Part Four
An Interlude With Astyral
We actually didn’t make it out of the city until late the following afternoon. Though work levies exhaustively shoveled snow out of the way, it took time to clear enough of a path for carts, not just foot traffic. We had to stop and wait several times, and twice, in a fit of frustration at the wait, I used magic to eliminate the snow.
“Why didn’t you just do that in the first place?” Dad complained, as we proceeded through the steaming puddle I’d created.
“I was trying to be respectful of their work. But we’ll have to hurry, if we want to make it to the inn by nightfall, now,” I explained. “I don’t have time to wait.”
“Why would a man object to magic completing his task?” Dad asked.
“Would you like it if I found a way to magically bake bread?” I challenged. “That would be easy enough, I think, if I put my mind to it.”
“I see your point,” Dad chuckled.
“Being a wizard implies using magic wisely,” I continued. “Making a job easier is one thing. Eliminating it is quite another.”
The countryside was beautiful, under the freshly fallen snow. Though the wheels slipped more than I’d prefer, the team was sure-footed and spirted, in the snow. We made good time and came to the village on the River Dreadwell, where we could hire a barge headed upstream.
That proved more difficult than I expected. The inns where such hires were made were nearly shut down by the heavy snowfall, and many of the barges expected had not arrived on time. It was another day before I was able to hire a boat willing to take us up the Dreadwell as far as Cambrian . . . for a high enough fee.
This barge was far larger than the one that had brought us to Barrowbell. It had a five-man crew and a sail, though the winds were rarely strong enough to employ it. Only the heaviness of my purse and the promise of magical aid convinced the captain to head upriver in the face of the melting snow.
The rivers got twistier, here, even as the land flattened out. On the west bank of the Dreadwell the rolling hills around Barrowbell quickly flattened into hectare after hectare of flat, snow-covered fields. Come late summer, they would be white with a different kind of white: cotton. Gilmora’s rich soil and hot summers produced some of the finest cotton in the Five Duchies, if not on all of Callidore.
The Barony of Farintosh is where the Cottonlands really begin in Gilmora. From here clear to Vengly, near the frontiers of the Westlands, every acre that could support it grew cotton, cotton which fetched a premium price in ports across the Shallow Sea. Farintosh had scores of domains, hundreds of vast manors, all dedicated to the singular purpose of producing the richest cotton possible. It was a process that required a lot of labor, more than mere wheat or barley required. That encouraged large families, from the peasantry to the nobility, and a stable society that could provide plenty of strong backs and nimble fingers on demand.
Farintosh was orderly; a continuous patchwork of neatly-tended fields, tidy hamlets, stately manors, ornate temples, and well-organized towns laid out in well-conceived grid designed to facilitate the flow of cotton from the fields to the ports. There was a hint of Riverlands sensibility apparent in the landscape, still, but the Gilmoran propensity for ostentatiousness was already visible in every shrine and manor hall we passed.
Dad was intrigued by the change in landscape; this was the first place outside of the Riverlands he’d ever been. The cotton boll-shaped domes on top of the temples were a novelty, and the flatness of the landscape was startling to a man who had always expected at least a bit of an incline on the horizon.
“This is Gilmora, then,” he pronounced, as we ate lunch the first morning.
“Part of it,” I agreed, picking my way through the grilled salt pork the cook had contrived. “Gilmora is a large province. Not all of it is even in Castal. And not all of it is as woefully flat as Farintosh. Or as decadent as Barrowbell. Most of Gilmoran society is as conservative as the Riverlands, once you get outside of the cities. Different customs,” I conceded, “but just as stubbornly flat-headed, about certain subjects. People tend to be people, no matter where they live or how they make their living.”
“But the goblins invaded Gilmora,” Dad pointed out.
“Not this far south and east,” I countered. “We stopped them around Castle Cambrian. That’s still fifty miles upriver.”
Dad paused a bit, as he chewed the tough but flavorful pork. “This isn’t that far from Barrowbell . . . which isn’t that far from Castabriel . . . which isn’t really that far from Talry,” he concluded, thoughtfully.
“Now you understand why I spent all that time fretting about the gurvani,” I pointed out. “If I’d let them get this far, we would all be doomed.”
Dad grunted, unwilling to concede that I’d done something wise, important, and significant, but unable to propose another theory. It was easy enough to envision a horde of gurvani destroying the tidy orderly hamlets and cotton-boll-shaped domes on the temples of Farintosh.
It was too cold to fish, anymore, and the barge had a cabin large enough for a bit of recreation, and not just sleep. Dad and I spent our time on the Dreadwell drinking and playing games in between meals. Chess, charges, rushes, go, dice, and a couple of games I’d never heard of before, and had to have the bosun explain them.
Dad was a crappy player, compared to me. I’d spent endless hours dicing and playing, particularly in the army. But even in Inarion Academy games were a passionate pass-time for me. Wizards love games. They remind us of the logical and emotional processes needed to cast a spell. And we like to gamble.
Dad, on the other hand, liked to talk. He spent hours telling me tales as we played in the cabin, stories of my sisters’ antics, the adventures of my nieces and nephews in Talry, and a decade of gossip I’d missed since I’d left for the academy. It was fascinating, seeing what Dad thought was important to relate to me, out of boredom or for a purpose. I learned a lot about my family I’d never heard before, tales of Poom Hamlet and legends of Manuforthen out of our distant past.
In a few days, we finally arrived at Cambrian, where I bid the captain to tarry. I gave Dad a tour of the ruined castle, showed him the remains of the dragon that had been slain there – a few bones were left, no more – and allowed him to see me praised and feted by the noblemen of the domain. That awful day would ever be a part of local history, and the man who engineered the death of the dragon would ever be feasted in Cambrian. The Spellmonger, Hawkmaiden, and Dragonslayer would always be welcome there.
We departed the barge at Cambrian, taking the wagon north overland along the Cotton Road for a ways. I gave Dad a running account of the battles and attacks that had seen the region until he just shook his head. We passed several villages and manors that bore plain signs of the invasion, though it had been a few years ago.
“Once, this place was more densely populated than Farintosh,” I explained. “When the goblins came through, they focused their efforts on capturing, not conquering. Much of the folk of this region were enslaved, driven north along the road in endless coffles, to labor in the fields and foundries of the Penumbra.”
“As opposed to the fields and foundries of Gilmora,” Dad pointed out.
“The rewards in Gilmora are superior,” I countered. “If you irritate your master in Gilmora, you might find yourself in manorial court. If you do that in the Penumbra, you find yourself in the soup pot. The poor sods we liberated during the Great Emancipation were Gilmoran,” I informed him. “Imagine the folk you’ve met, here, forced to labor without so much as a courtly function to be excluded from. The Wilderfolk who were captured were tough, to begin with – you can’t survive north of Vorone without being tough. Most of the Gilmorans who were rescued were the most desperate of the survivors of their ordeal,” I informed him.
“I can’t imagine the horror,” Dad admitted. “I’ve tried to, from your tales, but the idea of being taken from my home, forced to work under the lash, with nothing but
the soup pot to transport me to the afterlife . . . it’s a hell I can’t imagine.”
“It’s a hell no one should have to experience,” I agreed. “The survivors of that trauma are going to be my new subjects. The largest of the three encampments of freedmen are within my new domain.”
“Why would they not return to these lands?” Dad asked, curious. “It cannot be such a hard life.”
“Why would they?” I countered. “Most of them served their manors in the same capacity as their grandsires. With no hope of improvement,” I pointed out. “A Gilmoran peasant has less chance of improving his station than a Riverlands peasant. What the manors don’t strip from him by custom and law, the guilds prohibit him from advancing his station through skilled labor. Gilmora is sick from the cotton trade,” I pronounced. “Castal has encouraged nothing but the cultivation of cotton for fifty years, on top of a century of Alshari obsession with the commodity. The peasantry have no recourse, and the artisan class has no reason to betray their traditional prerogatives. Trygg strike me, but I think sometimes that the invasion was the best thing to happen to Gilmora in generations.”
“Is that any different from the way the Castali barons demand wheat for tribute?” Dad countered. “Baron Lithar increases the amount he demands from his estates every year, regardless of the yield.”
“You can eat wheat,” I countered. “You can’t eat cotton. Most of the poor villeins of Gilmora survive on maize, oats, and beans from their own gardens. They tend the same strips their fathers did, and custom keeps them from even thinking about apprenticing or becoming merchants. The manors and estates only see value in cotton, not wheat or barley for their peasantry. Cotton pays five times the profit that wheat does, and nine times a barley field. Gilmoran culture is too stratified,” I pronounced.
“At least it’s stable,” Dad replied, after a pause. “Or it was. Min, you have to appreciate the importance of that.”
“I run an entire barony, it’s come up,” I riposted. “Really, Dad. Stability is important. So is social mobility. A man who has no chance of improving himself and lacks the freedom to do so is lost. He doesn’t marry, he doesn’t pursue a family, he doesn’t increase his holdings.”
“Some would see that as how things should be,” Dad said, quietly.
“Not me,” I insisted. “Sevendor taught me that. So did Farise. A man who doesn’t see a better life in his future becomes embittered and causes trouble for his neighbors.”
“A man who thinks his circumstances may change for the worse is unlikely to make such an investment,” Dad proposed. “I’ve watched Talry administered by a fair lord for half of my life. I’ve also watched less well-maintained domains. Those lords who impose high taxes and unreasonable tribute, make too many rules and hire too many inspectors and reeves to rob a man’s purse. It’s a delicate thing,” he warned. “But both are preferable to the lord who doesn’t know his arse from a tabby cat, and lets things go to pieces.”
“In the Wilderlands, things are already in pieces,” I reminded him. “Pouring those pieces back into Gilmora will do neither land a service. I’ll not keep a man in the Magelaw who wishes to leave, but I won’t force a man to leave if he’s done nothing wrong.”
“Well spoken,” Dad affirmed with a nod. “Now convince the lords of those estates, who see those villeins as their property.”
“Vanador is a long, long way from Gilmora,” I reasoned. “I doubt they’ll raise too much fuss.”
Dad shook his head wryly. “You underestimate the sense of entitlement of the nobility, Min,” he sighed. “Not the warriors and statesmen you know, but the petty nobility. The country knights, the lords, bannerets and barons, the ones who have the most estates. To them a villein is a resource to be exploited for work and rents, not a man with a family. If they think they can recover their resources, they’ll make a fuss, mark my words,” he warned.
“Let them,” I snorted. “The truth is, I see them as resources, too. Only I’m inclined to offer them a better bargain than debt slavery and social stagnation. I’ve got land that needs to be held. I don’t care much about the taxes, I need the people. I’ll fight to keep them, if need be.”
We continued bantering about good governance and the pettiness of the petty nobility for miles overland between Cambrian and Gavard Castle, site of the last official battle of the war.
After two days we stayed the night in a fancy inn in Karindor, seat of the local count and home of one of the larger weavers guilds in the north of Gilmora. The town had barely survived the invasion behind its stout wall, after a goodly number of the knights of the region met the enemy in the field north of town. There, they’d amassed in their ornate tournament armor and hastily-conscripted peasant levies and bravely defended the town and their country . . . for all of ten minutes. Then a large portion of the reserves had withdrawn, hundreds of knights deserted the field, and the rest were slaughtered.
The survivors retreated back to Karindor Town and managed to defend it as the hordes passed by on their way to Gavard. They’d endured a siege that lasted until the close of the war without falling, but it had been a near thing. Terleman had been involved in ensuring they were provisioned, but the experience had left a permanent impression on the man about the Gilmorans. He’d heard more excuses from the Karindori than a pregnant nun, he told me one night after the war.
I could see why. Karindor was a nice enough town, but when the war was mentioned – which was often – and the inevitable tale was told, almost every man I heard had a very good reason why he had, alas, been occupied elsewhere at the time.
Almost every man. Apparently the Weavers’ Guild had all but taken over management of the siege and provided crossbowmen to man the walls while the “military aristocracy” met continuously to discuss how dire their situation was . . . and who was to blame. The weavers, spinners, and artisans of Karindor defended their homes. The knights and lords argued and bickered, until Terleman’s troops lifted the siege. Resentment lingered, I could see, and the artisans were quick to point out their service. While propriety kept them from accusing the nobility of outright cowardice, the scorn in their voices was clear.
“Now that’s a place ripe for a riot,” Dad observed, as we left Karindor the next morning. The weather was starting to warm up a bit, which was nice. “When the lords can’t protect the people, what use are they?”
“That’s started as many peasant revolts as taxes and famine,” I agreed. “The Wilderlords met the gurvani in the field, too, and were wiped out. But they tried, and the Wilderfolk knew it. Their crime was not cowardice, but a lack of numbers.”
“Sire Cei doesn’t seem like the type to run from a fight,” Dad agreed.
“He’s typical of the ignorant, stubborn, iron-headed fighting men who are to be my new neighbors,” I agreed. “The few who are left. But here? The knights are landholders or bureaucrats. When the domains war against each other here, it’s by clearly-established rules in pre-designated battlefields. It’s not much more than a glorified tournament, where capturing and ransoming a foe is more important than slaying them. Warfare in Gilmora was more a social convention. When the Gilmorans met real danger, they shattered like a tournament lance.”
“Then they deserve to lose their estates,” Dad concluded. “When you have one job, and you cannot see it done, there are consequences. Men who despise their masters will find ways of starting trouble,” he predicted.
We arrived at Gavard at dusk, during a light snow shower, and found a room at a near-empty inn right on the road. I spent an hour walking the village with Dad and telling him about how the place played an important role at the end of the war . . . and signaled the beginning of a much bigger, darker, and more dangerous conflict.
He gawked at the gaudy wedding-cake castle with good-natured disgust at the ostentation of the aristocracy, while I told him war stories from the frozen Poros. We left early the next day. From the center of the bridge we could see how both banks had flooded in the afterm
ath, when untold gallons of river water had erupted downstream for hundreds of miles. Though the waters had receded almost as fast as they’d risen, the damage had been severe, and after years it was still plain on the landscape.
Things had been even worse upstream, in the Westlands, but for Gilmora the flooding had been a grievous insult after a grave injury. Thousands had perished, and tens of thousands had lost their homes. Debris still hugged the banks in the river, and piles of mud still clung to the struts of the bridge. It was a somber scene.
Beyond Gavard, things got a little better as we continued up the Cotton Road toward Losara. Astyral was waiting for us there, at an estate he owned near the frontier of the two baronies he ran. I figured a day or so hearing his assessment of the health of Gilmora would prove instructive. The snow lingered in more places, the further north we rode, but it only partially concealed the ruins and empty cots we saw. About one house in three had been destroyed or abandoned. But as commerce returned to northern Gilmora, people were starting to resettle along the blood-stained road.
We came to Astyral’s stately manor, known as Shariseen Estate, a few days later. Shariseen was a productive manor, before the war. The tenant lord had evacuated most of the folk to Tantonel Town during the invasion and the grounds had been lightly looted but relatively undamaged, Astyral reported, mind-to-mind, when I let him know we were near. He was using the estate as an administrative center for both of the baronies he was now responsible for.
When our cart arrived at Shariseen I could see its location wasn’t the real reason Astyral had chosen the place. Shariseen had been built at the height of the Alshari possession of Gilmora and reflected that distinctive style of ostentation. The ornate spiral columns along the front of the house touted it as a reflection of Gilmora’s past glories under the Anchor and Antlers. Astyral had managed to find a house that combined convenience with his politics.
The Road To Vanador Page 9