Quiet Magic Read Free

him by, as if his
"hah!" was an order. Then the bridge was too crowded, and the
herbman paused. He raised a hand as he saw Slate and mouthed the
words "too late!"
    Slate smiled and sketched a salute
before facing front and relaxing back into the saddle--had the
herbman really expected to cross so quickly?
    Ahead now was a commotion. The wagons
were being passed through and the cart ahead was moving up. At the
same time new guards and inspectors were arriving. There were
different uniforms now and Slate recognized a change of shift. Just
as well, he thought, to get a fresh crew and get through
quickly.
    That idea went from his head almost
immediately though. The new inspectors began one at the front and
one at the back, as well as one in conversation with the cart
driver. They looked at each section of the cart as if they'd never
seen one before, using lanterns to cast light beneath the cart.
They knocked and listened carefully.
    Nearby a small wooden dais was now
occupied as well, by an ornately dressed man on a wooden bench.
Slate flinched, for the dais had its own light, as if it were lit
from within. No need for smoky torches or any such to disturb the
man who sat there. Magic! And that man must be magic, too, for
Slate had not seen him arrive in the stand for all his
attention.
    The man on the dais stood, as if
Slate's glance disturbed him. Slate did not look away. The man
spoke to a soldier standing guard; that solider looked swiftly at
Slate and his band, and hurried toward the inspection
area.
    Slate felt his sword stir, as if it
was being...careful. He rested his elbow on the edge of the hilt,
and could feel the very tiniest of energies about it. Not immediate
danger, perhaps, but wariness.
    The guard from the dais reached an
inspector at the horse's harness, and tapped him quickly on the
back. The inspector turned, outraged, but when he saw who it was
his outrage became mere surprise, and when he took in the wave
toward the bridge--clearly indicating Slate and his troop--he
snapped to alert and called out to his comrades.
    "We are done with these. Let them
pass. The Bispham himself will lead the next
inspection!"
    * * *
    THE BISPHAM STOOD before Slate, his
armed guards and border troops about him like a cloak of power. It
seemed to Slate that the man needn't display his armed might so
readily, given the wondrous array of wands of power he had tucked
about his amazing, purple garb. He'd even wore on his head an
overcap of conical construction, like an imitation of wizard caps
of old, that glittered with gemstones in the torch
light.
    The Bispham bowed--actually a very
slight nod.
    "How very pleased I am to be here at
the border to welcome you, Rove Captain Slate. News of your coming
has preceded you, and we were quite expecting an army to appear on
our doorstep. And how pleasant that you should have delayed until
nightfall, which is my shift this moon!"
    Slate bowed, considered his words,
wished yet again that a witch had not called his name...and wished,
too, that they'd been permitted to stay ahorse. He disliked the
whole of this: it smacked too much of theater for his
taste!
    "I am but a Rove Captain with a small
troop, as you can see. If tales have sprung up claiming us more
than that I apologize. There was no need to bring your..." here he
hesitated, then smiled wryly. The dread had gone from him, despite
the insistent low vibration of the sword.
    "You have the better of me sir, I have
not your name and..."
    There was a modest laughter, quickly
hushed, among the soldiers.
    "No one has my name, or may have it
for mere conversation," came the reply tartly. "I am the Bispham of
the Bridge, carrying on the tradition of proper judging of people
permitted to complete the Carrsbritch Crossing. You may call me
‘Sir Magician,' or if you prefer ‘Bridgemaster'. As you must know,
Lamonta is a peaceful, law-abiding place. We permit travelers to
visit, to pass through, and even to engage in commerce, as we find
that the