“Not so much here in Parayid, for many reasons. That being one. But in the rest of Feravayir. Most of that is because of the raised tax.”
“But everybody paid it,” Quill said. “the King’s Tenth, the war tax. That’s old.”
Noth looked grim. “You have to remember that we garrison commanders stay strictly out of politics. If we’re summoned to the royal city for Convocation, we can only speak on subjects pertaining to defense. So I cannot demand to see tax tables. All I can do is detail companies to guard the caravans taking what’s owed to the royal city. My people can’t touch what’s in the wagons. The guilds don’t have to talk to us.”
Quill and Lineas stared. They knew all that.
“So I can’t prove it, but I think Lavais doubled that tax. At the least.”
“Jarls can do that,” Lineas said tentatively.
“Except that the common people all seem to have this idea that Feravayir, and the Jayad, but mostly Feravayir, bears the burden of paying for the northern wars. As the taxes keep rising.”
“But the king didn’t raise the taxes after the jarls agreed at Convocation,” Quill said.
“You know that. I know that, because I was there. I think the people are being lied to by Lavais’s tax guild. But even if I could prove it, that’d still be seen as interfering. So that’s the terrain. Now, to the Tax Gang. Lavais demands I do something, and I’ve sent some carefully chosen Riders, but they have private orders from me to never catch up with the Tax Gang. Because the Tax Gang is striking at the most corrupt of my former wife’s followers. The ones adding yet another burden of taxation on top of what’s already there.”
“Former wife?” Lineas spoke.
Noth looked grim. “She lied to my face about that conspiracy. We both knew she was lying to my face, though she denied it. Still denies it. But I saw the truth when she read the summary page written by young Senrid here after he exposed Demeos’s festival.” He spat the word. “Claiming that report as strictly defense matters, I refused to let her see the rest, detailing who discovered what where. She would have seen to it they vanished.” The lines in his face deepened.
“About the Tax Gang. Connar will be obliged to go after them,” Quill said.
“I know.” Noth got up, went to the window to overlook the courtyard, then walked back. “I can’t tell you what to do. I’m oath-sworn to the kingdom. And though I don’t believe Cassad’s gang is any threat to the kingdom, there is still the chain of command.”
“Cassad?” Lineas asked.
Noth blinked, his gaze diffuse in the way of people mentally reviewing what they’d just said.
Then he dropped back onto his chair. “I may as well tell you everything. You’d find it out fast enough, I expect. The Tax Gang is run by Colt Cassad, and a host of hand-picked unsworn Riders.”
“Colt Cassad?” Quill repeated. “I thought I knew all the Cassads. I’ve never heard of a Colt.”
“Colt was born to the jarlan’s sister, though I’m told he dropped the family name when he left the family a few years ago. The Tax Gang started running right around the time Demeos and Ryu were planning their conspiracy,” Noth stated with grim pleasure. “Hits all the holdings where corrupt tax collectors have been plundering on their own, unpunished. Rumor has it, Ryu takes part of the corrupt tax gatherers’ loot.”
Noth turned his palm down and struck the air, pushing it away. “Back to the first matter. My son sent you to scout. My suggestion is for one of you to be placed directly inside the Nyidri stronghold.” Noth glanced Lineas’s way. “A female is easier than a male, but neither in royal runner robes.”
Lineas’s nerves flashed cold: she was to be a spy again, only this time moving among the enemy instead of listening from the marshy reeds and grasses. “Very well,” she said, and Quill saluted, hand flat to his heart.
Someone rapped at the door.
“Take a night of liberty, while I make arrangements,” Noth said, and, “Enter!”
Lineas and Quill passed a waiting crowd of runners with reports. They ran downstairs, and when they were out of earshot Lineas whispered, “Did he forget to give you orders, or are you supposed to stay here?”
Quill flashed a grin. “Might be he’ll have orders come morning.”
“Might be?” She looked a question, then the meaning struck her: unspoken orders. “Then that wasn’t accidental? The mention of ‘Cassad,’ I mean.”
“First thing, let’s get something to eat. My feet are like a pair of half-numb icicles. Second, I think I’d better write to Camerend.”
Though the castle was busy with activity, the evening watch was much livened by a celebration for the harbor day watch, who apparently had successfully put down a short, bloody attack by pirates (the accompanying ships having veered off, hopefully to be chased down by a navy patrol).
Lineas was summoned by one of Noth’s runners to meet someone. On the way, she asked what the whooping and singing were about, and on being told of the celebration, she asked, “Were the pirates carrying pirate loot or coming to get some in the town?”
The runner grinned. “Both. Whichever watch fights ‘em gets a part of any take. Half if there’s blood. Word is, they were bringing in expensive trade goods direct from Sartor, and a lot of extra men.”
“Where does the other half go?” Lineas asked.
“Horses, usually. Armor. Arms. Here you go.”
Lineas was turned over to a silver-haired older woman, who introduced herself as Plix, a kitchen steward from the Nyidri household. Plix asked a series of questions, and on learning that Lineas was a royal runner—trained not just for courier duty, but to serve as first runner to any member of the royal family who might be in need, which meant she could perform any servant task—she favored Lineas with a grim smile. “Scribe training?”
“Yes. Also, I’m fluent in Hand. My mother is deaf, and I’ve been teaching with the Haranviar.”
Plix’s eyes widened. “Now that,” she said with satisfaction, “is perfect. I’ll send someone to get you in the morning. She’ll tell you everything you need to know. You’ll have to be smuggled out of here, down to the harbor, and onto a boat, so you can be seen arriving. She’ll explain a story, once we concoct it.”
She exited, leaving Lineas aware that once again she’d been assigned to the strange realm of spies. Only this time she wouldn’t be hidden, as she’d been when she listened to the Bar Regren outside of Ku Halir. This time she expected to be living, under false guise, among people who in most respects must be regarded as enemies.
Quill was waiting for her. “I grabbed us some spice-wine. This closet is cold as the courtyard. At least it feels that way. Quick, before it turns cold.”
She needed no urging. They undressed fast, and climbed into the bed, legs tangled as they shared warmth.
“You’re tense,” he said. “Bad interview?”
“No. Plix was brisk, but I sensed good will. It’s the thought of falsity. The Nyidris’, and my own.”
“You don’t want to spy.”
“Doesn’t matter what I want,” she said, sipping wine. “What did you learn?”
He sat back against the stone wall, his loose hair covering his bare shoulders. She admired the curves of muscle in his arms, painted with warm color in the light of the single candle. His eyes looked black in the light. “I learned that my father can still take me by surprise. Though I guess I ought to have expected him to be familiar with this Colt Cassad and his gang, many of whom are apparently outlaws. The rest don’t belong to any one jarl or Rider family. Some are from farm or artisan families, picked for their skills, and their allegiance to their leader.”
He leaned over her to set his empty cup on the trunk beside the bed, and she pressed a kiss to his shoulder.
His grin flared, and he put his arms around her as he said, “Camerend says that Colt trained himself fighting those brigands that came over from the Adranis on the southern route. Cleaned ‘em out of the northern Jayad, which is why
, I expect, the jarl over there has only managed to send Riders to where Cassad’s gang has already left. He has no liking for that snake Artolei, Demeos’s cousin, whose holding lies over the border into the Jayad.”
Lineas sorted all this information, then said, “So...outlaws in what sense?”
“What do you mean?” His fingers stroked gently along her arm.
“Outlaws as in, have done terrible things, or outlaws to the corrupt, who set bad laws?”
“I don’t know. Probably not so easy to define.” He smiled. “You want clear heroes and reprehensible villains. Not that I blame you.”
“I want...everyone to live well, harming no one else.” She stared down into the rapidly cooling wine, then set it next to his cup. “Pretense...hurts.” And then, swiftly, so that he would not make the connection to spying, “Why are you surprised that Camerend-Jarl knows about Colt Cassad?”
“It’s not that specifically. It’s his reach. Though I’ve always known it, I never really considered what it meant until we were able to spend those weeks with him at Darchelde. He knows at least as much of what is going on in the kingdom as the king. Maybe more. And his plans are longer.”
He felt Lineas’s breath hitch, and turned to look into her steady gaze. He uttered a laugh. “No, my darling, you are not hearing the kernel of a royal conspiracy. Even if he, or I, were mad enough to want to challenge for the throne, who would follow us, outside of Darchelde? In effectively dividing us off from the rest of the kingdom, Anderle Montreivayir all those years ago knew what he was doing. It’s habit to be wary of Darchelde. No one in the rest of Marlovan Iasca would follow us. They don’t know us, except as runners.”
She let out a small sigh of relief.
“But my great-great grandfather Indevan knew what he was doing when he set up the royal runners. With the full knowledge and support of Hastred, who I think at least as great a king as Evred. Maybe greater, because he managed to hold the kingdom without any wars. Nobody seems to make ballads about good years, but you can bet people enjoy peace and prosperity.”
“We all read Indevan Montredavan-An’s royal runner archive,” Lineas reminded him. “One of the first assignments I was set, when I came at age twelve. And I discuss what he wrote about our purpose with my first and second year classes.”
Quill hummed in agreement, and she enjoyed the vibration in his chest, on which her head lay. He said, “We turn our focus toward service, and non-interference, but it wasn’t until Camerend told me to reread Indevan’s records that I understood what Indevan really intended.”
“I refuse to believe we’ve been wrong,” she stated, rubbing her cheek over the patch of soft hair that grew over his breastbone.
“And so do I.” She felt his tremor of laughter more than heard it, before he said, “We don’t interfere. That is, we don’t carry swords. We don’t lead companies. And we don’t give out orders. But we can, and do, have quite a bit of influence on events in this kingdom. It was a way for us to be a part of the kingdom’s affairs. And Hasta knew it. He and Indevan worked it up between them.”
Lineas said, “I haven’t read that.”
“You can. It’s in the family archive. Which now you have access to, if you like.”
Lineas knew that many records were kept only at Darchelde, a few of them in a room guarded by magic.
Quill went on. “We don’t give the orders to make things happen, but we are everywhere. Listening. Recording. Communicating.” His fingers drifted up her side to cup her face as he leaned on an elbow and looked earnestly at her.
Her gaze traveled lovingly over the contours of his cheekbone and jaw to his clever, fine-cut mouth as he said, “I like this life. I wouldn’t want to be fighting the princes, for what? To keep fighting to hold what I won so bloodily? Assuming, of course, I didn’t get my throat cut at the outset.”
Lineas wasn’t certain how to evaluate his mood shift.
He saw it, and laughed silently, sinking down under the quilt and pulling her with him. “Whew, why didn’t you say your arms were getting cold? I’m done maundering. Blow out the candle, will you?”
To the outside world all the Landis children excelled as ornaments to ancient Sartor. Within the family there was an ever-changing hierarchy, all the more intense for the silence in which the competition was conducted.
Princess Seonrei and her siblings as well as her cousins outside the direct line knew they hadn’t a hope of sitting in the great tree-shaped throne set in the circular Star Chamber. That prospect belonged solely to one of the queen’s three children, who were all smart, educated, and ambitious. The most ambitious among the cousins courted the favor of the royal three, some because of natural liking, and others in hopes their candidate would be chosen heir, which would bring the obvious benefits.
So powerful was the Landis mystique that when Seonrei began to suspect that Lavais Nyidri might be entertaining the idea of keeping Seonrei as a hostage until she chose one of her boys, the sense of gentle coercion vanished like fog on a summer day after she dropped a mention of her daily reports to the queen. The Nyidris all knew she had a golden notecase. They had them as well, highly prized and (Seonrei discovered subsequently) rare in Marlovan Iasca.
Landis prestige protected her more thoroughly than any number of highly trained herald-guards, covert or overt.
Iaeth has reported back to me. She has seen for herself dilapidated villages so poor that winter cannot be kept out of the holes in roofs and open windows. Everywhere the people are angry over the burden of taxation so that the king can conduct his northern wars. Iaeth spoke to one guild master who said that taxes increased four-fold so that the king could build a new fortress up north somewhere.
Moreover, she reported that every person she spoke to, or overheard, begins a confession with some version of, You didn’t get it from me, or even more chilling, Please, no names—my family is entirely innocent.
It was not until I came here that I began to truly understand what we’ve been taught all our lives, that each monarch must redefine what governing means. My travels so far have been in Sartor, and to its neighbors, who model their forms of government upon ours. Here—I cannot speak for this faraway king whose crushing taxes are forcing people to starvation in order to conduct wars—no, as I write that, I remember that pretty, soulless Elsarion scion who came to court my cousin that one summer. It was said after he sailed home without having attached himself to a princess, he started some war over the mountains, and I believe those mountains were actually the border into this kingdom I now travel across. In which case said war was probably a real event and not just rumor. I expect you would know the truth of that.
From my limited perspective, this much is clear: to arrive at summary judgment would be an error. I believe Iaeth’s unnamed witnesses’ testimony more than I do Lavais Nyidri’s smiling assertions, but I did test her, when she dropped a very obvious hint about how, with aid, she would wrest her benighted kingdom away from the Marlovan conquerors if she could. I asked, what then?
She replied with the usual butter: better lives for all, peace and contentment, but I looked at her sitting there in a new gown, the cost of whose labors might elsewhere repair an entire house, and I wondered how much more civilized than her barbarian Marlovans she truly is. I understand that prestige depends upon appearance, but we were raised to be ashamed if people in our territory lived in houses without roofs, for that was testament to poor guardianship. Perhaps it’s merely a leftover from the Years of Austerity, but in all my years at court, I don’t remember anyone reluctant to go about in old silks until regional prosperity was reestablished; the word famine-fashion has been understood for generations to mean wearing old fashions until the effect of famine has been eradicated in one’s governance....
After Seonrei sent her letter, Iaeth came close, and as she began to twitch at the ribbons on Seonrei’s over-robe, she breathed, “There’s talk that the prince who now commands the entire army has been spotted at some castle d
irectly north. Officially he’s riding on inspection of all the garrisons. But there have been messengers riding off in all directions, mostly from Ryu.”
Seonrei picked up her fan, and spread it, inspecting the painting of firebirds chasing across it. “I want to meet this prince.”
Around the same time, that prince was dismounting into mushy brown snow at Old Faral, but his mood was sanguine because he knew by the time he reached whatever room was set aside for commanders, he’d find his second set of boots dry and waiting, a change of clothes, and hot, freshly ground and scalded coffee.
Connar peered under his hand at the garrison lined up to receive him, as behind him, his honor guard went about unloading horses, and running his banner to the tower.
He liked having an honor guard. At least, this honor guard. If he didn’t want to speak to anyone, he could get through an entire day in silence. He’d tested it. All he had to do was look at something, and Jethren would make a brief gesture to one or another of his men, and the thing was done. And Jethren kept his mouth shut. He’d learned that much from Fish.
As Old Faral’s commander came forward to salute, Connar gloated inwardly. He outranked Hauth now, by a wide margin—and he’d earned those three gold chevrons on either arm. He’d earned his command in spite of that dolphin-clan fart noise. He hoped the old turd stewed every time he saw the eagle banner.
So in spite of the horrible weather, and the sodden cloak trying to trip him up by clinging to his snow-crusted boots, Connar’s mood was high as he glanced at Rat Noth and his company drawn up in straight lines, ignoring the white fluff gathering on shoulders and heads. Every eye in the place on him.
Connar enjoyed giving Jethren the barest glance instead of a spoken command. Jethren turned to the waiting runner who trumpeted the dismissal. Connar tipped his head at Rat Noth, who promptly fell in step beside him, Jethren at their heels.
“Any news?” Connar said, surprised at how relieved he was to see Rat’s unprepossessing face. Rat knew the south. After his mountain journey, and then the rough ride of the past few weeks, Connar had gained a visceral understanding of the importance of knowing the territory ahead. And this was Rat’s territory.
Time of Daughters II Page 56
