The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [67]
“Head out. Load up,” calls the road soldier.
The two wizards walk slowly, tiredly, back toward the golden coach that waits where the smooth-finished paving stones end.
The silver-haired and nameless man squints as the younger wizard passes by, less than an arm’s length away. He cannot grasp the memory, recognizing only that he should know something, and that he does not.
“Load up, you idiots! That means you, silver-top!”
The memory and the moment boil away with the mist and shadows as the sun clears the southeast edge of the canyon rim and glares upon the road-builders. The nameless man blinks and steps toward the pile of granite that must be removed for fill or for reshaping by the stonecutters. Then the wizards in black will come and bond the stones and mortar together. While he has seen the men in black, again he can only remember what he has been told their actions signify. In any case, the stones will be used, and the road will proceed westward toward the sunset.
“Load up!” comes the command once more.
His steps carry him forward toward the loading rack that other prisoners are sliding into place beside the tumbled stones, even before the dust has settled.
“Just the gray stones . . .”
The words wash over him as he waits in the line of men wearing baskets identical to his.
Clink . . . clink . . . Behind him, the stonemasons resume their work, crafting the flush-fitted gray walls and storm drains that link the base-blocks of the road.
The loading crew begins placing the square stones into the loading bin, and the first porter eases his basket into the rack.
“Next!”
The nameless man racks his basket, waits until it is full, then strains away from the rack and staggers onto the heavy plank walk that leads back to the unloading rack, leaning forward and squinting against the rising sun.
“Next!”
Heavy leather boots protect his feet against the splinters of the planks and the sharp edges of the rocks, but not against the casual fit and the blisters. The inside of his right boot is damp with blood. Each step sends a twinge up his leg.
“Silver-top!”
He looks up blankly to the road soldier, not halting his progress past the overseer.
“Unload and go to the healer’s tent. Then get back here.” The soldier’s voice bears exasperation. He is not as tall as the nameless man, but he wears a sword and gestures with a heavy white-oak truncheon.
The nameless man can see a white glow tinged with red around the scabbarded sword. That same glow surrounds all of the swords of the road soldiers, swords that cut like the fire they contain.
He stumbles up to the unloading platform, performs the routine, and staggers back along the boards. Instead of turning right, toward the shattered pile of rock heaped like a rough pyramid at the end of the slowly growing canyon, he turns left, toward the canvas tent which bears a white banner emblazoned with a single-lobed green leaf. There he sets the basket down.
The woman in the crisp green blouse and matching green-leather trousers and boots looks at him. “Right foot?”
He nods.
“Sit there.” She points to a short wooden bench. “Take off the boot. Let’s see.” Her voice is matter-of-fact.
He is pleased with the music in her words, submerged as it is beneath the duty, and smiles faintly as he seats himself and removes his right boot. Thin lines of red have splashed away from his heel, from the bloody and yellowed sore there.
The woman shakes her head, talking to herself as if he were not present. “Idiots. Don’t put oversized work boots on bare feet.” Her fingers touch the skin around the wound. He winces in anticipation of pain, but there is none, so gentle are her fingers.
“Hmmm . . . not too bad.” She takes a white cloth, dips it in an acrid liquid. “This might sting.” The wet cloth touches his foot as she begins to clean away the pus and blood.
“Sssss .