The Lord-Protector's Daughter

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Feranyt offered his middle daughter a patronizing smile. “Rachylana…names and titles carry meaning. The words ‘Lord-Protector’ tell our people that our duty is to protect them. A Landarch or a prince rules first and protects second, if at all.”

  Mykella caught the hint of a frown that crossed Jeraxylt’s brow. The fleeting expression bothered her, as did a feeling, one that was not hers, yet that she had felt. That feeling had combined pride, arrogance, and a certain disdain. But how had she sensed that feeling?

  “Anyway,” added Salyna, “every nomad raider in the grasslands west of the Lower Spine Mountains calls himself a prince. There’s only one Lord-Protector in all of Corus, and he’s the most important ruler in the world.”

  “Daughter…” Feranyt said, “that’s not quite true. The Landarch is also quite powerful, and the Praetor of Lustrea rules a land three times the size of Lanachrona.”

  “He’s so far to the east that he really doesn’t count, does he?” asked Salyna.

  “Actually,” Feranyt replied slowly, “he does count. We really should be trying to trade with Lustrea more.” He paused. “The rulers of the east believe in some ways as we do. The word ‘praetor’ comes from an old word meaning ‘guard.’”

  “So the two most powerful rulers in Corus guard and protect their people,” Mykella said, looking at Rachylana. “That doesn’t sound like coincidence.”

  Feranyt chuckled. “It more likely means that the first Lord-Protector and the first Praetor were very shrewd men.” He eased back his chair and stood. “I will see you all later.”

  “Good day, Father,” the daughters chorused.

  Jeraxylt merely nodded.

  After hurriedly finishing the undercooked omelet and greasy ham, and gulping down the candied prickle because she knew she needed to, Mykella only stayed at the breakfast table until the last morsels were gone. Then she departed, washing up slightly before making her way to the Finance chambers on the east end of the palace—still on the upper level.

  When she slipped into the outer study, Kiedryn was already at his table-desk in the outer chamber. As usual, Joramyl’s door was closed and locked because he had not yet arrived.

  Mykella glanced at the white-haired chief clerk. If anyone would know what the soarer had meant when she had used the word “Talent,” Kiedryn might. He’d claimed to have read every page in the archives.

  “Do you know if Mykel the Great had a special talent?” she finally asked, standing beside the smaller table that was hers. “Do the archives say anything about that?”

  “He had many,” replied Kiedryn. “He could kill men without touching them or using any weapon. He could walk on water and even on the air itself. He could disappear from sight whenever he wished. He brought an army through the steam and heat when the River Vedra boiled out of its banks during the Great Cataclysm. He was called ‘the Dagger of the Ancients’ because he cut anyone or anything that stood in his way. He married Rachyla because she was the only one who could stand up to him.” He smiled warmly. “There are reasons why you and your sister are named after them, you know.”

  Much good being named after the first Lord-Protector did her as a woman, Mykella thought. “Do you believe all that?”

  “Mostly,” replied the chief clerk. “No one with less ability could have created Lanachrona out of the chaos that followed the Cataclysm. The western lands are still mired in chaos, with all their barely consolidated lands and the Seltyrs of Southgate playing them off against one another, and the situation with the nomads to the southeast is even worse…and always has been.”

  “But you didn’t say he had a talent, one talent.”

  Kiedryn laughed sardonically. “You didn’t ask it that way. Talent—that’s what they say that the nightsheep herders have up in the Iron Valleys. Supposedly, the Ancients—the soarers—and the Alectors all had it. Maybe Mykel had it, and maybe he didn’t. The archives don’t say. There are hints that both he and Rachyla had something, but they’re only hints.” He shook his head, almost mournfully. “I’d say that some of the nightsheep herders have it. You’d have to have something like that to handle those beasts. They’re nearly as big as horses, and their horns are like razors.”

  “Why don’t the archives say more?” Mykella pressed.

  Kiedryn shrugged. “Not many people ever had Talent, except for Alectors, and they weren’t people like us. Maybe Mykel didn’t want to be remembered for his Talent. Or maybe whoever wrote the Archives didn’t believe he had it or didn’t want to remind people that he did, because that would make us less.”

  Because someone had a great Talent or ability, that made everyone else feel they were less? Why were people so stupid? Mykella didn’t say that. She would have liked to, but she knew that would have upset Kiedryn. The white-haired bookkeeping clerk always wanted to see the best in people.

  After a moment, she finally spoke. “That’s sad.”

  “Only if you look at it that way, Mistress. We all need to feel that we have worth, and we do. Sometimes, it’s best not to remind folk that there are those who are far better in ability and insight. Those who have such insight usually are smart enough to hide it.”

  Hide it? What good did that do, especially if you were a woman, and most men didn’t think you thought much anyway?

  Mykella decided against saying more and finally settled herself at her table and began to look over the latest entries in the master ledger. When she reached the end of the third page, she frowned. She was seeing the same patterns, except more obviously, that she had been tracking when she’d looked over the final accounts for the harvest season.

  She stood and walked to the rows of individual account ledgers set on the dark wooden shelves built into the inner wall, picking out one and taking it back to her table-desk. After studying the second ledger for a time, she turned to the chief clerk.

  “Kiedryn? The barge tariffs on shipments from the upper Vedra were down for the harvest season, and even lower for the fall. Both are lower than those for the spring, and spring tariffs are always the lowest.”

  “Mistress Mykella,” replied the chief finance clerk with a shrug, “I cannot say. We did send patrollers to visit all the factors and bargemasters.”

  “And?”

  “They all claimed that they had paid their tariffs, and most of them more than last year. Almost all still had their sealed receipts.”

  Mykella stiffened. “What did Lord Joramyl say?”

  “He claims that some of them must be lying, or that some of the tariff collectors had pocketed receipts. He told your father this last week.”

  What Kiedryn was not saying was that no one except the Lord-Protector was likely to contradict Joramyl, since he was not only the Finance Minister of Lanachrona, but the only brother of the Lord-Protector as well.

  But why had her father said nothing?

  Mykella went to the cabinet at the end of those set beyond Kiedryn’s table-desk and opened it, leafing through the folders there until she found the list of factors. She carried the list back to her table and began to copy names, although she was already familiar if only by name with most of those on the list.

  6

  By mid-morning on Quinti, Mykella was close to determining, at least to her own satisfaction, just how much lower tariff collections were than she thought they should have been. She had studied the collection ledgers and accounts for the past three years, and based on the revenues exacted in the past and the amount per landed barge and trading sailing vessel, she estimated that at least two thousand golds had been siphoned out of the Treasury over the past two seasons, just from the seasonal tariffs on the bargemasters and the Seltyrs and High Factors. More accurately, those golds had never been put into the Treasury after having been collected. But her calculations were only estimates based on past years’ collections and various ratios between barge landings and other records—and she might be wrong. Nonetheless, she would have wagered almost anything that more than a few golds that shou
ld not have now rested in other hands, possibly even in Joramyl’s strongboxes in his easthill mansion, with its high walls and guarded gates.

  At that moment, the door to the Finance study opened, and Lord Joramyl stepped inside. His blond hair held traces of silver, and his fair complexion was emphasized by his smooth-shaven face and the dark blue tunic with silver piping. His eyes were pale green and large, under bushy blond and silver eyebrows.

  “Good day, Kiedryn.” Joramyl smiled at the white-haired clerk.

  Even though her uncle said nothing and continued to smile, Mykella could sense, somehow, a certain contempt as Joramyl looked at Kiedryn. Then Joramyl’s eyes turned to Mykella.

  “Always hard at work, I see. You’re so diligent in checking the accounts that I suspect I wouldn’t even have to do a thing.” His grin was patronizing. “You’ll make a great consort for some lucky lordling.”

  “I’m more interested in serving my father right now, sir,” Mykella replied politely.

  “That’s loyalty, girl. That’s another trait any man would be fortunate to find in a wife, and more fortunate for a ruler who needs a wife-consort.”

  “I appreciate your kindness, Uncle, but I fear it will be a time before a match is made.” Mykella didn’t think Joramyl’s words were meant as a kindness, but it was far better to acknowledge them as such.

  “Not so long as you think, Mykella. You’re pleasant-looking, shapely, and intelligent. You’re the Lord-Protector’s daughter, and you’re of the right age.” He laughed, then turned, and unlocked the door to his study. He glanced at the clerk. “Bring me the master ledger, Kiedryn.”

  “Yes, Lord Joramyl.”

  Once Kiedryn had taken the master ledger into Joramyl’s private study and then returned to the ledger he was working on—the one for roads, culverts, and bridges, Mykella thought—she turned her attention back to completing the list of traders and bargemasters who paid tariffs regularly.

  She still had one large problem. For all of her calculations, there was not a shred of hard proof. While she had been careful to be polite to Joramyl, she didn’t much care for dissembling, necessary as she had found it to be, both as a young woman and as the Lord-Protector’s daughter. She’d been careful as well in not letting Kiedryn know what she had been doing, other than her normal supervision and questioning. The last thing she needed was for the clerk to mention anything to Joramyl.

  How could she discover proof? Could the Table show her anything?

  It was certainly worth a try.

  Late that afternoon, just before the palace guards were relieved by those on evening duty, Mykella carried a stack of ledgers down from the Finance chambers to the door to the lower levels. She could feel the eyes of one of the patrolling guards on her from a good ten yards away. She maintained a resigned expression as she neared the door to the staircase leading down to the lowest level of the palace.

  As she stopped short of the door, the guard looked at her directly, and she could sense a feeling of curiosity, a question why the Lord-Protector’s daughter was lugging around ledgers by herself.

  “These are the personal accounts of the Lord-Protector, but they’re several years old. They aren’t needed often, but they need to be kept in a safe place, and the older records are stored on the lower level,” she explained. “I’ll be there a bit because they have to be put in order.” She tried to press the need for safety toward the guard.

  Abruptly, the man nodded and stepped forward. “Do you need help, Mistress Mykella?”

  “If you’d hold these while I unlock the door, I’d appreciate it. These records are only for the Lord-Protector, the Finance Minister, and the head clerk. They’d prefer to keep it that way.” She offered a pleasant smile.

  She could sense his feelings after she took the ledgers and then closed and locked the door behind her—too handsome for a Lord-Protector’s daughter.

  Handsome? That was a word for men, not women. Yet Mykella knew she didn’t possess the ravishing blond beauty of Salyna or the exotic looks of Rachylana. She was moderately good-looking, if less than imposing in stature, but she could think…and liked thinking—unlike some women in her family and all too many in Tempre, where a woman’s duty was always to her husband and her sons.

  She pushed those thoughts out of her mind and made her way down the stone steps and then along the stone-walled corridor to the locked records storeroom door—the second one on the inside wall. Once she was inside, it took Mykella only a few moments to add the ledgers to those in the Finance storeroom. She was about to leave and lock the chamber when she realized that she sensed something. She whirled toward the door to the corridor, but no one had entered, and she heard nothing except the sound of her own breathing. Her eyes traversed the rows of simple wooden shelves that held the older ledgers, covered in a fine layer of dust. The shelves had been built against the stone walls, and there was nowhere to hide.

  She frowned. It felt as though someone had been in the chamber, but how could she sense that? She looked at the ledgers to the left of those she had added. The dust was gone from one of the ledgers—and she realized that one volume was missing. Since the black leather binding and spine did not reveal the contents, she had to look through three others before she determined that the missing volume held, not surprisingly, the details of the tariffs collected at the Great Piers from the previous two years. The volume that had been without dust held the same records for the times three and four years previous.

  A chill ran down her spine. Yet…the use of old tariff collection records proved nothing at all—except that someone had been studying them. But why had someone been studying them? And who had been interested? The only ones with keys to the storeroom were her father, her uncle, Kiedryn, and herself. She couldn’t imagine Kiedryn or her father taking out old records. Her father didn’t even like looking at the accounts and tended to trust Joramyl. Kiedryn was too honest…wasn’t he?

  She shook her head, then stepped back and left the chamber, locking it carefully behind her. She crossed the corridor and walked back toward the Table chamber, where she entered cautiously, although she felt that no one was around. As always, the chamber was empty, and the Table looked the same as ever—dull dark stone with a mirrored surface—but she could sense more easily the purplish glow. This time, though, the purple felt unclean, repulsive in a way. She also could sense, somewhere beneath and below that purple, a far stronger and deeper shade, what she could only have called a blackish green.

  Were the two linked? How? She tried to see or sense more, but could discern only the two separate shades—one superficial and linked to the Table and the other deeper and somehow beneath it, trailing off into the earth.

  She paused. Was she just imagining what she sensed? How could she sense purple light that wasn’t light, and blackish green illumination that lay beneath the stone under her feet? Yet she’d seen the soarer vanish into stone twice, and she had to trust what she’d seen…or sensed.

  She finally stepped up to the Table and slipped a sheet of paper out from her tunic, concentrating on the first name on her list—Seltyr and High Factor Almardyn. As hard and as much as she thought about the Seltyr, all that the Table showed were swirling mists. The same thing happened when she tried Barsytan, only a High Factor, and then Burclytt. Had she just imagined that she had been able to see people in its mirrored surface?

  After a moment, she concentrated on seeing Rachylana.

  The mists barely appeared and swirled before dissipating to reveal Rachylana. She sat on a stone bench in the solarium on the upper southeastern corner of the palace. Beside her, with his arm around her, was blond-haired Berenyt—Joramyl’s only surviving offspring—for now, at least.

  Mykella shook her head. Cousin or not, Berenyt would flirt with anyone, even one of the Lord-Protector’s daughters, and he could be most charming. Given what Mykella suspected, she had to question whether Berenyt’s flirtation with Rachylana was merely his nature…or part of something else. Yet Ra
chylana knew nothing about finances, and cared about the workings of the Lord-Protector’s government even less.

  After a moment, Mykella let the image lapse. She tried the name of another factor, but the Table only showed the mists. She glanced down the list until she found a name she recognized—that of Hasenyt. This time, the Table displayed an image of the sharp-featured and graying factor standing at the barge docks just north of the Great Piers. Hasenyt gestured to a man in a dark gray vest—a bargemaster, from his garb.

  In the end, the Table proved useless for what Mykella had in mind because it would only show what people were doing at the moment when she was looking, and it would only display images of those whom she knew. In addition, except for a handful of the oldest cities on Corus, the Table would not show her anyplace where she had not already been.

  That meant she would have to find a way to visit the factors on her list, and that required help, preferably from someone who would not immediately report what she was doing. She hated to ask anyone for assistance, but there was no other way, not in Tempre, where a woman, especially a Lord-Protector’s daughter, never appeared in public unescorted.

  As she left the Table chamber, she paused. Could Kiedryn have missed something in the archives, something that might shed some light on Mykel’s abilities?

  With a wry smile, she crossed the corridor, making her way down to the third door on the inside wall—the chamber that held the oldest archives. Once she unlocked the door and slipped inside, she closed the door. The ancient light-torch—one of the few remaining—offered enough illumination for her to drag the old wooden steps to the far left end of the chamber.

  She carefully climbed up to the top of the steps and, stretching as far as she could, strained to reach the topmost box and ease it out. Then she began to flip through the documents, quickly trying to find something, anything, that might offer some information.

  More than a glass later, filled with too many sneezes from the dust and with her nightsilks covered with it as well, she heaved the last box she had looked at back into place. There was nothing at all about Talent in what she had scanned, and most of the papers had been dull. The accounts had been better kept, she noted. And there had been one interesting reference to a proclamation making Rachyla Mykel’s successor in the event of his death, but she’d found no sign of the proclamation itself.