Free Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) by Craig Saunders Page A

use mortal means of disguise, for we cannot hold an illusion for long. But you will note the patrol is comprised of mere tenthers. There are no wizards. This, we can handle.”
    “And how do you propose to do so?”
    ”Merely an illusion, lady. Trust me,” he said with a smile.
    He rode out to meet the patrol.
    The caravan pulled up while Quintal spoke with the Protocrat force – only one ten, which j’ark alone could probably have bested – and held his hand straight and flat in the sign for parley.
    Tirielle could hear their words drifting to her on the dry air, although each soldier wore armour. With her protectors, and the tenthers, all armoured, the sight shimmered in the high suns’ glare. She did not need to see, though, just here.
    She heard their words, but what came out of Quintal’s mouth in no way mirrored reality. He told the force they were headed west – when they were clearly on the road south. He told the force that they were travelling merchants, with clothes for sale in Rowan, a town of moderate size to the west, and the Protocrat replied that all was well.
    It all seemed to be going well – some magic was at play, Tirielle knew, even though the Sard claimed they knew no magic – then suddenly the seer cried out from her bedroll in the back of the wagon.
    Tirielle’s heart leapt into her mouth.
    “It is nothing, sir,” said Quintal smoothly. “Merely my child. The heat makes her miserable and crotchety.”
    “Ah ,” said the Protocrat , “Babies.”
    Even Protocrats had children, remembered Tirielle, and males were the same whatever the race – mewling babies were best ignored, and passed onto the nearest woman.
    “I pity you,” said the Protocrat, and waved them on.
    Tirielle’s heart resumed its normal patter.
    Once clear, Quintal returned to her side.
    “No magic, eh?” said Tirielle, one eyebrow raised quizzically.
    Quintal smiled . “Just a trick, Tirielle. The eye sees what it wants to see, and sometimes the ear hears what it wants to hear. Here, out under the sun, we can give assumption a push. Nothing more.”
    “And you are no more than a warrior, I suppose you would have me believe.”
    “And your humble servant,” replied Quintal, with a quick grin.
    Gods save me from humble men, thought Tirielle.
     
    *
     

Chapter Eighteen
     
    Pulhuth’s northern gates stood open, as they always had done. The city had never been assaulted from the north – nothing lay that way but Thaxamalan’s Saw, and whatever hid behind it. The peaks of that giant mountain range, reaching far into the cloudless summer sky, were perennially snow-capped. The guards at the gate thought nothing of their beauty, but were grateful to the mountains, largely because of the cool, blustery wind that whistled down from their heights chilling their skin on what was otherwise a blistering day.
    In the wavering distance, across the plains on a little-used track that serviced the northern side of the city, two riders approached. The guard could make out the glint of weapons above their right shoulders, but little else at this distance.
    Gradually, watched every second of the way (not because the guard was bound by duty to be observant, but because day in day out there was little else to look at on this side of the city) the riders drew closer, at a gallop.
    Staring into the distance all day had given the guard fine eyesight. He gradually made out that the two men were warriors. They rode upright, bore weapons and had stout shoulders. The one on the left, who rode a white horse, was a thick set man with dark skin. His head was shaven. The one of the left, some glinting blade attached to his left arm, wore a full beard and long, unruly hair.
    Weapons were of course permitted within the city walls, but these two men had the look of an invading army all by themselves. The guard thought about calling his superior down from his drink in the turret above the gatehouse, but he would no doubt berate the soldier for