The Three Lands Omnibus (2011 Edition)

by Dusk Peterson

  So then I poured wine into one of the flasks from the shelves, and this time I was the one who offered the wine, and everything was all right after that. But it made me wonder in how many ways I have hurt Carle's feelings since my arrival, without clear understanding of what I was doing. I have so much to learn about being an Emorian.

  o—o—o

  The twenty-third day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.

  I'm writing this entry under candlelight; it is not quite dawn yet, though from where I sit, next to the window, I can see the sky turning violet above the stone houses of the city. A few men are walking about already, all unarmed; my ears still burn when I remember Carle's laughter yesterday when he noticed how I gaped at such men. Yet I think he understood my reaction better than anyone else would – certainly better than our host would have.

  Yesterday evening, after we had delivered Fowler safely to the city physicians, I thought that we would proceed directly to the army camp, but Carle shook his head. "Never disturb an army official when he is off duty," he said. "That's the first rule you should learn as a bottom-ranked soldier. Of course, that rule doesn't apply to me and the lieutenant, since we're always on duty alert, but other army officials appreciate their leisure time. We'll see Wystan in the morning. In the meantime, I'd like you to meet Neville."

  Neville, it turns out, is the palace clerk I heard Carle talking about several days ago; he was a mountain patrol guard for a year. "He's the eldest son of a town baron," Carle explained as we wound our way through the market, drawing stares from passersby who noticed Carle's uniform and sword. "He doesn't stand on ceremony, though. He considers himself to be just another patrol guard."

  I'm glad Carle explained this to me; I never would have guessed otherwise.

  We sat a little while later in Neville's living chamber, surrounded by a dozen lamps. Made of glass. I'd never seen glass before, but Carle assured me that that was what they were. Certainly the lamp-glass made the light much brighter than if the candle-flames had been shining through horn, which allowed me to appreciate in full measure the rich tapestries, satin cushions, gilded plaster, and jewel-spangled wine cups. No less than six servants hovered at our sides, offering imported Koretian wine, delicate pastries from Emor's Central Provinces, and Marcadian berries that exploded with flavor when one bit into them. The only missing objects of richness were Daxion nuts, and Neville apologized for their absence.

  "My father has cut down on my allowance," he explained with a cheerful smile as he held his cup carelessly to the side. The servant next to him promptly stepped forward to pour the wine. "I think he wants to encourage me to work harder as a clerk so that I can win my elevation – hence the incentive. And here I've been promising for three years to introduce you to the delights of fine eating, Carle."

  "There's no hurry, sir." Carle, much to my surprise, was sitting relaxed among the opulence, barely glancing at the servants, but his voice had taken on the same tone it did when he was receiving orders from Quentin. "This winter will be soon enough to begin my introduction to the decadent ways of civilian life."

  Neville laughed appreciatively before turning to address one of the servants, who had brought forward a new wine bottle for inspection. I was sitting on a couch next to Carle; I took the opportunity to whisper into his ear, "I thought you said that Neville was a bottom-ranked soldier. Why do you keep calling him 'sir'?"

  I decided afterwards that patrol-level whispers should be spoken only when the room does not contain third parties who formerly served as patrol guards. Neville turned instantly, his eyebrows shooting toward the mosaic ceiling.

  His voice was even, though, as he said, "Rank is always a difficult subject for Koretians to master."

  I felt Carle stir beside me, clear his throat, and then draw breath and hesitate, as though reviewing in his mind the text of a book entitled, "How to Rebuke the Man You Have Just Called 'Sir.'" His face must have reflected what he was thinking, for Neville quickly added, "My apologies. I meant 'Koretian-born Emorians,' of course."

  "But we have ranks in Koretia," I said, then added belatedly, "sir."

  Neville smiled then, the laughter lines crinkling in his face. He is eighteen, a year younger than Carle, but the wave of the hand with which he dismissed the servants was so authoritative that I began to wonder whether I had misheard what Carle had told me.

  "Certainly you have rank in Koretia," he said. "You have slaves, lesser free-men, lesser . . . No, you tell me. What ranks do the Koretians recognize, and what do the titles signify?"

  It was then that I began to feel acutely uncomfortable and to wish that I'd taken more opportunity to talk with Carle during our journey. But I replied obediently, "Slaves are . . . Well, they're slaves. Lesser free-men are free but not noble. Lesser noblemen are village barons and their heirs. High noblemen are rulers, lords, town barons, and their hei— Oh, I see." I felt my ears grow warm.

  Neville made no further reference to the matter, though the look he gave me managed to convey the fact that he expected me to be grateful for his mercy. Instead, he turned his gaze toward Carle and said, "That reminds me, Carle. Last week, the Chara handed down a new decision which was meant to settle the question of whether honorary lords are equal in rank to council lords."

  "But it didn't settle that question, sir?" Carle leaned forward; I caught a glimpse of the spark in his eyes.

  "Apparently the Chara's clerk and the council law researchers have been working late into the night to try to decipher the implications of the decision. Part of the decision, you'll be interested to hear, cites titles given to members of the royal family over the years, and another part of the decision rests on the question of whether a younger son automatically becomes heir to a nobleman if the eldest son dies. Apparently that issue ties in with the question of whether honorary lords are under the care of the Chara or whether, as the lordship of dominion governors would appear to suggest, they are in fact under the care of the Great Council—"

  "Was the decision of the Chara Rufus's reign mentioned, sir?" Carle broke in. "I understand the Chara cited that in a case eight years ago, when he confirmed that the heirs of cousins in the royal family normally cannot inherit nobility – not that that needed to be confirmed. But that case also dealt with the question of whether being under the immediate care of the Chara brings obligations of special duty—"

  I lost track of what was being said after that. Instead, I was noting how swiftly Carle turned the conversation from the general discussion that Neville had begun, transforming it into a minute examination of past court cases dating back to the early years of Emor. Within a short while I was dazed, and I think Neville must have been as well, for he eventually leaned back in his chair, gave an indulgent smile, and said, "We don't want to discuss law matters too difficult for your partner to follow, Carle. Perhaps Adrian has a question or two about what we've been discussing?"

  It was a generous remark, and it was aimed entirely, I could guess, at having me ask the ignorant questions that Neville himself was afraid to voice. I didn't dare look Carle's way, but I saw the steady manner in which he set down in his cup on the marble table before him, and I knew that he too had guessed Neville's motives for turning the conversation toward me.

  It was in my spirit to ask Neville the question that was really bothering me – why he baroned his rank over Carle when Carle knows so much more about the law than he does – but instead I said, in a voice that was a tad bit too cool, "I was still wondering about Emorian rank, sir. Forgive me for my great ignorance of such matters, but I don't understand why what we discussed before has any application to this evening's conversation, since we're meeting in private and are not discussing official matters."

  Neville lifted his eyebrows again; this time a sardonic smile was on his face. "Carle," he said, "can you make any sense of your partner's thoughts? I confess that his reasoning is somewhat high for me."

  "I'm afraid I can, sir." There was genuine regret in Carle's voice, and I real
ized, with a lowering of heart, that this must mean I had acted the fool. "In Koretia, rank is linked with duty, so that when a nobleman is off-duty – when he is meeting privately with friends, for example – he will address the friends as though they were his equals."

  "Ah." It was amazing how, in that single syllable, Neville managed to convey his full opinion of Koretian barbarities. "Well," he said, his voice taking on the tone of a schoolmaster, "matters are different here in Emor. Here in Emor, if you meet a nobleman— No, perhaps we should explain this by way of the law. Carle?" The largesse of his gesture conveyed the impression that he could easily explain the matter himself but was allowing his inferior guest the honor.

  "Let's take a court case," Carle replied. "A lesser free-man strikes another lesser free-man. He is judged to have acted without clear understanding. What sentence does the judge give him?"

  I felt warmth run through my body as though it were a Koretian summer night rather than a cool Emorian evening. It was not simply that Carle had mentioned the case without revealing to Neville that I had been the prisoner. It was that he had mentioned the only law I yet knew, thus allowing me the opportunity to display my knowledge before Neville, who was so sure of my Koretian ignorance.

  "Twenty to sixty lashes," I said in a casual voice. "In most cases, forty lashes would be the sentence – unless, of course, the man was a soldier and had previously been sentenced to a rebuke."

  I noticed the slight intake of Neville's breath, but he covered it quickly by sipping from his wine and then saying, "The same man has struck a nobleman, rather than striking a lesser free-man. What is his sentence?"

  I hesitated, trying to guess the nature of this trap; I dared not look Carle's way. Finally I said hesitantly, "Sixty lashes?"

  Neville allowed himself to flash a tight smile of triumph before replying, "Branding."

  "But—" I stopped short, aware that any protests I babbled now would be scored on Neville's inner chart of victory. In the end I said, in a carefully controlled voice, "I see. The crime is considered worse because the man who has been attacked holds greater duties."

  "No." To my distress, exasperation filled the voice of Carle. "The prisoner was given a higher sentence because the man he attacked was above his rank. That's the only reason. The nobleman in question could have been an imbecile, unfit to carry out any duties, and the crime would still have been considered great."

  "But . . ." This time I turned toward Neville in genuine bewilderment. "Is that fair? The crime is the same in both cases. It shouldn't matter what title the victim holds."

  Neville relaxed back into the softness of his armchair. I sensed that my consternation had cleansed him of his earlier annoyance. "It works the opposite way as well, though," he said. "If I struck you, a lesser free-man, then I would receive a higher sentence than Carle would if he struck you. My rank offers me greater protection against crimes against myself, but it also burdens me with greater responsibilities toward those of lesser rank. That's why you don't see Emorian noblemen being placed on trial very often," he added with a quick smile. "There just aren't sufficient rewards for committing a crime if you're a nobleman."

  I sat staring at him in the flickering white light of the cut-glass lamps, watching sparks flare up periodically in the gilt of the plaster, and listening to the logs moan in the weariness of the late evening. Beside me, Carle said with urgent passion, "Adrian, listen. Tomorrow you will give your oath to the Chara. Would you strike him under any circumstances? Even if he were off-duty? And would you complain if you were given a higher sentence for a crime against him than you would receive for committing a crime against me?"

  I felt a deep stillness enter into me then, one I hadn't felt for many weeks – one I hadn't felt since the last time Fenton and I spoke. I understood. Not for the reasons that Carle had mentioned; I understood because Fenton and I had talked about this many times. About loving the gods. About loving them without reserve and accepting without complaint the mercy and vengeance they gave. And most of all – this was something Fenton told me, and I doubt any other priest would have said it – about taking that love and acceptance and giving it to all the people around you, as a sign of your love for the gods.

  All of that is false, I now know; the gods are evil, and they care nothing for love. For many weeks now that knowledge has been an emptiness inside me, longing to be filled. And now I had learned that what Fenton had said was true – not about the gods, but about the Chara. Fenton must have taken what he learned in Emor as a child and applied that knowledge to the gods, trusting them to be as honorable as the Chara who had once been his ruler. Fenton was wrong about the gods, but he was not wrong about the Chara, and now I could take all that he had taught me and put it to use.

  "I see." I looked at Carle, forgetting that Neville was there. "You serve those above you in rank in the same way that you serve the Chara, and they care for you in the same way that the Chara does. To serve and care for each other is a way of showing your loyalty to the Chara."

  Carle said nothing; he only smiled. I don't even remember how the conversation turned after that. But what I've decided – and I must finish this entry quickly, for I can hear the others stirring from their sleep – is that it doesn't matter what my life was like in the past, and I needn't tell Carle anything that might discomfit him. Anything good that happened to me in the past is here with me now, as I serve the Chara.

  The rest can be forgotten.

  o—o—o

  The twenty-fourth day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.

  I have had the greatest disappointment of my life: I am not going to be able to meet the Chara after all.

  "His schedule is too busy at the moment, I fear," explained Captain Wystan when we met with him yesterday morning. "He is preparing for the wedding of his young sister – an important wedding from the point of view of the law, since the groom will become second in line for the throne, after the Chara's son. Or is he third in line? Carle, you know these matters better than I do."

  He had raised his voice to be heard above the rain. Yesterday's storm came on with a suddenness that startled me; winds pulled dark clouds from the north as quickly as though they were a vanguard army on the move. Fortunately, the army tents are waterproof – the Emorian engineers are just as skilled as I'd always heard – so only a trickle of rain came though a gap in the tent where part of the cloth didn't overlap properly. The tent's brazier was blazing fiercely when we arrived, so that Carle and I, still soaked from the rain, were able to warm ourselves. This was in fact the first order I received from Wystan, which says much about the man who will be my high official.

  Carle was in the process of hanging our wet cloaks from one of the interior tent poles. He turned immediately and said, "Second in line, sir, since the Chara Anthony has no brother. The line of succession is son, grandson, son-in-marriage, brother, brother-in-marriage, uncle, and nephew."

  "And cousin," said Wystan with a smile. "We must not forget the Chara's cousins."

  "The succession is unlikely to fall that far, sir," Carle replied stiffly.

  Wystan raised an eyebrow, but merely replied, "Unlikely, yes, since the Chara's son will doubtlessly produce an heir of his own soon. At any rate, my old captain says that Lord Nicholas gives the appearance of being a happily married man." Seeing my puzzled look, he added, "The Chara's son, Lord Nicholas, is presently living in Marcadia, assisting the subcommander of the Marcadian Army. I am originally from that dominion, as you will have guessed."

  I hadn't guessed, for I'd assumed that his white hair came from old age; Wystan appears to be approaching his sixtieth year. But now I remembered Sewell's white hair, and I realized that Wystan must be the second Marcadian I've met. I had a sudden vision of the whole of the Emorian Empire, stretching from Southern Emor on through the Central Provinces and up to the northern dominions of Marcadia and Arpesh, with nothing beyond them except the ice-bound mainland, where the barbarians live. . . . A moment later, I discovered that
my breath was still caught by the wonder of it. All that land, bound in peace by the Chara's law. If only the lands to the south of Emor . . .

  I woke from my dreaming then as I caught sight of Carle, cloaked once more, ducking through the tent flap, and I realized that Wystan must have asked him to leave so that he could talk with me alone. My stomach tightened.

  In fact, the interview was relaxed. The hardest part was explaining about my blood vow. When I'd finished, Wystan nodded and said, "Your lieutenant is right in believing that your broken vow is no barrier to your joining the Emorian army. From an Emorian point of view, you showed more honor by breaking your vow than you would have shown by keeping it. In any case, the law takes no notice of crimes committed in another land, unless those crimes are against the Chara's law as well." He leaned back in his chair. We were both seated, and Wystan had moved his chair out from behind his small desk so that we would be closer together and so that our conversation could not be overheard by Carle and Wystan's orderly, who were conversing outside the tent.