A deeper beast voice answered, "Bwoooh!" Thud, thump, crunch.
"Ach, Yoorst save us, I just finished repairing that," one of the road-smiths declared, large fists planted on waist, glowering at the dust and commotion.
"Ballat knows better, damn it. Why didn't he dose the doe?"
"Because this is Ballat. My wagon tongue has more brains than he does." Neither speaker sounded surprised. Neither looked pleased, and Tycho guessed that this Ballat person had a reputation for folly.
The great-haulers peered over the heads of the gathered men. After a few more thuds and a second crunch, Tycho heard a moan, like a beast in pain. The dust settled a little and he could see two ovstrala, both males, one of them sprawled on the ground and far worse for wear, blood on his flank and neck. Red tipped the other beast's horns. "Mbwooooohhhh!" He called, then sniffed the ground, mouth open a little, turned, and began trotting. One of the handlers managed to get a rope onto him, and then someone hooked a second rope to the other side of the male's halter. Half a dozen men grabbed the rope, their weight dragging the beast to a halt. Four men led him away as a beast-mage tended to the injured bovine.
Borghind stalked up and the men parted to let him through. "By the northern ice, this is why we dose the does." He turned. "Who let their doe go into heat?"
Four voices at least answered, "Ballat, sir."
Borghind rolled up his sleeves and marched off, fire in his eyes. Part of Tycho wanted to watch. The rest of him asked just what he planned to do with the three great-haulers he was leading. With a slightly wistful glance after the chief teamster, Tycho led the animals to the main corral. They appeared happy to join the other four great-haulers in the middle of the ovstrala ring, and he wondered if they compared notes and gossiped about their days.
One of the younger men assigned to watching the spare beasts spat into the dirt. "Master Tycho, do we need to give yer females drops to keep them out of heat?"
Tycho shook his head. "No. They come into heat in the early fall and lay eggs around mid-winter, those that breed."
The young man did not quite sag with relief. "Ah, thank ye, sir. Truth be told, I did nae want to have to dose yon birds. They bite and kick."
Yes, they did. That was why he used them. "That they do."
"I wonder what the rumor tree inside the city says?" one of the teamsters asked later as they stood in line for their evening meal.
A stockier man, Tycho thought his name was Oska, snorted. "Probably that the entire wall now lies in a mound of rock, the doors flew as far as the northern ice, and all the guards are dead or turned into snow-pillars."
Tycho allowed himself a smile. "Probably," he allowed. "At the very least that the entire gateway fell apart, not just the gate itself." He had seen the broken gates laying on the ground. He still had difficulty believing what he'd seen. Preservation magic, healing, light magic, water-finding, beast-magic, and vermin-repelling—those all made sense. A mage who could knock down a heavy wooden and iron gate with a flick of his fingers, who could make solid ground open up under men's feet... Tycho did not know quite what to think.
"Not rumor," one of the others announced. "Ballat's going to be more than a little sore for a while. Borghind beat him to the ground, and then warned him that he'd best never allow a doe to go into heat while on the road again, or he'd have to pay life-coin for every animal involved."
Several men made the horns or crescent circles, and Tycho heard a few low whistles. Given how much a single well-trained great-hauler cost, Tycho preferred not to imagine the fines for injured or dead ovstrala, plus the loss of services and care for the pregnant female.
A courier waited at his wagon when he returned there. "His Majesty desires you to attend him when he meets Count Richmund in the morning."
Tycho bowed. "I will be there." Preferably behind the taller, more exotic guards and courtiers, where he would be neither seen nor noticed.
Alas, the chief guard beckoned him forward as they waited for the gate to open with the dawn. "His Majesty asks that you stand in the first rank, as witness, Master Tycho."
Tycho opened his mouth to protest. He was a trader, not a nobleman or diplomat. Then he glanced to the side and saw Hugan, the great cat, watching him with dark green eyes, tail swishing. The protest died aborning. As if to reinforce the point, the cat washed one enormous paw, then yawned, flashing large, dagger-sharp teeth.
And so it was that Tycho joined the emperor's advisors as they followed his wagon-sleigh into Harnancourd. Tycho had not set foot inside the city for at least ten years, and was not impressed with what he saw. Given how much the counts charged in taxes and demanded in staple-right, the streets should have been cleaner and less rutted, the market square in better condition. The entire city seemed shabby and worn, in need of paint and minor repairs. One shop had oiled paper in place of a broken bit of glass, and the leg of the outside display had been patched with two pieces of wood and rawhide. He frowned. That spoke poorly of the merchant and of the city.
The count's palace, however, gleamed, and Tycho wondered how much of the silver that should have gone to the temples graced the outside of the palace in the form of statues and gilding. The northmen appeared unimpressed. Tycho glanced at the length of the palace, which took up one entire side of the market square, counted the statues, and decided that at least five koog of gold shone in the morning sun. He could buy a share in a very good ship for that. Or feed the family and his servants and apprentices and journeymen for almost half a year if they were thrifty. That did explain where the funds for the wall had come from. Tycho caught a glimpse of the emperor's face. Mimir Borghindson, the fifth of that name, frowned and Hugan's ears had tipped back.
Ten men and women in matching crimson and white tabards and hose or skirts preceded the count. Count Richmund himself wore a pierced-leather doublet of something with scales on it, white hose, a carmine red tunic, and polished black boots with white stripes down the sides. His black belt gleamed, and he carried both short-sword and rapier. Tycho glanced at the man's codpiece and then looked up to the heavens. Did it double as his purse, to be so large? He thought he heard a little snicker from behind him, and the corner of his mouth twitched. The doublet should not have been dyed, and to use that sort of leather as pierced and patterned material? A waste of fine hide.
As the heralds announced the lords, one of the lower-ranked courtiers whispered to Tycho, "What think ye of our host, Master Tycho?"
"I think his tailor should be whipped around the walls for abusing good leather so. And those boots will not last a year should he actually need to walk or fight." If there was one thing Tycho Rhonarida knew, it was leather.
"Ah." The man sounded satisfied, as if Tycho had confirmed his own observations.
The Great Northern Emperor listened to the herald, then inclined his head toward Count Richmund. "We are curious about the wall across the river. Is this of Harnancourd?"
"Yes, Most Imperial Majesty. It is to keep the bandits away from the road." The count pitched his voice so that all could hear, and he stuck his chest out. "The safety of trade is most important, Most Imperial Majesty."
The emperor nodded, the sunlight catching the white and black gems and red saka in his small crown. "Indeed. We are curious why your guards demanded ten vlaat per wagon to permit us to enter the city's lands, as well as demanding staple right."
Ten vlaat? Tycho wanted to thump the count himself. That was... and staple right? He felt his temper beginning to rise and made himself release his grip on his staff. When he'd had to pass through six years before, the only charge was staple right or four vlaat per wagon.
"Ah, because they were fools who mistook you for traders, Imperial Majesty, and who will be punished for such an affront."
Tycho took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, so that he would not use his staff to beat sense into the nobleman. Or cry insult.
The Great Northern Emperor glanced at Tycho, nodded a fraction of a finger's length, then turned hi
s attention once more to the count. Richmund seemed to be taking silence for approval, because he smiled. "As you saw for yourself, the improvements to the road and the ford make trade much easier, and safer, and ten vlaat per wagon is not too high a price. And my people deserve staple-right. After all, without the salt we produce, no one could tan or make glass or preserve food."
"Indeed." Tycho thought he saw a puff of cold-steam in the emperor's words.
"And as you well know, most wise and Imperial Majesty, merchants," Richmund raised one hand, as if cupping something in the palm. "Merchants do no work, face no great risks, improve nothing that they transport, and charge far too much for what small service they do provide. The rules of just price need be enforced, and so I do, through the wagon charge. Your most generous ancestor granted Harnancourd staple-right in exchange for our salt."
"That is true. And that was in the days before salt springs and mines opened in Lamanti, Halsaat, Briarly, and Oslaberg." The emperor's eyes narrowed, and Hugan's tail began swishing as the cat stood. A murmur arose from the gathered townsfolk at the sight of the cat, and the front row shifted back a little. "Tycho Rhonarida, what are the laws of just price; the overall laws, not specific."
Tycho struggled to keep his composure and to reply without sounding nervous or angry. "Most Imperial Majesty, those goods required for life and limb are designated as leb-goods, and are to be sold at no more than the cost of the goods plus transportation if transportation is required, and that being only the raw cost of transportation, without profit, so that all men might live. So the gods have decreed since before the Great Cold. Such is the just price of leb-goods, although it may vary down if charity warrants." Only down, never up, until the priests decreed a change or the dearth passed.
"But just price does not apply to luxuries and those goods not needed for life, does it?" Now the emperor addressed Count Richmund.
"All men know that merchants charge too much. That's why they are all rich—they gather what they do not sow, and sell what they did not labor to make, Your Majesty." The count glared at Tycho, all but accusing him of overcharging and theft.
One of the priests standing among the people coughed, then frowned. His robes looked to Tycho as if he were one of Gember or Korvaal's priests. After another cough, he turned away from the scene. The people parted for him, then closed again. Did the priest have another duty to attend to? Or did he not care to risk being called up to testify against his count? Tycho mastered his irritation. He did not have to live with Richmund.
"You did not answer our question, Count Richmund. Does just price apply to goods that are not leb-goods?"
The count's face turned pink under his tan. "No, Your Majesty, it does not, but the gods frown on overcharging and greed, and walls and guards cost money. My people cannot afford to protect merchants without assistance, so it is only fair for those who benefit the most from walls and guards to pay for them."
The fur on Hugan's neck and shoulders began fluffing, while the Great Norther Emperor's voice remained calm and level. "Were the killers of Andrade Godkurt Rhonarida and his son and teamsters ever found?"
Richmund blinked. "Who, Imperial Majesty?"
"The merchant from Rhonari who was robbed and killed by bandits along with his son after he crossed the river, six years ago."
"No, but the wall and gate prevent such things now. And all who transport valuables know the risks." The laughter under Richmund's voice made Tycho's blood pound, and he forced his hand to release the clenched grip on his staff. Behind the count, the people of the city rustled and shifted back farther, and a few eased away from the crowd, probably about to leave. The novelty of seeing the Great Northern Emperor likely did not warrant being present when their lord angered a man who had torn down the wall with magic alone. Or so Tycho would have done, had it been a man of Rhonari who so angered the emperor.
"What gate? Our people saw no gate when they crossed through the wall." The cold voice caressed the words. Count Richmund opened his mouth, then closed it, looking very much like a sucker-head fish. "We revoke your staple right, for we see that it goes only to your benefit, not that of your people."
The crowd gasped. Richmund's eyes bulged so far that Tycho feared they would fall from his white face. "You cannot do that! Without staple-right, they will starve or go naked." His mouth snapped shut, as if trying too late to stop the truth.
"So the priests of Yoorst, Gember, and Korvaal, as well as of Harnan, told us last night. Our sight mages showed us the bounties in your granaries and the dearth in your people's homes." The emperor waved gloved fingers, and a dozen guards appeared. He stood. "Hear us, people of Harnancourd. We revoke staple right. We also revoke any and all taxes your former lord charged this year. Your priests are going through the count's papers and treasury so that they may ensure what was paid will be returned to the proper individuals." His eyes narrowed, as did the cat's eyes. "Nothing more will be given, unless you make blood claim against Richmund and it is proven."
"No! You cannot do this," the nobleman lunged forward, drawing his sword as he charged. The emperor leapt down from the platform, drawing his own blade as he did. Richmund's passion and desperation served him poorly, and the emperor blocked the wild blows, then easily and neatly removed the count's sword arm, stepping out of the way of the spray of blood. The count stared at the arm lying on the ground, then at the emperor, then collapsed. No one moved to his aid, not even his sworn guards. That spoke volumes to Tycho, and he wondered what other appetites beside material greed the count had indulged at his people's expense. Or perhaps cheating his people and leaving them hungry was enough.
The emperor returned to the platform, and rested the tip of his incarnadined sword on the wood. "Who would take up leadership of the city of Harnancourd? Do you desire self-rule as a free city?"
After much shifting around and muttering, two older men and a woman in good but patched clothes came forward, along with a priest of the local god. "Most Imperial Majesty," they knelt before the platform, the unconscious count between them and the emperor. "Most Imperial Majesty, we thank you for justice, and request that the younger son of the Duke of Vanderbaugh come to lead us. Count Richmund has no children living."
"The younger son of the Duke of Vanderbaugh?"
"Yes, Most Imperial Majesty," the priest said. "He is of age, and is known for wise council and moderate tastes. He and his leman have three children and he has acknowledged and raised them properly, for all that he and their mother are not permitted to marry." Tycho guessed that the priest did not approve of the duke's rule.
"He likes to hunt, Most Imperial Majesty, but has no other major flaws that men know of," one of the common men sighed. "We can live with a hunter, Most Imperial and Gracious Majesty."
The emperor hid his mouth behind one hand, as if concealing a smile, and Tycho himself struggled not to chuckle, given the fate of other hunting nobles within recent memory. "So be it. Send a messenger to the younger son of the Duke of Vanderbaugh. If he will renounce all claims to his father's title and estate, we grant him lordship over Harnancourd, so long as he rules justly and within the limits set by the gods and the emperor."
Pure relief suffused the faces of the crowd, and a loud cheer filled the air. Hugan flowed off the platform, scraped dirt over the count's legs, then returned to the platform. At the emperor's nod, two men carried the former noble away. He might live, if he had not lost too much blood and if a healing mage could be found in time. The gods would decide, as they always did. Tycho decided that he was satisfied. It would not bring back Godkurt or his son, but justice had been served, and a point made to others.
3
The Secret of Imperial Magic
Later that evening, as he ate the evening meal and considered matters, Tycho wondered why the emperor had not used magic to stop Richmund. It would have been less dangerous to have turned him into a frog, if those legends were true, or to send him flying as the emperor had done with the gates. Perhaps magic ha
d rules the way trade had rules, and the emperor could not use attack magic against single individuals if they did not use magic first. Traders and travelers could not pre-emptively attack suspected bandits, no matter how strong their suspicions.
Or perhaps something akin to guild rules applied to all magic. The gods had set the general rules for just price, and they certainly could also set rules for magic use. Since he was not a mage, Tycho would not have heard of such, just as he did not know the secrets of the dyers and smiths. Although only the Great Norther Emperor practiced great magics, that had not always been the case, or so the priests and old records claimed, and rules may well have existed. The longer he considered the idea—and chewed the exceedingly mature meat—the more sense that made. After all, one of the archive notaries had found a reference to a rule that had once existed about the legal penalties of building with snow before a certain date. No one did such things, or could do such things now, but apparently they had once and so rules had existed.
That might also explain why so little visible magic graced the emperor's court. Lamps and candles needed no magic, but mage lights did mark various parts of the camp and the ovstrala corrals. Tycho personally approved of the thrift. After all, it was his tax money that went to lamps and mages.
"So, two more nights out and then the first pfalz," a woman in a healer's vest stated.
"Good. We have tempted the White Lady too much, sleeping in the open." The speaker spat to the side, then took another bite of way-meat. "I cannot believe the stories that the southerners sleep out, on the ground yet! How have they survived so long?"
Tycho weighed matters for a moment, then said, "Quite well, so long as you do not try to sleep in a stream on a rainy night, or on a grass-clipper mound. The grass clippers also like lice and little vermin, and are not so careful about what might be under their prey."
Merchant and Empire Page 4