Kitabı oku: «Sinner», sayfa 2
But now Severin rose before Zared and, in spite of his tiredness, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was a beautiful town, built not only with sandstone and red brick to withstand the harsh winters of the north, but also with skill and imagination, so that the structural strength of each building was perfectly married with grace of line and beauty of feature. Severin was a town built to satisfy the spirits as much as it was to harbour the bodies of those who lived within.
Thank the gods for my parents’ foresight, he thought. Rivkah and Magariz had lived out the final twenty-five years of their lives in the town they’d had built, and had loved it almost as much as they had loved each other and the son they’d made between them. His parents had not only laid the foundation stones of Severin, but also of the territory Zared had inherited from them. The North had been the most severely ravaged region of Tencendor during the wars between Axis SunSoar and his brothers Borneheld and Gorgrael. Once it had crawled with ice, and worse – IceWorms, Skraelings, and Gryphon. Now fields ripened and cattle fattened, and any man, woman or child could travel from the Fortress Ranges to the coast of the Andeis Sea and encounter nothing more dangerous than the chill of a northern breeze.
Zared pulled his horse in slightly, waiting for his escort to catch up with him. He was a tall, spare but striking man with his father’s dark good looks and his mother’s light grey eyes. Even though he was now in early middle-age, Zared was as agile as most young men, and could still best any swordsman in the country. He had been bred in an age of war, and his father had spent many years training him in the arts of war, although for what, Zared was not sure. For forty years, since Axis had finally bested Gorgrael, Tencendor had lain peaceful and largely prosperous in the sun. Axis had ruled well and wisely – a glib enough statement, but true. And since, nine years ago, Axis had handed over control of Tencendor to his eldest son, Caelum had continued to lead Tencendor with the integrity that was the hallmark of the House of the Stars. And yet … and yet Zared would rest the easier once Caelum had proved his worth in true crisis.
His escort now directly behind him, Zared rode his horse through the gates in the town walls, returning the salutes of the guards standing to either side. For an instant the walls blocked out the noon-day sun and, as their shadow settled over Zared, so his mind turned to the one shadow in his own life – Askam.
He drove the thought from his mind almost as soon as it had surfaced, reining back his horse to a walk in the crowded streets. It was too warm a day to let thoughts of Askam cloud it over.
Zared’s path back to his palace on the hill overlooking the town was slowed, not only by the crowds, but by the individuals who called out greetings and, occasionally, stopped him for a quick word. Zared had never been a distant prince, not only holding open court in his palace every Thursday afternoon when he was in residence so that any citizen of the North had the chance to gain his ear, but making sure that he did not ride the streets of Severin so encased by retainers that all his people ever saw of him was a brief glimpse of a linen shirt or glittering sword hilt.
Now a man – a carpenter, Zared thought, by the tools at his belt – called out a cheerful greeting in unmistakable southern brogue. Zared grinned widely as he nodded back at him. That man was from Romsdale. Yet another who had chosen Zared over Askam.
It cheered Zared to think that so many skilled craftsmen and farmers chose to relocate to the North, but at the same time it concerned him. The tension between himself and Askam was a decade old, and growing stronger with each passing year. Every carpenter, every brickworker, every field-hand who moved north deepened the tension just that fraction more.
Ah! There was Askam again, intruding on his thoughts! Zared’s face lost its humour, and he pushed as quickly as was polite through the remaining streets to reach his palace. There, after a few words to the captain of the guard and a smile of thanks for his escort, Zared handed the reins of his horse over to a stableboy and hurried inside.
A bath and a meal later, Zared felt more refreshed. As his personal manservant cleared his table, Zared took a glass of wine and wandered into the reception gallery of his residence. His home was a palace in name only, a term designated by his subjects who somehow thought that as a prince he ought to live in a palace. Built initially by Rivkah and Magariz, the house was a roomy, elegant mansion that spread over the hill which rose on the northern borders of the town. When Zared was twenty-seven he had taken a wife, Isabeau, sister of Earl Herme of Avonsdale, and had added on a light and airy southern wing that together they’d planned to fill with the laughter of their children.
Zared’s steps slowed at the first portrait that lined the gallery. Isabeau. Her dark red hair cascaded about her shoulders, her mouth curled in secret laughter, her bright eyes danced with love for him. The portrait had been painted eighteen months into their marriage. Two weeks after it had been finished Isabeau was dead, crushed beneath the body of her horse which had slipped and fallen during the excitement of the hunt.
She had been five months pregnant with their first child.
Zared had never forgiven himself for her death. He should never have given her that horse – but she was so skilled a horsewoman. She should never have been riding at that stage in her pregnancy – but she was so healthy, so vibrant. He should have forbidden her to follow the hounds and hawks – but she did so love the hunt.
He’d never ridden to the hunt again. The day after her death Zared had given away his hawks, and the hunting horses in his stable. His huntmaster had drifted away, seeking employment with lords to the south.
And Zared had promised himself never to love so deeply again, and never again to expose himself to such hurt.
He took a mouthful of wine and moved along to the next portrait. His father, Magariz. And next to his portrait, that of his mother, Rivkah.
They were, Zared supposed, the reason he had succumbed to love again. Magariz and Rivkah had lived life so completely in love, and so contented in that love, that Zared just could not imagine living himself without a soulmate to share his life with. For years after Isabeau’s death he’d kept himself distant from women, keeping to his promise … and then he’d met Leagh.
Re-met her, actually, for Zared had known Leagh as a tiny girl in Belial’s arms. But once he’d assumed the Princedom of the North, his responsibilities had kept Zared away from Carlon, and he didn’t see Leagh again until she was twenty-one.
They’d met, not at Carlon, but at Sigholt. Wreathed in its magical blue mists, Sigholt was normally the province only of the enchanted SunSoar family, but the year Leagh turned twenty-one she’d travelled to Sigholt with Askam for a meeting of the Council of the Five First Families. Askam and Zared, as the heads of the two leading families, had attended, along with FreeFall SunSoar, the Icarii Talon, Sa’Domai, the Ravensbund Chief, and Prince Yllgaine of Nor. Leagh had gone, partly at Caelum’s invitation – a gift for her coming of age – and partly because she was close friends with Caelum’s youngest sister, Zenith.
Zared had found himself alone with her late one night atop the Keep of Sigholt, both there for the night air. They’d spent the night talking, laughing, and – as they both discovered to their amazement – falling deeply in love.
Loving her was the easy part, Zared reflected. Being together, spending their lives together, seemed all but impossible. He’d come home from that Council so optimistically in love that he’d ordered the private apartments of his residence to be redecorated in the blue of Leagh’s eyes.
Almost immediately he’d opened the diplomatic negotiations needed for such a high-ranking marriage, only to be confronted with a wall of distrust from Askam. Certainly the two had never liked each other, and they’d been economic rivals for years, but Zared had never thought that such matters would come between him and Leagh.
It was naive of him. Stupid of him.
Zared’s fingers tightened about his wine glass, and he moved a little further down the gallery. He didn’t want to be so close to his parents’ portraits. Now the likenesses only reminded him that his parents had spent some thirty years apart, and Zared didn’t want to think that he and Leagh might have to endure a similar separation.
Damn Askam! If he hadn’t got himself into such dire debt, if he hadn’t imposed such heavy taxes, then maybe the West would prosper as much as did Zared’s North. And maybe Askam would not feel so threatened by a marriage between his sister and Zared.
Zared was not a proud man, but neither was he foolishly modest. He knew that if he had been Prince of the West, he would not have made such risky investments as had Askam, nor would he have made his subjects pay for his mistakes. If he was Prince of the West as well as of North, then virtually the entire human population of Tencendor would live lives of heady prosperity. If. If. Damned ifs!
Now Zared stood in front of portraits of Rivkah’s brother, Priam, and her father, Karel. They had once ruled as kings of Achar, a vast realm that had stretched between the Andeis and Widowmaker seas and from the Icescarp Alps to the Sea of Tyrre.
But as Achar was no more, so too had the monarchy died. Acharite lands had been split up between Avar, Icarii and human, its territory incorporated into the larger Tencendor, its peoples divested of their king.
As he stared at the portraits of his uncle and grandfather, Zared remembered how well both had reigned. True, they had supported the Brotherhood of the Seneschal, an organisation that had brought only evil to all those who lived in the land, but in their own way Priam and Karel had ruled well and wisely. The monarchy had been brought into disrepute only when Zared’s older half-brother, Borneheld, had murdered Priam and taken the throne.
There was no portrait of Borneheld. Zared’s mouth quirked. Borneheld was a son and brother best forgotten.
He swallowed the last of his wine, still staring at the likenesses of Priam and Karel. What would it be like to govern (Zared’s mind shied away from the word “reign”) over such a large territory? What would he do with it? How would he improve it? How might he best help the West recover from the debts Askam had saddled it with?
Ah! These thoughts were treason!
Zared blinked, and started to turn away, but as he did so his eyes were caught by the golden circlet on Priam’s brow, and he stopped, his thoughtful gaze lingering on the gleam of gold as the shadows of dusk gathered about him.
2 Master Goldman’s Soiree
“Curse the Corolean Emperor to all the fire pits of the AfterLife,” Askam seethed, and tore the parchment he held into tiny pieces. “Why does he hound my life so?”
Askam’s four advisers, two minor noblemen, the Master of the Guilds of Carlon and the Chamberlain of Askam’s household, stood diplomatically silent. One million, three hundred and eighty-five thousand gold pieces was the reason the Corolean Emperor so hounded Askam. To be precise, one million, three hundred and eighty-five gold pieces that Askam owed the Emperor.
Jannymire Goldman, the Master of the Guilds, dropped his gaze to his thick-fingered hands folded politely before him. He’d advised Askam not to take out such a massive loan with the Emperor, but Askam had needed the money badly, and the Emperor had been willing to lend.
Now he wanted it back.
And what if Askam could not pay (and Goldman knew Askam could not pay)? What then? What might the Emperor demand as recompense? Goldman shuddered to think. The Coroleans would not invade, never that, but they certainly might lay claim to some lands or, gods forbid, to Carlon itself.
Would that make StarSon Caelum finally take a more personal hand in the West’s affairs? Caelum, although concerned about Askam’s increasing debt, had thus far preferred to see if Askam could not solve his problems himself, but Goldman knew that Caelum would never stand by and allow the Coroleans to assume control of even the most barren of fields in Tencendor.
“Well, there’s nothing for it,” Askam said in a milder tone of voice, “but to pay the damned man.”
Goldman raised his eyes in surprise, as did the other three advisers. Pay? How?
Askam took a very deep breath and sat back in his chair, staring at the four men ranged before his desk. All the gods in the universe knew he hated to do this but … not only would it solve most of his financial problems, it would also stop the flow of his people north.
And, perhaps, wipe the smirk off Zared’s face.
“Gentlemen,” Askam said softly, “I have no option. From fifth-day next week the taxes on goods moving up and down the Nordra, as goods moving along all inland roads in the West, will be raised to a third of the total value of the goods so moved.”
Goldman could not believe he’d heard right. A third? A third tax on all goods moved would cripple most merchants and traders, but it would destroy any peasant bringing a meagre bag of grain to the market. And what of the man who thought to take a basket of eggs to his widowed mother in the next village? Would that also be taxed a third?
He opened his mouth to object, but Askam forestalled him.
“Gentlemen, I know this is an onerous burden for all western Tencendorians to bear, but it should last only a year, perhaps two.”
A year or two would be enough to drive most to starvation, Goldman thought, on top of the taxes they already had to pay.
“And,” Askam continued, “think of the rewards we will reap from those …” he hesitated slightly, “… others who move their goods through our territory. For years they have taken advantage of our roads and riverboats to move their goods to market, whether here in Carlon or further south to Coroleas. It is high time they paid for the maintenance of the roads and boats they use.”
And by “others” Goldman and his three companions knew precisely whom Askam meant. Zared. Zared, who moved the wealth of his grain and gems and furs along the Nordra down to the markets that made him – and his people – prosperous.
“Sir Prince,” Goldman said, “this is indeed a weighty tax. If I might advise against it, I –”
“I have made up my mind, Goldman,” Askam said. “I called you here, as the Chamberlain Roscic and Barons Jessup and Berin, not to ask you for advice, but to inform you of the measures that must be taken.”
Roscic exchanged a glance with Goldman, then spoke very carefully. “Sir Prince, perhaps it might be best if you talked this over with StarSon Cae –”
“I will inform Caelum of my decision, Roscic!”
The Chamberlain subsided. He had already said too much, considering that his very position relied on Askam’s goodwill. Goldman, however, had no such qualms.
“These taxes are so grievous, Sir Prince, that perhaps they should be discussed with –”
“StarMan Axis SunSoar himself gave my father the right to tax the West as he willed, Master Goldman! I will inform StarSon Caelum, but I have every right to impose these taxes without his assent. Is that understood?”
The four bowed their heads.
Askam looked at them a moment, then resumed. “There is one other thing. Over the past eighteen months, if not more, over two thousand men have moved their families north of the Azle.”
Askam shrugged a little. “If they want to subject their families to the northern winters, then so be it, but the fact remains that most of those two thousand have been men skilled in their crafts, professional businessmen, or successful farmers. They have left a considerable gap in the West’s resources – no wonder I have so much trouble trying to meet debt repayments.”
No, no, Goldman pleaded silently, don’t do it! Don’t –”
In order to stem the tide I have instructed the border guards at the Azle and Jervois Landing to exact the equivalent of ten thousand gold pieces from each family that intends to leave for the North.”
But that is ten times my annual income, Goldman thought. How will an ordinary craftsman pay it?
“That should go some way towards balancing the loss of their skills,” Askam said. “That is all, gentlemen, you have my permission to leave.”
That evening Goldman called more than a score of men to his townhouse in upper Carlon, all of them leading citizens and tradesmen, and there he spoke volubly about the new taxes and their implications.
“I will be ruined!” cried Netherem Pumster, Master Bell-Maker. “How else can I transport my bells if not by riverboat?”
“And I!” said Karl Hurst, one of the leading wool traders in Tencendor. “As will most of the peasants in the West! All rely on transporting their wool bales across the roadways of the West to the Icarii markets in the Minaret Peaks!”
His voice was joined by a dozen others, all increasingly angry and indignant as the implications of the tax sank in.
“As will everyone eventually be ruined,” Goldman said quietly into the hubbub. He held up his hands. “Gentlemen, please …”
Men slowly subsided into their seats, worry replacing anger.
“I should have moved north last year, when my brother went,” Hurst said as he sat down. “The North may be further from the markets that I’d like, but at least Zared wouldn’t try to take my soul to put meat on his table.”
“More like,” put in a stout silversmith, “he’d give his soul if he thought it might put meat on your table.”
Goldman nodded to himself, pleased with the direction the conversation had taken, content now to sit back and let the treason take its course.
Treason? he asked himself. Nay, natural justice, more like.
“Things have never been the same since Priam died,” said a fine-metal worker.
“Not the same since Axis SunSoar proclaimed Tencendor on the shores of our lake,” said another.
“Now, now,” Goldman demurred. “The SunSoars have done us proud. Have you ever known life to be better? More peaceful? Who dislikes trading with the beauty-loving and generous-spirited Icarii? Or even the Avar?”
There was a small silence, then Hurst spoke up again. “Our quarrel is not with Tencendor as such, nor with the Icarii or the Avar. I, for one, admire the SunSoars greatly for what they have done for our land.”
“Oh, aye!” a dozen voices echoed fervently.
“Aye,” Hurst repeated. “I voice no wish to resurrect the hatreds of the past.”
“Nay!” came the resounding cry.
“Nay,” Hurst echoed again, then looked about and licked his lips. “But these taxes … I cannot believe them! It never would have happened under King Priam, or even King Karel, from what I have heard of the man! Askam will destroy the West in his attempts to solve his debts!”
No-one missed the emphasis.
“Of course, Askam was not bred for such responsibility,” said a merchant named Bransom Heavorand. He was one of Goldman’s closest friends, and he knew the way the Master of the Guilds’ mind was travelling. “He has not the blood for it. No wonder he missteps so badly.”
“Yet his father, Belial, base-born as he was, was a kind and effective prince,” Goldman said, working as closely with Heavorand as two voices in a duet. “And he was Axis SunSoar’s right-hand man. Surely he deserved the reward of Princedom of the West?”
“Askam is not the man his father was,” Heavorand said. “Unlike Belial, he’s lived a life of ease. He’s not had to fight for his life, nor the life of his country. He’s not been tempered by the sacrifice and loss Belial endured. Nor has he inherited his father’s courage and fairness.”
Men nodded about the room.
“Given an estate to run, no doubt he would prove capable enough,” Heavorand finished. “But so large a responsibility as the Princedom of the West has Askam flummoxed.”
“And us bankrupt,” someone muttered, and the room broke into subdued laughter.
“Yet the North prospers,” Goldman said. “Zared, as his parents before him, has built steadily on solid foundations. He is generous but firm, courageous but conservative in the risks he takes – or exposes his people to. His people love him.”
“Many among our people love him, too,” said one of the men.
“And there’s the nub of the matter,” said Heavorand, speaking only at the slight nod of Goldman’s head. “Zared was born of the blood of kings, Askam was not. Thus the North prospers while the West strangles.”
Silence.
“Born of the blood of kings,” said a voice far back in a darkened corner. “Are you saying what I think you say? Zared was born to rule?”
“What I say is only fact,” Heavorand replied. “Zared is born of Rivkah, last princess of Achar, and Magariz, one of the highest-ranking nobles Achar had ever seen. They were legally married. Borneheld, Rivkah’s eldest, was illegitimate, and thus his attempts to claim the throne of Achar met with disaster. Axis, may he live forever, was also illegitimate, and while he founded the Throne of the Stars, he rightly made no claim to the Acharite throne. Zared was Rivkah’s only legitimate child. Zared,” he paused, reluctant to speak these words even among friends, before finally gathering his courage, “is the legitimate heir to the throne of Achar.”
“But Achar no longer exists,” Goldman put in. “The throne no longer exists. Axis destroyed both. Surely Zared is heir to nothing but memories?”
There was a moment of silence, then Hurst spoke up, his face red. “But is that right? The Icarii have their Talon, the Ravensbund have their Chief, and now the Avar even have their head, the Mage-King Isfrael! Why should the Acharites not have their head … nay, their pride back?”
The room broke into uproar, and Goldman was once again forced to stand and hold up his hands for quiet.
“May I remind you, my friends,” he said very softly, “that the term ‘Acharites’ is no longer lawful.” One of Caelum’s first edicts on taking the Throne of the Stars had been to ban the use of the term “Acharites” for the human population of Tencendor. To him it smacked too much of the hatreds that had torn Tencendor apart in the first instance.
“Whether we are Acharites, or Tencendorians, or bloody Manmallians,” said the silversmith angrily, “doesn’t change the fact that I’d prefer to have a King Zared ruling my life than a petty Prince Askam. No! Wait … there’s more. It doesn’t change the fact that whether prince or king or pauper for all I care, Zared is the man I’d prefer to have at my back in a street brawl, in a war, or as a drinking companion in a tavern. I respect Zared, I like Zared, and what I think of Askam doesn’t bear spoken word in this company!”
“And what’s more,” cried a voice, “Zared is the rightful ruler, not Askam!”
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Goldman cried. “Please … listen to me! Quiet down now! Yes … yes … thank you, that’s better. Gentlemen, I am Master of the Guilds of Carlon. I am your spokesman, your voice. What would you have me do?”
Silence.
“I think,” Heavorand said quietly, “that a little visit to Zared might be in order. I think the Prince needs to know just how his people –”
No-one in the room missed the use of the phrase “his people.”
“– feel about a number of issues.”
“Will he act?” said a voice. “Or will he back away?”
“If it is your wish,” Goldman said, “then I, with Heavorand, will make my way north … on a trading trip, should Askam enquire. Once with Zared, I am sure I can phrase matters in such a way that Zared will be hard put not to act.”
He regarded the room silently, then grinned conspiratorially.
