The funny thing is, we do an honest twelve or thirteen runs before having any problems.
A tax collector catches up with us during one cash run on the outskirts of Fortrus in a town called Stone-and-Sky. We’ve stopped for a bite to eat and the clerk has taken his horse down to the stream to water it. The man is huffing and puffing to catch up with us, angry that we’ve been ignoring him for the last mile and a half.
“Didya’ not see me wavin’?” he shouts as he approaches.
Lucinda sighs. “We might as well talk to him,” she says. “And you can always tell him to talk to Barkus.”
“Might as well start a new pile for this year’s delinquency notices,” I retort. I don’t fancy being indebted to Barkus for another year, seeing the price I paid for getting clean.
The man’s coat is open, but it’s the heavy kind that the trappers wear in the mountains, and his boots are covered with mud. Underneath, I can tell from his black shirt and a pair of yellow stripes on his collar, that he’s one of Ector’s tax men, the traveling sort that knows how to get a little rough with dodgers.
He assesses Lucinda in one sweeping regard, taking in her imposing armor, the strange white starburst scar on her arm where Hawkwood struck her, the fading bruises and scabbed chin on her face, and her stony glare. Seeing all these, his anger cools a bit.
“You’re late on your taxes,” the man says simply, holding up both a tax summons and letter sewed up in another letter.
I stare at him for a minute. I know why he’s here, but with the constant money runs for Father Valoris, training with Tactus, Abbey clean-up, and coping with constant warm-to-cold temperature swings, I haven’t put much thought into making up excuses for tax collectors. I still own a humble home in Ector at Number 7 Redemption Alley, though it’s probably still boarded up at the moment, and it’s been a year since Barkus paid dues for me.
“Hmm,” I say, reaching for the letter. “What’s this?”
“Not so fast,” the tax man says, snatching it away. “Payment first. Goodies later. She said you’d cover the cost.”
“Who said?”
“Lady with red hair and a pretty dress. Said you’d gone on a trip and wouldn’t be back for a while, but that you’d definitely pay.”
I look at Lucinda, but she shrugs. The plan was for Carmen to stay with Barkus until we could come find her. But if she’s moved back into my place, then one of this man’s underlings would have found her on first review. And if Carmen’s staying in Redemption Alley again, it would be a bit of a dirty trick not paying taxes this year and getting her evicted. After all, I’ve been carrying her ring since before Deepwinter, several months actually. That’s a common-law marriage in Ector.
“Okay,” I say. “How much is it this year?”
“Twenty-five kings.”
I nearly choke. “What? Double?” It occurs to me that perhaps Barkus only covered last year’s minimum. Dirty runt-muffin.
“Yes. Twenty-five kings. Plus two months’ interest.”
“That’s it?” I ask sarcastically. “I could buy a small inn for that sum.”
“Actually, you’re also required by the kingdom of East March to pay a collector’s lodging and travel expenses.”
I yank twin daggers from the new harness on my chest. I’m in no bloody mood for haggling. Lucinda’s hand jumps to her sword.
“But I’ve stayed with friends,” he amends hastily, “so it’s just the twenty-five kings.”
“You have friends?” I mutter quietly, but I don’t press the issue. I’m the one who pulled the dagger. I wouldn’t really kill a tax collector. Everyone knows that’s the surest path to having East March’s King send his Taxwatch after you and making the short remainder of your life miserable. Fortunately for me, though, there are people stupid enough to take that risk, and the old man gets nervous when he considers that I might be one of them.
For a moment Lucinda and I stare at each other. Even without expenses, neither of us have that kind of money. My eye strays to the saddlebags.
“Teacup. Those are sacred funds,” She sounds a bit like Magnus now, but there’s a twinkle in her eye that says she won’t rat me out. Not today anyways.
“Families are sacred,” I retort, “and Carmen needs to be taken care of.”
“You’ll pay it back?”
“Of course,” I lie. I doubt I’ll be able to reimburse that sort of money anytime soon. Maybe I can trade something else of value for Magnus.
I pay the man double just to keep him off my tail for two years. “I want an official voucher,” I say, “and a writ of exemption for the expenses.”
“It takes a day to produce those documents.”
“I’m not talking about the pretty ones from a tax office. I want ones with your personal seal.”
The collector grumbles a bit about “trust these days,” but I know enough about tax collectors doubling-down. He fumbles with the wax and the seal and the signature, but eventually gets it all straight and reasonably authentic-looking. I also do a quick sketch of his face.
“What’s that for?” he asks.
“In case I meet any collectors next year.”
Once he’s gone, still headed into the city, probably to equip up for the trip south or to settle some other account, Raymond, our clerk, comes back with his horse. He doesn’t see me buckling the saddlebags back up.
“Who was that?” he asks..
“A tax collector,” I respond, smiling pleasantly. A collector in Fortrus means that the passes are opening and that it’s time to go find Carmen. “And because he had a letter for me.” I cut the thread and open it.
Lucinda smiles too, face and heart as bright as the sun. A yellow-and-blue butterfly lands on her shoulder. “Teacup, that’s wonderful. . . .”
But I don’t hear the rest of what she’s saying. A lock of Carmen’s curly, red hair—jaggedly cut as if forcibly taken—falls to the ground, and I see the wrong words on the page. Suddenly I know who’s been living in my house on Redemption Alley and charming the tax-men. It’s little Red, “the observer.” And she’s got Carmen.
About the Author
Benjamin K. Hewett is a NASA Program Analyst who lives in Houston and chases numbers for a living. Amid writing short stories, blog posts, and novels, Ben also enjoys playing with his three kids, coaching soccer, and juggling fire. He has a BA in French and a Master’s Degree in Public Administration, both from BYU. Subscribe to Ben’s newsletter or follow his blog at BKHEWETT.COM to get the latest about upcoming sequels or read what he’s thinking about.
About the Illustrator
Marta Maszkiewicz is a Warsaw-based artist specializing in the fantasy and fairy-tale genres. She creates art for books, advertisements, and computer games. When not at work, she can be found reading, gaming, doing traditional Indian dance, or serving the whims of her very own cat. Marta also has a degree in architecture, which she carefully avoids using.
SWORDS (The Paladin's Thief Book 3) Page 19