The Bloodbaths | Page 2

everything is connected." Crixus' fingers danced across the sample box,
arriving on the section that contained the white flowers. "I wouldn't
mind cutting those strings, though. I can see he'll be trouble."
He noticed that the shaman had, after many histrionics, produced his
forked 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