a polite daze while I slowly filled with bile. I would have continued the farce indefinitely (superhuman endurance is a specialty of mine) if it weren’t for the terrible state of Jacques’s gelding, Aherin.
Claviere was the last major town before the Alps, and our last opportunity to prepare for the di?cult mountain passage.
I took us along the busy main thoroughfare, which had been trodden into an icy slush by crowds of travelers and townsfolk.
Thankfully the rain had stopped, but Jacques and I were both riding with scarves wrapped around our faces against the cold.
I had scented mine with lavender and orange, but there was no masking the ripeness of animal yards among the various smells of the town. I turned my horse toward the stench.
A request, my dearest, if you please, said Sarmodel. I cannot stomach any more rabbits.1 Can we get a cow? There must be cows here.
I am not buying you a cow. And you are not the only one with an appetite, I replied. We need food, and it is time the young Ocerne tended to his horse.
“Where are we going, Professor?” Jacques demanded. “I would prefer to stay on the road and find somewhere dry to camp for the night, away from this place.”
“Certainly, sir.” A group of filthy children came shrieking down the street and engulfed us briefly.
There were a few genuine screams as curious young hands tested the anti-theft Wards on my wagon, and then they were gone.
2 “But I thought we might visit the farrier before we move on. I feel my horse limping. I will have Aherin seen to as well, if you like.”
I tried to say the words lightly, casually, as though it were something he had mentioned earlier. Jacques could hardly disagree with me; his horse was unbalanced and lumbering.
But disagree he did. “I would rather press on,” he replied, shaking his head. “There are farriers in France, no doubt of superior skill.”
I was momentarily silent, suspecting some sort of miscommunication. “Sir, if you please, it would be but a small gesture on my part to—”
“I do not please. And you do not listen. Now let us be gone from this cesspool.”
“As you will, sir,” I said, snarling behind my scarf. We returned to our original course, with Jacques now leading the way through the throng.
Oh Sebastian, that was masterful, said Sarmodel. You play the young gentleman like a violin.
Shall I force him at knifepoint? I demanded. The beast will not survive the mountains.
No, but one day you must stop thinking like cattle. He came forward slightly. Try this. A triptych of Tartaric symbols appeared in my mind’s eye; a Word.3
What does it do? It seems awfully complicated.
It is complicated. Can you manage it?
I think so.
Then go ahead and say it. Keep a tight focus and don’t get it wrong. I promise it won’t kill him.
I’m not sure I would mind.
Don’t tease me. Sarmodel retreated a little, watching. Now, concentrate.
I kept my gaze firmly on Jacques and relaxed the scarf around my mouth slightly. The Word took me several seconds to say and my mouth felt very strange afterward, as though I’d loosened my teeth.
The effect on Jacques was more noticeable.
There was a sound like a dull, iron hammerblow.
Aherin stumbled heavily. With his next steps, the gelding left all four of his worn shoes in the mud, the nails red and smoking.
Jacques swore as he lurched in the saddle, and then suddenly every strap and fastening slithered apart around him.
He reeled as the reins came free in his hands and the rest of the bridle dropped to the ground.
He tried vainly to grip with his legs, but the cinch had already come apart and the saddle slid slowly off to the side.
Jacques tumbled into the mud alongside my wagon, like the world’s most disagreeable pig. 4
I immediately slumped with the plunging fatigue that follows any of Sarmodel’s tricks, but it was a small price for the satisfaction I felt. I was glad the scarf concealed my smile.
You need to work on your triphthongs, said Sarmodel, but I think he’ll agree to see the smith now.
There was a small, serviceable forge rumbling at the back of the farrier’s shop, and a quick inspection told me he would be as capable as any of Jacques’s Frenchmen of “superior skill.”
Jacques was covered in filth and walked in the mud, carrying the gelding’s tack. Naked of his saddle and equally soiled, Jacques’s mount was haggard and miserable.
“Forgive me, Aherin,” the baron’s son whispered, stroking the animal’s neck. “I’ve been a poor master to you.”
I secured my wagon to the rail beside him. “Might I suggest we find somewhere for you to bathe, sir? The smith will be some time, I fear.”
Jacques looked at me directly for what seemed the first time.
The fall had humbled him somewhat, and the eyes that now recognized his sorry treatment of the gelding were looking at me differently too.
He was for a moment painfully like his father.
“Yes, Professor, I would be grateful for somewhere to bathe and wash my clothes. But I fear I have been no friend to my horse, and I will see to his needs first.”
“We can get someone to take care of that, if you wish.”
He shook his head, flicking droplets of muck from his hair. “No. Mine the fault, mine the fix.”
“As you will, sir. I’ll find us something to eat.”
I returned an hour later with the scant palatable food I could afford.
Jacques was brushing Aherin the gelding, murmuring softly.
In spite of his injured arm, he had taken time to work out the snarls from the animal’s mane and tail.
He had also spent what must have been the last of his money on rough oats and a handful of small, hard apples.
I found that I could not begrudge him the expense.
Some nobility from the nobleman at last, I remarked.
Quite, replied Sarmodel. Talk to me when he’s riding that horse toward the money.5
Tommaso the farrier was a taciturn little fellow who asked no questions about how the gelding had lost all of his shoes. He worked quickly, and within the hour Aherin had been hot-shoed very neatly. Jacques stiffened as I paid the smith from my own pouch, but said nothing.
We left Claviere in silence, following the course of the fast-flowing river.
I loaded Jacques’s muddy tack into my wagon and we both walked alongside our horses.
I was busily discussing the new Word with Sarmodel, working the ideograms into useful alternative permutations in my mind.
I was so used to ignoring Jacques’s misery that I didn’t notice his discomfort straightaway.
His muddy clothes had begun to dry and stiffen, and his teeth were clenched against the pain of his injury.
Sebastian, I do not care if this one lives or dies, said Sarmodel. But if you would avoid the latter, you will need to see what he’s hiding under those clothes. Quickly.
You have a colorful turn of phrase, but I agree. And it’s time for some answers.
1. Sarmodel and I both benefit immeasurably when he feeds regularly on anima, which is what the layman might call “life force” or “soul.” I had procured a farm near my estate at Corvano to satisfy my Guest between funerals and exorcisms, but on the road, he ate what I could kill.
2. By “gone” I mean the children, not their hands. Sarmodel and I had agreed earlier in the century that it was no longer appropriate to dismember would-be thieves. These urchins would suffer only minor electrical burns and possibly some loss of bladder control.
3. Something of a misnomer. A Word is in fact a phrase made of two or more Tartaric or Samadhic ideograms. The ideograms themselves can represent concepts as complex as seasons, chemical formulae and specific individuals, so three of them together can take a lot of concentration.
Not to be confused with Wards, which originate from human Arcane practice and are entirely different.
4. This Word has since become known as the Uttered Undoing and it’s one of my most prized secrets. With some minor modifications, it can be brought to bear on anything man-made with parts that are joined together—machines, buildings, clothing, etc.
5. Like most Spirits, Sarmodel adores money. If you are wondering why, the answer is simple: they love money because we love money, and usually for all the worst reasons.