The Will of the Empress

by Tamora Pierce

  Daja stroked her friend’s hair. Sometimes she has too good a heart, Daja thought. I had forgotten that. “It depends on how you do it,” she said gently. “I just don’t think you should be deciding all this on a bad night’s sleep and an ugly scene first thing in the morning. You need to eat something. And you’d best tell the housekeeper to make provision for your new maid and her children.”

  Sandry winced. “You’re right. Will you keep Gudruny company while I go?”

  Before Daja could say, “I think you’re supposed to have the housekeeper come to you,” Sandry was out the door. Looking into the bedroom, Daja saw that Gudruny was staring out at her. She walked over to the woman. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” Daja said. “I’m her sister, Daja Kisubo. There’s another sister and a brother. You saw them outside, maybe, the redhead and the young man with the short black hair. We’re all mages. Real mages. With a medallion.” She lifted hers from under her robe and watched Gudruny’s face as the woman looked at it. She wanted Gudruny to understand her perfectly. “If you try to take advantage of Sandry, that would be sad. We really won’t like it. People usually wish they’d just left the four of us alone after they’ve experienced us as unhappy.”

  Gudruny was trembling. “I didn’t know about her family. I thought she was an only child. And no one mentioned mages, either. I didn’t ask her to give me work.” She licked her lips. “Though it would keep me safe from Halmar taking revenge. And my parents will never forgive me for losing Halmar’s income for our family. I don’t know why she was so generous, but I hope you’ll understand if I don’t run away screaming. I have nowhere to go.” She met Daja’s eyes squarely, though she gulped when she did it.

  Daja had to grin. “Ah. The Sandry effect.” She held up a hand. “No, I don’t expect you to know what I mean. You just reminded me that when we four lived together—at Winding Circle temple in Emelan for four years—now and then we’d find people who looked flattened, dismayed, and happy. Then we always knew Sandry was nearby. Once she decides to make your life better, look out! It’s easier to throw yourself off a cliff than it is to keep her from sweeping you up when she’s in that mood.” She changed the subject abruptly and offered her hand. “Daja Kisubo. Was Halmar really as pinheaded as he was talking out there?”

  Gudruny sighed and sat on Sandry’s bed. “Halmar was never denied anything by his family—he was the only male child. And he taught me not to deny him anything once we were married.” She smoothed her crushed skirts. “When he beat me I sought help from Saghad Ambros and got it. But…I never knew Halmar’s moods. He would punch the wall next to my head, and throw things at me or our children. He would lecture me for hours into the night, until I’d agree to anything just so he would let me sleep. I was always shaking, never sure what the children or I might fail at next.” She tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. “I don’t believe I’ve had a night’s sleep in ten years.” Gudruny looked up at Daja. “So what kind of mage is the clehame?”

  Daja went over to Sandry’s workbasket. “First rule: Don’t touch this or anything in it, ever, all right? Even if you need scissors, or needle and thread, get them elsewhere. It may look like a sewing basket, but it’s her mage’s kit.”

  Gudruny looked at the basket, then at Daja. “I may only be a miller’s wife, or a miller’s onetime wife, but that doesn’t make it right to mock me, Viymese,” she said with injured dignity.

  Daja rolled her eyes. “I don’t mock, not when it comes to magic,” she retorted. “Sandry is a mage with weaving, spinning, sewing. Even her pins have magic in them. You don’t know what they’ll do if you use them. Make sure your children understand it, too. Briar thought once he could give his hands a little tattoo with vegetable dyes—he has plant magic—and Sandry’s needles. Now he has plants made of ink that grow and move under his skin.”

  Gudruny’s lips moved in a silent prayer. Feeling she had made her point, Daja asked, “You have two children?”

  “Yes,” Gudruny admitted. “My boy is seven, my daughter ten. I’ll be certain they know—they are good children, and they mind me. But I have never heard of a mage whose kit is a sewing basket.”

  “You’ve heard of stitch witches, though. Where do you think they keep their mage kits?” Daja opened the shutters, letting the morning breeze into the room. “Did you see the redhead?”

  “Her hair was sparkling,” whispered Gudruny. “Actually, it looked like…” She hesitated, as if afraid to name what she had seen.

  “Lightning,” Daja said for her. “That’s because it was. Tris’s mage kit is her hair—her braids. She keeps different magics in each and every braid, but the lightning is hard to keep in one place, particularly when she’s out of sorts.”

  The sitting room door opened, and Sandry returned. “Well, that’s that. Apparently there are other rooms off these for the maid the housekeeper expected me to have. I don’t believe I’ve ever been made to feel so, so ramshackle in my life by someone who was so terribly polite. She even managed to scold me for not making her come up here. I wasn’t aware I had to answer to my own housekeeper!”

  “You’re frightening your new maid,” Daja said gently. Sandry ought to be throwing off lightnings right now, she thought.

  Sandry looked at Gudruny. “Oh, cat dirt,” she said wearily. “Gudruny, don’t mind me. I’m cross, but it’s nothing to do with you. I’m glad you’ve met Daja. And Cousin Ambros says the men-at-arms are ready whenever you are. You can go get your children and your belongings when you wish.”

  The woman looked from Daja to Sandry and back again. “I have a thousand things to say, and none of them make sense. You will never regret this day, Clehame.” She grabbed Sandry’s hand, kissed it, and fled.

  Sandry looked at Daja. “What did you talk about?”

  “I just started to tell her the less complicated things. You did say you didn’t want a maid, you know,” Daja remarked, leaning against the wall.

  Sandry wrinkled her nose. “What else could I do? He looked like the vindictive sort. And maybe now servants will stop carping at me over my lack of a maid.”

  Daja came over and kissed her cheek. “Ah. You did it just to silence the servants,” she said. Inside, through her magic, she added, But you still have a heart bigger than all Emelan.

  Sandry smiled, her lips trembling. If this morning’s work brought one of my sisters back into my heart, then this whole trip was worth it, she replied through their now open magical connection.

  Aloud, Daja teased, “At least until the next time Chime gets into your workbasket.” She heard brisk footsteps and Rizu’s and Caidy’s voices outside. “Some of us are going riding,” she told Sandry. “Want to come?”

  Sandry grimaced. “Ealaga wants to give me the innercastle tour, then Ambros will show me the outer castle. I get to spend my afternoon looking at maps and account books.” She sighed and slumped into a chair. “I shouldn’t complain. I’ve been reaping the benefits of these estates like mad for years. It’s only right that I learn the state they are in. And maybe I should have seen to it before this.”

  “Another day,” Daja promised, feeling sorry for her. “I leave you to your tours.”

  Skipping breakfast, Daja dressed quickly and hurried out to the stableyard. Rizu and Caidy were already in the saddle and nibbling on sweet rolls. An hostler came forward with Daja’s saddled and bridled gelding. She mounted and steadied the animal, wishing she had thought to wheedle a snack from the cook on her way out.

  Rizu offered her a steaming roll. She had a pouch full of them. “One thing about riding with the empress,” she explained, “you learn the quickest ways to get hold of breakfast before you ride off at sunrise.”

  “Actually, Her Imperial Majesty would think the day was half over at this point,” said Caidy, looking east. “We tend to sort ourselves into two groups over time: the ones who couldn’t sleep past dawn even if we wanted to, and the ones like Fin, who sleep in every chance they get.”

 
; “Will you look at this?” Rizu asked. “Here we are, three females, all mounted up and ready to ride. If Jak and Briar don’t get out here soon, I say we should leave these lazy men behind and eat all the rolls.”

  “Jak was complaining just last week that women always keep him waiting,” Caidy explained. “He’s never going to hear the end of this.”

  “End of what?” Jak sauntered into the stableyard, a sausage roll in one gloved hand. A hostler led his mount over to him.

  “You’re late,” Rizu said.

  “You’re still here, so how can I be late? And here comes Briar.” Jak pointed to a side door.

  “We were all here and ready to go,” Rizu informed Jak as Briar accepted the reins of his horse.

  “Isn’t Clehame Sandrilene coming?” Jak wanted to know. “I thought I’d be needed to save her from ferocious goats and the like.”

  “Those goats should look for someone to save them from her,” Briar told the young nobleman. “Haven’t you been paying attention?”

  “She has to do responsible things,” Rizu informed Jak. “Unless you want to hold account books for her to read, I’d mount up.”

  Jak shuddered as he followed her suggestion. “That’s what I have older brothers for,” he said, patting his bay’s glossy neck. “Responsible things.” He looked at Briar. “Race you to the river bridge,” he said quickly, and urged his mount into a gallop.

  “Coming through!” Briar yelled, setting his own horse to a trot. He pulled himself up into the mare’s saddle as she moved, effortlessly swinging his leg over her back. Caidy laughed and galloped alongside Briar as they raced for the first gate.

  Rizu sighed. “Children,” she said. “Overgrown children, the lot of them.” She and Daja followed the racers at a more leisurely pace. “Let’s hope all of the gates are open, or this will be a short race.” She winked at Daja.

  Daja looked down, feeling her cheeks grow warm. She wished she had long, curling lashes like Rizu’s. They made everything she did look flirtatious.

  For the next two days, Sandry’s companions amused themselves while Sandry acquainted herself with her ancient family home and its management at the hands of Ambros and his father. After that the group ranged farther afield with Ambros on rides to introduce Sandry to her many acres and those who worked them. They lost Briar for a day when he got to talking with the man in charge of the river tolls and crossings. All it took was the mention of particularly tough, long waterweeds that fouled oars and rudders to sidetrack Briar from his flirtation with Caidy. She pouted for two days and reserved her smiles for Jak, until Briar produced a small bottle of lily-of-the-valley perfume, made so that one drop would leave her smelling hauntingly of the flowers. That gift returned him to her good graces.

  Daja, too, enjoyed the rides, partly because they took her to the villages that lay on Sandry’s vast holdings. Those villages had smiths, men and women who were more than happy to talk with, and to trade tips with, another smith. After time spent in the nobles’ glittering company, Daja needed the solidity of the forge and those who worked in them. She always felt excited among the nobles, as if she stood on the brink of some great discovery. It was wonderful, but exhausting. Metal brought her back to earth.

  Tris never accompanied them. She was too busy working with Zhegorz, teaching him ways to shut out the things he saw and heard, being more patient with Daja’s jittery friend than Daja believed Tris could ever be. Something she learned on her travels gentled her a bit, Daja thought one night over supper, watching Tris rest a hand on Zhegorz’s shoulder as he stared into the hearth fire. If she doesn’t think anyone’s watching her, she can actually be kind. Tris. Who would have thought it?

  Sandry thought she would go mad with Ambros’s dry recounting of grain yields, mule sales, and tax records, but she had to admire his work. In those immense account books she could trace the progress he and his father had made with her holdings. His father had done well, but he had spent as little as possible to maintain buildings and roads and to handle the payments for those who worked the land. He saved every copper in order to send quarterly payments to Sandry’s mother and then to Sandry.

  When the writing in the books changed to Ambros’s tiny, spiked handwriting, she saw that he had made loans and collected interest, then used that money to invest in crop management and exports. He had used those profits to make improvements to the estates, increasing production and creating a wider variety of goods to send to market. The problem was the one that she had observed in Emelan, the increase of taxes on the estates.

  Sandry was poring over tax records one sunny afternoon a week after their arrival when Tris came to ask her permission to take Gudruny’s children and Zhegorz up into the watchtower. “The guards refuse to let us go without permission from you or Ambros or Ealaga,” she said drily, leaning over Sandry’s shoulder. “What are these?”

  “Imperial taxes. You know, maybe the guards won’t believe you,” Sandry remarked, picking up her shoulder wrap. A tiny hope, that perhaps Tris would reopen their connection as Daja had, surged in her heart. Sandry immediately crushed it. Tris was too wary, and too preoccupied with Zhegorz. Her chances were better with Briar for now. “I should go along so they’ll know you have my permission for certain. Where are Ambros and Ealaga, anyway?”

  Tris did not reply. Instead, she frowned, running a finger down a column of numbers.

  Sandry waited, then nudged the redhead. “Tris? I asked you something, sister dear. Tris?” When this didn’t produce a response, Sandry poked Tris hard.

  Tris scowled at her. “They aren’t in the castle, all right?”

  Sandry pointed at the book. “What’s so interesting? Don’t say Ambros is witching the sums, because I won’t believe you.”

  Tris snorted. “And I’m the Queen of the Battle Islands. No, it’s not Ambros. Don’t you see? There are more entries as you get older—more taxes, and more of them coming directly from the throne. First you were taxed four times a year; then six; then there’s a double tax in this year…He’s as mule-headed as you, your cousin.”

  Sandry blinked at Tris. “You should be a prophetess, you’re so cryptic,” she complained. “Just say what it is right out, Tris.”

  Tris rolled her eyes. “She was trying to drain his purse for some reason. Probably so he wouldn’t be able to send you this exact sum each year, because that’s the only amount that remains the same. He’s been scrambling, cutting other spending, but that amount remains the same, even during the last three years when he’s had to cut everything else to the bone. And here’s this year. One levy of imperial taxes, when last year there were three already. I’ll bet he never said a word to you, did he?”

  He sent me the tax records, so I could see for myself, thought Sandry, ashamed. She knew why this year’s record was so different. She had sent word north via mages that she was coming to Namorn in late spring.

  “The instant she knew I was coming, she stopped taking so many taxes out of these lands,” Sandry whispered. “Why didn’t he say anything to me? I just assumed he was coping with it all.”

  “It was a point of pride for him.” They turned. Ealaga stood in the doorway. “He felt that you would believe he had mismanaged things, if he could not make your payment. I begged him to let you know the people here were being forced to pay for your absence, but…” She shrugged. “He is yet another Landreg mule.”

  “Landreg House breeds very fine mules!” cried Sandry, her family pride stung.

  “Yes,” Ealaga replied drily, her gaze direct. “I believe it is because the breeders share a few traits in common with them.”

  Sandry heard a squeak that might have been a smothered laugh from Tris. She turned to glare at her sister, then remembered something she had seen in the books. She seized the volume that held the previous year’s accounts and leafed through it hurriedly, this time noting many expenditures where lines had been drawn through to show they had not been made. She stopped at the one that had puzzled her. Through t
he line drawn over it she read the words “masonry/stones/tiles—Pofkim repairs.” She carried the heavy book over to Ealaga and showed the Pofkim line to her. “What should this have been?” she asked.

  Ealaga sighed. “You haven’t seen Pofkim yet. It’s on the northwest border, in the foothills. Flooding two years ago ruined some of the houses and made others unstable. It also changed the water. They could only sink one new well when they need three. They’re all right…We help as we can, but…”

  “He felt he had to make the payments to me, and the empress raised taxes to get me here. I don’t understand that,” Sandry complained. “How would that get me to come?”

  “The landholder may appeal to the imperial courts for tax relief,” Ealaga replied steadily. “Only the landholder. The Namornese crown has a long and proud history of trying to keep its nobles on a short leash.”

  “So Sandry asks for relief, and then she can go home to Emelan,” suggested Tris.

  “They can only ask for relief from a specific tax,” Ealaga replied. “Once Sandry is gone, Her Imperial Majesty will simply impose new ones.”

  Sandry stared at her, her mouth agape. “But…I could never go home,” she whispered. “She’d keep me here, even knowing I hated it.” She scowled suddenly, a white-hot fire burning inside her chest. I hate bullies, she thought furiously, and Berenene is a bully of the first degree. So she’s going to make me stay here? I think not! Even if I have to beggar myself to cover her stupid taxes, I will. She will not punish my people ever again, and she will not make me obey!