Across the countryside, beacon fires called the Ploughman’s men to him. They arrived with the dawn, filling the barnyard with the sounds of hooves and creaking wooden wheels. Maggie awoke to see pale sunlight filtering over the low windowsills.
Pat was still snoring, and Mrs. Cook breathing deeply, as Maggie slid out of bed and pulled her shoes on. Outside, someone poured water into troughs for the horses. The choir of birds on their way south for the winter was just beginning to sing.
Maggie pulled her coat around her and stepped out of the bunkhouse. A low mist blanketed the ground, blurring the fields and the yard in watercolour shades of grey and green. Young boys, thirteen or fourteen years old, tended to the horses. Men stood in small groups, talking in low voices. No one seemed to notice Maggie.
There were about thirty men crowded in the barnyard. Some of them had perhaps been at Pravik Castle, but they were a different set entirely than the university students who had led them there. These were men with the creases of hardship drawn deep across greying brows. Their shoulders were broad; their hands rough; their faces coarse. They wore hand-sewn clothing, many times patched, mud-spattered from the early morning ride. They filled the barnyard with the smells of pipe smoke and soil and the singed smell of too many nights spent inches from the hearth. At first glance Maggie thought them all old enough to be her father, but as she looked closer she realized that they represented many generations. Here were young men, not much older than herself, with hands as rough and weathered as those of their grandfathers, men stooped and grey but still strong.
Lamplight cut a path through the mist from the farmhouse door, and the Ploughman and Libuse, warmly dressed in woolen cloaks, stepped into the barnyard. Mrs. Korak stood behind them with a ladle in her meaty hand, scowling, watching as the Ploughman greeted his visitors. Libuse, too, walked among the men and greeted many by name. They bowed their heads in deference as she approached. They held respect for her as did the people of the city—but not, Maggie noticed, more than they held for the Ploughman.
A young boy led two horses into the yard and stood near the Ploughman, silently holding the reins. The Ploughman turned and took hold of his tall black horse. He mounted, and Libuse mounted the sorrel beside him. The boy jogged back to the barns.
The Ploughman galloped over the field, and the men mounted up and followed. A flock of geese burst up from the field before the horses, filling the early morning with their cries.
Maggie turned to see Mrs. Korak still standing in the doorway. The woman’s eyes looked to Maggie.
“You’ll be wanting breakfast, I suppose?” she asked.
“I’m not hungry,” Maggie said. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Not unless you have ears to hear a meeting five miles away.”
Maggie looked at the elderly woman with a new appreciation. “I wish I knew what was happening, too,” she said.
“Well,” Mrs. Korak said, “there’s a horse in the barn.”
“Do you mean it?” Maggie said.
“Boy’ll show you the way.”
“I shouldn’t,” Maggie said. “They didn’t invite me.”
Mrs. Korak snorted. “They should have. Get going now. You might hear a thing or two.”
Maggie lost no time in mounting a bay mare. One of the farm boys—by now Maggie had counted six or seven youngsters doing chores around the yard—sat behind her in the saddle and pointed the way.
“You see that hill yonder?” he said, pointing over her shoulder.
“I see it.”
“Under the hill is a great meeting room. Just below the oak tree.”
Maggie squinted as she looked across the misty fields. The hill was shadowed.
“Go,” the boy said. “You’ll see it as we draw near.”
The horse made good time across the fields, but when Maggie arrived at the base of the hill, there was no sign of human life except for the tracks of horses, mysteriously ending at the base of the hill—which Maggie realized was really more of a mound, man-made many long years ago. She took a deep breath of cold air and looked up at the tangled branches of an ancient oak that grew up at the top.
The boy slid off the horse and cautiously approached a thicket at the base. He crouched low and listened, then, finding things to his satisfaction, he pulled back a thick curtain of brush, opening a dark space wide and tall enough for Maggie to walk through. She dismounted and approached the hole. Just before ducking inside, she looked at the longing face of the boy.
“Can I come with you?” he said. “The horse’ll be all right.”
“No,” Maggie said. “How would I protect you from Mrs. Korak when we got back?”
The flushed look on the boy’s face told her she had hit on a sore note. She grinned. “Thank you,” she said, and disappeared into the darkness.
Maggie found herself in an earthen room with roots growing through the ceiling and walls. The smell of horses was strong, and as Maggie’s eyes adjusted, she saw that she was standing in a stable full of animals. The room stretched to either side and disappeared around what Maggie thought was the curve of a circle. Across the stable was a wall, and in it, a door.
It was standing partially open, and Maggie could hear voices. She made her way past the horses, who ignored her, and slipped through the door into a circular room orange with lantern light on earthen walls. It was a large room, wide enough to seat two or three hundred men, and it was full to the bursting.
The old men sat on rough-hewn benches; the younger men cross-legged on the floor. In the center of the room the Ploughman stood, quarterstaff in hand, his face solemn. He had only just stopped speaking, and now his eyes swept the faces of his men. He saw Maggie and his eyes rested on her for a moment, but he said nothing. Libuse was standing on the far side of the room, against the wall.
An old grey farmer with a hump in his back and strong arms spoke. “We will follow you,” was all he said.
“You risk everything,” the Ploughman said.
The old man smiled, an ironic smile. “We have nothing to risk,” he said.
“Your lives,” the Ploughman said. “Your families.”
“We live in slavery,” the old man said. “Yearly taxes will starve our lives; the Man Tax will take our families. Fight them then or fight them now, we will fight.”
The Ploughman motioned toward a group of thirty or so men: those who had gathered with him in the farmyard. “These at least have an obligation to fight with me, though I would not force them,” he said. “They are my tenants. I am their lord. The rest of you own Zarras as your landlord.”
“He has our lands,” a younger man said. “You have our loyalty. You have fought for us. We will fight for you.”
“If we win,” said the changing voice of a boy who was barely a man, “perhaps the Emperor will listen to us.”
“Perhaps he will kill you,” the Ploughman said.
There was silence.
Libuse moved from the wall and came to stand by the Ploughman. “Enough now,” she said. “You have your army.”
“And there is much to do,” the Ploughman finished.
* * *
Pat and Mrs. Cook were in Mrs. Korak’s kitchen when Maggie returned, picking at bowls of porridge. Maggie and the farm boy had left the mound ahead of the Ploughman, slipping away while the rebel leader spoke with a few of his men.
Maggie pushed open the wooden kitchen door. The warmth of the hearth and the smell of food wrapped around her and she yawned.
“Tiring morning, was it?” Pat asked. Maggie ignored her and glanced at Mrs. Korak, who was eagle-eyeing her. The farmwife looked down and pounded a lump of dough as Maggie brushed past her.
“They’re going to Pravik,” Maggie whispered. Mrs. Korak nodded and pounded harder.
Maggie sat down next to Pat. Mrs. Cook shoved a bowl of porridge in her direction. Pat had stopped eating, and was looking at Maggie with one eyebrow raised.
Maggie stirred her porridge. “I don’t know
how much I should tell you,” she said, finally. “I followed the Ploughman to council this morning.”
She was interrupted by the clatter of hooves in the yard. A boy poked his head in the door and said, “Ploughman’s back! Twenty men with him.”
“Good boy,” Mrs. Korak said. “Go take the horses. On with you!”
The boy darted back outside. “Twenty,” Mrs. Korak said. “His leaders. There’ll be more talking today. And eating.” She grimaced. “There’s porridge enough for all, anyway.”
Maggie, Pat, and Mrs. Cook sat quietly while boots stamped and voices filled the next room where the Ploughman and his men gathered around the long table. Libuse entered the kitchen after a few minutes.
“Twenty-three, Mrs. Korak,” she said.
The farmwife shook a spoon threateningly. “I’ll teach that boy to count one way or another. Twenty-three. Do their lordships require porridge with or without milk?”
Libuse smiled. “Without is fine, I’m sure. We mustn’t overtax the cow.”
“If my kitchen’s going to feed them, they’ll eat milk,” Mrs. Korak said. “I’m not stingy.”
“Of course not.” Libuse laughed.
Mrs. Korak laid out two dozen wooden bowls on the counter and began ladling porridge into them. Mrs. Cook jumped to her feet to help, following Mrs. Korak’s lead as she added milk to each bowl.
“Double in that one,” Mrs. Korak said as Mrs. Cook added milk to the largest of the bowls. The farmwife picked up the bowl after Mrs. Cook had filled it and handed it to Libuse.
“For the master,” she said.
Maggie and Pat stood to help carry the bowls into the rough dining room, leaving their own breakfasts half-eaten on the kitchen table. The Ploughman had a roll of paper spread out in front of him, and on it he had drawn a map. Maggie’s eyes fell on it as she set breakfast down before two of the men.
Surprised, she saw the intricate layout of Pravik Castle and the area around it. Even for one as new to the Eastern Lands as she, the castle and the streets at the head of the plateau were clearly recognizable. The question leaped into her head, though it didn’t come out her mouth—how long had the Ploughman been preparing to attack Pravik? He had fought the suggestion that he do so, yet he owned detailed maps of the city.
Self-consciously Maggie began to leave the room, but the Ploughman held up his hand. “Please,” he said. “Stay. All of you.”
Pat, Mrs. Cook, and Libuse lingered near the door.
“We have made the decision to rescue the professor, no matter what it cost us,” the Ploughman said. “But we need someone in the city. Someone to keep their finger on what is happening. We need to know dates and times, how the trial goes. Maggie, as you have spent time in the city, I thought perhaps…”
“I’ll go.” It was Pat. She stepped forward. “Maggie helped rescue Libuse. The police could be looking for her.”
“I don’t think they saw me clearly enough to know what they’re looking for,” Maggie argued.
“They’ve never seen me at all. I’ll get a job with a theater, as a seamstress. I’ve done it before. And if it’s gossip you want, there’s no better place to get it.”
The Ploughman looked across the room to Libuse, then nodded. “You’ll leave today,” he said.
Pat tried to smile and did not entirely succeed. “Good,” she said.
* * *
The council dispersed later that afternoon. The early morning chill had given way to sunny warmth, and Pat and Maggie grew tired of hanging around the house. Mrs. Cook had rolled up her sleeves and charged into the kitchen to foist her help upon Mrs. Korak an hour before, and Libuse had disappeared after the Ploughman and his men rode away.
“I’ve no right to hanker after excitement, I know,” Pat said. “I’ll have plenty of it soon enough. But if I don’t find something to do I’m going to shrivel up. Let’s go for a walk.”
So they did: out over the brown fields behind the barns. Crows and small birds disdained to pay them any mind as they wandered through the remains of the harvest. They had nearly reached a small, lonely tree on the far side of the fields when Pat shaded her eyes.
“I think that’s Libuse under that tree,” Pat said. “Do you think we’d better leave her alone?”
Maggie didn’t answer. Something about the lone figure drew her. Libuse was kneeling on a carpet of fallen leaves with the tree’s thin branches spread out over her head. Pat saw Maggie’s intent and touched her shoulder, then stopped to wait for her.
Maggie approached Libuse quietly and soon saw that she was kneeling before a grave. There were tears on the princess’s face, and all at once Maggie regretted intruding. But she did not have time to leave before Libuse spoke to her, without looking.
“You remember the wounded boy from the riot?” Libuse asked. Maggie knelt down beside her and nodded.
“He was the Ploughman’s brother,” Libuse said. “I did all I could to keep him alive, but…” She struggled to regain control of herself. “When the Ploughman was very young, his parents were killed in an outbreak of disease. They might have pulled through, but the winter was cold, and the taxes had taken more than they could afford to give. There was an older brother as well, and this one—” She indicated the grave. “This one was a baby. One day the soldiers came to collect the Man Tax. The older brother was thirteen, and they took him.
“The Ploughman was left to take care of his brother. The tenant farmers on his land helped however they could. As he grew older, the Ploughman vowed to repay them by treating them as brothers and not as slaves. They grew to love him. His own people, and the tenants of Antonin Zarras, look to him as their voice. As their defender.”
“Are there no other landholders here?” Maggie asked.
“Not in this part of the world,” Libuse said. “Zarras’s father bullied and stole and plundered until he held titles for all the Eastern Lands except the Ploughman’s little plot of ground. Antonin Zarras is not much older than the Ploughman, you know. They knew each other once.”
She grew quiet, and with her fingers she touched the gravestone. “But it was for this one he fought, most of all,” she said. “To make a better world for him. And now we may make a better world, but he will never see it.”
Maggie knelt down beside the princess. A biting wind whirled through the tree branches, out of place under the warm sun. “What sort of better world will the Ploughman make?” she asked.
“A world where the people have a voice,” Libuse said.
“Is that all?” Maggie pressed. “In the university…”
“In the university they have time and luxury to make great plans and dream great dreams. Out here people are too busy surviving.” Libuse smiled grimly. “The university students would like to see the Empire itself brought down. But they can’t do it. Not with their talk. The Ploughman cares nothing for all that, yet he strikes the first blow. And who knows where it will end?”
Maggie fingered the scroll inside her coat. “I know we’re only trying to rescue an old man,” she said. “And maybe the storm will blow over. So why do I feel like we’re about to change the world? To shatter peace forever?”
“It is the peace of death we break,” Libuse said. The tone of her voice told Maggie she was quoting someone. “The people cannot continue to live in slavery.”
Libuse grew quiet and distant, and said, “I suppose I’m a university revolutionary at heart. If I could have my way there would be no Empire. The Ploughman speaks of a world where the people rule themselves, but I fear that too. I long for a ruler. One who will be merciful and just. Who will be good, truly good. Life would be so small if we were all we had. We need something—someone—to make us look up.”
“To take us beyond ourselves,” Maggie said, understanding completely.
Libuse smiled, and for a moment her eyes shone. “To make us believe in beauty and wonder and goodness. To fill us with awe. How long since I have been filled with anything close.”
“How won
derful it would be to have a king like that!”
“I am not sure that any such person exists,” Libuse said, and sighed. “In the ancient days, my family ruled a kingdom very different from the Empire. Sometimes I wish I could have seen it—I think it must have been a paradise, where kings and queens were different from the overlords of our day. But then, sometimes, I am glad that I can’t.”
“Why?” Maggie asked.
“Because I’m afraid it would not be any different than it is now,” Libuse said. “I am afraid that people would be just as selfish and cruel and power mad as they are today.”
Maggie looked down and felt the scroll again, and with her eyes dancing she said, “Perhaps the King of the Worlds Unseen will come.”
Libuse looked partly amused, partly disturbed. “Jarin Huss’s exiled lord of the ancient days? He is a myth.”
“How do you know?” Maggie pressed.
Libuse threw up her hands. “I don’t know! How can I? That is just the trouble. I would dearly love to believe in him. But I have no reason to. Even if he did exist, he has been away so long… why would he come back?”
Maggie had no answers, but she suddenly pulled out the scroll from her coat.
“What is that?” Libuse asked.
“A very old document,” Maggie said. “Huss says it is five hundred years old. As old as the Empire.”
“Can you read it?” Libuse said. Maggie passed it to her. The princess unrolled it carefully and looked at the strange characters with a furrowed brow.
“I can’t,” Maggie said, “but Huss can. He says it is signed by Lucius Morel himself.”
Libuse looked up and met Maggie’s eyes. “Tell me the significance of it,” she said.
“It is a covenant,” Maggie said. “Binding the evil powers of the Otherworld to the Empire. It says that the Empire will rule the world by the power of the Otherworld until the leaders of that world’s evil come to claim it. The forces of the Otherworld work through the Order of the Spider.”
“Huss has spoken of them,” Libuse said. “He has always said that they hold great power, and that somehow they hold sway over the Empire itself. He has long spoken of them as our true enemy. But I am not sure that they exist, either… even Huss has never seen such a person face to face, except for one woman who he thinks belonged to the Order.”
The Seventh World Trilogy omnibus Page 21
