by Lee Ramsay
“You are the Earl of Ressent, and my overlord.”
“I am Fernaul,” the earl said with a nod. “You had the misfortune of meeting with Ranal, Baron Lancal, and that jumped-up lackey of his, Sir Wistan Adrest of Forbaen. Are you familiar with those names?”
“Dorishad lies within your earldom, but Lancal is a barony within the next county. I’m not quite sure where Forbaen is.”
“I see Anthoun has been teaching you geography.” The earl found the slops bucket sitting in the kitchen’s corner and began scraping plates clean. “No one else will say it, so I shall. Please accept my apologies on behalf of the duke, the baron, and the knights.”
“They have the wealth and class to do as they please, my lord.”
“Wealth can buy social position, but you can’t buy class. We are guests in your home. After the way Rothan has treated you, we should all be begging your pardon.” Half-eaten food thumped into the bucket, and the earl set the plate aside. Ressent’s smile bunched the flesh near his right eye, revealing the jagged line of a faded scar running from the outer corner to the jawline. “Many owe Anthoun their lives, including me. If that old bastard chooses to bring a nameless boy into his home, raise him as his own, and name him heir, then those of us who owe our lives and position to your ward father should treat both with the respect they are due.”
“Anthoun saved your life?”
“Three times. If he hasn’t seen fit to tell you the details, I’ll not deprive him of the pleasure.” Ressent scraped a plate clean and set it on the growing stack, then leaned his knuckles on the table and met the youth’s eyes. “I will uphold your claim to Dorishad when the time comes, even if Anthoun has not formalized the adoption.”
Tristan’s brow furrowed as he lifted the stacked plates and carried them to the washtub. “You don’t know me, though.”
“I know of you, from what Anthoun has said in the past. Your ward father has good things to say.” Ressent said. “I shall be blunt. Riand is infamous for depriving those he dislikes of their property and bestowing it on those who support him. In this case, he wishes to reward Baron Lancal for supporting a law passed in the last parliamentary session. Though I cannot prove it, it is my belief Wistan was knighted as a reward for uncovering some uncomfortable information which led to a vote going in the duke’s favor.”
“The duke means for Dorishad to be the reward, then.” Tristan’s lips twitched downward. “The barony of Lancal sits in another county and is too far for the baron to administer effectively. Lancal would give Dorishad to Sir Wistan—”
“—and reward a loyal servant with a generous plot of prosperous land that needs no additional development while weakening my power in my lands,” the earl confirmed with a nod. “Clever politics and quite economical, wouldn’t you agree?”
Tristan folded his arms and leaned his hip against the counter. “What of Dorishad’s residents? They pay Anthoun rents for the land they live on and work. Some families own their land outright.”
“Anthoun said you were quick-minded. What do you suppose will happen?”
“Sir Wistan will nullify the contracts and dispossess those who own their land.”
“Correct. He would then replace them with biddable servants to work it.”
“That isn’t right.”
“No, but it is legal,” Ressent said with a slight shrug. “Shreth’s nobility has been undermining the commoners’ legal standing. The gentry, who are supposed to champion the commoners, have been bribed to allow it. What they forget is that, somewhere back in history, they were the same as those they seek to govern.”
“So why support Anthoun’s intent to leave Dorishad to me?”
“To piss people off. Have a seat.” Ressent gestured to one of the chairs as he sat in another. “Were you aware that Anthoun and I know each other?”
Tristan settled onto the chair. “No, my lord.”
“I thought as much. He can be rather secretive, our Anthoun. It’s a failing of all sages; they believe knowledge is the key to solving the world’s ills, but horde and dispense it in dollops when they paid well enough – or when they think doing so is needed.” The earl peered into the tankards on the table and, finding two still mostly full, slid one over to Tristan. “Anthoun comes to Caer Pethros once, perhaps twice, a year. He has told me quite a bit about you.”
“I am pleased he speaks favorably of me, my lord,” Tristan said, sarcasm edging his voice as he ignored the drink in front of him. “Forgive my being blunt, but it sounds as though you wish to use me as a political pawn against Duke Riand – and that Anthoun is willing to permit it.”
“Everyone is a political pawn, and every move a risk,” Ressent said, lifting his mug to his lips.
“We all end up thrown off our land or worse if you lose, while you keep yours. You aren’t risking a thing.”
The earl coughed and set the mug on the table with a sudden thump. “Anthoun wasn’t lying about you speaking your mind. I hope he’s teaching you some sense of when to keep your tongue behind your teeth. Some people would be more than happy to deprive you of it, should you wag it in a displeasing manner.”
The youth said nothing and peered into his mug. “Sometimes boldness verging on recklessness pays in dividends.”
Ressent chuckled and leaned his elbows on the table. “Quoting Tinstafel, eh? Economics and politics are not the same things.”
“No, but economics is the language of politics. What’s in it for you beyond pissing people off, as you put it? Why is the duke here when it’s clear he has no love for Anthoun and little care for the commoners?” Tristan turned the mug he held between his palms. “What’s in it for me? And don’t say Dorishad, as you implied the laws are being rewritten to the disadvantage of the common folk.”
“You are a bold one!”
The youth shrugged a shoulder and set his mug on the table. “Judging from the disdain I’ve been shown, what am I risking by speaking my mind? I’m a nameless orphan. For almost anyone other than me, my life is valueless. Staking your reputation on me, therefore, seems like a bad bet.”
“I’m a firm believer that everyone fares better when the common people are happy. Happy people who feel secure in their lives are more productive and less likely to rebel against those who deign to rule them. I seek to keep our lands stable.” Ressent regarded the youth silently for a moment and leaned back in his seat. “Riand, and those like him, believe that the common people exist to provide them with position and possession. If you’re looking for a greater motivation beyond that and irritating duke, I’m afraid I’ll be disappointing you.”
Tristan leaned back in his seat as well, mulling over the answer. “So why, then, has Duke Riand come to Dorishad? I doubt it’s simple politics.”
“Then, in addition to benefitting from being raised by a sage, you’re not stupid. It is, in part, simple politics, though. The duke wanted a look at who stands between him and the District of Corarma’s wealth. After hearing you described for so long, I wanted a look at you as well.”
“What wealth? All we have is trees.”
The earl frowned, his head tilting to one side. “Is that what you think?”
“I know there are a few other hamlets and towns in the district, but nothing significant. There is nothing out here worth mentioning.”
“Nothing worth mentioning,” Fernaul said, his eyebrows climbing his forehead. “Those trees, as you call them, are a fortune in themselves – not to mention the other resources hidden within them. Dresden Township may be the largest town, but the true gateway to the district’s wealth is Dorishad. Surely you have seen how scarce the woodlands are in the north?”
“No, my lord.”
“No? Not a day’s ride north of Dresden Township, the forests are all but gone – harvested for timber, and turned into pastureland. What woods remain are too young to harvest to feed the demands for timber.”
“I wouldn’t know, my lord. I’ve never left Dorishad.”
“No
t even to Dresden?” When the youth shook his head, the earl slumped in his chair with a troubled look on his face. “What do you know of the land on which you live?”
“Dougan said something about the land once belonging to Anthoun’s family. As I don’t know my ward father’s family name, I can’t confirm it through the genealogies Anthoun keeps in his library. I’ve heard stories about this being a deserted track of forest thirty years ago, but nobody says more than that.”
“You do know Dorishad is a royal land grant bestowed by the High King of Ravvos, though? And that, though I may be your overlord, the District of Corarma falls under the jurisdiction of King Garoos of Shreth?”
Tristan cast a sullen glance at the closed door leading deeper into the house. At the other end of the house was the parlor in which Anthoun entertained Duke Riand. “Not until this morning, my lord.”
“Then you don’t know the circumstances of that land grant?” Ressent’s frown deepened as the youth shook his head. Silence hung between them as he ran his thumb along the lip of his tankard. “I cannot tell you much, Tristan; I have given my word on it, and I won’t go back on it. What I can tell you is that it has to do with a battle fought during the War of Tenegath.”
“Anthoun wasn’t near the war.”
“You sound rather certain for someone who didn’t know his home was a royal land grant.” The earl smoothed his salted goatee with a grimace, the hairs rasping against his calloused palm. “Suffice to say, however, that you stand to be an extremely wealthy gentleman when you inherit. I do know that Anthoun has been teaching you economics if you are quoting Tinstafel. You will be well-positioned for the politics that go with it.”
“And if I don’t want it, my lord?”
“It’s not a matter of want; it is your duty – or it one day will be.” A slight smile curled the corner of the nobleman’s lips as he caught the scowl the youth tried to hide. “You have a problem with such a future? Please, speak freely; I’d know your mind on this.”
Tristan lifted his mug to his lips and wetted his dry lips with ale as he thought through his answer. “With respect for both Anthoun and Dougan, the life they built here is not the one I want. I had hoped to see more than the same stretch of woods when I gained my majority, but the future you suggest is being laid before me would bind me here.”
“There are many who would murder others for what you stand to inherit – people with family names, not to mention the orphans who have to fight for scraps in city streets or as servants in others’ households. All hells, boy, some noblemen would kill you to have a sixth of what you have now.”
“That is not much of an incentive to inherit, then, is it, my lord?” the youth said with a wince.
“Let us say you were free to choose your future. What would you do with it?”
“I had planned to travel to Caer Pethros upon my majority and seek audience with you.”
“Oh? Let me guess; you thought to petition for a place in my household guard?”
“Why not? Dougan was a soldier in Duke Riand’s household. I would be honored to serve in yours, or in even in the Royal Army. There, even an orphan such as I could earn his place and keep, regardless of my namelessness.”
The earl chuckled and lifted his mug for a swallow of ale. “So, you’re interested in a uniform and a life of adventure? Possibly hunting down rumors of Huddelkin or driving off hordes of violent Hillffolk?”
Tristan’s cheeks flushed. “My lord, please don’t have a go at me; I outgrew children’s stories by the time my voice first cracked downward. The Huddelkin are a myth. No one believes young men who fall asleep beneath the full will be spirited away, nor the stories of impregnated young maidens whose fey children vanish shortly after birth. Hillffolk aren’t monsters; they’re nomads who prefer to live in the wilds over civilization.”
“Well, Tristan, you are surprisingly certain for someone who has been looking at the same four square miles of land since his earliest memory.” The earl leaned forward and thumped his tankard on the tabletop.
“Are you implying that the stories are true?” the youth asked, his eyebrow quirking upward.
“I’m suggesting that there is more to the world than what Anthoun and his books have told you. I suspect you already know that, considering the conversations I’ve had with your ward father.” The nobleman met and held the youth’s green eyes with a level gaze and moistened his lips with a flick of his tongue. “You have heard rumors of war in the north.”
“From Jayna – Karilen’s granddaughter, my lord,” Tristan said with a nod. “Rumors of some warlord out of Merid called the Horned Knight, or some such, who is terrorizing Troppenheim.”
“I begin to see. You want to join my household soldiers – or perhaps the Royal Army – to make a name for yourself if the Hegemony of Ravvos finds itself in another pointless war rather than administer a wealthy land grant and live a life of ease.”
“With respect, my lord – soldiery is an honest and honorable occupation.”
“It is – and not one meant for you.” The earl held up his hand as Tristan opened his mouth to protest. “You are to be commended for such a desire, even while I question your sanity for wanting it. I advise you to put it out of your head. I could not take you into my household if I wanted to.”
“Why not?”
“Call it an obligation to your ward father,” Fernaul said firmly. “Forget joining the Royal Army as well. As Lord Commander, I review the rolls as well as the troops. You might join under a false name, but I would learn of it eventually – and I would be honor-bound to discharge you and see you returned here.”
The youth frowned. “Then I will join another household.”
“Whose, and how? You have no documentation supporting a family name, real or otherwise, and no one to vouch for you. It is unlikely other noble Houses would accept you as an orphan. That leaves mercenary companies – and I assure you, there are none in the Kingdom of Shreth – or joining the armies of another of the Hegemony’s kingdoms.”
“Then that is what I will do.”
“They won’t have you.”
“Because I am an orphan?”
“I advise you to accept the truth of that. Were you to try to stand on your own, you would starve – or wind up imprisoned or dead from turning to crime,” the earl said, sympathetic in the face of the youth’s anger. He gestured around them with a swirl of his hand. “Better to have a life that is less than what you might dream of than one cut short from foolish notions.”
Chapter 14
Geren liked his isolation, even in a hamlet as small as Dorishad. By the time the sun set and Tristan was free to make his way to bed, he was glad the man lived well away from the hamlet’s other homes and buildings. He had had quite enough of listening to the more polite knights flirting with the hamlet’s young women while treating him as an inconvenient servant.
Jayna’s reaction to some of the suggestive comments was what drove him from the gathering. Telling no one he was leaving – Anthoun and Dougan were still meeting with the duke, and Karilen lurked in the manor’s kitchen with Sasha preparing a late meal for the parlor – he melted into the shadows and fled.
Unlike the other homes with their own kitchens, hearths, and bedchambers, Geren lived in a two-room cottage built with a thatched roof. Childless and widowered, Geren maintained he needed nothing more. A chimney rose from the building’s peaked roof; the hearth divided the main room from the sleeping chamber. A small outbuilding stood nearby, where he made the furniture and toys he sold at the Harvest Festival. The cottage and woodshop doors stood open as Tristan approached through the gloaming, golden candlelight shining through the doorways.
Geren reclined in a rocking chair that creaked as his weight shifted. “I wondered how much you were going to stomach,” he said as the youth approached, his words forming clouds of bitter smoke as he removed a long-stemmed pipe from between his teeth.
“I wasn’t welcome,” Tristan said, kicking a roc
k into the darkness. “They like Jakkan well enough, though.”
The tabbac ember in the bowl crackled and cast a dull red glow across Geren’s features as he drew on his pipe. “Bullies tend to like other bullies. They’re like dogs, reading some sort of sign given off by the body. I think Jayna flirting with the knights bothered you more.”
“Jayna can talk to whomever she wants,” Tristan said, a little too quickly. He was thankful the evening light hid his flushed cheeks, but he could not keep the scowl from his voice as he undid his jerkin.
“True, but you would have preferred she talked with you instead.”
“Why should I care? I see her every day.”
“Seeing her and having her are two entirely different things. You have been moon-eyed over her since her bubbies started poking her shirt out. Spare me the denials; everyone knows.”
“I doubt she does.”
Smoke flowed from Geren’s nose as he snorted laughter. The older man smoothed his iron-gray mustache and pointed at a nearby stool with his pipe’s stem. “Women know more about what we want than we do, I’ve found. No doubt one of the girls has spoiled your secret, if she hasn’t figured it out herself.”
The youth settled into the other chair. His hands hung between his splayed knees as he leaned against the stiff back. “I can’t blame her if she looks on them well. They’re knights.”
“So?”
“I’m an orphan.”
“Still on about that tripe?” Boot leather creaked as the elder set his chair to a slow rock. “Most knights are poor beyond what their lord gives them for arms and armor. Most buy what they can afford with their earnings or tournament winnings. They’re usually the younger sons of lords, with the bulk of their inheritance going to the eldest boy. All of this,” he said, gesturing around him with the pipe stem, “will be yours someday.”
