"Well, I didn't know that," Myranda said.
"You should have asked. What question have you got, anyway? It had best be an excellent one to warrant this sort of breach," he said.
Myranda took the book and flipped to the offending page. She indicated the crossed-out line and handed the book to Desmeres. He had only just glimpsed at the line when he shut his eyes tight and slammed the book closed.
"What? You didn't even read it," she said, taking the book away and trying to find it again.
"I didn't write that. If I didn't, then Lain did. If he wrote it, it was because he didn't want me to know about it. If he didn't want me to know about it, I don't want to know about it," he said, pushing the book closed again.
"If he didn't want you to know, then why would he write it down?" she asked.
"It doesn’t matter. He knows that I respect his privacy. I would not have read it," he said.
"Well, tell me what it says," she said.
"If I could think of a way to do so without reading it myself, gladly. Why do you want to know so badly?" he asked.
"It is the entry directly following the . . . massacre at Kenvard. Yet, it mentions Kenvard. How can that be? There were no survivors aside from myself and my uncle," she said.
"I haven't a clue. All I can say is that, whatever that line says, it details a job that touched a nerve with Lain. If you want an answer, ask him, because the last thing I need is to give him a reason to distrust me," he said.
With the mystery of Lain's note still unsolved, Desmeres managed to bury it under two more days of instruction. By the time they had reached the crushed stone road that led to Grossmer's mines, Myranda felt she knew more about them than the old man himself did. What she understood less were the complexities of the art of haggling. She had always been able to get a decent price when she had to, but things were different on a scale as grand as this. Even as Desmeres laid out every move that she should make and every move he was likely to make in turn, Myranda became more lost.
Finally, Desmeres reluctantly endorsed a very different method.
"Perhaps three days is not long enough to teach you the intricacies of the land purchase, but I assure you, in three minutes I can teach you a surefire way to get this land for a decent price, whether he wants to sell or not. I wouldn't recommend it, though, because it will only work if you have the full amount you intend to pay with on hand. Such is never the case in situations such as this, which is precisely why this method works. Here we are.
"Rule one, always speak directly to the owner. If the underlings try to resist, mention that it is a matter of great importance regarding the price of their land. You won't have to wait long. Rule two, refuse any hospitality. Don't even enter their office. Do all of the negotiating outside. It will take them out of their environment and make it harder to think. Make up an excuse for why, but make it clear that you always do business this way. They may be reluctant to comply, but that brings us to rule three. Keep the money, the full purchase price, close at hand. When he gives you trouble, direct him to a chest and open it. He will cave. At the sight of that much money, anyone would.
"Rule four, set a maximum price--in this case, seventy thousand gold pieces--and if he tries to raise, open the rest of the chests. No one pays all at once. The thought of having all of that money in his hands will push the logic right out of his head. Finally, rule five. Get him out. Get him off of his land as quickly as possible, ideally by the end of the day. A swift cut will not only leave the land totally and completely yours in the shortest amount of time, but the chaos it creates will leave all who remain searching for someone to restore order, thus firmly installing you as the one in charge," he said.
Almost immediately, the carriage came to a stop and Desmeres slipped into the hiding place. A few moments later, the door was opened and the driver announced her.
"Mistress Tesselor," he proclaimed.
At the end of a crushed stone road was a mansion that would not have been out of place in the highest class sections of the north's wealthiest of towns. It was, however, quite out of place on one of only two level portions of an otherwise craggy mountainside. A stout man wearing an assortment of furs that matched one another only insomuch as they were not native to this forest hurried out to meet Myranda as she was helped down from her carriage.
"Mistress Tesselor, what brings you to my humble establishment?" asked Luther Grossmer, owner of the mines and, for that matter, the mountain.
It was clear from his beet-red face that he was unaccustomed to being anything less than the most important person on the mountain, and thus unaccustomed to hurrying.
"What brings me here, Luther, is the fervent hope that I can put this humble establishment under less humble management. My own," she stated, Desmeres had made it clear to address him by his first name. The unbalancing effect it had on him was immediately obvious.
"You mean to make an offer for the mines?" Grossmer said, with an eyebrow raised.
"I mean to purchase the mines," Myranda corrected.
"I am certainly willing to discuss the matter, if you would like to join me inside, I've some excellent wine . . ." the owner offered.
"No need for that. We shall discuss it here or not at all," Myranda insisted.
"Surely you would be more comfortable inside. I could--" Grossmer attempted again.
"I am never comfortable beneath a roof I do not own, Luther. Besides, negotiations will be short," Myranda said, getting well into her character and, to her shame, rather enjoying it.
"I would never think of denying you the hospitality of--" the hardy owner persisted.
"Your dogged insistence to bring me indoors is beginning to lead me to believe that there is something about your place of business you do not want me to see. There are other mines, my good sir," Myranda said testily.
"No, no. Of course. This will be fine. In full view of the splendor of my mines. Hatchett, a table and two chairs, and the papers," Grossmer hastily ordered.
A rather slight, snakelike man who had been standing obediently beside his master quickly marched toward the estate. As he approached the door, a second man was trudging down the side path toward what looked to be a large shed of tools. Hatchett motioned for him to come inside immediately, and the two disappeared inside the enormous estate.
"I hadn't expected any offers. In truth, I'd only mentioned a desire to retire in passing. Do you mind telling me how you came to the decision to consider purchasing--" Grossmer attempted to ask.
"It is none of your concern," Myranda snapped quickly. "Suffice to say that little is said in the Northern Alliance that does not reach the ears of a Tesselor."
The two servants were already on their way back. Hatchett was carrying a few sheets of parchment, a pot of ink, and a quill. The other, through a complicated configuration, had managed to hoist a heavy oak table onto his back. Each hand held an ornamented chair, awkwardly positioned to prevent the table from sliding off. He set the chairs down and, with a bit of effort, managed to place the table right side up. It was all that Myranda could do to keep herself from lending a hand.
The laborer turned to go, but the as-yet completely silent assistant to Grossmer merely motioned that he should stay. The stoic worker nodded and stood to the side. He was stooped, and thus seemed a bit shorter than Hatchett. There was the air about him that, if he were to unfold himself, he would be a head and shoulders taller. His clothes looked vaguely as though they had once been used to hold potatoes. There was the hint that they might have been blue at some time in the distant past, but now they were the same color as their wearer--who, in turn, was the same color as the stone he was standing on. There was little doubt that this was a man pleased to be pressed into service in this case simply because it gave him a rare view of the sky, rather than a mine shaft.
Grossmer's chair was maneuvered into place and groaned under his weight as he sat. Hatchett hurriedly did Myranda the same courtesy. She sat in a carefully measured way, so as to
make it clear to those around her that she was trying to place as little of her body in contact with the chair as possible, and was quite displeased at the prospect of touching it at all. Pages were laid out carefully on the table before Myranda, small bits of iron ore skillfully pinning them down against the constant mountain wind.
"Now, in the past few years we've seen a fairly stable profit of--" Grossmer began in a practiced way.
"Fifty thousand," Myranda stated.
"I'm sorry?" Grossmer said, searching the pages in front of her for some hint of the figure.
"Fifty thousand is the price," she elaborated.
"With all due respect, mistress, fifty thousand silver is only slightly more than we make in a single year. I could not dream of letting the place go for--" Grossmer objected.
"My good sir, the Tesselors do not deal in silver," Myranda scoffed, doing her best to make it seem as though the mere sound of the word put a terrible taste in her mouth.
"Fifty thousand . . . gold?" Grossmer said, the word gleaming in his eye.
"Of course," Myranda said dismissively.
"That . . . that is a fair offer. But . . ." the proprietor struggled to say.
"You, the strong one, fetch a chest from the back of my carriage. Any one of them will do," Myranda ordered.
The worker glanced at Hatchett, who in turn glanced at Grossmer. A chain of nods sent him on his way. He trudged to the carriage, opened the storage area, and lifted one of the larger chests. His muscles bulged, giving him the look of a thing composed of little more than sinew and bone. His face remained stoic as ever.
"But, you see, the Grossmers have been the owners of this mountainside since the first mine was dug. My blood runs through these veins," he said, chuckling nervously. "A little joke, you see."
"Very little. On the table, please," Myranda instructed.
"Miss?" the worker said doubtfully, the words hissing from overworked lungs.
"On. The. Table," Myranda repeated standing and stepping aside.
The worker carefully placed the chest on the table as lightly as he could manage. The legs of the table creaked, then swiftly gave way, dumping the chest and its contents, a number of gold bars, across the gravel. The papers that were not buried beneath the gold fluttered into the air, but no one save Myranda noticed. All eyes were on the gold.
". . . a very generous offer, yes," Grossmer said, his voice lagging a few syllables behind his mouth. "But . . . I, ah . . . my sons. The . . . the legacy."
Myranda sighed with irritation. "Fine. Sixty thousand. I trust with ten thousand gold pieces, even the set-in-their-ways Grossmers can find a new legacy for themselves."
"Sold," Grossmer said automatically. "I presume that this represents the first payment."
"It does. The carriage contains the rest," Myranda said with a yawn. "Pack your things. I want you off of my property today."
"You brought all of . . . today!?" Grossmer sputtered, his mind at a loss for what to object to first. "I have generations of heirlooms, I have--"
"You have a day to remove them. However, I am a reasonable woman. Whatever you cannot take with you, I shall purchase. Another ten thousand should do, I would say. That makes seventy thousand for your land, your workers, your estate. The servants you may take with you or release. Some of my own will be by shortly. Oh, and send someone to tell the workers that they may have the rest of the day off," Myranda said, grinning as she finally reached the full price.
Grossmer objected no longer. He dismissed the worker and vanished inside. By sunset, everything he was particularly attached to was inside a caravan of carriages normally used for transporting ore. A hasty description of the day to day workings of the mine was delivered, and he was on his way. For the sake of ease, the surplus gold was removed from the chariot Myranda had arrived in and, after Desmeres had surreptitiously moved himself and his cargo into the mansion, it was taken by the Luther Grossmer and his equally corpulent wife. With that, the former owners set off, leaving the land in the hands of Myranda and the others.
Chapter 6
Myranda watched through the window of the still-remarkably furnished estate as the last of the caravan disappeared from view. When they were gone, she heaved a heavy sigh and collapsed into a stuffed chair.
"Not the best price we've gotten, but overall a remarkable first performance," Desmeres said, startling Myranda with his sudden appearance.
"I sold it for the price you told me to. Besides, there is still twenty thousand gold pieces worth of ingots and such in chests in the bedroom. That should be enough for whatever you've got in mind," Myranda sneered.
"Easy now. I'd hate for all of this role playing to spoil your normally pleasant attitude," Desmeres said, his voice not betraying a hint of sarcasm. "The kitchen is rather well-stocked. Would you care for anything?"
"I'll get it myself . . . later," Myranda said, exhausted.
"See that you do. Big day tomorrow," Desmeres said before disappearing.
Myranda sat for a time in the emptiness of the mansion. She was surrounded by room after room of overly ornamental furnishings. If she had been in higher spirits, she might have realized she was, despite the situation, realizing a dream she'd had as a child. And yet, as she sat in a massive estate, dressed in clothes that no doubt cost a fortune, all she could think of was how empty it felt. As she ate food she could scarcely have imagined as a girl, her mind turned first to Myn, then to Deacon. Her thoughts lingered on him as she drifted off to sleep.
When the morning came, Desmeres awakened her.
"Enjoying the good life?" he asked.
Myranda sighed.
"What next? I'd like to get this whole unpleasantness behind me." She groaned.
"Well, you will be pleased to know that I will be playing the role of lackey today, at least until we can find one of the slaves that we can trust," Desmeres said.
"Slaves?" Myranda asked. "No. They are workers. They are paid a wage."
"Mm. Yes. In case you hadn't noticed, we are on a mountain and the only horses belong to the owner of the mines. Any money that they make is paid back in exchange for . . . well, room and board. Rather a clever system," Desmeres explained.
"How can you say that?" Myranda hissed.
"I said clever, not ethical or moral." Desmeres shrugged.
Myranda shuddered before asking, "Why can you show your face now?"
"Because the slaves are the only ones left. I assure you, no royal proclamations mandating my death will have reached them," Desmeres explained.
The pair bundled up and made their way to the workers' quarters. It was a small city of identical huts. Desmeres recruited a pair of the first workers he encountered to man a cart that handed out the rations for the day, and they set about handing them out.
"What precisely is the purpose of all of this?" Myranda whispered.
"We need to find someone to deliver 'the offer,'" Desmeres replied. "The whole reason for this purchase. We offer their freedom in exchange for a favor."
". . . truly? You are telling me that we cannot simply offer it ourselves?" Myranda asked.
"We can certainly try it," Desmeres said. "In fact, come with me."
The door to one of the huts was opened. The inside was little more than a room with a simple bed against one wall. The man and woman inside jumped to their feet when the well-dressed strangers entered. The two workers gave a sullen nod of acknowledgment as Desmeres ladled a share of stew into the pot over the meager fire and placed a coarse loaf of bread beside it. A single copper coin was handed over in exchange.
"Attention, slaves. If you desire your freedom, it will be provided in exchange for a favor and a single drop of blood," Desmeres announced.
Confusion came to the faces of the slaves.
"That . . . that won't be necessary. The ration is plenty. Paying us for these two days without work is generosity enough," said the man.
"He . . . he's offered you your freedom," Myranda said, momentarily breaking out o
f character.
"Yes, and a kind offer it is. But the ration is more than enough," the woman replied nervously.
"And if I force you do accept your freedom?" Myranda asked.
"No, please! You are the new owner, are you not? Miss, er, Mistress Tesselor, yes? Please, we will work. We will work gladly. We do not even require the ration for the day!" the woman blurted.
"Yes," agreed the man. "Yes, we did not work for it, we do not deserve it."
Myranda tried twice more to coax them into taking their freedom, but all she succeeded in doing was prompting more vigorous assertions of loyalty. The next three huts resulted in much the same reaction, to varying degrees.
"I . . . I don't understand. They live in squalor. They have no freedom. They barely have enough to survive. Why wouldn't they leap at the chance for freedom--at any price?" Myranda asked quietly.
"Because of where the freedom is coming from. The owners, old or new, would never offer it. To the slaves, this is a test. You are baiting them, trying to goad them into saying something that will let you make an example of them. They wouldn't have trusted their former master. They certainly won't trust a strange new one," Desmeres explained.
"Then how will we find one that will help us?" Myranda asked.
"We don't. We find one who doesn't care. We will know him when we find him," Desmeres replied.
Hut after hut of downtrodden workers attempted to quickly and enthusiastically assure their new master of their happiness and dedication. Finally, they came to a door that did not open immediately. Desmeres raised an eyebrow. This, it appeared, was a good sign.
"Open your door at once!" he barked.
There was a tap of footsteps, and finally the door opened. There was the flash of recognition in the stooping figure's eyes.
"Oh. It is you," he muttered, trudging back to his bed.
"You are the one who carried the chest of gold for me," Myranda recalled.
"And you are the one who made me smash a table with it. Come to dock my wages? Help yourself. Fat lot of difference it makes," the bitter man quipped.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 51
