Chapter 291: The Specialists

"Ophelia Redford," said Kellar, and this time he raised his voice so it carried to the wall. "The Bear God does not err in sending you. There is room in this valley for you and for your people."

The girl lowered her head and knelt, hands folded in her lap.

"Thank you, master," said Ophelia.

Kellar crouched and took her by the arm to raise her, just as he had done with Rosalind the night before.

"And since the Bear God sent you," added Kellar, low, for her and Aldric alone, "you are going to tell me exactly who struck you in that pass. Down to the last detail."

"Yes, master," said she. "But it was not in the pass. They followed us from before. Three days before."

Kellar went still with his hand still upon her arm.

"Three days?" asked Kellar.

"Yes," answered Ophelia. "And they were no bandits. They had orders, and they counted us."

Kellar released his breath slowly. Then he straightened and sought Grok with his eyes.

"The carts to the loading yard. The artillerymen to the east, in file, and let them surrender their weapons until I have inspected them. The knights to the great pen, with their horses," ordered Kellar.

Grok nodded and went off shouting.

Eight figures stepped forward then from the rear of the column. The old man with the long beard and the staff carved with runes. The woman in the apron, dragging a chest of knives. The gaunt man with the roll of maps under his arm. Not one of them knelt. All of them waited on their feet, in silence, like men who had already fulfilled an order and awaited the next.

Kellar counted them without a word.

Then he stepped aside, folded his arms, and spoke loud enough for the whole square to hear.

"One by one. Name and trade," ordered Kellar.

The old man with the long beard went first. He did not hurry. He planted his staff upon the ground and tapped the runes carved into the wood with two fingers.

"Halvard Stein," said the old man, in a rough, gravelly voice. "Rune carver. Stone, iron, bone, whatever is put before me. If it holds a chisel, it holds a rune."

"What does a rune do?" asked Kellar.

"Whatever it is told," replied Halvard. "Heat. Cold. Bear weight. Keep a door shut. Keep an arrow out."

The woman in the apron stepped forward and let the chest of knives drop against the ground.

"Beth," said the woman, and spat to one side. "Cooking. For a hundred or for a thousand. No root stews and no flour water. A badly fed man sickens, and a sickened troop comes apart."

"Gustav Brandt," said the third, a short man carrying stakes and a coil of cord at his belt. "Roads. I lay one straight over broken ground and tell you how much weight passes before it gives."

The fourth brushed the dust from his waistcoat with two fingers before deigning to look up.

"Anselm Petit," said the man. "Enology. Fermentation, preserves, vinegar. An army that drinks only ditch water shits itself before the first battle."

Kellar looked at him a moment too long.

"Wine?" asked Kellar.

"Wine, vinegar, and anything that can be kept six months without rotting, my lord," answered Anselm. "And with due respect, vinegar closes more wounds than half your healers."

"Ysolde," said the fifth before she was asked. She raised her hands, palms stained, nails black. "Alchemy. Powder, acids, salts. If something smokes, I made it."

Kellar nodded and waited for the rest. No further trades came.

The other three stayed where they stood, hands in plain sight, and spoke one after another without being told.

"Tobias Crane," said the first, a broad-shouldered youth with a brass astrolabe hanging from his belt. "Navigator’s apprentice. Three years under an archipelago pilot. My hand still needs work, but I do not turn green."

"Emil Voss," said the second, pressing a roll of maps against his chest. "Cartographer’s apprentice. I copy without eating letters and I hold ten hours straight over the pen."

The third was the youngest of the eight. He might have been twenty-two, and he smiled as though he had been sent to a festival.

"Osric Vale," said the youth. "General’s apprentice. They sent me to be taught. Are you the general?"

And he jerked his chin at Julian.

Julian went taut.

Kellar focused his perception.

[Osric Vale — Attributes]

[STR: 600]

[DEX: 650]

[REC: 500]

[INT: 45]

Seven hundred dexterity at twenty-two years old. Not a rival. A boy with hunger... thought Kellar.

"Julian Pendelton is the General of this valley’s land forces," said Kellar, and said it loud. "And you stay in his shadow until he says you are no longer needed."

Osric’s smile did not fall.

"As you say, Great Shaman," said Osric, and this time he looked at Julian with a measure more respect.

Julian held his stare, then looked front again.

"Halvard, the wall and the gates. I want runes on the palisade before nightfall," ordered Kellar. "Beth, the great kitchen. Anselm, with her, and if the vinegar is good for anything I want it in the infirmary this afternoon. Ysolde, the rear shed, well away from anyone else’s fire. Gustav, the south road, and make it hold carts. Tobias, with Drake, to the ship. Emil, with Rosalind Pendelton, who is raising the map of the basin. Osric, with the general."

Five trades and three apprentices. Not one of the eight looked at the wall. Not one asked leave for anything.

The system does not send filler... thought Kellar. It sends people for the gaps I have not opened yet.

From the wall, a watchman struck the timber twice.

"Great Shaman," shouted the man, pointing at the water. "Something comes downriver. A boat. Only one."

Kellar closed his eyes for an instant.

First a blind girl with a crippled escort. Now a boat that had no business being there.

No one arrives twice in one day by chance... thought Kellar.

"Grok," said Kellar, without turning. "Let no one touch that boat until I get there."