“Which is?”
“Hope, my lord,” he replied and pointed knowingly at the silver cube and letter upon the writing table. “A man can hope to survive here and dare even to live well and be happy. You cannot find that within a ten-day ride of Bessradi these days.”
“How did Rahan know of Enhedu?”
“Your visit to Almidi and your alsman’s visits to Alsonvale and Bessradi made quite an impression, as did word of the carriagemaker’s decision to join you.”
“And so you are here.”
“Yes, Lord Prince. Will you have me?”
I was about to answer affirmatively when Fana poked her head out over the gallery railing above. I had forgotten she was up there but did not mind her eavesdropping. I looked around the gallery for Dia, but her work must have taken her down to the town.
“Do you know the seventeen laws?” Fana asked him.
“Yes, very well. I am not a nolumari, of course, one must be a priest to practice the law, but the palace does require that its scribes make a study of them and, in rare instances, to advise on one point or another. Not that they don’t trust the prelature, of course.”
Fana missed or ignored his joke.
“Prince Barok,” she said sternly, her posture full of fatigue. “I need this man. Can you afford him?”
“At a bondsman’s wage I cannot, but must, if you say he is so needed.”
She took a long moment. Her grip tightened enough for the railing to creak. “I do,” she answered simply.
“Then draw up a pledge for him.”
“Thank you, my lord,” the pair said in unison. They looked at each other and smiled. It was a nice moment, but I saw Gern’s eyes darken. I took note of it. If my lieutenant did not trust the man, I should not be so quick to.
I said to him, “Lieutenant, please take Selt on a tour of the town and then to the mayor. It is late, but if there is a bed to be had, he would know where to find it.”
My lieutenant’s bow was sharp. He understood me. The tour could end in Selt’s dismissal if Gern was unsatisfied.
To Selt I said, “Welcome, bondsman. Report to Fana in the morning.”
His bow was the crispest I had seen since leaving the capital, and he spun neatly to follow the lieutenant down.
I put my hands through my hair. The hectic theater was outpacing me. I walked about the hall for a time, perusing the titles on its alcove shelves when I spotted The New Jailor—the title Leger had enjoyed reading so much during the winter. I returned with it to the table, lit a few more candles, and sat down to read. It was a wonderfully simple tale about a man who did not waste the second chance that life gave him. I had not heard from Leger how it ended, but after a handful of pages, I found myself hoping desperately that the man would be rewarded for trying to rejoin the world.
I was halfway calm when a sudden call rang out, “To the walls. To the walls. An army approaches.”
Gern thundered back up the stairs.
“What truth to this?” I demanded.
“I saw it myself, my lord—a long column of men and horses upon the carriageway. Many thousands.”
“What banner does it fly?”
“I cannot say. There is little light left in the sky.”
“To the walls. To the walls,” the call came again.
“Go down and rouse the town. Rally them to the armory. Meet me at the gates.”
He dashed down, and I up. I put on my hauberk of chain, sword, helm, and shield and started back down, but the tight spiral of steps was a chaos of men. None from the town knew to announce themselves or yield to those who did. The boom of my voice was scarcely sufficient to win my way through.
I ran to the wall above the gates. The clouds were an angry blanket of oranges and reds above the setting sun. In the dim light, I saw it—a dark, thick line of men and horses moving down the carriageway. It could not be Leger. He was not due for two days, and even he could not gather up men like he had ponies. This was an army sent to kill me and my brigades. The foremost of them would be in bow range soon, but I found only one archer at my side. Selt.
“Who can it be?” I asked him.
“I do not know. I saw no one behind me on the road, and there has been no word of anyone on the move. No one. Do we know how many they are?”
“No, but it is many thousands. A division, at least, if I had to guess.”
“Give me your knife for when I run out of arrows. I am finished with running.”
I handed it to him, and he saluted me with it before he set to work checking the arrows in his quiver.
His passion stirred me, but a glance along the wall showed me my true folly. The walls had not been repaired. I had dawdled with wells and millstones, failing even to raise a simple palisade around the town. Whether this enemy pressed the attack that night or not, it was going to be a slaughter.
58
Arilas Leger Mertone
The 44th and 45th of Summer, 1195
The sun had left the sky and a low mist shrouded what little I could see of the plains as I rode southwest with Onmar through estates wide and rich. I learned nothing from him along the way, and Haton’s description of the man did not fit. He did not look like any merchant I had ever seen.
He stopped us along a narrow trail between two thick hedgerows and made a small noise that summoned a pair of men from the darkness of the gray and weedy wall. I followed my guide out of the saddle.
One of the pair handed us each a heavy tool. “Do you know what it is?”
I flipped the weighty half-circle of iron over in my hands and found a familiar lathe-like blade on one end. “A timbermen’s tool?”
“A ringer. Can you use it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
They said nothing more, and Onmar led us through the hedge to a quiet forest. The misty wood was organized in long even rows. I knew the smell.
“An apple orchard? Whose?”
“Do you care?” the merchant-rogue whispered.
Did I? Knowing Haton’s gang, the owner of the orchard was one of Parsatayn or Bendent’s allies, and therefore, an enemy of mine. He was also the competition.
“No,” I answered.
“Up and back then,” the rogue said with a gesture toward the first two rows of trees, and with that, each of us started toward rows of our own. The trees were tall, full, and healthy. It was a superb orchard.
It had to go.
I laid the curve of the ringer against the first tree, leaned into it, and marched three tight circles around the trunk. The peeling noise had a sad note to it. I tried not to listen. I pulled the wet palm’s-width of bark free of my tool and started toward the next. My heart and muscles were alive from the urgency and the danger, despite the length of the day. It was too late for reservations—the action had already begun.
The work took time, nervous, terrible time. The dulling ringer began to catch and jam, and the rows were very long. When I reached what must have been my hundredth, I heard the metallic tinging of a cooling stove, waved the men down, and spun toward the sound. I was too dizzy from the dance around the trees to get my eyes to find anything in the dark, so I crouched behind the tree, closed my eyes, and listened. I felt like I was hunting an animal—out before the dawn, waiting and listening for the approach of something my arrow wanted to find. The sweat upon my palms disturbed the image. I was the one who could end up gutted and hanging from a tree.
But I heard nothing except the low ping of the stove. It took a while to signal “enemy close” to men who had never worn a uniform, but they eventually understood, and we turned away from the last few trees at the top of the orchard and started working our way back down. I paused occasionally to listen for the rush of men with spears. The mist tricked my eyes, and the dark shapes of the trees felt angry. I could not get my heart to calm again, even as each phantom proved nothing more than wafting fog.
We reached the hedge and stopped to swap out the blades of ringers. The sound was too noisy by degrees, bu
t it had to be done. The men were quick and said not a single word. A second trip up and back put sharp pains in my elbows and sides, dizziness in my head worse than a bellyful of rotten wine, and the sun’s color upon the horizon. A single row of trees remained.
“Leave the rest?”
“No time for them. Enough damage done.”
We returned to our horses and raced the road to a wide and unremarkable crossroads.
“We part company now,” the rogue said. “Follow that road until you reach Alsonvale. Do not ask for directions and speak to no one. Get a room at the Old Brown Jug.”
“I know the city. And you?”
“We can ring three more orchards if we ride ahead of word of us. We will not make the rendezvous. Expect me in Urnedi in the fall to see Enhedu’s crops to market.”
I almost asked the man why he thought the job was his. “Be sure that you do,” I replied, instead. Haton’s trust in the man and a hanging offence between us were reasons enough.
He saluted that, and after they slung courier’s satchels over their shoulders, they departed at a gallop. I kept my pace slow and smiled once back toward the orchard.
Our enemies would not like the damage. The four orchards would very likely account for a substantial portion of the local crop. I was not sure if Barok’s apples would benefit from the reduction in supply, but the fortune lost to our enemies was great. It was also likely that all four orchards belonged to one family or even one man. Were the craftsmen so dastardly to be trying to widen the growing conflict between the Yentif and the other royal families? The ripples of our sabotage would not be simple eddies.
I barked a sudden laugh. Haton and his association were saying goodbye to Bessradi in more ways than this: iron rods jammed into mill gears, fires started in storerooms, poison mixed with feed—all the elements of it had been in that darkened warehouse: bundles of kindling, torches, iron spikes, hammers, and mysterious brown sacks. “To the Yentif,” had been their toast.
I stopped laughing. Why had no one been guarding the orchard? Everyone would be on guard, especially the royal families. Especially the Yentif and their allies. The association’s risk would be too great to strike them while their guard was up, even to find so satisfying a revenge. Haton must have known everyone would be sleeping soundly. How?
The reason became obvious, and the plot behind the palace fire and poisoned princes fell perfectly into place. Only those responsible for the fire would be foolish enough to leave their orchards, mills, and livestock unguarded. Bendent and Yarik. Their piece of the Yentif family was trying to claim the throne—a favored son after his father’s head and crown. With Parsatayn’s help they had control over the Council of Lords, and with their collective gold, they could buy any verdict from the Sten they wished. Yarik had only to become crown prince before helping his father to Bayen’s gate, and from the looks of things, he was well on his way. He had secretly taken Bendent’s daughter as a wife. He could have others. He might already have sons.
What had Haton gotten us into? Would I even make it back to Enhedu to tell Barok what I had learned?
My Fell kept up a trot the whole way north, and I reached Alsonvale near sunset. The vigorous ride had it in my mind that I should go visit O’Nrosevel. He would love to see one of his ponies, and I could sure use some news from a friendly source.
But I found his ranch deserted. A man upon the road told me the horseman had decided to retire. A question about goings-on told me why. Aderan and Heneur had fallen to fighting, and Vall had done nothing to get between them. O’Nrosevel had given up his trade to go home to join the fight.
I fled back into the city and found a quiet room at the Old Brown Jug. I dreamed of burning princes and rotting apples.
The common room the next morning contained a number of familiar faces and, thankfully, no threatening ones.
“All well with you stranger?” Haton asked.
“When the journey is done. Only then.”
“Yes. It is often the case.”
We stayed strangers while the craftsmen and their people found their way to the refugee-swollen city. A hundred different slices of Bessradi had decided to quit the capital. All they had was upon their backs or in carts pulled by tired mules. Mothers and sons sat where their fatigue claimed them while fathers begged or walked in search of work. I had seen the look of them before.
I stood and gestured for Haton to follow me. He was not happy to do it, and was getting ready to tell me as much when he joined me on a stoop at the back of a deserted alley.
“Save it,” I whispered. “We have work to do.”
“Work? We’re all just now on the run out of here. What work is there for us?”
“Enhedu has laborers but not enough to satisfy. I think we could do with a few thousand more.”
“Hire refugees? No sir. They aren’t worth it.”
“Think upon it hard. If each of your masters was to quietly make their way to places where men of their profession would go to look for work, they will find many quality men who are willing to hire on for next to nothing.”
“You have done this before?”
“Yes, in Almidi after the winter. I hired some of the best timbermen north of the capital for a penny a day, food enough for their families, and the opportunity to earn a share of the timber camp they worked. You could not find harder-working or happier men anywhere. Spread the word to your masters. Alsonvale is thick with people right now who are in the same situation—good men without homes or work but with skills worth the trip.”
“I don’t know. We are due to leave in the morning.”
“You do what you want, but I can tell you this, I am going to take a little stroll down Alsonvale’s streets to have a listen for Bessradi fathers trying to find work in its shops and stores. Each family man I find that I like the look of and who doesn’t end each sentence with a benediction is one I am going to hire.”
He gave me a long look. “Are you mad? If each did that, we would bring thousands. Urnedi could not take so many. How would you feed them all?”
“Food is the one thing Enhedu will not run out of. I promise you that. Your concerns about Urnedi being able to take on so many are better founded, but Enhedu has thirty-odd villages that could each take on a master craftsmen or two and all of the men who go with him. Some of your fellows would love the chance to be top man in a quiet little town, if I know them at all.”
Haton scratched his head while grinning and then slapped me on the arm just about as hard as he could.
“Twenty each is a good number, you think?” he asked.
“Twenty family men who have no fear of the road. And be sure your fellows include in their dealings the promise of equity or tradesman’s status on the back end. It will work no other way.”
“Agreed.”
“And one more thing,” I said and took hold of his arm so he would not miss my meaning. “No priests and no sermod. Not even a healer.”
“None?”
“Enhedu is free of the Sten and his levies and tithes for now. Do you feel like inviting him into this enterprise?”
“Right. Perfectly understood. See you in the morning then,” he said and slipped back out the alley.
I made the walk I had promised and found the clerks and bookkeepers I needed. It took no time at all. The look of an honest man with his hat in his hand going from store to booking room begging for a day’s work was unmistakable. I ended up hiring on twenty to work my store and twenty more who could cook for a crowd. As it had been in Almidi, not one of them balked when I told them where I was going or the terms of the pledge I offered. What father would risk that his children be called churlish?
On the dawn, a signal had the craftsmen moving. I met my new men by a Yentif statue near the inn, and I knew immediately I had done the right thing. Between the forty of them, they had eighty-odd children—all of whom would grow up in Enhedu and become Edonians. The long column of us moving north was made up of thousands more of the sam
e.
59
Matron Dia Esar
Selt Sestar
Sword in hand, I stood upon the wall with all the fire of a mighty captain of men.
What a farce. Few around me had weapons, and the wall we stood upon reached only halfway around the castle.
“Order—ready,” Gern’s voice rang out, and the men above the gates drew back their bows.
“Hail to the gates,” a distant voice called.
Leger?
“Quick order—hold fire,” Barok boomed and rushed to pull down men’s aims before arrows were let fly. “Identify yourself.”
“Alsman Mertone, you louts,” the familiar voice taunted laughingly. “Did you forget how to tell friend from foe while I was away?”
The men around me cheered, and I ran along the wall toward the gates. The heavy hinges groaned as they swung open. Barok met him upon the stairs. The torchlight was just enough to be certain it was him.
I rushed down to join them, but they had already started around the side of the castle toward the practice field. I caught up enough to hear Leger say, “They are men like Sevat, each one of them.”
“How many?”
“Seventy-two masters made the trip, plus their subordinates, laborers, families, materials, and tools. 1,200 souls in all. The rest we picked up in Alsonvale—skilled family men and refugees from Bessradi. We are near 9,000 all told—all pledged into the service of yourself or one of the masters.”
“You are mad. How did you convince them?”
The surge of the crowd kept me from hearing more, and neither of them saw me as they led the new mob of Zoviyans through Urnedi’s streets.
The confusion that followed was great. The darkness had bred fear, and it took too long for the truth of Leger’s return to carry through the town. Some had fled into the woods while others hid behind barred doors with arrows and oaths ready for any who approached. It was a miracle no one was hurt before calm returned. My prince and his men missed those details as they disappeared into the meeting hall.
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