Riellen was nineteen, very thin, and wore thick spectacles with wire frames. She had studied sorcery, but I wondered if she had studied only so that she could be a student agitator. What I did not realize was that two years in the Wayfarer Constables had taught her a lot about leadership skills and tactics. Even I knew that good leaders give clear, simple orders, repeat them often, and get their followers to repeat them back.
Riellen wrote her speeches with these principles in mind, learned them word for word, then rehearsed them. While aboard the barge, she practiced on a cargo of sheep being taken to the Alberin markets.
"The nobles, kings, and emperors are meant to attend the welfare of the people that they rule, yet does anyone attend your welfare?" she demanded of the bland stares before her.
"Baaa!" one of her audience replied.
"No, they don't!" Riellen assured it. "They rule for their own pleasure and convenience! Oh yes, but although despotic rulers are often overthrown eventually, what are they replaced with?"
"Baaa!"
"Other kings! And then the new king, once crov/ned, makes it his highest priority to execute those who led dhe uprising. This makes sense for a king, but as a system is it fair?"
"Baaa!"
"You are right, brother, it is quite unjust. You should not just shout down with the king, you should shout down with the establishment."
"No being fleeced without representation!" called Wallas.
"Brother Wallas is correct. If you pay taxes yoq must have a say in how they are spent. You must decide ... er... I'd better change that." Riellen knelt down, dipped her goose quill in a jar of ink, scratched out some words, then scribbled a few more. She stood up again.
"Think of government as a battle between two armies. Kings make decisions about strategies and tactics, but an army of peasants could also make such decisions^ They could vote on everything."
"Too slow," I called. "Most decisions in battles have to be made quickly. By the time you have had a vote about tactics you could be defeated or even dead."
"They ... must vote for... a ruler with their confidence!" cried Riellen, while kneeling down and scribbling something new into her speech. "Someone to rule ... for them."
"Ah, so instead of an autocracy, why not a voteaucracy?" I suggested. "Rule of the vote?"
"Voteaucracy ... it does not have an inspiring ring to it," said Wallas.
"What is a vote but a demonstration of the people's will?" said Riellen.
"Demonaucracy, then?" I suggested.
"No, that sounds religious," responded Wallas.
"Electocracy?" said Riellen. "Rule by election?"
"Electocracy," said Wallas thoughtfully. "Electocracy ..."
"The word has a good edge to it," I said, feeling a little sorry for Riellen for some reason, and trying to be positive for a change.
"Yes, yes sir, electocracy is what it must be!" she cried; then she stood up again and faced the sheep. "Electocracy is what you must be ruled by, brothers and sisters. The elected choice of the voting majority must rule. Those who pay taxes, vote. Those who labor, paid or unpaid, vote. Each of us must have one vote! Each of us must want electocracy! Each of us must want it now! What do we want?" shouted Riellen.
"Catfood!" called Wallas.
"When do we want it? "
"Meow!"
Some speakers deal with annoying hecklers by witty, cutting responses that deflate them completely. Riellen dealt with hecklers by treating them as if they were enthusiastic supporters. Wallas was very effective as an annoying heckler, however, so she was getting a lot of practice at fielding sarcastic comments.
"One vote per person will unite the people against the royal establishment. United, the people are bigger, stronger, more clever, and more powerful than any establishment ruler.
"United,
"The people,
"Can never be defeated!"
"Baaa!" replied one of the more vocal and politically conscious sheep.
"United, "The tomcats,
"Can never be castrated!" suggested Wallas.
Faced with a female Wayfarer Constable preaching revolution to a cargo of sheep, and a talking tomcat heckler, the steersman on duty took ajar from his pocket, stared at it for a moment, then tossed it overboard. A sickeningly sharp pang
reminded me of something that I also needed to do. I took a small camphorwood box from my pack, wrapped it in Lavenci's portrait, then dropped the package over the side. The silver chain and black opal within the box had cost my wages for two months.
Riellen sat down beside me to write some refinements into her speech, and Wallas sauntered off to sleep on a pile of sacks at the bow. Now a thought crossed my mind. Wensomer had said that Riellen could be hurt. It did not seem likely that Riellen had anything shameful in her past, or was even capable of doing anything shameful, but the matter had been nagging away in the recesses of my mind.
"Riellen, may I ask a personal question?" I began awkwardly. "About your background, that is." i
"Certainly, sir!" she declared brightly, sitting up straight and giving me her entire attention.
"Look, I only ask as your superior. Please bear in mind that we conduct some very secret and sensitive business for our master, under the guise of being Wayfarers."
"Yes sir."
"Do you have anything shameful in your past that, well, en-; emies of the master might use to blackmail you?"
"I have done no shameful things, sir," she said readily and calmly. "Although there are things in my past that have caused me distress, and on one occasion shame, there is nothing I would not admit to."
"Ah, yes, I understand," I said quickly, suspecting the worst. "Most girls have some tale of unwanted amorous attention foisted upon them that—"
"Oh no, sir, nothing like that."
"Oh? Indeed!"
"It was when I was sixteen. I was asked to be Queen of Alberin Agricultural Market, at the midsummer fair. One had to be sixteen, and the most comely virgin of all the stallholders' and merchants' daughters."
"Ah, a great honor," I commented.
"I too thought that, sir, then some girls ... confronted me. They revealed that I was the only girl of sixteen who was a virgin, and they said most pointedly that my thin figure and spectacles rendered me ugly. My virtue became a thing of
shame. I had to endure a day of wearing a beautiful robe, leading the dancing about the ribbon pole, and parading before the revelers in the fair, all the while knowing that I was despised for being too plain to allure any youth. I smiled and acted graciously all day, but thereafter I locked myself in my room and wept for an entire week. My father was prosperous, and he loved me dearly, so he promised to send me far away, to escape my humiliation. I went to the Sargolan Empire, and studied at a provincial academy. There I met students who had ideals, and who valued me for my opinions and ideas, rather than mere feminine allure."
"Ah yes, that was in Clovesser," I recalled. "You and your friends, the Clovesser Sorceric Conspiracies and Occult Plots Exposure Collective, managed to set part of the city on fire with some dangerous etheric experiment."
"It was nothing shameful, sir."
"And touched off a riot bigger than most battles."
"We raised the consciousness of the oppressed people." I smiled and shook my heady trying not to laugh.
"Well, you certainly have ba—er, guts, Riellen. You have risen above what those silly, jealous girls could ever become, and I admire you for your unbendable spirit."
"Sir, do you really?" she gasped. "That means a lot to me. While I do not agree with your conservative political outlook, I have found your honesty, integrity, compassion, and sense of honor to be a great inspiration. I am honored to serve under your command."
"Really?" I exclaimed, staggered that she thought about me at all, let alone esteemed me—and suddenly worried that she might propose that we go belowdecks and relieve her of that bothersome virginity, which I suspected was still intact. "But I'm just a lad in the
Wayfarers," I protested.
"You could easily be more than that, sir, but you choose to be a good and honest Wayfarer inspector, striking down the unjust, and serving those in the establishment who secretly work against it."
"Riellen the master is—"
"I understand, sir, I shall be discreet, even though I have deduced what the master is doing. I choose to serve him, because I choose to be what I am as well. I could have been the
wife of some merchant, writing his letters, totaling his ledgers, and bearing his children, but I chose to be with the Wayfarers so that I can travel, observing the plight of the downtrodden commoners, and teaching them the means to raise themselves up."
When I did not reply to that, she dipped her quill in the ink again, then stared at the paper for some moments, as if her mind were elsewhere. To my astonishment, she began to sing in a soft, but clear and steady voice.
"I was the most pretty ! In Alberin City,
til • The bride of midsummer
J And queen of the fair."
That fragment from the last verse of "Bride of Midsummer" was the only music I have ever heard Riellen sing that was not some rousing political song at one of her rallies. I could think of nothing else to do but take out my bagpipes, detach the high-altitude reeds and extender pipes, then play. I started with
"The Half-Copper Reel." After listening to me practice the trills and runs somewhat unsteadily for a few minutes, Riellen declared that the reel was a fine demonstration of the creative genius of the common people, then went back to refining her latest speech. I played on.
It seems strange to say it, but even though the sun was warm, the sky was clear, there was no wind, and the river was almost dead flat, I suddenly had the feeling that a storm was not far off. It was my fancy that the cheery little tunes that I was playing might hold the unseen blackness away a little longer, and so I played long into that tranquil afternoon.
:*:
We were some days upriver from Alberin when the barge docked at the river port of Gatrov that evening. A boy came running along the docks with a sealed note for me as we tied up. It was an instruction to leave the barge and go to a tavern that was visible from where we were moored. The Jolly Bollard was a crowded, smoky place, and popular with travelers.
Because so many diverse people gathered there, it was also a place to see unusual sights. Nobody gave a second glance to a large black cat on the serving board, lapping wine from a dish. Even Riellen trying to raise the revolutionary consciousness of the serving maids drew curious stares but no particular interest from the patrons. Interestingly, the place was about evenly divided between male and female patrons, because this was the week of the World Mother Festival, when women entered the generally male preserve of taverns. Social restraints and conventions were more relaxed, and people were expected either to court each other or to keep closer company than usual with their partners—all in the name of general fertility.
"Inspector Danol, shame on you for letting the enemy catch you from behind," said a soft voice behind me.
"Marshal Essen, the day you become my enemy is the day I change sides," I said as he came around to stand beside me.
"Should I just take your report and satchel, or will you let me buy you a drink?"
Now I stood and grasped wrists with Essen, my old marshal from when I was in the Sargolan Empire's service. We called a serving maid over, ordered a jar of wine to share, and sat down. She quickly returned with our jar.
"How much?" I asked her.
"You're the lad who played the sun down on Alpindrak with bagpipes, aren't you?" she asked.
"Aye," I replied, surprised that she knew of it.
'Then for you, sir, it's free. Can't wait to tell my Donny that I met you." The serving maid skipped off, leaving us with our free jar. Essen and I filled our mugs and clanked them together.
"Where is Gilvray?" I asked. "I thought you were to be here with him."
"Dead, murdered," he whispered, his face blank. "Murdered?" I gasped.
"Here, a week ago, in a room upstairs. I was asleep next door, but I heard nothing. His body looked like it had been chopped open with a white-hot ax blade. The militia is investigating, but they would have trouble finding a beer barrel in a brewery. There was a similar murder in Alberin a month ago. The court minstrel was the victim. Of course the regent blames sorcerers, but sorcerers don't kill like that."
"What, then? Did Gilvray and the minstrel havp anything in common?"
"Nothing that I know of. I doubt they ever even met. The militia's Commander Halland thinks some daemon has escaped an illegal experiment involving sorcery."
"Captain Gilvray, a brave and honorable man," I said, oddly surprised to suddenly feel sorrow for anyone other than myself. "His lady will be desolate with grief."
"As all of us are. Do you have any cheerier news?"
"Sir, I found the empress," I declared softly. "I spoke with her." Essen twitched, even though he was trying not to display any reaction. I had achieved what every other official, constable, warrior, and noble in the empire had not been able to.
"What is her situation?" he asked urgently.
It did not take long to tell him of the abdication of Empress Wensomer, and that the disbanded High Circle of Scalticarian Initiates was intact, and probably plotting the greatest coup in the continent's history. He betrayed little emotion, merely sitting quiedy and sipping his drink from time to time.
"So, there was no coup, assassination, or abduction?" he concluded when I was done.
"That is correct, sir, she merely ran."
" 'Ran' is a passable strong word, lad. She weighed two hundred and sixty pounds when she vanished."
"Actually, she said she had herself shipped out in a crate."
"Ah, that explains much. She has halved her weight, you say?"
"Yes sir. She has a very strong will, when she chooses to use it. Manic dieting and ruthless exercise were probably her path back to a more conventional size. She looked to be in excellent trim. Quite alluring if the truth be known/'
"Ah."
He did not elaborate on that single, and rather brief, word. The silence lengthened. I drained my drink.
"Sir, how have things been in Alberin for the three months I've been gone?"
"Poorly, lad. Six more of the sorcery folk were caught and killed last month alone, now that Regent Corozan is running the empire."
"I heard that two client kings have died in mysterious circumstances, and that some of the former Secret Inquisition Constables had been seized and executed."
"Not so. The empress kept us so secret that there was no paperwork to betray us."
"Who would have thought our cover jobs in the Wayfarer Constables would become our real jobs?"
He looked across to where Wallas was now sitting on a serving maid's lap, and being fed scraps of marinated fish by another serving maid.
"About that rather overweight black cat," began Essen.
"Yes, it's Wallas."
"Hah, what a life. Surrounded by women, who stroke, cuddle, and feed him."
"But he can do no more about it than purr," I pointed out. "How would you feel?"
"Well at my age I'd also be happy enough to just stretch out and purr. Some of the time, anyway. What of Roval?"
"I managed to dry him out, but he still broods about what the sorceress Terikel did to him. Tonight he is off duty, and probably drunk." It was about now that Riellen was ejected by the taverner's wife for saying disloyal things about the regent, preaching electocracy, and trying to get the serving maids to agitate for better pay and conditions.
"Some things never change," commented Essen. "So, can I have the satchel of observations and drawings from Alpindrak?"
"Aye, here you go," I said as I handed over what had taken so long to secure.
"Big revel outside the Bargeman's Barrel after dusk," said Essen as he checked the seals.
"Indeed? I asked Riellen to get us rooms there."
&nbs
p; "Bring your pipes, you'll be welcome, especially after Alpindrak."
"Will you be there?"
"Afraid not, I'll be on a barge for Alberin in a half hour, with your report on the empress, and the Alpindrak sketches.
Oh, and one more thing. There's a lad name of Pelmore Haft-brace lives here. He's wharfmaster of Middle Wharf, so he gets to see a lot of what comes and goes. About twenty-five, blond curls, tall, well built, and a champion dancer."
"Were I a lass I'd ask where he drinks."
"Many lasses do. He's also the barony's agent of the Inquisition Constables."
"Really?" I exclaimed softly. "I thought it was Halland, the commander of the town militia."
"Apparently not. The list with Halland's name on it was a deliberate leak, to have folk like us wary of the wrong man. Now then, here's the master's orders. You're to contact a woman, name of Norellie Witchway. Tell her that Pelmore's of a mind to denounce her when the district inspector of the Inquisition visits here next week. Here are border papers for her. Escort her through Waingram Forest and into Fralland."
"Norellie Witchway. Where's she to be found?"
"Walk out the door, tum right onto Wharfway Plaza, take the fifth laneway, and she's in the ninth cottage, just behind the militia headquarters. Her sign says 'Norellie Herbs and Healing,' and she's expecting you."
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