“I can think of worse places to live,” commented Vahil. “Nice climate, plenty of timber, game for hunting and room for farming.”

“You won’t be the first, if you do settle here,” said Guinalle unexpectedly.

“No, there are no people here.” Vahil shook his head. “Den Fellaemion told me; they checked all five of the islands when they first found them and they’ve been back several times since. There’s been no sign of anyone living here; he wouldn’t have let us go off like this, if he wasn’t certain.”

“Yes, I know.” Guinalle’s tone betrayed a certain irritation. “I spent most of yesterday using Artifice to make absolutely sure. What I’m saying is that there were people here once.”

Vahil opened his mouth to argue but Temar waved him down. “How do you know?”

“Look around you.” Guinalle rose from her seat on a boulder and swept round, arm outstretched. “There were huts here; can’t you see the circles, where the hearths were?”

Temar looked but with the best will in the world couldn’t see what she was indicating.

“Here.” Guinalle paced around a wide circle and suddenly Temar saw it, an almost invisible depression in the rough grasses with a clump of spite-nettle in the center.

“Yes, I see.” He looked at her, a little daunted but still impressed. “You have good eyes!”

Guinalle shook her head with a deprecating smile. “Well, I did get a clue from this.”

She held up a shard of crude pottery and tossed it to Temar. He turned it in his hands; black on one side from use in a fire, it was coarse and gritty stuff, still bearing the thumbprints of its maker.

“They were an uncultured people, I think. They hunted in the forests, gathered fruit in season, that kind of thing, not farmers in any real sense, as we understand it. They had music though, pipes and drums and storytellers; they weren’t complete savages.”

“A bit of broken pot can’t tell you that much, surely.” Vahil was trying politely to hide his skepticism, Temar could tell, but merely sounded patronizing.

“Artifice can.” Guinalle’s eyes were distant as she turned another potsherd over and over in her hands. “I can pick up echoes, sort of, from things like this. It was a long time ago, though.”

“What happened to them?” Temar was fascinated.

“I can’t tell.” Guinalle frowned slightly. “There are flames in the destruction of this pot, distress too.”

“That could just mean some woman dropped it in the fire and ruined the dinner,” laughed Vahil. “Either that or she threw it at her husband and missed!”

“It’s more than that.” Guinalle looked more than a little piqued but Vahil seemed oblivious as he finished the wine.

“Just what sort of things can you tell from something like this?” Temar held out a hand and tried to fit the two pieces of weathered crock together without success.

“It depends on many different factors—on how old something is, how valued it was by its owner, the strength of emotions involved.” Guinalle’s tone became slightly didactic. “Of course Artifice can be used to deliberately instill memories in an item as well, visions that an Adept can retrieve.”

“Saedrin’s stones,” said Temar without thinking, wondering what possible use that sort of thing could have.

Guinalle didn’t seem to notice the vulgarism. “It’s a difficult thing to achieve, and it’s something that has been subject to misuse in the past. It can have rather unexpected effects on some people,” she sighed. “I’m afraid certain Masters of Artifice haven’t always been as scrupulous about the use they have made of their talents.”

“I bet they haven’t!” Vahil grinned with inappropriate humor as he reached for the carrying pole. “Come on, let’s get this meat back to camp in time for dinner. Even if there’s no time to hang it properly, no one will thank us for it if it gets flyblown.”

Guinalle followed closely behind Temar as they followed the narrow game trail back down to the shore, but carrying the laden pole made it impossible for him to talk to her.

“You know, I would like to know more about Artifice,” he puffed when they reached the camp and he was able to hand over his load. “Could you tell me about it?”

“I could, if you are serious in your interest.” Guinalle’s expression was one of good-humored skepticism.

“Oh, I am. I think it could be very valuable for the colony.” Temar realized somewhat to his surprise that he meant what he said. Not that the thought of spending time alone with Guinalle wasn’t a considerable inducement, but if he was going to be responsible for a crowd of clients he would need all the resources he could muster.

“I am a little surprised that you haven’t had some basic instruction,” commented Guinalle, her eyes softening a little.

Temar shrugged. “My family was very hard hit by the Crusted Pox,” he said shortly. “My grandfather rather lost any confidence he might have had in healers and acolytes after that.”

“I am so sorry.” Guinalle laid a gentle hand on Temar’s arm, her face concerned.

He slapped his hands together briskly. “Look, I stink of blood and dirt. I must get a bath before dinner. I’ll see you later.”

Chapter Six

A letter discovered amongst the effects salvaged from an Aldabreshin galley wrecked in the Gulf of Peorle in the 278th Year of the Freedom of the City of Col

Segalo Ria greets Imir Sazac with loving respect by the hand of her body slave Cathu

We are all curious to learn of your trip to the mainlanders at Col and cordially invite you to visit us upon your return. If these foreigners are any less predatory than the vermin of the Relshaz mud flats, the dangers of such a voyage will be worthwhile. It is a matter of no little concern to us that you had scant opportunity to deal with mainlanders before the grievous passing of the esteemed Iru Sazac elevated you to the honor of First Wife. Please allow us to impart some of the experience we have garnered over recent years.

You are accustomed to hear all mainlanders stigmatized as thieves. This is not merely based upon the recurrent thefts of spice plants and the subsequent dishonorable diversion of that trade by the men of the leeward coasts, you will find all plead to be allowed to visit your domains and, should you allow this, they will ask repeatedly who owns every item in your residence. Although such a question is meaningless to a person with any honor, reply that everything is the personal possession of Sazac Dega, otherwise these mainlanders purloin anything not actually nailed down.

Make sure that your triremes are well in evidence when your galleys reach Col, a visible display of Sazac Dega’s might. Leave them in no doubt that any attempts at incursion into your domain will leave their boats burned to the waterline, else you will find their clumsy vessels sniffing around your lands, stealing your crops and slaves, attempting to inveigle themselves into your trade.

There is no place for beauty or honor in their notions of exchange. All they want to do is assign a number of little metal tokens to any and every object and then attempt to trade for as few of these as possible. Do not, for example, agree a trade and then offer an additional, superior gem to show your appreciation of politeness, as you would with an Islander. These mainlanders will not understand this, merely taking it as a sign to attempt to extort further gems from you. Also, do not give them any sizeable or noteworthy jewels; they will cut up and facet whatever they get, having no appreciation of the natural forms of the stones.

Be extremely careful to assess the quality of the gold and silver they offer you. Much is badly adulterated with base metals, but you have to understand this is so commonplace as to be openly accepted and not the disgrace it would be among a civilized people. The best metals are worth keeping for turning over to your jewellers and craftsmen but much of the rest is only fit for ballast. All you can do is use it to simplify trading for slaves, which does at least get it off your hands.