by T B Phillips
Her eyebrows raised with concern. “Like what?”
She is certainly dedicated to this story, he thought. “Horn retired and we’ve received conflicting reports on who is actually in charge. My sources say that Lord Stefan Nevra presides.” He watched carefully for her response and was shocked when she did.
The woman hissed at the name. Her body recoiled and she stood, forgetting her humility. “No. That cannot be so. I pray to the gods that it isn’t!”
“And why is that?”
“His men were our initial captors.” She shivered, “I’ll never forget that disgusting Turat and how hard he tried to get alone with my girls. “Nevra’s ill in the head, My Lord. He is much of the reason I’ve begged my husband to take us away to Logan.”
Charro felt his heart turn over in his chest. “If you’ve met Stefan, describe him.”
“Walnut brown skin covered with scars from some childhood pox. The scars are pronounced and mar him from head to toe.”
“Common knowledge, do better.”
“His eyes squint and he rarely looks anyone in the eye, choosing instead to bury his rat-like face in his ledgers.” She paused. “When he scribbles in them, he bites his lower lip and mutters to himself.”
Charro Valencia fell silent at the accurate description of his former lover. When he finally spoke, it was low and quiet. “Mrs. Pogue?”
“Yes, My Lord?”
“The consequences for your insolence are steep. You are charged an additional fifty talents to cover her losses.” The woman tried to speak, but he threw up his hand. “Silence!” Her mouth clamped shut and he continued. “I’ll also look into your claims about Mrs. Pritchet’s embezzlement. If they’re false, you’ll be confined ten days for slander and fined an additional fifty talents for further damages.” He watched as she regained her composure, defiantly confident in her statements. “If you speak true, then you’re promoted to the rank of Kitchen Stewart in her stead.” He smiled at her shocked expression. “You are dismissed, Mrs. Pogue.”
Chapter Twenty
A break in the spring storms brought out Westonese people eager to spend their coin while catching up on latest gossip. Percy Roan watched the display in the market from his balcony, pleased that sales taxes would flow and balance out the slower previous month. He wondered silently if the poorer sections of the city fared as well as his own. Soon sounds of argument drew his attention to a particular clothing shop.
The owner stood on the threshold shouting at two Pescari women. They were young, perhaps in their teens, and clad in Andalonian attire instead of buckskins. One of them held her sack of coin high in the face of the merchant and screamed back, “Why is our gold no good? We are citizens and earned our coin!”
“Earned it on your backs, most likely,” the shop owner’s wife shouted over the shoulder of her husband, “You foreigners are nothing more than thieves and rabble!”
The second Pescari woman chimed in response to the accusation, “We earn it working in the mines!” She stepped forward and spit into the face of the Westonese woman. “We cook for our men and feed them for coin to spend where we please!”
Percy clicked his tongue aloud and shook his head. Shouldn’t have done that, dearie.
As he predicted, the shop owner screamed for the city guards. They had already heard the shouting and were moving toward the commotion. Having witnessed the assault, they quickly grabbed the women and shoved them to the ground, shackling their wrists before leading them away. The crowd murmured displeasure at the interruption of their morning but quickly resumed their business. Soon this would be one more reason to gossip and the story would get juicier as the day wore on.
During the scuffle, the purse fell forgotten onto the street. Percy watched closely as the shop owner carefully hid the treasure with his trouser leg. After everyone had resumed their own business, the merchant bent and retrieved the coins. He slipped the bulging sack into his pocket and returned inside. Percy made a mental note to have a conversation with the man and ensure that he received his cut at the end of the week.
If only the heathens would remain in their district, he thought about the women, then we wouldn’t have these problems. Of course, he and Cassus Eachann shared no intention of stopping them from roaming into the richer sectors. Events like these demonstrated the need for added security and higher taxes. Besides, we’ve improved their lives monumentally! They’d still be living off the land if we hadn’t accepted them into our culture!
The women would be lashed and returned to their district within the day, although, there would be trouble with the Pescari from this. More would have to be arrested before they learned their lesson. He would need to speak with Lord Eachann about a proactive solution to prevent riots. He had a meeting with Cassus in an hour and would discuss it then.
They planned to meet with new donors and discuss improvements to the harbor. With the Esterling brat in control of Eskera in the south, Weston had an opportunity to improve its position. It would become a key stop along the Misting River. Percy Roan rose from his chair and left the remains of his breakfast for the kitchen staff to retrieve.
Concerned Pescari men filled the meeting lodge, murmuring their frustrations and trying hard to keep their tempers low. Daska and Teot sat at the front of the congregation, and the other elders gathered behind the two men. Daska tapped a drum five times, and the grumblings fell silent. By the fifth beat no one spoke, and all eyes were on the two men. He reached out the talking stick and handed it to Teot.
The uncle of the shappan stood and addressed the gathered. “Felicima led us to this city for a reason but has yet to reveal her purpose. In the meantime, our culture is crumbling. The inhabitants of this city worship the gold in their pockets and are enticing us with its power. This god of wealth makes Felicima angry and she will punish us.”
Daska retrieved the ceremonial stick from Teot and added, “Women are whoring with Westonese men for gold, and our backs are breaking while we dig to further the wealth of our Andalonian masters. We have become their slaves and they control us with their golden god.”
One of the men raised his hand, and the elder passed the stick through the crowd. Once he held it, he spoke chilling words, “My sisters were arrested in the market this morning. I told them not to leave our district, but they insisted that the quality of clothing was far better near the homes of the wealthy. The guards took turns flogging their backs with leather whips while their bare chests were exposed to the crowd. This was all under the eye of Felicima.”
He passed the talking stick through the crowd, and another man added his own story. “They are seducing our youth with lies about our culture. They force them to attend school and endure hours upon hours of teachings that persuade them to turn from our goddess. Last evening my son told me that she is not alive, and that she is nothing more than a fireball in the sky that warms our world. He said that there are no gods, only mankind.”
This brought the council to break protocol, and they shouted with anger until Daska again beat the drum. They quickly quieted and Teot retrieved the stick. Before he could speak, a single voice shouted from the back. “Where is the shappan? Why has he forsaken us?”
Teot cast his eyes upon the man, rebuking him with a single look. “My nephew is gone, and I can no longer support him as shappan.” Ignoring the gasps of both the warriors and the elders, he continued. “Felicima has passed her power to another, more worthy of our people; a shappan with maturity and experience as both a warrior and a leader.”
Shouts of defiance rang out in the lodge and Daska beat the drum. “Who shall we follow, Teot? You? Prove your worth!”
With both hands, Teot pointed at several dark braziers. In a flash they sprung to life, crackling and snapping as sparks licked the air. The men gasped and dropped to the floor in reverence. Even Daska had not expected the display and he too fell to his knees. “If Taros returns,
I will demand that he step down. If he refuses, I will challenge his right to rule through Shapalote.”
The doors to the lodge burst open and the night wind chilled the room, threatening to snuff the flickering torches. Their fire danced against the interruption but held their glow. A Pescari youth in buckskins approached and addressed the elders. “Soldiers are in our district! They’re demanding that we turn over our weapons and are going door to door taking them away!”
Fire reflected in Teot’s golden eyes as he strode from the room. He found the activity in the streets exactly as the boy had described. Soldiers exited homes with bundles of bows and blades that they discarded into the backs of wagons. Many of the Pescari complied out of fear, while the bravest who resisted were quickly outnumbered.
Rage filled the warrior as he stared down two approaching soldiers. With an outstretched hand, one of them ordered, “Place your blade on the ground.” When Teot refused, the man pressed, “Do it now, and there won’t be trouble.” He placed his hand on the wooden handle of the club at his side.
“Your trouble is only beginning in the eyes of Felicima,” Teot responded loudly so that all present would hear, “and she is not pleased with either of our people.” With a wave of his hand, the club at the man’s side burst into flame. All at once, every soldier in the street screamed out in pain as their own cudgels did the same, some while in use.
The men behind Teot stared in awe until Daska yelled, “Attack them and drive them off!” At his command the warriors sprinted toward the wagons, intending to gather up weapons and turn them on the soldiers. “In the name of Felicima, kill them!”
But the soldiers recovered quickly and drew swords while the waggoneers spurred horses. With precision they formed a thin line to protect the retreating caravan. Teot and his men clashed with the remaining soldiers, driving them back. As they neared the gate marking the boundary of the district, Teot reared back. He channeled his inner heat and anger. Then he froze in his tracks.
On the other side of the gate stood several ranks of mobilized soldiers, not the city guards his men had pushed back, but lines of well-armed imperial soldiers. Tonight did not happen by chance, he thought, they planned for us to rise up! Instantly the sky above filled with arrows, so many that he could not burn them all as they rained down. All around him men screamed in agony as the soldiers fired upon both friend and foe. He caught the second wave more easily but was unable to stop the heavy iron portcullis from dropping into place behind the fleeing guardsmen.
The fierce battle was over almost as soon as it had begun, ending with the district completely locked down. Within an hour the entire city guard had mobilized and encircled the Pescari. If anyone had wondered why the new governor had given them this particular ward, they no longer questioned. The high walls encircling the neighborhood included two gates which were easily closed and locked at the first sign of trouble. Steel portcullises were impervious to fire, and the rioting people were trapped inside an open tomb of stone.
Cassus Eachann watched from his vantage high atop the city walls and addressed the six Falconers standing beside him. “Issue every soldier the steel weapons that we made with the coal and iron the Pescari mined for us. He can’t destroy those. We’ll also cut their water for a few days and teach them a lesson. Keep a watch and let me know if any more than the one exhibit emotancy.” As an afterthought he added, “Is the girl with the boy?”
The tallest of the specters nodded. “Yes. She walks to him every evening and returns to the city each morning before first light.”
“Good. Don’t let the girl into the city tomorrow. Have the guards turn her around with a rumor at the gates or something. She’ll run straight to him and he’ll be forced where we please.”
“We already have the trap set and he’ll have no defense this time.”
“Good.” Eachann nodded approvingly. “Contact Lord Campton Shol with your report straight away.” He turned and faced the specter then added, “Let him know that it was my plan that worked.”
“Don’t overstep your authority with us, Governor.” The order had its intended effect and Cassus immediately regretted his tone. “But rest easy, that I’ll let him know that you’ve trapped the entire population of abominations. He’ll no doubt reward you handsomely for your contribution to the Empire.”
“He damn well better, since I just went against every voter in my constituency.”
“Worry not. I’m sure that he’ll secure your future in this city. For now, continue to work for the greater good of your continent.”
“The continent?” Eachann scoffed. “I don’t give two shits about Andalon.”
“Neither do we, Governor.”
The politician continued to stare down at the trapped Pescari as he mentally calculated the cost of repairs to the district. The funds, of course, would funnel through his city contracts and into his own pocket. With or without the refugees, Cassus Eachann was the wealthiest man in Weston.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hester pulled at the hooded cloak. She made certain to completely hide her face. This part of Fjorik was unsavory and darkness emboldened dangerous shadows. She would not have come at night, except to maintain secrecy, but so far only eyes had followed her through the streets. With relief she arrived at the tiny cottage near the end of the docks.
She raised an unsteady fist to the wooden planks and knocked, ignoring the nerves that wrenched her belly into knots. The cuts on her back burned as she pounded on the door and she flinched from the pain with every strike. Why aren’t they healing more quickly, she wondered, what else did he do to me? Her unanswered knock fueled anxiety and her impatient eyes scanned the shadows.
Panic raised her hand a second time, and she rapped louder and more violently until a face peeked from a single fogged windowpane. Hester pulled back her hood and the person ducked out of sight. A few heartbeats later the door slowly opened. She pushed past the young woman and searched her memory for her name. “Is she here, Gretchen?” She looked around the shabby interior and peered into the single bedroom in the back.
“No, My Lady.” The tawny haired girl shook her head with eyes glued to the floor, refusing to look at Hester. “She’s due back soon, though.”
“Then I’ll wait.” Two chairs sat around a small table next to the stove. She longingly eyed them, wishing that she could sit and cursing the pain that sitting would cause. The woman and the girl stood like that for several awkward minutes until Hester finally cleared her throat. “Go boil some water, girl. I’d like some tea.”
“We don’t have tea, My Lady.” The girl’s eyes never left the floor as she spoke, hiding behind her locks of hair as if she could disappear behind them.
“Herbs, then. I’m in pain and need something to numb my skin.”
Gretchen shook her head to the contrary, hair flying about as she did. Her voice was meek and tiny when she responded, “I can’t give you anything for pain, My Lady.”
“Don’t be silly, of course you can.” Hester eyed her with curiosity. “You conjured something before.”
“I don’t have anything to give you that won’t affect the baby in your womb.”
Hester stared back in shock. She opened her mouth to chastise the girl, but fear held her tongue. What if she’s right, she wondered. But then she remembered the broken vial and the elixir soaked into the rug of her chambers. Surely, it’s too soon to know, she reasoned.
Just then, the door to the cottage blew inward, startling the queen and breaking her gaze from the odd child. A figure entered and locked the door before setting a basket of herbs and vials on the tiny table. The woman removed her coat and hung it delicately on a hook. With a sigh she collapsed onto one of the empty chairs. No one spoke, they only stared, the older women at each other and Gretchen at the ground. Finally, the witch pointed at the chair across from her.
Hester responded, “I can’t sit, D
elilah. I’m in too much pain.”
“What did he do to you?”
“He carved me up like one of his whores. I never thought he’d do it to me, but he finally did.”
“Why would you be different, Hester? He’s a dangerous monster.”
“He only marks his property, and, until now, he saw me as something else. My family’s wealth finances his luxuries and I’ve kept this kingdom running since he took it over. I’ve been too valuable.”
Delilah nodded along as she listened. “But no longer? What changed?”
“He’s raiding again. Broke the peace with the Esterlings and plans to use their own steel against them.”
“That makes no sense. The Falconers would destroy his ships.”
“There’s something different about him, Delilah. He’s changed and become something darker and more dangerous.”
The older woman absorbed the words, listening intently and nodding. “I saw him take much of the fleet when he left last week. Where did he go?”
“I think to Diaph. Braen raided it in the fall and left it vulnerable. Skander’s angry with Marcus Esterling for breaking a deal and stealing his gold. He wants to pour salt on a wound that he was too weak to have inflicted himself.”
“My coven sister is there, in Diaph. I’ll need to get word to her to flee.” Delilah turned to the girl standing in the middle of the room. “Gretchen, boil some herbs to dull her pain.”
The girl shook her head and refused to move. “She can’t have them. She’s with child.”
“Is this true?” The older woman’s eyes shot back at Hester with alarm. “What about the elixir I gave you?”
“He knocked me out and had his way with me. Somehow he found the bottle and smashed it against the wall.”
“When was this?”
“Two weeks ago.”
