Tyvian started down the stairs with uneven steps. The coach was waiting.
Myreon said nothing else. The silence descended again. Tyvian didn’t have a way of banishing it, so he let it persist. It was the worst kind of silence—one heavy with thought, with brooding.
Tyvian fiddled with the ring. It, at least, had no opinion about the day’s events—Myreon was wrong about that. The ring did not much deal in indirect morality—the morality of distant effects. He supposed that meant he didn’t either. What fault of his could it be if he threw away half an apple that might feed a child halfway across the world? Was he supposed to carry the world on his shoulders, only for him to crumble beneath the weight?
He looked at Myreon. She was looking out the coach windows, her posture stiff, the graceful curve of her neck catching the light in just that way that made him want to touch her. But the set of her jaw and the frame of her shoulders were clear—she most certainly did not want that. She was too busy carrying too much weight. From somewhere. For someone.
At the border between Davram Heights and Laketown, the road was blocked by a toll house. They had to roll to a stop and wait their turn as men in the livery of a Davram vassal inspected each conveyance and levied the appropriate toll.
There was a short line of wagons and carriages ahead of them, and so Tyvian resolved to get himself out of the silent prison of his coach and see about stretching his stiff legs a bit. He opened his door and was about to leave, when he stopped short.
There was a little girl—perhaps seven years old—in a moth-eaten dress, her hair messy, mud on her face from the passing coaches. She knelt beside the coach door, hands outstretched. “Alms, sir?” she squeaked. Her voice was hoarse.
Tyvian was struck dumb for a moment. At last he managed, “What did you say?”
The little girl sighed. Tyvian thought, for a moment, that she was about to run away, but something steeled her resolve. “Alms, sir. Alms for the poor?”
The ring tightened on his finger, but Tyvian barely paid attention to it. “Who’s your liege?”
The girl’s eyes widened as she got a good look at him and she stood up. Her eyes fell to her feet. “Your Grace?”
“Your liege—who is it? What fief do you hail from, girl?” Tyvian staggered down from the coach to stand beside her, leaning on his cane. “Tell me.” He softened his voice in a way that he hoped a child might find encouraging. “It’s all right. I’m not angry.”
The girl managed an awkward curtsey. “The Dame Hesswyn, Countess of Davram, Your Grace. It’s to her my father pays taxes.”
A shadow fell over them. “There a problem here, Your Grace?” Tyvian turned to see a man wearing the livery of House Davram—thorns and boars.
“No. No problem. I was just speaking to the girl.” Tyvian looked back to see the girl had run away.
The man—evidently one of the toll house’s men—shook his head. “Vermin keep showing up, day in and out, begging from travellers. Sorry for the trouble, milord.”
“Is this normal?” Tyvian looked to where the girl must have run—there was a stable and a small inn just down a side-road from the main boulevard. Gathered in front of it were maybe a dozen people, all disheveled to varying degrees, sitting on the front porch and passing a clay pipe around.
The toll man shrugged. “Get a few most years. Never so many as this, though. Tough times in the country, they say.”
The ring was crushing his hand. Tyvian was abruptly aware of it, and of how he looked in his fine doublet and starched lace ruff, Chance by his side in a jewel-encrusted scabbard. He turned to tell Myreon he’d be right back, but found her staring at him already. “Go on,” she said, “I’ll wait.”
Tyvian nodded and, legs stiff, limped off the road and down a little incline into the inn-yard. He spotted the girl, clinging to the leg of a young woman in a similarly tatty dress. Judging from the simple pattern and color, they were likely made from the same bolt of cloth. They saw him coming—they all did. Whatever conversation had been taking place stopped. The clay pipe was no longer passed; it remained in the clutches of an old, old man with a patchy beard.
Tyvian had never given alms in his life. Never. The poor were ever present, inexhaustible—charity in the form of a few silver crowns in a few tin cups was a wasted effort, a pointless gesture to assuage the giver’s guilt. Tyvian had never been one to feel guilty. At least not until recently.
Something about this was different, though. These people should not have been poor, this he knew. Were they lazy, then? Leeches looking to score a quick copper from an unsuspecting rube of a lord? He looked at their faces, at their hands as he approached—no, these were working people. He could see the calluses on their fingers, the sun spots on their faces. Even their clothing, ragged though it was, had been sewn in better days from sturdy material by a skilled hand. He could hear Myreon’s voice in his head These people are suffering.
When he got within easy earshot, the group curtsied or bowed as required and waited for him to say something. He cleared his throat. “What are you all doing here?”
The girl’s mother spoke. “Alms, sir. We need money. It’s been a hard winter.”
“Last year’s harvest was robust,” Tyvian countered. “You should have saved.”
The old man with the pipe coughed and shook his head. “Taxes went up, begging your pardon, Your Grace. Our Lords took double the share—not enough left to feed us. We need money for food.”
“Food?” Tyvian frowned. “Aren’t you farmers? Purchased from whom? From where?”
The old man shrugged. “Where else? From our lady’s own stores. Said she’d sell at half the rate.”
Tyvian could scarcely believe his ears. “At half the . . . Hann’s Boots, man, she’s selling you your own crops and livestock back to you?”
They all nodded. The little girl, emboldened by the group, added, “And she’s levied my papa into the wars! Before planting, too!”
More nods. More complaints of early levies and high taxes, and from more places than just Hesswyn’s fief, too—from two other lesser lords as well. Given the run-up to the spring campaigns, Tyvian realized that it likely wouldn’t be much different anywhere in the area. Maybe anywhere in Eretheria at large. “Gods,” he breathed.
The people stretched out their hands to him. “Alms, sir!” they cried. The girl’s mother looked on the verge of tears. “Please, sir—I can tell you are of good heart! Have pity! It shames us to ask, but we must! We must!”
Tyvian shook his head, still in disbelief. This had to be what Myreon meant. What kind of madwoman was Velia Hesswyn, to drive her own vassals to this pass?
Tyvian dug into his purse and gathered up a few silvers. Then he stopped. “No. Not nearly enough.” He took the purse from his belt and upended it on the ground. About twenty gold marks and twice that in silver hit the muddy ground. “There—take it all. Feed your families.” On his finger, the ring relaxed its crushing grip.
The people exchanged looks. “But, Your Grace,” the old man said quietly, almost under his breath. “If we come back with this much . . . Dame Hesswyn might . . . well . . . she might get to thinkin’ we’ve got more to tax.”
“Then tell her where you got it. Tell her I gave it to you because she’s starving her own damned people and going to wind up with her head on a pike if she isn’t more careful.” Tyvian grimaced. Not going to get invited to the Blue Party with that attitude, Reldamar.
The people paled at his words. “And . . . and who are you, Your Grace?” the mother asked, curtsying as low as she could.
Tyvian groaned inwardly—he’d been hoping to avoid this part. “My name is . . .” He thought about it—should he lie? Just the thought of doing so made the ring throb. That settled it. Go to hell, trinket. “My name is Waymar of Eddon.”
All of them—every single one—gasped as though he were Hann Returned. They knelt and bowed their heads. The old man had tears welling in his eyes. “I knew it,” he said, his voice c
racking. “I followed your father. I’ll follow you, Your Grace.” He came forward and kissed Tyvian’s hand. “Only point the way.”
Tyvian recoiled, his hand darting back as though bitten. Before anyone else could swear fealty, he fled back to the coach as though chased, stiff legs be damned.
He got in and slammed the door. His heart was pounding. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Myreon never took her eyes off him, her expression unreadable. She reached up and pounded on the ceiling of the coach. With a shudder, they began to roll away.
After a time, Myreon asked him one question. “Was that the ring back there, or was it you?”
Tyvian didn’t answer.
Chapter 10
RSVP
By dinner, the responses to Tyvian’s morning invitations began to flow in. Chief among the array of guests was the Countess of Davram. This was a mild surprise, as Tyvian rather doubted the woman would show up herself, but it was a welcome one—an embarrassing salon attended by a Countess would be sufficient to secure Tyvian’s meager political goal of being forgotten as soon as humanly possible and never mentioned in polite company again. Of course, such an RSVP meant that Hool’s salon was absolutely going to happen the day after tomorrow—it was official now, and vested with all the permanence the Eretherian social calendar conferred. There was no turning back. All that remained was to get their household in order so that the event would be merely awkward and not a flaming catastrophe.
Over a plate of braised pork loin in a white wine reduction with princess mushrooms, Tyvian explained the finer points of etiquette. “First rule: no hitting anyone.”
Hool swallowed a slice of pork loin whole, giving Tyvian a glimpse of her white fangs. “What if they deserve to be hit?”
“I reiterate—no hitting anyone. This rule couldn’t be clearer, really.”
Dinner was attended by Brana, Hool, Artus, and himself. Myreon had again vanished into the city, claiming she had some sorcerous materials to purchase. Sir Damon had insisted on remaining that evening as added security—he had shown up wearing a smallsword and a buckler, of all things, and was solemnly pacing the grounds as sentry. Tyvian hoped the man had a bladeward, or he was likely to wind up with a knife in his kidneys.
“Why can’t I hit people?” Hool asked.
Tyvian grimaced. “If you hit someone, you will wind up in a duel.”
Hool’s ears perked up. “But then I get to kill them—there, problem solved.”
Tyvian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Second rule—no duels.”
Brana looked up from his plate, which he was busy licking clean with his broad tongue. “Wrestling?”
“Wrestling falls under ‘hitting,’ so no.” He looked at the two gnolls. “Incidentally, you two should be wearing your shrouds. What if Sir Damon were to come in?”
Hool snorted. “He’s on the other side of the house right now. I can smell his terrible perfume.”
Artus frowned. “He wore perfume for sentry duty?”
“He’s always wearing that stuff.” Hool sucked down another slice of pork. “Always.”
“This reminds me of another rule for the salon: no sniffing the air.”
Hool licked her fingers clean. “Why are all these rules just for me and Brana?”
“Because, as he is a human being, Artus has a distinct advantage over you two when it comes to interacting politely with other human beings.”
Artus nodded. “And he also already told me this stuff.”
“And I already told him this stuff. Years ago,” Tyvian confirmed. He sipped his wine—a cool, fruity white from some new Saldorian vineyard. Quite good for a table wine, he supposed. He’d have to order another case.
Brana belched at a volume that caused the chandelier to shake. “What about that? Can I do that?”
Tyvian sighed. “This might be an easier way to look at things: do I belch?”
“Only when you drink too much,” Hool said.
“Look, I’m only trying to ensure the two of you don’t act like barbarians.”
“I am not a barbarian,” Hool snarled. She looked at Tyvian. “If someone says that, I will break their lying jaw!”
Tyvian grimaced. “Hool, as charming as your threats of physical violence occasionally are, might we dispense with them for the time being? Just think murderous thoughts to yourself for a change.”
Hool scowled. “Then maybe don’t make me invite terrible people into my house.”
Artus frowned and sipped his own wine. “What’s the big deal? I don’t get it.”
“What don’t you get, Artus?” Tyvian asked.
“You keep talking as though we are in danger, but so far it’s just sounds like fancy clothes, cushy chairs, and good booze. Where’s the danger?”
Tyvian groaned inwardly. He wondered if he had the energy to explain. “Artus, back in your village, were there people everyone liked? People in the community that everyone envied and wanted to be like?”
“Yeah. Some.” Artus nodded. “So?”
“When those people were in trouble—if they asked for help or were threatened by danger—what happened?”
Artus shrugged. “Everybody would come to help them. There was one time Brother Cork got attacked by bandits on the road. Marik and some of my brothers rounded up a posse and rode them down.”
“Now, what about people nobody liked? People everyone thought repulsive and terrible. Any of those?”
“You mean Old Man Greeby and his mangy dogs?”
“Yes, that is precisely who I mean—did you ever help him out? If he was threatened, did you band together and bring his harassers to swift Northron justice?”
Artus scowled. “I’m not an idiot, you know. I know where you’re going with this. You want us to come outta this salon looking like Brother Cork and not Old Man Greeby.”
Tyvian motioned to the gnolls. “And his mangy dogs.”
“Watch it,” Hool growled. “I haven’t hit anybody recently and I’m starting to miss it.”
Tyvian ignored her. “Except, Artus, in this instance we aren’t talking about village politics involving nothing more than who gets snubbed at the church social or whether or not somebody’s prize hog is considered for a ribbon at the fair. We are talking about very powerful people with standing armies and lots of money and centuries of shared political history. We, as outsiders, represent a threat to their world on par with the greatest they’ve ever faced. We need them to like us, Artus, or they are going to crush us.”
“Or we could just run away, like I said.” Hool sniffed at the mushrooms, but let them lie.
Tyvian sighed. “I’m just trying to get everything back to normal.”
“What if we don’t want to go back?” Hool growled. She folded her arms and sank deep in her chair, staring at the fire.
Tyvian blinked at this, but before he could fashion a response, there was a knock at the door. He dragged his stiff body to its feet as Hool and Brana rushed to put on their shrouds—perhaps it was Myreon, home early. It wasn’t. Sir Damon stepped inside, holding an envelope. “A letter for Master Artus, sir.”
Tyvian extended his hand and the knight gave it to him. Artus was next to him before Sir Damon closed the door again. “Give it here!”
They all watched as Artus ripped open the envelope like a hound assaulting a duck. Brana came up to look over his shoulder, even though to Tyvian’s knowledge the gnoll had never quite gotten the knack for reading. They all waited as Artus squinted at the flowery handwriting, mouthing the words to himself. From this, Tyvian had a fair approximation of what the letter said before Artus looked up, eyes alight. “It’s from Elora!”
“Who is Elora?” Hool asked, still sulking in her big chair.
Tyvian shrugged. “She’s a girl—a grandniece of Countess Velia. Artus is infatuated with her.”
Artus clutched the letter to his chest. “I am not!”
Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Please—it’s painted all over your face.
You can’t even say her name without smiling or blushing.”
Brana came around in front of Artus and peered closely at his face. Then his tongue hung out and he pointed at him. “Ha ha! Artus is in love!”
“I barely know her!”
Brana danced from one foot to the other. “Artus is in lo-ove! Artus is in lo-ove!” He did a cartwheel, huffing with gnollish laughter.
So Artus punched him in the groin. During the ensuing wrestling match, Tyvian snatched the letter from the floor and looked it over. Elora, in an impeccable and polite hand, was inviting Artus for an evening stroll through the Floating Gardens. She insisted they would be properly chaperoned (though by whom was unclear). The coach was waiting outside.
Brana threw Artus bodily across the room, breaking an end table and shattering a decanter on the floor. Artus, though, was already on his feet, even if one hand was bleeding. At this point Hool stood up. “Stop it or I will sit on your heads!”
Tyvian ignored it all and went to the window that overlooked the forecourt. Sure enough, there was a coach—bearing the Hesswyn seal, no less—standing by the portico. Seals, of course, were easily forged and, looking at the handwriting in the letter, it was awfully formal for a young girl asking a boy out for a romantic walk. The flourishes at the starts of sentences were in a diplomat’s hand, for certain—staid, efficient, if still attractive. It was very possible the girl wrote the letter—the signature looked legitimate—but she had been coached. By whom, though? An older relative? A great-aunt perhaps?
Behind him, Hool was moving the dining room table and rolling up the carpet where the glass had broken. “If you’re going to wrestle, do it in the middle of the room! No more breaking things!”
Tyvian licked his lips. What was the play, here? Not youthful infatuation, certainly—he knew who the girl was and guessed she was much less impressed with Artus than he was with her. She had all the markings of a social climber. It could be nothing more sinister than her trying to get her romantic hooks into a young man who very well might wind up a prince. Or it could be something else. Was this a trap, or was this some attempt by Countess Velia to improve relations? In any event, it might be worth sending Artus just to see what they were after.
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