The Bloodbaths | Page 2

dowsing rod, cut from a hazel branch.?
"Go back to this parcel, here," he pointed to the three flowered compartments, "and set up stakes where you think digging will be easiest. I'll meet you there."
Stamm and Gavri set off with the sample box, map, and tools. Crixus watched them disappear into the trees. Neither was accorded much respect in the Guild. Stamm was a lazy and unrepentant drunk. Gavri was young, inexperienced, and female, thus not given all the training she deserved. Nevertheless, Crixus liked them better than the veterans he'd worked with, perhaps because they didn't intimidate him.?
And now intimidation was what Crixus needed to muster up. He unbuckled his mason's hammer, passed into his care by his father. The epidemic that had swept through Greater Rond was so swift and brutal that it even struck down a strong man like Simic Oraan in less than a week. A teary-eyed Crixus had been forced to recite the ceremonial words for his father as the dying artesan coughed his life away.
The gold appointments on the handle depicted the Oraan family crest, a few elements of the Rondan flag, and a bull, the family's symbolic animal. The head of the hammer weighed five pounds; it was heavy for delicate stonework but so sharp on the wedge-end that he could use it in place of narrower chisels. The steel alloy was many times harder than the average iron smelted for a workman's tool. Such a hammer cost half a year's wages, and Crixus took fastidious care of it. He preferred to dent a common mason's hammer on standard jobs, yet he always wore the family hammer at his side. He hoped the sight of a thick-set, heavily muscled man with a hammer in his hands would elicit a primal fear response in the shaman.
Taking comfort in the hammer's weight, he approached the shaman's followers. Up close they looked just as absurd: a half dozen boys in face paint and robes, holding incense; a woman shy of garments, waving a handful of ribbons; an oracle with a gutted goose; the shaman himself, middle-aged but powerful of carriage. Dowsing must have paid well; the man's fleshy frame and smooth face implied a rich diet. An embroidered robe of azure silk tinkled with tiny bells sewn into the hemline.?
He held the forked hazel branch cut fresh that day, no doubt by one of the weary assistants hauling his materials. Magic, apparently, weighed as much as science. The dowsing rod wavered as if controlled by something other than the man's hands. Crixus scanned the location the man had chosen to focus his efforts. It offered a lovely view of the valley where the councilman's estate would be, but the dry dirt crunching at their feet told him all he needed to know about the hellacious digging project about to unfold.
The shaman murmured prayers, eyes closed, until Crixus cleared his throat. Councilman Stada, attended himself by young servants, grumbled at Crixus' interruption.
"Your pardon, most revered one," Crixus said, keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. "I'm Artesi Crixus Oraan, the engineer responsible for water resources for House Stada's new estate. I think it would benefit our client if we could have a brief consultation."
The shaman opened his eyes with supreme, patient dignity to look down his nose at Crixus.
"Artesi? I expected a senior engineer, not a minion." His gaze drifted away. "Your services are not required until later."
"I speak for my Guild, ser," Crixus said, dangling his hammer conspicuously at his side. "Should your predictions fail to identify the underground spring, I fear our client's money will be wasted."
The shaman cut him off with a wave of his hand. "They are hardly predictions. The spirits of the land convene on holy days near the purest of water sources. This has been proven time and again. Your inability to understand the innermost workings of nature does not give you the right to judge our work." He sniffed. "I am most tolerant with my explanations, for which you need not thank me. I trust you do fine work. Now let me attend to mine."
"Crixus," Councilman Stada hissed, "leave us alone! Don't disturb his concentration. The spirits are ephemeral in the extreme, and ephemera costs silver."
The shaman raised his hands to the sky. "This Artesi is blessed by the water spirits. They flock to him and sing praises to him. Right here"--he dipped the dowsing rod to the rocky ground--"they gather in the greatest numbers thirty yards below our feet. Your interruption has been most opportune," he said with a mischievous smile. "Do you see where you should dig?"
The councilman's eyes lit up with gratification. Crixus thought of Stamm and Gavri, staking out the ground where the bastianae flowers had shown them the true location of the wellspring by dint of