Rise Of Empire (23 page)

“If my foot hadn’t slipped …” Dunstan began, and then the two broke into spontaneous laughter at a joke no one else appeared to understand.

“It’s good to have you back, Haddy,” he said sincerely. He watched Hadrian take a swallow of beer, and then to Armigil he said, “I don’t think it fair that Haddy gets a free pint and I don’t.”

“Let me give ya a bloody lip and ya can have one too.” She smiled at him.

“Break it up! Break it up!” bellowed a large muscular man making his way through the crowd. He had a bull neck, a full dark beard, and a balding head. “Back to work, all of ya!”

The crowd groaned in displeasure but quickly quieted down as two horsemen approached. They rode down the hill, coming from the manor at a trot.

“What’s going on here?” the lead rider asked, reining his horse. He was a middle-aged man with weary eyes and a
strong chin. He dressed in light tailored linens common to a favored servant and on his chest was an embroidered crest of crossed daggers in gold threading.

“Strangers, sir,” the loud bull-necked man replied.

“They ain’t strangers, sir.” Armigil spoke up. “This here’s Haddy Blackwater, son of the old village smith—come fer a visit.”

“Thank you, Armigil,” he said. “But I wasn’t speaking to you. I was addressing the reeve.” He looked down at the bearded man. “Well, Osgar, out with it.”

The burly man shrugged his shoulders and stroked his beard, looking uncomfortable. “She might be right, sir. I haven’t had a chance to ask, what with getting the villeins back to work and all.”

“Very well, Osgar, see to it that they return to work, or I’ll have you in stocks by nightfall.”

“Yes, sir, right away, sir.” He turned, bellowing at the villagers until they moved off. Only Armigil and Dunstan quietly remained behind.

“Are you the son of the old smithy?” the rider asked.

“I am,” Hadrian replied. “And you are?”

“I’m His Lordship’s bailiff. It’s my duty to keep order in this village and I don’t appreciate you disrupting the villeins’ work.”

“My apologies, sir.” Hadrian nodded respectfully. “I didn’t mean—”

“If you’re the smithy’s son, where have you been?” The other rider spoke this time. Much younger-looking, he was better dressed than the bailiff, wearing a tunic of velvet and linen. His legs were covered in opaque hose, and his feet in leather shoes with brass buckles. “Are you aware of the penalty for leaving the village without permission?”

“I’m the son of a freeman, not a villein,” Hadrian declared. “And who are you?”

The rider sneered at Hadrian. “I’m the imperial envoy to this village, and you would be wise to watch the tone of your voice. Freemen can lose that privilege easily.”

“Again, my apologies,” Hadrian said. “I’m only here to visit my father’s grave. He died while I was away.”

The envoy’s eyes scanned Royce and Arista, then settled on Hadrian, looking him over carefully. “Three swords?” he asked the bailiff. “In this time of war an able-bodied man like this should be in the army fighting for the empress. He’s likely a deserter or a rogue. Arrest him, Siward, and take his associates in for questioning. If he hasn’t committed any crimes, he will be properly pressed into the imperial army.”

The bailiff looked at the envoy with annoyance. “I don’t take my orders from you, Luret. You forget that all too frequently. If you have a problem, take it up with the steward. I’m certain he will speak to His Lordship the moment he returns from loyal service to the empire. In the meantime, I’ll administer this village as best I can for my lord—not for you.”

Luret jerked himself upright in indignation. “As imperial envoy, I am addressed as
Your Excellency.
And you should understand that my authority comes directly from the empress.”

“I don’t care if it comes from the good lord Maribor himself. Unless His Lordship, or the steward in his absence, orders me otherwise, I only have to put up with you. I don’t have to take orders from you.”

“We’ll see about that.” The envoy spun and spurred his horse back toward the manor, kicking up a cloud of dust.

The bailiff shook his head with irritation, waiting for the dust to settle.

“Don’t worry,” he told them. “The steward won’t listen to him. Danbury Blackwater was a good man. If you’re anything like him, you’ll find me a friend. If not, you had best make
your stay here as short as possible. Keep out of trouble. Don’t interfere with the villeins’ work, and stay away from Luret.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hadrian said.

The bailiff then looked around the village in irritation. “Armigil, where did the reeve get off to?”

“Went to the east field, I think, sir. There is a team he has working on drainage up that way.”

The bailiff sighed. “I need him to get more men working on bringing in the hay. Rain’s coming and it’ll ruin what’s been cut if he doesn’t.”

“I’ll tell him, sir, if he comes back this way.”

“Thank you, Armigil.”

“Sir?” She tapped off a pint of beer and handed it up to him. “While you’re here, sir?” He took one swallow, then poured the rest out and tossed her back the cup.

“A little weak,” he said. “Set your price at two copper tenents a pint.”

“But, sir! It’s got good flavor. At least let me ask three.”

He sighed. “Why must you always be so damn stubborn? Let it be three, but make them brimming pints. Mind you, if I hear one complaint, I’ll fine you a silver and you can take your case to the Steward’s Court.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, smiling.

“Good day to you all.” He nodded and trotted off toward the east.

They watched him go, and then Dunstan started chuckling. “A fine welcome home you’ve had so far—a belt in the mouth and threat of arrest.”

“Actually, outside the fact that everything looks a lot smaller, not much has changed here,” Hadrian observed. “Just some new faces, a few buildings, and, of course, the envoy.”

“He’s only been here a week,” Dunstan said, “and I’m sure the bailiff and the steward will be happy when he leaves. He
travels a circuit covering a number of villages in the area and has been showing up here every couple of months since the New Empire annexed Rhenydd. No one likes him, for obvious reasons. He’s yet to meet Lord Baldwin face to face. Most of us think Baldwin purposely avoids being here when the envoy comes. So Luret’s list of complaints keeps getting longer and longer and the steward just keeps writing them down.

“So are you really here just to see your father’s grave? I thought you were coming back to stay.”

“Sorry, Dun, but we’re just passing through.”

“In that case, we had best make the most of it. What say you, Armigil? Roll a keg into my kitchen and I’ll supply the bread and stools for toasts to Danbury and a proper welcome for Haddy?”

“He don’t deserve it. But I think I have a keg round here that is bound to go bad if’n I don’t get rid of it.”

“Hobbie!” Dunstan shouted up the street to a young man at the livery. “Can you find a place for these horses?”

Dunstan and Hadrian helped Armigil roll a small barrel to the bakery. As they did, Royce and Arista walked their animals over to the stables. The boy cleared three stalls, then ran off with a bucket to fetch water.

“Do you think the envoy will be a problem?” Arista asked Royce once Hobbie had left.

“Don’t know,” he said, untying his pack from the saddle. “Hopefully we won’t be here long enough to find out.”

“How long will we be here?”

“Cosmos will move fast. Just a night or two, I imagine.” He threw his bag over his shoulder and crossed to Hadrian’s horse. “Have you decided what you’ll say to Gaunt when you meet him? I hear he hates nobility, so I wouldn’t start by asking him to kiss your ring or anything.”

She pulled her own gear off Mystic and then, holding out
her hands, wiggled her bare fingers. “Actually, I thought I’d ask him to kidnap my brother.” She smiled. “It worked for you. And if I can gain the trust and aid of a Royce Melborn, how hard can it be to win over a Degan Gaunt?”

They carried the gear across the street to the little whitewashed shop with the signboard portraying a loaf of bread. Inside, a huge brick oven and a large wooden table dominated the space. The comforting scent of bread and wood smoke filled the air, and Arista was surprised the bakery wasn’t broiling. The wattle-and-daub walls and the good-sized windows managed to keep the room comfortable. As Arista and Royce entered, they were introduced to Dunstan’s wife, Arbor, and a host of other people whose names Arista could not keep up with.

Once word spread, freemen, farmers, and other merchants dropped by, grabbing a pint and helping themselves to a hunk of dark bread. There were Algar, the woodworker; Harbert, the tailor; and Harbert’s wife, Hester. Hadrian introduced Wilfred, the carter, and explained how he used to rent Wilfred’s little wagon four times every year to travel to Ratibor to buy iron ingots for his father’s smithy. There were plenty of stories of the skinny kid with pimples who used to swing a hammer beside his father. Most remembered Danbury with kindness, and there were many toasts to his good name.

Just as the bailiff had predicted, it started to rain, and soon the villeins, released from work due to weather, dropped by to join the gathering. They slipped in, quietly shaking off the wetness. Each got a bit of bread, a pint to drink, and a spot to sit on the floor. Some brought steaming crocks of vegetable pottage, cheese, and cabbage for everyone to share. Even Osgar, the reeve, pressed himself inside and was welcomed to share the community meal. The sky darkened, the wind whipped up, and Dunstan finally closed the shutters as the rain poured.

They all wanted to know what had happened to Hadrian—where he had gone and what he had done. Most of them had spent their whole lives in Hintindar, barely crossing the river. In the case of the villeins, they were bound to the land and, by law, could not leave. For them, generations passed without their ever setting foot beyond the valley.

Hadrian kept them entertained with stories of his travels. Arista was curious to hear tales of the adventures he and Royce had shared over the years, but none of those came out. Instead, he told harmless stories of distant lands. Everyone was spellbound by stories about the far east, where the Calian people supposedly interbred with the Ba Ran Ghazel to produce the half-goblin Tenkin. Children gathered close to the skirts of their mothers when he spoke about the oberdaza—Tenkin who worshiped the dark god Uberlin and blended Calian traditions with Ghazel magic. Even Arista was captivated by his stories of far-off Dagastan.

With Hadrian the center of attention, few took notice of Arista, which was fine with her. She was happy just to be off her horse and in a safe place. The tension melted away from her.

The hot bread and fresh-brewed beer were wonderful. She was comfortable for the first time in days and reveled in the camaraderie of the bakery. She drank pints of beer until she lost track of the number. Outside, night fell and the rain continued. They lit candles, giving the room an even friendlier charm. The beer was infecting the group with mirth, and soon they were singing loudly. She did not know the words but found herself rocking with the rhythm, humming the chorus, and clapping her hands. Someone told a bawdy joke and the room burst into laughter.

“Where are you from?” Although it had been asked three times, this was the first instance that Arista had realized it
was meant for her. Turning, she found Arbor, the baker’s wife, sitting beside her. She was a petite woman with a plain face and short-cropped hair.

“I’m sorry,” Arista apologized. “I’m not accustomed to beer. The bailiff said it was weak, but I think I would take exception to that.”

“From yer mouth to his ears, darling!” Armigil said loudly from across the room. Arista wondered how she had heard from so far away, especially when she had thought she had spoken so softly.

Arista remembered Arbor had asked her a question. “Oh—right, ah … Colnora,” the princess said at length. “My husband and I live in Colnora. Well, actually we are staying with my brother now, because we were evicted from our home in Windham Village by the Northern Imperial Army. That’s up in Warric, you know—Windham Village, I mean, not the army. Of course, it could be—the army, I mean this time—not the village—because they could be there. Does that answer your question?”

The room was spinning slowly and it gave Arista the feeling she was falling, though she knew she was sitting still. The whole sensation made it difficult for her to concentrate.

“You were evicted? How awful.” Arbor looked stricken.

“Well, yes, but it’s not that great of a hardship, really. My brother has a very nice place in the Hill District in Colnora. He’s quite well off, you know?” She whispered this last part into Arbor’s ear. At least, she thought she did, but Arbor pulled back sharply.

“Oh really? You come from a wealthy family?” Arbor asked, rubbing her ear. “I thought you did. I was admiring your dress. It’s very beautiful.”

“This? Ha!” She pulled at the material of her skirt. “I got this old rag from one of my servants, who was about to throw
it out. You should see my gowns. Now those are something, but yes, we’re very wealthy. My brother has a virtual
army
of servants,” she said, and burst out laughing.

“Erma?” someone said from behind her.