Stonefather

“There is no water god,” said the hunter kindly. “I’m employed by the priests who put on the sacrifices to please the ignorant people who think there’s a water god. Anyone with even a scrap of sense knows that the watermages do their work, not by praying to some god, but by speaking directly to the water itself.”

“So. . doesn’t that make the water a god?”

“It makes the water water, and the mages

mages,” said the hunter. “Now go away. And don’t even think of asking me for food, or I’ll pierce you after all and let them pour you out to give Holy Yeggut a drink.”

His mention of “drink” made Runnel thirsty, but he made no request and walked, then ran, deeper into the wood, away from the wall.

He worked his way west and stayed far enough away from the next gate that he saw neither it nor the houses the hunter had described. Not much farther, he came to the ruined wall, and followed it till he found a gap. Then he went back toward the south and found yet another gap, which must have been the one the hunter meant, but it made no difference except a few extra steps. Then he reached the corner of the wall where it turned eastward, and here again was a well-maintained tower with guards in it, looking out over the wood. How stupid, thought Runnel, to have a wall that you can simply walk around, and yet defend one short section of it. Are your foes so lazy you can let most of your wall fall down, and they won’t even bother to walk through it?

Soon he reached the road. There was no one in sight. He stepped out and walked east along the shores of a different stream. This one was shallower and broader — it looked like it could be forded. And sure enough, he soon came to a place where wagons on another road from the south crossed the river and joined the Uhetter Road.

No one hailed him, though as he neared the wagons he got some suspicious glances. Not wishing trouble, Runnel skirted them widely and ran on ahead, to make it obvious he wasn’t there to steal or beg or whatever it was they feared he’d try. I’ve errands of my own.

Soon the road ran between houses and shops. From some of the houses came the smell of food, and when Runnel saw that people were going freely in and out of one of them, he concluded it was a roadhouse and he went inside.

He was stopped at once by a burly man, who said, “Have you got money, boy?”

Runnel looked around, confused. “What’s a money?” he asked.

The man laughed nastily and shoved him out. “What’s a money!” he said. “They come stupider and more arrogant about it every spring!”

So getting a meal would be harder than Runnel had thought. In Farzibeck, any home would open its door to a traveler, and ask no more of him than news or whatever gift he chose to give. Who ever heard of a roadhouse demanding a particular gift — especially one that Runnel had never heard of! How could he have brought a “money” when he didn’t know what it was and had no idea where to find one and couldn’t have guessed in advance that they’d even want such a thing?

Madness. But from the way other people in the roadhouse laughed at him, he could only conclude that everybody here knew what moneys were, and knew the innkeeper would demand it of them. So it was a city thing, and he would have to find out about it. But not here.

Not far into the town of Hetterferry, he came to a dock on what looked to be another lake, though not as large as the Mitherlough. He soon realized, from the conversations he overheard, that this was the river called Ronnyrill, which flowed down in three streams from the lake high above, then on to Ronys and Abervery and other strange, exotic-sounding places. Much good that would do him, though. What mattered to him was that the real city of Mitherhome was plainly visible, not more than a stone’s throw away at the nearest point, but the torrent of water pouring out of the deep gash in the cliff made a more impassable barrier than their ridiculous wall.

When he asked a man about the ferryboat, he once again heard the word “money.”

“Does everyone here demand the same gift in trade?”

In reply, the man smiled and reached into a pouch tucked into the sash that bound his shirt closed. He pulled out a single half-blackened disc of bronze. “Money,” he said. “You get it by working, and then you trade it for things you want.”

“But it’s so small,” said Runnel.

“So’s your wit,” said the man, and turned away.

At least now he knew how to get money — you worked. That was something Runnel knew how to do. He walked along the dock till he came to a boat that was busy with men carrying crates onto a large raft. A man was standing by a crate, apparently waiting for one of the other laborers to come and carry the other end with him. So Runnel squatted and put his hands under the crate, and said, “Let’s do it.”