by A. C. Smyth
Chapter 7
Like them or not—and Deygan did not—the Chesammos played an essential part in the island’s economy, and recent rumours unnerved him. Chesammos raising opposition after several hundred years of domination by the Irenthi was bad enough, but his sources claimed they had stashes of the linandra stones hidden in their villages. He leaned back in his chair, surveyed the ten assembled lord and lady holders, and mentally tallied those most likely to oppose him. Those holdings which used the least Chesammos labour were likely to lend him their vote, but those who relied on Chesammos workers might be more problematic. He would have to take this slowly—ease his ideas in one at a time. Deygan was an able politician; he usually ended up getting his way in the lord holders’ assembly, often without the members realising they had been influenced.
Today an additional chair was drawn up to the table. Prince Jaevan, eldest of the king’s three surviving children, sat at his father’s right hand. Deygan’s first wife had failed to give him a healthy child, and by dying had saved him the distress of setting her aside. His second wife produced three sons and a daughter before her death two years previous. The daughter had not long survived her, but the king had a new wife; more children would likely come.
The lord and lady holders sat beneath the vaulted roof of the assembly chamber, its clerestory windows decorated with stained glass, the lower walls hung with the finest tapestries. They met here so frequently that the surroundings no longer impressed them, but Jaevan was newly enough admitted to their counsels that he still regarded the room with something approaching awe, his fingers stroking the table where the windows cast coloured ripples like oil on water. Deygan remembered that feeling. He had attended his father in this chamber as a boy, learning how to rule as he observed his elders wrangling over points of law. And the Chesammos. Always they discussed the Chesammos.
Deygan was proud of his son. At twelve, Jaevan knew two languages besides his native Irenthi, and was an accomplished archer and fencer, although his physique did not yet lend itself to Deygan’s preferred broadsword. In an unusual move, masters from the Aerie had tutored Jaevan and his brother, Marklin, for a time. Deygan intended the changers’ slant on the history, philosophy, and religion of the island and its inhabitants to give Jaevan valuable insight into the people he would one day rule. The youngest prince, six-year-old Rannon, would join his brothers in their lessons soon.
Deygan noted how Jaevan made careful notes with quill and ink as his elders spoke, the tip of his tongue poking out from one side of his mouth in concentration. He wrote a good hand, and he tucked a stray lock of white hair behind his ear when it flopped across his face as he wrote. Deygan himself wore his hair tied away from his face with a simple leather thong. His head was bare. He rarely wore his circlet any more. Let the other holders wear theirs if they wished; he wore his rank in his posture and demeanour.
“There’s more to it than that,” Lord Holder Garvan said from his position midway along the table on the opposite side from Deygan. “Linandra production has been falling steadily for the last few months. I have ordered my men to search returning digging parties starting on the next rota.”
“The number of Chesammos in the desert has fallen,” said Lord Holder Tramalick of Easthill. “Could that be behind it? Or the lack of activity from Eurna recently?”
“The mountain’s activity goes in peaks and troughs,” Lord Garvan returned. “And the time between the peaks has been getting shorter over the past few generations. The last peak of activity was nineteen or twenty years ago, as I recall, around the time you came to the throne, Sire.”
Eurna had been very active then, and Chandris had seemed likely to suffer a king’s death, a major eruption, and an enemy invasion in the space of a few weeks.
Deygan nodded. “Indeed so. There are always tremors, of course, and the movement of the desert brings new deposits close enough to the surface for the Chesammos to detect. There should be no shortage of linandra. Does anyone else have any theories?”
Beside him, Deygan could feel Jaevan’s attention subtly altering. For whatever reason, the lad had always been fascinated with the Chesammos and the changers, and Deygan wondered if allowing Jesely to tutor him might not have been a mistake. The lad had acquired some unconventional ideas about the Chesammos from that particular master.
To King Deygan, the Chesammos were only important to the island for the work they did—producing the ash bricks to build Irenthi towns and cities, and digging the precious linandra stones on which the wealth of the island itself was built. The few that remained in the uplands laboured in the fields or kept the livestock. If any managed to rise to become changers, or master changers, that elevated them beyond their race and gave them the status that their abilities accorded. For the rest, all Jaevan would need to know was how to keep them in line.
“The Chesammos are becoming more and more idle,” said Garvan. “A few raids on their villages should shake them up—remind them of their place.”
If Garvan considered using his small but well-trained militia, he must be concerned by recent events. Garvan was a tolerant man, by Deygan’s standards. He regarded the Chesammos as irksome, as most of the lord holders did, but largely let them be. Tolerant, but not soft. If he needed to send troops into the desert to sort those blasted savages out, then he’d do it with no half measures.
“Master Jesely said they owned the island once.”
Deygan winced at the sound of Jaevan’s soft voice and the holders’ heads all turned to his eldest son. Damn that Jesely! Deygan had hoped the boy had enough sense to keep his mouth shut, not spout some of the nonsense the Chesammos master had put into his head.
“He said this was their island and we invaded and took it from them. He said they ruled here, except they didn’t have lords as we do. But everyone worked and then the Aerie made sure everyone had all they needed. That’s what Master Jesely said, anyway.” Jaevan’s voice trailed off uncertainly.
Deygan made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. No one could claim that Jesely had told Jaevan lies, but Deygan didn’t like his version of the truth. The island had been occupied by the Chesammos alone at one time, but that was hundreds of years ago. The Irenthi had brought trade and roads and cities and, well, civilisation to the island that the Chesammos called Cha’andris in that barbarically twisted tongue of theirs. And things had changed. Opening trade routes brought prosperity, and prosperity brought the constant threat of invasion by states that cast covetous eyes at their linandra.
“That’s as may be, Jaevan,” Deygan said in a voice soft but laced with warning. “But they need to accept how things are now. We give them food to eat, clothes to cover them, shelter for their people. How else would they survive, out in the desert where there is scarcely any food?”
Jaevan opened his mouth as if to speak, but subsided at Deygan’s warning glare. Deygan knew what he had been about to say. That before the Irenthi invaded the Chesammos had farmed and cultivated the island, that those who worked in the desert were supported by those who did not, and that no man worked more than five years in the desert in his lifetime. How such a system had been made to work escaped Deygan’s understanding. There had to be order in the world and that meant lords and commoners, workers and overseers. This way of the Chesammos of making things ‘fair’ for all—that was nonsense for children and simpletons. No wonder the Irenthi had taken their island from them without a fight.
Sheinna of Aquis, the only woman to head a house in her own right, cleared her throat. “They do not have enough to eat, Sire. Not all of them, and not all the time. Not in the poorer holdings like Aquis. Once food and clothing would come from those in the north of the island to help those in the south. Now the northern Chesammos struggle almost as much or have been displaced to the south. They do not have any to spare, or they simply have lost touch with their southern cousins and are unaware of t
hem and their hardship.”
“Hardship, you say? None of the people of Chandris live in hardship.” Deygan’s green eyes flashed their annoyance. “If they do, it is because they don’t work hard enough. The Chesammos have been encouraged to slack on their work by misguided handouts and these family networks of yours.”
“With respect, Sire,” Garvan said in a quiet voice that made the others take notice, “the handouts, as you call them, are part of the old system. The way the Chesammos tell it, generations ago all changers were Chesammos. Other than the training of changers, the Aerie’s main function was to redistribute goods—a marketplace, as it were, for the Chesammos with different products to exchange what they had for what they had not.”
Deygan made an irritated noise. Who did Garvan think he was, to give him a history lesson? Granted, his house should know about changing better than any, with their background. Generations ago, before the ruler of Chandris claimed the title of king, Garvan’s forefathers had been high holders of the island, displaced when the two elder sons of the house were found to be changers. They had bred clean of the taint since, but now Garvan’s own son was at the Aerie—a changer talent, they said. Deygan had heard talk that Garvan intended Casian to stand down, since he could not set him aside, throwing the succession of Lucranne into doubt.
“I have heard that said, but now that way of doing things is outdated.” Deygan raised a hand as Garvan readied himself to protest. “One of the main achievements of my father’s reign, and something I pride myself to have continued, was reducing the payments into the Aerie. Our goal must be for the Aerie to pay its own way. It can take money from the wealthy in exchange for tutoring their children, or fees from the sick for the attention of their healers, but they will receive no more help from the holdings. And we must maximise production of the linandra. If that means bringing Chesammos from the north, so be it.”
“And how would we manage in Martch and Waymar if you took our field Chesammos and sent them to the desert?” Koranne, regent of the holding of Martch, was a striking woman. She held the region for her son, only seven years old and too young to attend these meetings even as an observer.
“The supply of linandra is more important, Lady Koranne,” said Deygan smoothly. “The alternative is to send Irmos to mine linandra. The Chesammos must be sent south. Not all at once, but by degrees the farms of the north must be worked by Irmos alone, and the Chesammos sent to do the jobs for which they are most suited.”
“The hardest ones,” said Jaevan. “The dirtiest, most dangerous ones.”
Deygan indulged his son in many ways, but he would not be challenged by him, especially in full assembly before his holders. A flash of angry heat flushed his skin. Jaevan pushed him too far. Creator, the boy was only twelve. What would the lad be like at eighteen or twenty? He must learn that he was not yet king of Chandris.
“Because they lost,” Deygan said through clenched teeth. “They gave up the island without a fight, and with it any right to be treated with respect. If they try to withhold linandra to manipulate us, they will soon learn the error of their ways.”
“But—”
“Enough!” Deygan stood abruptly, motioning to his lords and ladies that the meeting was done. “Garvan, send those soldiers to the pits. If Chesammos are stealing linandra, I want them caught. Actually…” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Reduce the number of cut stones sent back to the villages. The adulthood ritual is important to them, I believe. Make it clear that as long as production continues to fall, so will the number of their young they can raise. That may make them rethink their stance.”
“Of course, Sire,” said Garvan, sketching a small bow, and the lords and ladies left the chambers.
Deygan turned to his son, who awaited his father’s displeasure with resignation. The king jabbed a finger at Jaevan’s chest.
“If you want to pander to the Chesammos when I am gone, that will be up to you. You can give them alms and dress them in silks, and see how far you get. The holders will oppose you. The Chesammos will see any softening as a sign of weakness and exploit you. The Irmos will see that to give better to the Chesammos they have to accept less for themselves, and they will defy you.”
Jaevan’s face fell and Deygan reminded himself that he was only a boy. Deygan had expressed similar ideas in his younger years. The boy would learn the hard way that realism displaced idealism when one became king. He forced himself to relax his shoulders and unclench his fists before continuing.
“You must rule, Jaevan, not simply wear the crown. That means making harsh decisions when necessary. We cannot afford to support the Chesammos and receive nothing in return, not with threats from those who would invade us from the mainland. There are soldiers to train, weapons to be traded for. If we need to send all the Chesammos to the pits to dig enough linandra to pay for that, then it will be done. Do you understand me?”
“I understand, Father.”
Deygan got the impression that his son understood well enough, but did not agree. But he was young yet. He would learn.
Casian hesitated before knocking on the door of Mistress Yinaede’s study. This was ridiculous. The conversation he had overheard between Garyth and Miralee in the refectory the night before might have had nothing to do with him. But he had heard his name over the hubbub—had heard it with the clarity with which a person always picks out his own name from a mix of voices. Trying not to be noticed, he wandered within earshot to listen to the rest of the conversation.
“I think you should tell Mistress Yinaede,” Garyth said.
His sister pushed her hair away from her face with a restless motion. “What if it’s nothing? What if it’s not Casian? I said it looked like him, but older. I didn’t say it was him.”
“I’m no seer, but you said all seeings are recorded and kept, in case they become significant later.”
“They are, but it wasn’t significant. Just people talking.”
“They must hold snippets like that too, in case they can piece fragments together later and make a bigger picture. And this is your first proper seeing. She will want to know you’re making progress, even if you don’t understand what it means.”
They had changed the subject shortly after that and Casian drifted away, but it preyed on his mind. Had Miralee really had a seeing about him? If so, he wanted to know what it entailed. He could ask her, but that would reveal that he had eavesdropped, and he didn’t know her well enough to strike up a conversation out of the blue. He finally settled on his plan to return to Yinaede’s sessions, in the hopes of extracting the answer.
He had been to the study many times in the past. Casian was a talent—they had established that much early on, when Master Jesely observed disturbances of the aiea-dera around him. ‘Talent knows talent’ as the changers said. He stopped attending Yinaede’s lessons after two or three months, after all his attempts at seeing had failed. His talent remained a mystery to the masters, although Casian had worked it out for himself. He had a compulsion talent, the ability rare enough to have been virtually forgotten, and worth keeping hidden. Returning to Yinaede’s classes might even confuse the trail a little longer.
Casian rapped on the door and heard Yinaede’s voice calling him in. He had not been in Yinaede’s study for many months, but little had changed. The study had much the same layout as Jesely’s. A few more feminine touches, perhaps: a sprig of blossom in a container; a painting of a landscape on the wall; a stack of books beside a comfortable chair covered with a thick blanket; a child’s picture in charcoal and chalk pinned to a board. Essentially, it was the same small office in which all masters received their students.
Miralee was there when he arrived, deep in conversation with Yinaede. The girl flushed when he entered, and he suppressed a smile. She was stunning, a golden-haired Irmos, and the colour in her cheeks suggested she had noticed him
too. He wondered if he could conceal an involvement with her from Sylas, or how upset the Chesammos might be if Casian shared his affections. Very, probably. The Chesammos was strangely emotional.
“Come in, Casian,” said Yinaede. “It’s good to see you back, if a little surprising.”
He took one of the wooden chairs near the wall by its back and swung it closer to Miralee. “I am sorry, Mistress. I have still not discovered the nature of my talent, so I thought—” he flashed the smile he knew few women could resist—“maybe I could resume studying with you. This time we might make a breakthrough.”
She grunted. “So you are here because you have not found your place anywhere else. Or maybe because a recognised talent would help your bid for mastery. Mistress Ayriene is back at the Aerie. Has it occurred to you to have her check you for the healing talent?”
Not a good start. Mistress Yinaede had never favoured him.
“I have shown no aptitude for healing, and the talent is rare. But maybe Miralee could introduce me to her mother, just in case?”
Her blush deepened. “I’d be pleased to, Lord Casian.”
“Not lord in the Aerie. Just plain Casian.”
“Miralee seems to have had her first true seeing. Miralee, do you have any objection to telling me with Casian present?”
“I…” Miralee licked her lips, clearly uncomfortable. It had been about him, then. If about anyone else, surely she would not be as awkward. “I suppose not. I just saw an image—not even anything that made sense. But it was clear, and not at all like a dream.”
“That’s more than I’ve had.” Casian tried to appear encouraging. He leaned closer to her, “Do tell us. Give me something to emulate.”