Beggar's Rebellion: An Epic Fantasy Saga (Empire of Resonance Book 1)

by L. W. Jacobs

  Ella opened another ledger and began the margin headings. That was the trouble—she didn’t want to sell it to a House or to anyone in the Councilate. She didn’t want the money. She wanted to give the knowledge to people the Councilate was erasing, give them a way to fight back. A viable means to protect their lifeways and economies from being torn apart by the Councilate juggernaut that had overturned thousands of years of relative stability and cultural diversity in the last century, forcing the continent’s peoples into one erased, money-blinded herd.

  But who to give it to? Tunla? She was as ensnared as the rest of them. Or was the secret already out, the House mercenaries using it to their advantage? She could only hope not.

  As promised, the Arbiter showed up a few minutes after noon bell, stopping at the door to deal with a few petitioners who had followed him up the stairs—just like she had two days before, Ella realized—then stepping in and stripping out of his robes. She looked away, then blushed to realize he was wearing regular clothes underneath.

  Sablo caught the blush. “Ah—excuse me, Ellumia. I’m not accustomed to a woman in my offices.”

  She stood. “I can leave, if you—”

  “No! No, please. Are you still interested in some lunch?”

  “I am.” Not only was her stomach empty, but she’d take any chance to make a favorable impression on the man who’d be judging her suit against Odril—even if he’d been clear about staying impartial.

  He led her down the Tower and onto the smaller walkways of Newgen, winding near the outside wall over the enclave’s babbling water and glittering schools of rainbow trout, talking of the suits of the day and some of the details of his accounts. The walkway ended at a small café run by a woman whose hair was so pale, Ella mistook her for a Brinerider, though she spoke true Yersh. She sat them at one of just four tables, each with its own view of the café’s central pond, then bustled behind the counter.

  “This is lovely,” Ella said, taking in the skylights and babbling fountain and the inviting aroma of roasting tomatoes.

  “Isn’t it?” The Arbiter sighed, sitting back. “My days have gotten a lot easier since I found a place with good food and relative escape from the enclave citizenry.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to burden you with one today.”

  “Please, you’re no burden at all. Quite the opposite.” He smiled, but it was hard to read if he was being polite or sincere.

  Ella looked for something to keep the conversation going. “I…imagine a man of your power does have many burdens, though.”

  What did you say to one of the most powerful men in the Councilate?

  “Oh, not so many, really. Though the rebel activity of late has given me trouble.”

  Real rebels or proxies? Would a Councilate official even admit to proxies? It was a key question for her suit—might as well test the waters.

  “I’ve heard rumors that some of the rebel activity is actually a front for proxy attacks on rival Houses.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “There are not so many people in Ayugen who are aware of that.”

  She couldn’t tell if his tone was praise or warning. What would happen if she got on this man’s bad side? “It’s actually part of my suit against Odril. I have some pretty solid evidence he’s been helping Alsthen launder money to fund these groups.”

  “I see. Do you have anything else on him?”

  “Well, there’s his theft against me, if I can make it stick. And I think some evidence of him embezzling money from the House under cover of this laundering scheme.”

  The Arbiter nodded. “I would stick to the latter two claims. The proxy battles could get—messy.”

  “Messy?” She’d been hoping her suit would expose the issue, maybe put an end to it.

  Sablo grimaced. “Most of the Houses here are engaged in proxy wars of some kind—it’s been that way in every protectorate, until the Council approves full incorporation. But with the lower jury made of one representative from each invested House, it’s almost impossible to hear such suits.”

  Ella frowned. “Can’t you just order them to stop?”

  “I wish it was that easy,” he sighed. “My hands are tied by the Compact the same as any other Councilate authority. And the lower jury would never let it through.”

  “Because it would be mutually assured destruction,” she said, remembering her conversation with Tunla.

  “Exactly.” The woman arrived with two bowls of a thick red soup smelling of lemongrass and chili.

  “So, if there’s ever something illegal but in the interest of all the Houses, then it’s legally untouchable. Seems like a flaw in the system.”

  The older man sipped at his soup. “You are a thinker, aren’t you? Sadly, I’m not sure there is an unflawed system. But we work with what we have. We’ll get your suit through, at least.”

  The woman brought a bowl of millet cakes then, and they spent the next few minutes eating in relative silence, as Councilate etiquette required. “It sounds like you’ve been doing a lot of the research yourself,” Sablo said on finishing. “Is legal doctrine one of your areas of study?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I’ve stuck mainly to ethnography, along with an interest in the emerging study of resonances.” And if I told you what I’ve just found out, she thought, it would likely damn the world to Councilate rule. Though Sablo didn’t come off as cruel or power-hungry. That was the problem with a bad system: the people in it didn’t need to be bad for the system as a whole to do bad things.

  Sablo paused. “About that, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. As much as I’m free to help you during the pre-arbitration time—I’d even say I’m mandated to do so, though I find it a pleasure—I won’t be able to directly help with any of the arbitration costs.”

  Ella cocked her head, then understood what he was saying. “With hiring a barrister, you mean.”

  “Yes. If you had worked off your debt to me, and I was paying you a regular salary, well, you’d be free to use that as you saw fit, but I see you’ve already filed the suit.”

  “I have. Is it unrealistic to think I might represent myself?”

  He paused in the act of untucking his napkin. “You are a bright young lady, Ellumia. I don’t doubt that with time, you could become an accomplished legal counsel. But you would need years, not days.”

  His words sparked a fire in her. She could do this. “I was actually perusing the Tower’s legal library last night. Would you indulge me in a mock arbitration?” The texts had been full of these, simplified legal interactions to illustrate points or test wits.

  He smiled. “Certainly. What’s the issue?”

  She pursed her lips, looking around. “Aygla versus the House of Teas, on the legality of decorating with stolen Yersh artifacts.” There’d been a similar suit in one of the books last night, involving a stolen painting.

  “Ah.” He steepled his hands. “Well, as defense, I assert you must first prove the artifacts here are in fact Old Yersh.” The first kingdom had been full of blown-glass statues and portraits, famously shattered when Worldsmouth conquered them. Glass art these days was more likely to be knockoffs than originals.

  Fortunately, art history had been one of the things proper for a minor House daughter to study. Ella took one of the smaller statues near them. “Hebgold bubbles,” she said, indicating the spiral pattern of bubbles trapped in the glass. “They come from a process lost in the Shattering. And since all intact Yersh artifacts are now protected under the antiquities act”—she smiled, victorious—“I believe the suit is mine.”

  Sablo raised an eyebrow. “Nearly. But I would challenge you on jurisprudence.”

  “Jurisprudence?”

  “This crime, which the defense in no way affirms did occur, would have occurred in the Yersh territory, likely unbeknownst to the proprietors of said Newgen tea house, meaning prosecution would need to be sought there.”

  “I—” Ella searched for an answer, something from her readi
ngs, and found nothing.

  Sablo smiled. “A brilliant start, though. If you ever need help in guiding your studies, or an ear for questions, I think that’s still within my legal limits.”

  Ella held down frustration and the nagging feeling of being further in the man’s debt. “Thank you. I likely will.”

  The bill arrived, and he took it before she could react. “Naturally, this is on me.”

  Ella tried to protest, half in earnest and half channeling the noises her mother used to make. “Consider it a business expense,” he overrode her, winking.

  There was something too familiar in his gaze as they left, in the slightly proprietary way he guided her back to the Tower, but she was too frustrated by their mock arbitration to think much of it. That he couldn’t fund a lawyer came as no surprise. But that the law should be so complex—well, that shouldn’t be a surprise either. But it was proof she had more work to do.

  “You know,” Sablo said as they neared his offices, “you could always postpone the arbitration. Work for me awhile longer, until you’re able to afford professional representation. The consequences if you don’t win the suit could be unpleasant.”

  “Consequences?”

  He reached for the door. “In suits of personal injury like this, if the defense is successful, a countersuit of personal libel often follows. And with your fragile economic standing…” He shook his head. “You could end up in debt to the man for a long time to come.”

  In debt? To Odril? Her stomach dropped and her fist clenched on the door. “I thank you for the warning,” she said, struggling to keep a calm face. “But that will never happen.”

  18

  Summer’s sear and lion’s bite, either one o’er winter’s night!

  —Achuri children’s rhyme

  The boat rocked in the river current, the only sound the rush of water on rudder and the tense breathing of eight armed rebels.

  “Watch it!” Ilrick wheezed from the front.

  “Watch yourself,” someone snapped back, maybe Beal. Tai sat near the front with Weiland, straining his eyes for lights, for the Coldferth dockhouses. They’d taken trails through the hills east of the city, then waited for nightfall on the shore of the Genga before pushing off. The star had just set, blue afterglow outlining the hills to the west, other lights in the sky beginning to poke through.

  “There!”

  Tai saw it too—a twinkle around the bend.

  “Okay, everyone,” Karhail’s voice came, low. “Remember the plan. Ilrick goes first, tries to draw them off. Lumo, Theron, and I deal with the ones who stay. Weiland, you help out where needed, let us know if Ilrick’s in trouble. Tai, Beal, Eyna, get in and get as much yura as you can. Yell when the boat’s full, and we all run or swim for it. Right?”

  “Right,” came a chorus of tense voices. This was the biggest hit they’d tried, and they’d spent hours debating the strategy. Coldferth stored their yura in a well-guarded dockhouse, and information said they were nearly full, ready to ship north. Like the rest of the major and minor dockhouses, Coldferth’s was behind the city’s line of dock guards, so they’d decided to come in by boat, at the darkest hour of night. It was to be surgical—quick in, quick out.

  That didn’t last long. Beal struck one of the pier beams guiding the boat in, and someone fell out with a shout and a splash. “Ilrick,” Karhail hissed “Up. Now.”

  Ilrick leapt for the dock beam, striking resonance and shouting as he went. “Prophets, oh Prophets! Descending Gods, a man tries to enter a friendly game of dice and—”

  His voice faded as he got up and moved down the dock. Ilrick was a mosstongue, able to convince and confuse with his voice—in this case, that he was a nearly drowned lighthair noble. A distraction.

  Shouts of Coldferth’s guards rose a moment later from the warehouse, fifty or so paces down the dock. “Tai,” Karhail cued, while Beal and Matle pulled in a spluttering Theron, their new brawler.

  Right. Tai braced his feet against the front of the boat, hoping this worked.

  “Concentrate, Tai,” Lumo said. “This one is easy.”

  Tai struck his resonance, then thickened the air and pushed forward, knees caving some as the force of his push met the resistance of the water. The boat lurched forward, skimming between the pillars of the dock, rattle of feet overhead as the guards ran out to Ilrick. Moving the boat had worked great earlier that day, so long as he made no thought of nudging downward. He’d nearly drowned trying to save the boat.

  “Slower now,” Weiland cued, working the rudder, “slower…”

  Tai stopped nudging, a whiff of the bends dizzying him, and Lumo caught the railing of the lower pier. Karhail was first off, not risking words, and the men piled after him, Lumo staying to tie up the boat. Beal and Eyna, the other wafters, ran after them, but Tai wafted instead, shooting up through the darkened air. Along with Weiland, part of his job was to monitor how things were going, as well as help with the actual theft of the yura inside the dockhouse.

  Down the dock, Ilrick was surrounded by a group of men bearing torches, but no one had their weapons out—he was fine so far. Ahead lay the Coldferth dockhouse, long and low with a tiled roof, plenty of men still guarding it in the intermittent light of lanterns.

  Tai nudged that way as the first went down, shout muffled by a gag appearing over his mouth. Weiland.

  Karhail ran him through a moment later, and Tai grimaced. The man was quick to kill.

  A moment later, two chattering shrieks sounded, and Tai saw a streak below, heading down the pier—another slip, engaging Weiland. This had been a big point of discussion—timeslips were rare, and expensive, but without one, Weiland alone would have been nearly enough to do the job, gagging and disabling the guards before they knew what was happening. With another timeslip present, they effectively cancelled each other out, though at their speeds, a hand-to-hand fight was likely to be over much faster. “Good luck, Weiland,” Tai muttered, drifting closer to the dockhouse. He’d come to like the laconic timeslip.

  Below, Karhail had engaged another guard, Theron beside him. Judging from the sparks flying, they were all four brawlers. Tai nudged closer, then caught Eyna and Beal below him, lifting off toward the far side of the warehouse.

  The brawlers were to be a second diversion: Ilrick drew off the first crowd with his silver tongue, Karhail and the others engaged the men still left at the building, drawing the other guards. Meanwhile, Tai, Beal, and Eyna wafted above them to the backside, bay doors hopefully abandoned in the fighting. They would waft out the yura stored inside, baled for shipping downstream, and give the signal to run before the fighting got too heavy.

  The Coldferth guards proved too disciplined to abandon the backside completely—three of them still stood, illuminated in the lamplight, on alert. Beal and Eyna drew their bows, traditional weapons of wafters, and Tai nodded that he would take the far guard. Karhail had insisted he wear a sword, not having learned the bow, but Tai just pushed himself down at the remaining guard, feet slamming into the man’s shoulders.

  Something cracked and Tai winced. The guard’s lantern shattered against the dock, spilling oil that whooshed aflame. The man scrambled for his sword and Tai kicked him in the head, hard. This was standard procedure on the street: you want someone to stop struggling, you kick them in the head until they stop moving.

  The guard did on the second blow, sword half-unsheathed. Tai knelt and pinched his nose—he was out. Tai stilled his resonance to conserve uai, and the bends doubled him over. Glancing right, it looked like Beal and Eyna had their men down, too, one of them wailing and kicking with an arrow through the eye. Tai stumbled over, head clearing. “You guys ready?”

  They nodded, Eyna re-nocking her bow. Beal stepped forward, bulkiest of the three, and pulled a thick length of iron from his quiver. He swung at the lock, a heavy Seinjialese piece, and Tai winced at the sound of the blow. “I’m going to check on the other side,” he said.

  “Stay here,” Beal sna
rled. He struck again, to no effect.

  Tai struck resonance and nudged up and out, arcing over the building.

  It was a melee on the other side, Lumo and Karhail and Theron each engaged with a man or two, other fighters running back from Ilrick’s diversion. Ilrick was done, then, already. There were more fighters than the others could handle. Tai grimaced. He couldn’t fight that many men—they needed something else, another diversion.

  He dropped onto the roof, leaving his resonance rattling, and ran down the building, unhooking lanterns. Then shot up again, toward the returning men, and hurled the lanterns down.

  Fire bloomed, following the spread of the oil, and the men shouted, a few of their boots catching flame. Hopefully, that would slow them.

  Tai shot back over, to find Beal still beating at the lock.

  “How is it?” Eyna asked, arrow at the ready.

  “Not good. We need to move fast.”

  Beal swung again, and the lock broke off. He pulled the door open—

  To a wave of brawlers.

  Beal cursed. Eyna shot, taking one in the throat. Tai shoved himself at the others, slamming into two, who flew with him back into the open space. Before he could slow down, momentum carried Tai into the far wall, hard.

  He got up, shaking his head, bends trying to push through. The brawlers were already up, coming for him. Tai shoved left, feet dragging as he sped along the length of the building. The brawlers followed, one with a bow in hand.

  Stains. There were bales stacked in the middle of the warehouse—yura, it must be—but the brawler would have a clear shot no matter where Tai went.

  More attacks, then.

  Tai shot over the bales in an arc that brought him feet-first into one of the men. The mercenary reacted with brawler speed, dealing Tai a ringing blow to the temples as they fell. Tai bounced off the wood floor, shoving upward as the man’s fist smashed into where he’d been. The other brawler was pulling an arrow back—