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“All of you—back up and around that corner.”

Not waiting to see if her orders are obeyed, she moves almost at a run to the dam, where she studies the valley. Should she wait? The effect would be greater. But what if…? She shakes her head and eases the striker from her belt.

Scrtcccc…click…hhsssttttt…A long spark leaps from the striker to the loosely-threaded rope fuse, followed by a tongue of flame licking its way toward the water and the bag of powder suspended in the heavy green below.

“…devils…she carried that all the way from Kyphrien?”

“One white wizard…all that it would take to blow us all to hell…”

“…demons protect their own…”

She sprints off the dike as fast as she can, throwing herself into the saddle. For the first time ever that her squad has seen, her booted heels spur her mount.

Once behind the rocky ledge with the rest of the squad, she reins in and waits…and waits.

“Hell!”

She turns the horse, starting to edge back toward the dam.

CRUUMMPPP…The blue-green water surges up perhaps three cubits above the floodgates.

“Is that all?…”

Creeeaakakkkkk…snnaaappp…SWUUUUUSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH…

As the gates buckle open, the spring’s accumulated runoff gushes forth down the narrow gorge, gaining speed as it drops the nearly one kay toward the narrow valley floor.

“…gods have mercy…”

…wheee…eeehuunnn…

“…easy…easy there…”

“…now…you see why you never cross her…”

The black-eyed woman, whose eyes are now darker than the black of her irises, nudges the horse forward to the stone wall, where she can watch the wall of water sweeping down on the unprepared rebels.

At least one Kyphran banner flutters on the high ground where the southwest road offers the only escape from the lake that the grassy valley has become.

The olive groves will suffer, but the autarch needs trained troops more than olives.

L

THE DRAWING WAS simple enough—a wooden armchair, with the five spokes supporting a simple contoured back. Dorman’s tools, old as some of them were, were more than adequate for the job, and in adapting an old Hamorian design in the faded book, I thought Bostric and I could deliver the armchairs for less than Jirrle. The dining set would have meant bidding against Perlot.

“We can do it,” I said quietly.

The glint of gold from the back of the shop told me that Deirdre was watching from the darkness pooled at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the family living quarters. I almost sighed. She was certainly pretty enough, and willing, but…somehow…that would have been poor repayment for Destrin. I think both Deirdre and I knew what could not be, not that either of us was totally happy about it.

“For eight golds or less?” asked the crafter. He still had on the ratty sweater, and the rear window was open but a trace.

I wiped my forehead before answering. “With what I have in the stable, plus the logs—say four golds. Five or six days’ work over two weeks. We bid ten.”

“If you can do it, then I’ll mark the bid,” Destrin said slowly. His color remained grayish, despite all I had done.

I didn’t like doing work for someone like a sub-prefect, especially in Gallos, but steady as the income from the benches was, and despite Brettel’s commissions and the work from Wessel and Wryson, there wouldn’t be enough coin to meet the quarterly tax levies. That left only a few choices, like indenturing Deirdre to one of the local gentry, or a work indenture for Destrin himself—not a personal indenture, but that of all his output to the prefect or a local merchant. Destrin couldn’t meet the terms of an indenture, and the default would leave Deirdre penniless. As for indenturing Deirdre—I shivered at that.

Since the bids were publicly opened, Jirrle couldn’t use whatever influence he might have to change the award.

Even if we were successful, that only bought Destrin and Bostric time, perhaps a year. Unless the levy were reduced, the shop would have to close. But in a year, a great deal could happen.

As for me, a lot