by Lyndon Hardy
Jemidon hesitated. Then he gathered his cloak tightly around his chest and decided that it was foolish to stand in the unseasonal cold any longer. He sighed and approached the cloth-covered opening.
“Jemilor, freetoiler Jemilor, are you there?” Jemidon called out. “The air chills deep, and I ask to share your fire.”
A moment passed, and then a hand that was beginning to show the blotches of age fumbled with the thongs holding the curtain closed on one side. The drapery fell open and Jemidon looked into watery, blue eyes. The cast of the chin was like his own, but the face was deeply lined with rows of coarse furrows that remained, regardless of the expression.
“Father,” Jemidon said, as the other squinted and did not speak. “It is your son. At last I have returned home.”
Jemilor’s face moved almost imperceptibly in recognition and then hardened. He reached out a hand and ran his fingers over Jemidon’s new cloak. “Freshly woven, but without the logo of a master,” he said. “Your status is little different from what it was when you left.”
“Father,” Jemidon said, “it has been almost seven years. There is much that I have learned. Much that I want to hear from you as well. A scribbled note reached me on the shores of the inland sea. Mother was failing. No more have I heard.”
“She is with your sister, almost two years past.” Jemilor motioned toward a small patch of rocky ground to the left of the hut. “Daughter, wife, son—they all have passed beyond the need for me to care.”
He turned without saying more and shuffled back toward the dimly flickering fire. Jemidon watched the hunched shoulders retreating and followed into the hut. “But I am here,” he said. “And with a far better future than when I left. Isn’t seven years enough to mellow the keenest disappointment?”
Jemilor slowly settled onto the small stool before the fire, lowering himself as if the slightest miscalculation would result in a broken bone. “Your sister gave her life so that you might have a chance, Jemidon. A chance to find the means for the rest of us to break free from lord Kenton’s bonds. Each year he has grown more oppressive. Each year his masters come forth with more abuse of the craft. Before you left, there was only the ripening. Now there are even harvest cages and sadistic amusements in the keep.
“But if not by thaumaturgy, then with one of the others, you said. Not immediately, but perhaps next season or the one after that. For seven years I have waited. When you return again a failure, then I am entitled to keep my judgments.”
Jemidon looked about the interior of the hut. The painful memories bubbled forth. The little cot was no longer against the wall, but the image of his sister was bright and firm. He clutched the brandel about his neck and for a moment swayed from the rush of emotion. He thought of his decision in Pluton and tried to hold firm to why he was going on. “I return with the means to see you away to something better,” he said evenly. “A vaultholder from Pluton gave me a full purse before I journeyed here.”
Jemilor looked critically at Jemidon’s dress. “A merchant, then,” he said softly after a long while. “A partner in some trade with the islands. Perhaps it would not be so bad. As long as you managed well, you probably would fare better than your cousin Anton. He runs a mill now, but is forever in debt, trying to maintain lordly airs.” Jemilor rubbed his hand along his chin. “Yes, it might be possible. These purses you receive—how often does one come and how many coppers does it contain? Do you have a chance of increasing your share if your work is good?”
Jemidon turned his head aside. “I refused the offer,” he answered slowly. “The one purse was a gift. There will be no more.”
“A single purse.” Jemilor’s tone regained its harsh edge. “A single purse for fine capes and expensive leggings. And, no doubt, for fancy meals and down-filled beds as well. After it is gone, do you plan to labor seven more years to get another?”
“No,” Jemidon said. “I plan for my next reward to come much sooner. I have tracked the high prince here to warn him of great peril, if I can unravel its true cause as well, then the robe of the master may yet be mine.”
“The high prince!” Jemilor snorted. “It is true enough that he is here. He shares the bounty of the village’s labor with lord Kenton in his castle on the rise.”
“For nearly two months, I have been following his party,” Jemidon said, “up the river from Searoyal harbor and through the midland baronies to the central plains. I just missed him at lord Burdon’s as it is.”
“Burdon has accompanied the prince to Kenton’s keep,” Jemilor said. “But the movements of the nobility do not matter. You are as likely to audience with the prince there as he is to grace my hearth here in the village.”
“He will lead the incantation for the spring harvest in the square tomorrow. The winter wheat is to be reaped despite the lingering cold. I hope to have a chance to speak to him then.”
“And he feasts with Kenton in the keep come nightfall, as well. But in either case, what will you say to the thaumaturges who will block your path?”
“I will talk to them with these.” Jemidon growled. The desire for forgiveness suddenly no longer mattered. If his father could be so unyielding at every turn, then so could he. He reached under his cloak and withdrew his purse. Reaching inside, he scooped out two gold brandels and threw them at his father’s feet. “Use them for firewood,” he said as he turned to leave. “Perhaps they will warm more than the air in the room.”
Jemidon grimaced as the butt end of the spear jabbed into his back. All morning he had simmered over his father’s treatment the day before. And now he had wanted to wait until the incantation was finished before approaching the high prince. But the men-at-arms made it clear that it would do no good to protest. Everyone was to watch. Packed shoulder to shoulder with the others, he shuffled forward against the line in front.
Jemidon had been herded into the south end of the square, well away from the high prince and the double row of thaumaturges who flanked him on both sides. He looked around the familiar sights of his childhood and saw the same rough-hewn boards showing through blistered paint, the tattered awnings flapping limply over empty storefronts, and the drab signs that signaled little commerce and even less life. Only the thaumaturges carried an air of freshness. The morning sun filtered through tiny clouds to cast pale shadows of their crisply pressed robes on the cobbles of the square. A hint of wind from the west shook their hems as they moved toward the central fountain in stately cadence.
The high prince wore the robe of a master, although Jemidon knew that it was only a courtesy for the sake of tradition. The thaumaturges would speak the incantations and invoke the words of power. The prince was an actor, miming the motions for gullible subjects, and no more. He was not the one who brought the crop to ripening at the desired time. It would mature as the thaumaturges directed, whether he gave his benediction or not.
Jemidon stood on tiptoe to see over the shoulder of the villager in front. He saw the procession stop its march next to a huge, banded candle. The tallow column was an alternation of white and gray disks that towered well above the tallest head. On the prince’s signal, a journeyman climbed a ladder to light the wick. With the first spark, it burst into flame. Faster than one would have expected, the topmost layer burned away.
“Less than a minute for a full day,” the swarthy man on Jemidon’s left grunted to his comrade. “They will have to move quickly to ensure that each field is serviced at the proper time.”
As the candle began to consume the second layer, the master thaumaturges broke from their precise line and scattered around the courtyard. Each ran to position himself in front of an earthen pot from which sprouted a single long stalk of golden wheat. They began chanting a nonsense harmony, a complicated sequence of phrases and syllables that meant nothing to the untrained ear and disguised the words of power when they were spoken.
While the candle burned through the second layer, the journeyman scampered to the thaumaturge the farthest distance away. He ca
rried a giant lens, and the master grabbed it from his hands when he approached. Carefully judging the distance and angles, the thaumaturge focused the sun’s rays onto the ripening plant. Jemidon heard him grunt with satisfaction as a small billow of steam almost instantly snaked upward from the drying grain. The master handed the lens back to the journeyman and extracted the kernels, one by one, from the tassel of the tall grass.
As the candle wick began to expose the next level, the journeyman darted back across the square to another waiting master on the other side. The same steps were repeated with the second, while the first thaumaturge recited a solo incantation and then sat on the ground, his task done.
One by one, the masters tended to their singular crops, each one acting within the time span specified by the melting of a single band of wax. When the last was completed, nothing remained of the rapidly burning taper. All the masters focused their attention on the high prince.
“The rocky ground to the east.” The man on Jemidon’s left spoke again. “They ripen those fields last because Ocanar and Pelinad are so near. If any fields are to be sacrificed, they will be those.”
“Pelinad and Ocanar will be far away when the harvest starts tomorrow,” another said in reply. “A large troop presses upriver from Searoyal at the high prince’s command. Lord Kenton has convinced him that the threat is more than a brigand’s idle boast.”
“Yes, that it will be,” the first growled, rubbing his stomach. “Kenton again has increased his rents, and the late warming will mean the yield is poor. They call us freetoilers, but the margin between that and bondsmen has grown exceedingly thin. Pelinad might find many more in his camp.”
“Pelinad!” The other snorted. “It would be a shame if any of stout heart hearkened to his banner. It is to Ocanar that the support must come. Of the two, only he has the wits to give the high prince any cause for alarm.”
“Yes, wits and craft enough to barter his own daughter for advantage, if he saw the need,” the first said. “And if he were to win, then for us it would be no better. Kenton or Ocanar, to tithe to one lord is as good as to another.”
“You mention a troop from Searoyal,” Jemidon interrupted. “Do you know the names of any who make the trip? Is there a Melizar as well as men-at-arms?”
The two men abruptly stopped speaking and looked at Jemidon critically. “The cape is not the fashion here,” the first one muttered. “Not one of our own.” The second nodded. “He should ask our good lord himself at the feast tonight. The one to which no freetoiler is invited.”
Jemidon frowned. Perhaps a bribe would help. He reached for his purse, but stopped as the words of the high prince echoed across the square.
“Freetoilers of Arcadia,” the booming voice said, “again the nobility has granted you a boon. Again you will harvest fine crops from the plots scattered around your fair plain. And again the wheat will mature and ripen in the proper sequence so that none is spoiled while waiting the thrasher’s flails. Rejoice in your good fortune. Exult in the high yields. Thank the graciousness of your lord Kenton that you have the means to be, not slaves, but free.”
At the mention of Kenton’s name, a low murmur started in the crowd, and the men-at-arms straightened from their slouches to a state of alert.
“Yes, thank your lord for the way that he has analyzed all elements of the cycle.” The high prince raised his voice above the buzz. “The seed selection, the fertilization, the water channels, the grain barges, and the pushing back of the harvest of winter wheat to early spring, so that there are two crops a year instead of one. Without his guidance, you all still would be scratching out barely enough to feed yourselves. Instead, you nourish all of Arcadia and, indeed, even baronies across the sea. Tonight in his feasting hall, the millers, the barge captains, the traders, and the grainkeepers all come to pay homage to your lord’s great use of craft.”
“And had he not been so clever,” someone shouted, down the line from where Jemidon stood, “then at least we could have starved with some leisure. As it is now, we toil from sun to sun, and our stomachs growl all the same.”
“You need not avail yourselves of your lord’s machinery and arts,” the high prince replied. “Farm your rented land as you see fit. But if you rely only on the natural climate and soil, your neighbor who gives his labor in exchange for the benefits of the art will have a production that exceeds yours manyfold.”
“And so only the ones who march in step in the cages will be able to pay the increased rents that rise every year,” the man next to Jemidon muttered.
“And once you miss payment, you are trapped as a bondsman and forced to labor just the same as the rest,” a second replied. “Free or fettered, it makes little difference. We will all be Kenton’s in the end.”
“But if you owe nothing at the close of the season, unlike the others, you can leave,” a third said. “Only if you are in debt are you legally bound.”
“Walk away to what?” The first one spat. “The plain over the mountains to the east is ruled by a lord, just as is the one here. The walled cities will not admit one who does not have a craft.” He paused and shook his fist. “A pox on whoever first applied thaumaturgy to the fields. It has tied us to the land far tighter than any edict ever could.”
The hubbub intensified. The high prince stamped his boot for silence, but no one heeded. A few of the men-at-arms pushed the shafts of their spears menacingly into the crowd. The agitation grew. The prince tried to speak once again, but he was drowned out. He paused for a second, then whirled about in disgust and waved his arms for the thaumaturges to follow. Rigidly erect, he marched through the small archway that led from the square and disappeared. The thaumaturges hastily shouldered their way after. In an instant, the square was deserted by the masters.
The men-at-arms became more aggressive in their pokes and jabs. Without any focus for their hostility, the feeling of the crowd ebbed away. The ranks to the rear started to turn. In twos and threes, they stepped back into the alleyways and disappeared. Those in front shouted one last defiance as they retreated into the empty space at their backs. Far more rapidly than it had filled, the square was emptied of everyone except the men-at-arms.
Jemidon frowned. His father had been right. He was no closer to the high prince than he had been at the start. The incantation for the spring harvest had presented no opportunity at all. He could only hope that, if somehow he got into Kenton’s keep, his chances would be better. But for that he needed to accompany a grain trader or a miller.
A grain trader or a miller. Anton. Anton was a miller and forever in debt. Yes, that was it. Jemidon touched his full purse. Perhaps his cousin would be receptive to a little transaction to the benefit of both.
The afternoon passed swiftly before Jemidon found his cousin. Anton was as his father described, long on appearances but short of coin. And once the agreement was struck, the rest had been surprisingly easy. As darkness fell, Jemidon found himself in the feasting hall of lord Kenton and mere yards away from the high prince.
But barely an hour had gone by when Anton drained the last of his fifth goblet and waved it over his head to be refilled. With a lurch, he sagged against Jemidon’s shoulder.
“You cannot empty the kegs alone, no matter how hard you try,” Jemidon whispered beneath the din. “Pace yourself, Anton. The bargain was a seat at the table against the gold for a feathered cape. I did not offer to carry you home to your mill.”
“Nor did I agree to hear pious judgments from a freetoiler’s son,” Anton slurred. His face was puffy, like rising dough. Beads of sweat trickled down ruddy temples, even though the huge room was cold. “Had I not the need to dress to catch lord Kenton’s eye, a sweet doxy would have been my choice for companion, not a cousin suddenly visiting from afar.”
Jemidon started to reply, but a page arrived with a flagon, and he contented himself with pushing Anton erect. He had far more important things to attend to. For the dozenth time, he looked around the large, rectangular room. A
ll four walls were hung with tapestries from floor to ceiling, with cutouts for high doorways that led to the kitchens beyond. In each corner was a treadmill, a belt of wooden planks tied together with rope and looped around two axles in a tight band. An ambulator sat on each, muscular legs dangling over the sides. Long tables defined the perimeter of a central square. Around the outside edge sat over fifty revelers, eating Kenton’s fowl and drinking his wine. The table to the south was slightly higher than the rest, and its center was the focus of Jemidon’s attention.
Lord Kenton’s loud and commanding presence dwarfed even that of the high prince, who sat on his right. The two men were most unalike. Prince Wilmad’s face was thin, like a hatchetfish, and his eyes were set high above a nose that seemed razor-sharp. His head was always tilted slightly back. From under half-closed eyelids, he slowly scanned the room, daring anyone to relieve a majestic boredom. Kenton’s face was round, with full cheeks that pushed his eyes into tiny dots. His chin bristled with a two-day growth of beard. After perfunctory wipes of a gravy-laden hand on a soiled surcoat, he was as likely as not to run his fingers through a tangle of jet-black hair. At his left was what looked like doll furniture, an array of tables and chairs, laid out in a scaled-down replica of the feasting hall.
With a booming command, Kenton slammed down his flagon and beckoned the wine steward for more. Pushing aside Wilmad’s hand with a laugh, he grabbed the skin from the steward and filled the prince’s cup until it overflowed. With what appeared like an afterthought, he splashed a few swallows into his own.
“Do not be so cautious, my liege.” Jemidon strained to catch Kenton’s words. “You are among friends, as safe as in the highest keep in Searoyal. Everyone here is a man of at least some means. Master thaumaturges, barge captains, millers, and sackmakers. The last harvest incantation is done. It is an excuse to enjoy yourself. Even a prince must sometimes indulge in simple pleasure.”
