The Forest at the Edge of the World(10)
“I really don’t have a lot of time for this today, Gadiman,” Mal stopped him before he got too far.
“But they’re organizing! So that they can share ideas and—”
“Gadiman,” Mal said patiently, “I really don’t think shoe makers will overthrow the government.”
Gadiman leaned closer and whispered, “But what if they’re not making shoes?”
“What would they be making?” Mal whispered indulgently back.
“They have leather,” the pinched face said in a whisper. “Laces, rivet holes—armor!”
“We don’t use armor, Gadiman,” Mal said, feeling a stomping urge. “Not since the Great War. There’s no need.”
“There’s a need,” Gadiman pointed out, “if they plan to attack!”
“Shoe makers attacking the Army of Idumea?”
“Along with the tanners, who are supplying the leather, and the cattle ranchers who supply the cows for the leather,” Gadiman said excitedly. “It’s a conspiracy!”
Mal took a deep breath but regretted it, as the scent of the Administrator of Loyalty filled his nostrils and reminded him of rotting mulch piles. “That stack of files—,” he pointed to Gadiman’s arm, “cobblers, tanners, ranchers, and farmers? All organizing?”
“Farmers?!” Gadiman sat back up abruptly.
“Who supplies the feed to the cattle and the ranchers?”
Gadiman’s mouth dropped open. “I didn’t consider the farmers!”
Mal nodded. “I have a feeling there are a great many things you haven’t considered. You have some more research to do, Administrator. Come back in say . . . a season?”
Gadiman nodded vigorously. “Of course! Of course, I will.” He stood up and looked shifty-eyed around the large office. “About your other project, Chairman,” he whispered, yet blew out such a great amount of breath that Mal could identify his dinner the night before, and it must have been most unappetizing, “have you given any thought to my participation?”
“I have,” Mal tried not to inhale. “In the future I have no doubt I will be able to use you and your . . . talents.”
Gadiman’s face fell. “But I thought—”
“In time, Gadiman. We have all the time in the world.”
---
The High General strode out of the Administrative Headquarters, his lieutenants on his heels. He headed to his horse, tethered and watched over by two young pages grateful they weren’t in charge of holding open doors. Without a word he opened a pack secured to the side of the saddle wherein he kept thin papers, finer parchments, and even small vials of ink and quills. The High General believed in recording every bit of information that came his way, to be catalogued in his extensive filing system.
In the afternoon sunshine he wrote out a message on a small piece of paper, signed it, then blew on it until it dried. His lieutenants stood nearby, waiting patiently. He folded the message and sealed it in a thicker parchment envelope.
“Get this to the messaging office immediately,” he said to one of the officers. “There’s a rider heading out in less than half an hour. I want this delivered to the fort at Edge.”
The lieutenant nodded, mounted immediately, and rode away as the High General watched.
“Weather’s shifting again,” he muttered under his breath, without looking up at the sky.
Chapter 3 ~ “The sky really is blue,
and they can count upon that fact.”
“Remember, my beloved daughter—sometimes the world really is out to get you.”
It was at the oddest times that the last words of Mahrree’s father blew into her mind. They scattered her thoughts as if the cold winds that came down from the mountains behind Edge rushed into one ear and out her other.
Mahrree paused to consider the words after shutting the door to her little house. She was headed to the village green and the outdoor amphitheater for the night’s debate. She shook her head and chuckled as she made her way out of her little front garden which, considering the preponderance of weeds and rocks, insulted the title of ‘garden’. She continued on to the cobblestone roadway and headed south to the center of the village, smiling sadly at the memory of her last conversation with him.
She was fifteen, thirteen years ago. He was thirty-seven. He had started coughing a season before, near the end of Weeding, and almost three moons later it was clear he was dying. His slender, small body was wracked with pain and chesty convulsions.
Mahrree’s mother Hycymum could do nothing more but wring her hands and make yet another creative dish of something which he couldn’t eat. Their rector came over every day to sit with his younger friend, and the village doctors tried every concoction they knew.