“Something is wrong,” Marlus Duire, the senator to Ragnall’s right, leaned close to whisper.
“Yes,” Ragnall agreed. “And I don’t think we’ll have to wait long to find out what.”
Strictly speaking, Marlus should have been at the forum’s highest rung with the Senate’s newest members. He’d been representing his district for less than a year, but being of an equal age with Ragnall none of the others complained when Marlus joined his old friend near the forum’s floor.
Ragnall and Marlus and the king had been friends going back thirty years, well before Geron had ascended to the throne. They knew each other well enough to say when things were amiss.
Normally, the king was unflappable. He’d led a Fist of soldiers at the battle of Four Lakes and later commanded a trireme during the third war with the Fleure, on both occasions distinguishing himself for bravery and valor. Even when Ragnall had delivered news of the Fleure’s return and their invasion of the lowlands, Geron had taken the news in stride. But this...this wasn’t a Geron he’d ever seen before.
The king took the throne. His eyes remained downcast and a deep wrinkle split his forehead. His hands tightened over the scrolls, crumpling them and filling the room’s silence.
“The Senate will be seated,” the Praetorian said. Three times he rapped the hilt of his spear on the stone floor like a gavel.
“Honorable colleagues,” Geron began. He rose from the throne to pace around the room. “I’ve received word from the districts of Markesh, Gaullen, and Brel Taanan this evening. They’ve informed me a hailstorm swept through their fields two nights ago. This was a storm like no other. The damage was both widespread and severe. It appears that most of this year’s harvest has been lost.”
Murmurs rolled through the Forum like waves through a shallow sea.
“Senators, please,” Geron called above the chatter. “Please.”
The murmurs only grew louder.
“Wait. What does this mean?” Marlus asked.
“It means there won’t be enough food for the lowlands. The northlands won’t even have enough food to feed themselves. There’ll be no help coming from them,” Ragnall said.
People will starve this winter and there’s nothing I or any of us can do.
“Can anything be salvaged? We’ve hungry people in the south we can send to help,” a voice called from above.
“Certainly not! We don’t want lowland scum trampling through our fields,” another shouted from across the room.
Ragnall turned to his fellow senators and with Marlus’ help argued for calm. It was of little use. He could see the uncertainty, the fear in their eyes. The lowlands would starve. For all their efforts, driving back the invaders, farming all the land in the north, they’d failed.
Voices rose in anger. Senators began threatening one another with raised fists.
Geron rushed to the Praetorian and seized his spear. He pounded it against the tile.
“Senators, please! Remember yourselves,” he boomed.
The room fell silent again and every eye returned to the King. Spear still in hand, Geron approached the lower tiers.
“These are trying times, and in these dark days we must work together to forge a solution. Our ancestors, north and south alike, went through times like these. They too fought the Fleure tooth and nail and prevailed. Even before our young kingdom was rejoined, our people have always united in times of trial, and I would call on each of you to put aside your petty rivalries to work for the common good of Kartha. The people need us to pull together and provide a solution. I am asking each of you to help me save Kartha and lead our people.”
Geron paused to look at Ragnall.
Knowing what was expected, Ragnall gave his friend a short nod. The king then turned to Tresam, and the uplander nodded as well. Geron was counting on each of them to keep their respective groups under control.
“What about the fleet? Can we draw more fish from our waters?”
The question came from the senators midway between Tresam and Ragnall, one of those from near the capital and representing the center of Kartha.
“The navy has already been converted to fishing vessels, as much as any warship can be,” answered Valante, a junior senator from the capital. “They’ve been fishing hard for the last week, and while the results are promising, they’ll have to venture farther and farther out to search for richer waters. It will help, but it won’t solve our problem.”
Ragnall had met Valante and administered his oath of office. The young man’s father was a fisherman and Valante had grown the business until he owned a dozen fishing vessels before being elected to the Senate. He knew the sea, and the king had wisely placed him in command of converting half the naval fleet into fishing vessels.
“What about the other fleets? Can the lowlands send more men to the ships?”
“The results are similar,” Valante said. He shook a tired head and Ragnall noticed the purple bags beneath his eyes. “I’ve tallied the numbers and there’s just no way.”
“Thank you, Valante,” the king said. “You’ve done a remarkable job given the challenges you’ve faced.”
Valante nodded and took his seat. The man looked as if he’d aged a lifetime in the last few weeks.
“How do the granaries stand, Silren?” the king asked.
“I’ve made a strict accounting, Your Highness,” the ancient clerk said. Other than the praetorians and Geron, he was the only non-senator present. His voice ground like a plow scraping through gravel. “We have nine thousand bushels of grain on hand in the capital, five thousand more in the north, three in the south. Olive oil in roughly the same proportion, but all told, only four thousand barrels. Other vegetables, rice, beans, wine are about the same. This does not include this year’s harvest.”
“And where do we stand in relation to years past?” Tresam asked.
“Compared to last year’s stockpiles, we’ve a little over a third on hand.”
More murmurs rolled through the crowd. Voices quickly rose.
“A third?” a voice called out. “We’ll starve! There is no hope.”
This came from one of the lowland senators. Jales Yseril, even after only a few months the man should know better. The man has no decorum. Ragnall gave the new senator a stern look. Jales caught the look, frowned, and took his seat.
When Ragnall faced toward the king again, he saw Tresam smirking at him.
“We’ve a third, then, and given the latest news of the poor harvest in the uplands and progress for the fleet, what do you expect after the harvest?” Geron asked.
“The expectations for the harvest were already down, given the plague and the destruction by the Fleure. But I can only offer the roughest estimate,” Silren said.
Ragnall felt the entire room catch its breath. In his mind, he saw the thousands of acres burned and trampled during the invasion, now full of black, wasting plague.
“I’d say we are looking at no more than half of what we need for the winter.”
The room exploded. Senators stood and argued and shouted over one another, each trying to be the Forum’s loudest voice. They shook their fists and cursed and pointed. A scant few simply sat, too shocked to move. Ragnall was one of these. He couldn’t believe it. How had they fallen so far?
Half of what we need. Half. He scrubbed a hand down his face with a weary sigh. It will be worse in the south…we’ll lose two of every three lives this winter. And how will we have seed to plant next spring?
Geron slammed the spear down on its side this time.
“Enough,” the king thundered. Every senator was silent. “Enough or I will have the Praetorians in here, we’ll hold elections, and I will have a new senate. One that’s willing to stop this bickering and help.”
“What about
trade?” Ragnall ventured. He’d argued for this course before and knew the likely answer.
“The treasury is exhausted. We barely have enough to rebuild our defenses. Fighting off the Fleure has nearly bankrupted us, and trade with the Esterians has almost ceased completely. We’ve seen only a handful of ships, none loaded with grain,” Silren said. “They are still fighting their own war with the Tyberons, and now they have trouble with Hycropolis.”
Yesterday, Ragnall had met with Captain Cryll, an Esterian trader he’d known for years. The captain had mentioned trouble with the Pyre Riders, and there had been far fewer Esterian ships coming in the last few years. There were other traders—some from the Karelian Empire, a rare few from other ports, mostly small islands to the south—but none close enough to help, and none with enough food to make a difference.
“What about the Iridin?” It was Marlus who spoke now, and for a moment the question hung unanswered.
“No one has seen an Iridin in a hundred years,” Tresam said.
“In my grandfather’s time, they came each year, traveling the length of Kartha, selling all manner of goods. My grandfather even went into Iridia once. He spoke of farms and fields and great cities,” Marlus continued.
“They never sold anything like that in the uplands. All we ever saw was trinkets—steel, toys, knives, carvings,” Tresam said.
“On his journey, my grandfather bought new seeds of wheat suited for a wetter climate and special vines that thrived in the lowland mists. His work transformed the swampy lowlands into Kartha’s breadbasket,” Marlus answered.
It was true. Every word of it, Ragnall knew. Brax Duire, Marlus’s grandfather, had gone to Iridia and brought back better farming techniques along with special strains of wheat, barley, rye, potatoes, and white corn. When the kingdom was reunited by Geron’s predecessor, he’d been among the first senators chosen to represent the lowlands. Brax should have been revered as one of the finest men Kartha ever produced, and would have been were it not for his son Hanar, Marlus’s father. Using Brax’s name and connections, Hanar had won favorable contracts for his trading business. The Duire family prospered. But that hadn’t been enough for Hanar. He grew drunk with power. He bribed, threatened, and intimidated his way into becoming the wealthiest man in all of Kartha.
One of Geron’s first acts after being elected king had been to bring Hanar to justice and strip him of his lands. Hanar had died a pauper, disowned by his family. Only now, with Ragnall and Geron’s help, had Marlus returned his family to their rightful position of honor and been elected to the senate.
“It matters not,” Tresam said. “No one has heard from the Iridin in a century. We need real solutions.”
Desperate times call for boldness, thought Ragnall, clearing his throat. “I propose an expedition,” he said. “My king, I propose we send a group through the Jandas with enough men and supplies to trade with the Iridin and restore the route.”
“I second,” Marlus said, springing to his feet in support. Every lowland senator stood swiftly in solidarity. After a moment’s hesitation, the senators representing the capital joined them. They too would have to face hungry crowds if something wasn’t done. Those from the uplands watched Tresam, ready to follow his lead.
With two thirds of the senate in support, his opinion would carry little weight, Ragnall knew. Still, I half expect him to oppose us just for spite.
“I would call for a vote,” Geron said. The king smiled. “But it seems we have a clear majority.”
In times long past, the king could overrule the senate, and in truth he still could, but that power hadn’t been exercised since the reunification. Before the civil war and the end of the true line of Xur, four hundred years ago, the senate had merely been an advising body. In the aftermath of the third invasion by the Fleure the kingdom was finally restored, but no longer did rule of Kartha pass from father to son. The king served for life, and yet he was elected from among the senators. Each king took Xur as his last name to honor the ancient royal line. So far, the reunited country had seen just two kings, Geron and his predecessor, Luok, both coming from the center of the country, and Ragnall hoped it would always remain so.
Across the forum, among the upland senators, Tresam alone stood. His supporters did not.
“I have one question, my king, before we begin this enterprise.” Tresam paused for effect. His eyes scanned the room and finally settled on Ragnall. “What are we to do if the Iridin refuse to trade?”
CHAPTER 2
Tasks Worth Doing
Cagle studied the countryside as the carriage rolled along. To his eyes, it seemed every farm they passed had seen its fields pressed flat. It was as if the Creator had run a scythe through every acre. Here and there a clump of wheat or corn had defied the hail and remained upright, but these hardiest of plants wouldn’t provide enough seed for next year’s crop, much less feed an entire nation through the coming winter.
The farmers and their hands, as rugged as the land itself, worked out in the fields, either harvesting what they could before rot set in or trying to save what few plants they could. Cagle studied them through the open window.
Incredible people. Soldiers in an unending war to feed their families.
“You have that look again,” his sister said. Olinia was reading a book, some dusty old tome on customs of the uplands. She’d “borrowed” it from the Academy’s library, though Cagle doubted anyone would ever miss the half-rotted thing. They were alone inside the carriage. Their driver and a pair of guards traveled with them, one guard riding at the front and another on the swiveling seat in the back.
“I was just thinking of how it must be easier to be a soldier than a farmer.”
“How so?” Olinia asked without looking up. She licked her finger and turned the page.
“A farmer can do so little. He lives at the mercy of the rain and the sun and the locusts and the hail. Anything could destroy all that he owns, and then he has to look into his children’s faces knowing how hungry they are. Soldiers only have to face the enemy, and they have control over that outcome. They spend more time training and marching than actually fighting.”
“You forgot that soldiers have to obey their commanders. Farmers have more freedom to do as they choose.” Olinia raised an eyebrow, obviously pleased with her observation.
“I’m not sure about that. The farmers have to deal with their own lords and then, of course, the tax men. The senate could tax most of these people into the poorhouse with just a few signatures on paper.”
“Father is a senator, and he would never take more than he had to from the farmers or from anyone,” Olinia said. “He says we serve the people, and they count on him to speak for them and make the kingdom work for them, not the other way around.”
“Do you think all the senators feel the same, though? Bevin’s father?”
“Bevin Dalrone is three hundred miles away,” Olinia smiled. “You can stop thinking about him now. Unless you’d like to have a chat with him?” She gestured to her face and her features started to soften and change.
Cagle shook his head in disgust. “No need to remind me what he looks like.”
Olinia’s features returned to normal. “Honestly, brother, you’re a terrible traveling companion. No fun at all.” She took up her place in the book once more, her lips moving slightly as she read.
Refusing to squabble with her, Cagle went back to looking out the window. She’s right, of course, but then she’s never thought about the common man or his plight. Olinia flitted from day to day like a sparrow, never worried about the future.
Cagle’s mind traveled back to the Academy. When the summons had arrived from his father, Bevin had quickly learned of it.
“Couldn’t make it in the Academy, Niall?” Bevin had sneered. “Foolish and lost, just like your sheep of a father. Did you pl
an this in advance? Maybe pay the coachman to deliver a message recalling you to the Capital? Honestly, if you couldn’t make the cut, there’s no disgrace in dropping out. Most peasants don’t last long here. I’m sure it’s easier in that dung-filled pen you called a university in the south. Whatever happened to it?”
Cagle’s fist clenched in his lap. He scowled at a scarecrow as they passed by, but the straw-man only smiled. A crow rested on its outstretched arm, pecking at the stalky stuffing in his ear.
Bevin and his friends, which included most of the Academy, had laughed. The sad truth of it was that there was a kernel of truth in Bevin’s words. Cagle had struggled to compete with the other students. He’d spent twice as much time in the library reading over things the others already knew, and hours alone studying just to barely move on to the next class. Alchemy and Rhetoric and Medicine he’d been miserable at, and had just barely held his own in Mathematics and Economics.
Only at Swords and Warfare had he truly excelled. In those subjects, he’d utterly destroyed the other students—and many of the teachers. And yet it hadn’t helped him any. Bevin and his friends had mockingly named him the Warlord.
Olinia tossed her book at him, and he realized he’d been staring out the window again, eyes far away.
“Enough,” she said. “Let Bevin go or I really will shift into his face and you’ll have to ride with him all the way to the villa.”
“Fine, fine, no more Bevin.” Cagle paused. “Why do you think we’ve been summoned?”
“Who knows?” Olinia stretched, cracking her back and shoulders loudly. “I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.” With that, she went back to studying her book.
“It has to be the storms. That’s the only thing that’s changed. Father wants us close for what’s to come.”
Sons of Plague: Tales of Kartha Book One Page 3
