Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “We’ll see about that.” The envoy spun and spurred his horse back toward the manor, kicking up a cloud of dust.

  The bailiff shook his head with irritation, waiting for the dust to settle.

  “Don’t worry,” he told them. “The steward won’t listen to him. Danbury Blackwater was a good man. If you’re anything like him, you’ll find me a friend. If not, you had best make your stay here as short as possible. Keep out of trouble. Don’t interfere with the villeins’ work, and stay away from Luret.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Hadrian said.

  The bailiff then looked around the village in irritation. “Armigil, where did the reeve get off to?”

  “Went to the east field, I think, sir. There is a team he has working on drainage up that way.”

  The bailiff sighed. “I need him to get more men working on bringing in the hay. Rain’s coming and it’ll ruin what’s been cut if he doesn’t.”

  “I’ll tell him, sir, if he comes back this way.”

  “Thank you, Armigil.”

  “Sir?” She tapped off a pint of beer and handed it up to him. “While you’re here, sir?” He took one swallow, then poured the rest out and tossed her back the cup.

  “A little weak,” he said. “Set your price at two copper tenents a pint.”

  “But, sir! It’s got good flavor. At least let me ask three.”

  He sighed. “Why must you always be so damn stubborn? Let it be three, but make them brimming pints. Mind you, if I hear one complaint, I’ll fine you a silver and you can take your case to the Steward’s Court.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, smiling.

  “Good day to you all.” He nodded and trotted off toward the east.

  They watched him go, and then Dunstan started chuckling. “A fine welcome home you’ve had so far—a belt in the mouth and threat of arrest.”

  “Actually, outside the fact that everything looks a lot smaller, not much has changed here,” Hadrian observed. “Just some new faces, a few buildings, and, of course, the envoy.”

  “He’s only been here a week,” Dunstan said, “and I’m sure the bailiff and the steward will be happy when he leaves. He travels a circuit covering a number of villages in the area and has been showing up here every couple of months since the New Empire annexed Rhenydd. No one likes him, for obvious reasons. He’s yet to meet Lord Baldwin face to face. Most of us think Baldwin purposely avoids being here when the envoy comes. So Luret’s list of complaints keeps getting longer and longer and the steward just keeps writing them down.

  “So are you really here just to see your father’s grave? I thought you were coming back to stay.”

  “Sorry, Dun, but we’re just passing through.”

  “In that case, we had best make the most of it. What say you, Armigil? Roll a keg into my kitchen and I’ll supply the bread and stools for toasts to Danbury and a proper welcome for Haddy?”

  “He don’t deserve it. But I think I have a keg round here that is bound to go bad if’n I don’t get rid of it.”

  “Hobbie!” Dunstan shouted up the street to a young man at the livery. “Can you find a place for these horses?”

  Dunstan and Hadrian helped Armigil roll a small barrel to the bakery. As they did, Royce and Arista walked their animals over to the stables. The boy cleared three stalls, then ran off with a bucket to fetch water.

  “Do you think the envoy will be a problem?” Arista asked Royce once Hobbie had left.

  “Don’t know,” he said, untying his pack from the saddle. “Hopefully we won’t be here long enough to find out.”

  “How long will we be here?”

  “Cosmos will move fast. Just a night or two, I imagine.” He threw his bag over his shoulder and crossed to Hadrian’s horse. “Have you decided what you’ll say to Gaunt when you meet him? I hear he hates nobility, so I wouldn’t start by asking him to kiss your ring or anything.”

  She pulled her own gear off Mystic and then, holding out her hands, wiggled her bare fingers. “Actually, I thought I’d ask him to kidnap my brother.” She smiled. “It worked for you. And if I can gain the trust and aid of a Royce Melborn, how hard can it be to win over a Degan Gaunt?”

  They carried the gear across the street to the little whitewashed shop with the signboard portraying a loaf of bread. Inside, a huge brick oven and a large wooden table dominated the space. The comforting scent of bread and wood smoke filled the air, and Arista was surprised the bakery wasn’t broiling. The wattle-and-daub walls and the good-sized windows managed to keep the room comfortable. As Arista and Royce entered, they were introduced to Dunstan’s wife, Arbor, and a host of other people whose names Arista could not keep up with.

  Once word spread, freemen, farmers, and other merchants dropped by, grabbing a pint and helping themselves to a hunk of dark bread. There were Algar, the woodworker; Harbert, the tailor; and Harbert’s wife, Hester. Hadrian introduced Wilfred, the carter, and explained how he used to rent Wilfred’s little wagon four times every year to travel to Ratibor to buy iron ingots for his father’s smithy. There were plenty of stories of the skinny kid with pimples who used to swing a hammer beside his father. Most remembered Danbury with kindness, and there were many toasts to his good name.

  Just as the bailiff had predicted, it started to rain, and soon the villeins, released from work due to weather, dropped by to join the gathering. They slipped in, quietly shaking off the wetness. Each got a bit of bread, a pint to drink, and a spot to sit on the floor. Some brought steaming crocks of vegetable pottage, cheese, and cabbage for everyone to share. Even Osgar, the reeve, pressed himself inside and was welcomed to share the community meal. The sky darkened, the wind whipped up, and Dunstan finally closed the shutters as the rain poured.

  They all wanted to know what had happened to Hadrian—where he had gone and what he had done. Most of them had spent their whole lives in Hintindar, barely crossing the river. In the case of the villeins, they were bound to the land and, by law, could not leave. For them, generations passed without their ever setting foot beyond the valley.

  Hadrian kept them entertained with stories of his travels. Arista was curious to hear tales of the adventures he and Royce had shared over the years, but none of those came out. Instead, he told harmless stories of distant lands. Everyone was spellbound by stories about the far east, where the Calian people supposedly interbred with the Ba Ran Ghazel to produce the half-goblin Tenkin. Children gathered close to the skirts of their mothers when he spoke about the oberdaza—Tenkin who worshiped the dark god Uberlin and blended Calian traditions with Ghazel magic. Even Arista was captivated by his stories of far-off Dagastan.

  With Hadrian the center of attention, few took notice of Arista, which was fine with her. She was happy just to be off her horse and in a safe place. The tension melted away from her.

  The hot bread and fresh-brewed beer were wonderful. She was comfortable for the first time in days and reveled in the camaraderie of the bakery. She drank pints of beer until she lost track of the number. Outside, night fell and the rain continued. They lit candles, giving the room an even friendlier charm. The beer was infecting the group with mirth, and soon they were singing loudly. She did not know the words but found herself rocking with the rhythm, humming the chorus, and clapping her hands. Someone told a bawdy joke and the room burst into laughter.

  “Where are you from?” Although it had been asked three times, this was the first instance that Arista had realized it was meant for her. Turning, she found Arbor, the baker’s wife, sitting beside her. She was a petite woman with a plain face and short-cropped hair.

  “I’m sorry,” Arista apologized. “I’m not accustomed to beer. The bailiff said it was weak, but I think I would take exception to that.”

  “From yer mouth to his ears, darling!” Armigil said loudly from across the room. Arista wondered how she had heard from so far away, especially when she had thought she had spoken so softly.

  Arista remembered Arbor had asked her a qu
estion. “Oh—right, ah … Colnora,” the princess said at length. “My husband and I live in Colnora. Well, actually we are staying with my brother now, because we were evicted from our home in Windham Village by the Northern Imperial Army. That’s up in Warric, you know—Windham Village, I mean, not the army. Of course, it could be—the army, I mean this time—not the village—because they could be there. Does that answer your question?”

  The room was spinning slowly and it gave Arista the feeling she was falling, though she knew she was sitting still. The whole sensation made it difficult for her to concentrate.

  “You were evicted? How awful.” Arbor looked stricken.

  “Well, yes, but it’s not that great of a hardship, really. My brother has a very nice place in the Hill District in Colnora. He’s quite well off, you know?” She whispered this last part into Arbor’s ear. At least, she thought she did, but Arbor pulled back sharply.

  “Oh really? You come from a wealthy family?” Arbor asked, rubbing her ear. “I thought you did. I was admiring your dress. It’s very beautiful.”

  “This? Ha!” She pulled at the material of her skirt. “I got this old rag from one of my servants, who was about to throw it out. You should see my gowns. Now those are something, but yes, we’re very wealthy. My brother has a virtual army of servants,” she said, and burst out laughing.

  “Erma?” someone said from behind her.

  “What does your brother do?” Arbor asked.

  “Hmm? Do? Oh, he doesn’t do anything.”

  “He doesn’t work?”

  “Erma dear?”

  “My brother? He calls it work, but it’s nothing like what you people do. Did you know I slept on the ground just two nights ago? Not indoors either, but out in the woods. My brother never did that, I can tell you. You probably have, haven’t you? But he hasn’t. No, he gets his money from taxes. That’s how all kings get their money. Well, some can get it from conquest. Glenmorgan got loads from conquest, but not Alric. He’s never been to war—until now, of course, and he’s not doing well at all, I can tell you.”

  “Erma!” Arista looked up to see Royce standing over her, his face stern.

  “Why are you calling me that?”

  “I think my wife has had a little too much to drink,” he said to the rest of them.

  Arista looked around to see several faces smirking in an effort to suppress laughter.

  “Is there anywhere I can take her to sleep it off?”

  Immediately several people offered the use of their homes, some even the use of their beds, saying they would sleep on the floor.

  “Spend the night here,” Dunstan said. “It’s raining out. Do you really want to wander around out there in the dark? You can actually make a fine bed out of the flour sacks in the storeroom.”

  “How would you know that, Dun?” Hadrian asked, chuckling. “The wife’s kicked you out a few times?” This brought a roar of laughter from the crowd.

  “Haddy, you, my friend, can sleep in the rain.”

  “Come along, Wife.” Royce pulled Arista to her feet.

  Arista looked up at him and winked. “Oh right, sorry. Forgot who I was.”

  “Don’t apologize, honey,” Armigil told her. “That’s why we’re drinking in the first place. Ya just got there quicker than the rest of us, is all.”

  The next morning, Arista woke up alone and could not decide which hurt more, her head from the drink, or her back from the lumpy flour bags. Her mouth was dry, her tongue coated in some disgusting film. She was pleased to discover her saddlebags beside her. She pulled them open and grimaced. Everything inside smelled of horse sweat and mildew. She had brought only three dresses: the one worn through the rain, which was a wrinkled mess; the stunning silver receiving gown she planned to wear when she met Degan Gaunt; and the one she presently wore. Surprisingly, the silver gown was holding up remarkably well and was barely even wrinkled. She had brought it hoping to impress Gaunt, but recalling her conversation with Royce about how the Nationalist leader felt about royalty, she realized it was a poor choice. She would have been much better off with something simpler. It would at least have given her something decent to change into. She pulled off her dirt-stained garment, removed her corset, and pulled on the dress she had worn at Sheridan.

  She stepped out of the storeroom and found Arbor hard at work kneading dough surrounded by dozens of cloth-covered baskets. Villagers entered and set either a bag of flour or a sackcloth of dough on the counter along with a few copper coins. Arbor gave them an estimated pickup time of either midday or early evening.

  “You do this every day?” Arista asked.

  Arbor nodded with sweat glistening on her brow as she used the huge wooden paddle to slide another loaf into the glowing oven. “Normally Dun is more helpful, but he’s off with your husband and Haddy this morning. It’s a rare thing, so I’m happy to let him enjoy the visit. They’re down at the smithy if you’re interested, or would you rather have a bite to eat?”

  Arista’s stomach twisted. “No, thank you. I think I’ll wait a bit longer.”

  Arbor worked with a skilled hand born of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of repetitions.

  How does she do it?

  She knew the baker’s wife got up every morning and repeated the same actions as the day before.

  Where is the challenge?

  Arista was certain Arbor could not read and probably had few possessions, yet she seemed happy. She and Dunstan had a pleasant home, and compared to that of those toiling in the fields, her work was relatively easy. Dunstan seemed a kind and decent man and their neighbors were good, friendly folk. While not terribly exciting, it was nonetheless a safe, comfortable life, and Arista felt a twinge of envy.

  “What’s it like to be wealthy?”

  “Hmm? Oh—well, actually, it makes life easier but perhaps not as rewarding.”

  “But you travel and can see the world. Your clothing is so fine and you ride horses! I’ll bet you’ve even ridden in a carriage, haven’t you?”

  Arista snorted. “Yes, I’ve certainly ridden in a carriage.”

  “And been to balls in castles where musicians played and the ladies dressed in embroidered gowns of velvet?”

  “Silk, actually.”

  “Silk? I’ve heard of that but never seen it. What’s it like?”

  “I can show you.” Arista went back into the storeroom and returned with the silver gown.

  At the sight of the dress, Arbor gasped, her eyes wide. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. It’s like—it’s like …” Arista waited but Arbor never found her words. Finally, she said, “May I touch it?”

  Arista hesitated, looking first at Arbor, then at the dress.

  “That’s okay,” Arbor said quickly with an understanding smile. She looked at her hands. “I would ruin it.”

  “No, no,” Arista told her. “I wasn’t thinking that at all.” She looked down at the dress in her arms once more. “What I was thinking was it was stupid for me to have brought this. I don’t think I’ll have a chance to wear it, and it’s taking up so much space in my pack. I was wondering—would you like to have it?”

  Arbor looked like she was going to faint. She shook her head adamantly, her eyes wide as if with terror. “No, I—I couldn’t.”

  “Why not? We’re about the same size. I think you’d look beautiful in it.”

  A self-conscious laugh escaped Arbor and she covered her face with her hands, leaving flour on the tip of her nose. “Oh, I’d be a sight, wouldn’t I? Walking up and down Hintindar in that. It’s awfully nice of you, but I don’t go to grand balls or ride in carriages.”

  “Maybe one day you will, and then you’ll be happy you have it. In the meantime, if you ever have a bad day, you can put it on and perhaps it’ll make you feel better.”

  Arbor laughed again, only now there were tears in her eyes.

  “Take it—really—you’d be doing me a favor. I do need the space.” She held out the dress. Arbor reached towa
rd it and gasped at the sight of her hands. She ran off and scrubbed them red before taking the dress in her quivering arms, cradling it as if it were a child.

  “I promise to keep it safe for you. Come back and pick it up anytime, all right?”

  “Of course,” Arista replied, smiling. “Oh, and one more thing.” Arista handed her the corset. “If you would be so kind, I never wish to see this thing again.”

  Arbor carefully laid the dress down and put her arms around Arista, hugging her close as she whispered, “Thank you.”

  When Arista stepped out of the bakery into the sleepy village, her head throbbed, jolted by the brilliant sunlight. She shaded her eyes and spotted Armigil working in front of her shop, stoking logs under her massive cooker.

  “Morning, Erma,” Armigil called to her. “Yer looking a mite pale, lassie.”

  “It’s your fault,” Arista growled.

  Armigil chuckled. “I try my best. I do indeed.”

  Arista shuffled over. “Can you direct me to the well?”

  “Up the road four houses. You’ll find it in front of the smithy.”

  “Thank you.”

  Following the unmistakable clanging of a metal hammer, Arista found Royce and Hadrian under the sun canopy in the smithy’s yard, watching another man beating a bit of molten metal on an anvil. He was muscular and completely bald-headed, with a bushy brown mustache. If he had been in the bakery the previous night, Arista did not remember. Beside him was a barrel of water, and not far away was the well, a full bucket resting on its edge.

  The bald man dropped the hot metal into his barrel, where it hissed. “Your father taught me that,” the man said. “He was a fine smith—the finest.”

  Hadrian nodded and recited, “Choke the hammer after stroke, grip it high when drilling die.”

  This brought laughter from the smith. “I learned that one too. Mr. Blackwater was always making up rhymes.”

  “So this is where you were born?” Arista asked, dipping a community cup into the bucket of water and taking a seat on the bench beside the well.