Darksong Rising (11 page)

“Not until harvest.”

“Have it sent now. We could use the goodwill.”

“My lady..." Dythya cleared her throat. “About the accounts...”

Anna skipped to the bottom line... barely a thousand more than what her expeditions of submission and

conquest had brought in. “You’re going to tell me that we’re spending more golds and that we’re

spending them faster than we planned?”

“Yes, lady.”

“How much faster?” Anna’s voice was wary. She took another swallow of the water. Already the room

felt stifling, despite the open window behind her.

“Almost four thousand golds more.” Dythys eased a sheet of parchment across the table.

Anna scanned the listing. Nearly a thousand golds more in supplies for the liedburg—to replace food

stocks and other things that Barjim had not. Anna had authorized that. Four hundred golds for wrought-

iron stock for the weapons smith— whom they had to replace. Nearly a thousand golds in silvers paid to

the armsmen who had followed and supported Anna in her campaign to subdue the rebellious Suhlmorran

lords of Defalk and Lord Ehara of Dumar. Eight hundred golds for replacement mounts... Anna took a

deep breath. She’d authorized most of the expenditures. “But after we pay every- thing, we still should

have almost seven thousand more than at the beginning of summer."

“Six thousand if you pay the Ranuans, and you cannot count on the liedgeld being paid on time,”

Dythya pointed out.

“Only from Cheor, Elheld, and Mencha,” Anna replied, adding after a pause, “and Stromwer,

Suhl, Lerona, Abenfel, and Pamr.”

A surprised look crossed Dythya’s face, as if a quarter of the lords paying on time were a

novelty. “That is true.”

“But you’re right,” Anna replied. “We will be cutting it close. I still want to pay the Ranuans,

though. If we, or any of the lords, have to borrow from them in the future, it might make it

easier. We also may need allies, and a land that repays its debts is a better ally than one who

doesn’t.” She paused. “If you would draft a scroll and make the arrangements with Arms

Commander Hanfor to ensure the repayment reaches Encora safely?”

“Yes, lady.”

“Also... perhaps you could draft a scroll to go with that party, and copies that could be sent

elsewhere. We’ll offer a twenty-gold bonus for weapons smith. Five golds after examination of

his work, five golds after the first month, and ten golds after the first year."

Dythya nodded.

“How is the schooling going for the pages and fosterlings?”

“Well enough for most..." Dythya’s voice was cautious.

“Except Hoede is becoming impossible?”

“He has difficulty with numbers. He has little interest in them, and less in learning them from a

woman.”

Anna shook her head sadly. “How about the others? What about Nelmor's heir—Tiersen, is it?”

“After the first weeks, he is fine. His sister had a word with him, I believe.” A smile crossed

Dythya’s lips.

Anna smiled as well. Had the timid Ytrude actually had the nerve to advise her brother? “Any

other problems?”

“No. The others learn well. Some, like Cataryzna and Lysara, know as much as I do already, and

even young Secca has begun to do complicated sums like the others. Skent is the best of the

young men, but Jimbob works hard."

That the heir of Defalk worked hard was good, but Anna hoped at least some of the motivation

was internal, rather than provided by his grandsire externally.

“Lord Jecks, lady,” announced Resor.

Anna motioned for the white-haired lord to enter. “Will that be all?” asked Dythya, standing.

“Just for now,” Anna said. “I wanted to know how things stood before I started thinking about

spending golds.”

“Would that more rulers thought such, my lady,” Jecks offered as he bowed to Anna.

Dythya bowed and slipped out of the receiving room. With Anna’s gesture, Jecks took the seat

the counselor had vacated.

“How am I supposed to deal with the mess in Fussen?" she asked him.

“As Regent, you must reach a decision about which will inherit—and quickly.”

“I don’t know either one.”

Jecks smiled. “Yet, my lady.”

“I think, you schemer, that you’re saying I need to go to Fussen and meet the two young men.”

“How else will you know them? How else will the Thirty-three feel at ease with your decision?

You have not been to the west of Defalk, my lady."

“If I upheld the older male, no one would say anything. So…” —she dragged out the word—

“that means that you think something’s rotten in Fussen, or at least with Ustal, and you think my

presence will reassure such stalwarts as Nelmor—”

 
“And Lord Jearle."

Anna looked and felt blank at the last name. She took another swallow of water and blotted a

forehead that had become damp as the midmorning heat had begun to build in the receiving

room.

“Lord of Denguic,” Jecks explained.

The name was vaguely familiar, but probably only from the liedgeld lists. “We haven’t heard

much from him.”

“He is the Lord of the Western Marches,” Jecks explained. “He was supposed to defend the

approach from Neserea.”

“He didn’t do much to stop Behlem."

Jecks nodded. “He sent a scroll claiming that he had lost tenscore men and would have lost all

had he not surrendered. He relinquished the title and the one-third exemption from liedgeld.”

“Whom did he send it to?” Anna asked. “Behlem didn’t march into Defalk until after Lord

Barjim was killed at the Sand Pass.”

“It was addressed to Barjim and was waiting at the liedburg for Lord Behlem. Menares found it

and brought it to me sometime back.”

“No wonder he paid his liedgeld on time,” Anna muttered. Barjim and his consort Alasia had

risked everything and borrowed from the future to raise arms to fight off Ebra.

“Jearle saw no point in dying when he could not stop the Prophet’s armsmen and lancers,” Jecks

said dryly.

“I don’t think we’ll restore his title or his duties, and especially not his exemption from paying

the liedgeld." Anna said.

“There has always been a Lord of the Western Marches." “There may be again,” Anna conceded.

But not anyone that slippery. She looked meaningfully at the pile of scrolls. “We have a few

other matters to discuss.”

“I feared such.”

Anna wanted to laugh at the rueful tone of his voice. Instead, she nodded. “So do I, but

remember, you thought my being Regent was a good idea.”

“My life was simpler before I thought so much…” Anna did laugh before she picked up the next

scroll. She jotted down a quick note on the back of a used piece of parchment to talk to Menares

about sending a scroll to Gatrune about the young chandler—and learning his name. At times,

especially when she returned to Falcor from somewhere, she wondered if she would ever be able

to juggle all the problems.

9

ESARIA, NESEREA

The workroom is large, light, and airy. Dark woods ranging from flat planks to narrow timbers

are stacked against one of the inner walls. A woodworker’s bench is set out from the other inner

wall, and on a set of wooden shelves beside the bench are set planes, chisels, saws, clamps, wood

knives, several jars with stoppers, clean rags, and other implements.

Three dark circular frames fill much of the open floor space. Each is man-high, and a stocky but

bent and gray-haired man carefully smooths a rib of the frame closest to the door. The door

opens, revealing that the outside is guarded by two of the Prophet’s Guards. The craftsman steps

back from the frame on which he was working and straightens, waiting.

The Prophet Rabyn steps into the workroom, followed by an older Mansuuran officer who

accompanies him. Rabyn pauses by the smooth and polished frame. His fingers caress the nearly

black wood, before his eyes go to the gray-haired craftsman, who glances from the young

Prophet to Nubara.

“You know what I want?” demands the youth.

“Yes, most honored Prophet I have studied the scrolls you gave me, and I will do as they show.”

The crafter gestures to the three frames. “These are to the requirements of the scrolls.”

“There must be no imperfections. Do you understand?”

“There will be none, honored sire. None at all.” The woodworker lowers his head.

“Good.” Rabyn studies the second frame and then the third. With an abrupt nod, he turns and

departs.

Nubara follows hurriedly. The door closes, and the two walk along the outer corridor back

toward the columned audience chamber.

The Mansuuran officer glances from Rabyn back toward the guarded door. “How do you know

he will do as you say?"

“He has a daughter, Nubara. Right now, she is in the south villa, with her mother.”

“Her mother?” Nubara frowns.

“Of course. That way, he will know no one has abused her.” Rabyn’s laugh is cold. “I have not

touched either. No one has. She is not that attractive, but he does not know that. Besides, I could

turn her over to the lowest of the Westfels Foot, and he knows that. Or”—Rabyn smiles, and his

face appears almost serpentlike—“I could think of something.”