Rise Of Empire (24 page)

“What does your brother do?” Arbor asked.

“Hmm? Do? Oh, he doesn’t
do
anything.”

“He doesn’t work?”

“Erma
dear?”

“My brother? He calls it work, but it’s nothing like what
you
people do. Did you know I slept on the ground just two nights ago? Not indoors either, but out in the woods. My brother never did that, I can tell you. You probably have, haven’t you? But he hasn’t. No, he gets his money from taxes. That’s how all kings get their money. Well, some can get it from conquest. Glenmorgan got
loads
from conquest, but not Alric. He’s never been to war—until now, of course, and he’s not doing well at all, I can tell you.”

“Erma!”
Arista looked up to see Royce standing over her, his face stern.

“Why are you calling me that?”

“I think my wife has had a little too much to drink,” he said to the rest of them.

Arista looked around to see several faces smirking in an effort to suppress laughter.

“Is there anywhere I can take her to sleep it off?”

Immediately several people offered the use of their homes, some even the use of their beds, saying they would sleep on the floor.

“Spend the night here,” Dunstan said. “It’s raining out. Do you really want to wander around out there in the dark? You can actually make a fine bed out of the flour sacks in the storeroom.”

“How would you know that, Dun?” Hadrian asked,
chuckling. “The wife’s kicked you out a few times?” This brought a roar of laughter from the crowd.

“Haddy,
you,
my friend, can sleep in the rain.”

“Come along, Wife.” Royce pulled Arista to her feet.

Arista looked up at him and winked. “Oh right, sorry. Forgot who I was.”

“Don’t apologize, honey,” Armigil told her. “That’s why we’re drinking in the first place. Ya just got there quicker than the rest of us, is all.”

The next morning, Arista woke up alone and could not decide which hurt more, her head from the drink, or her back from the lumpy flour bags. Her mouth was dry, her tongue coated in some disgusting film. She was pleased to discover her saddlebags beside her. She pulled them open and grimaced. Everything inside smelled of horse sweat and mildew. She had brought only three dresses: the one worn through the rain, which was a wrinkled mess; the stunning silver receiving gown she planned to wear when she met Degan Gaunt; and the one she presently wore. Surprisingly, the silver gown was holding up remarkably well and was barely even wrinkled. She had brought it hoping to impress Gaunt, but recalling her conversation with Royce about how the Nationalist leader felt about royalty, she realized it was a poor choice. She would have been much better off with something simpler. It would at least have given her something decent to change into. She pulled off her dirt-stained garment, removed her corset, and pulled on the dress she had worn at Sheridan.

She stepped out of the storeroom and found Arbor hard at work kneading dough surrounded by dozens of cloth-covered baskets. Villagers entered and set either a bag of flour or a
sackcloth of dough on the counter along with a few copper coins. Arbor gave them an estimated pickup time of either midday or early evening.

“You do this every day?” Arista asked.

Arbor nodded with sweat glistening on her brow as she used the huge wooden paddle to slide another loaf into the glowing oven. “Normally Dun is more helpful, but he’s off with your husband and Haddy this morning. It’s a rare thing, so I’m happy to let him enjoy the visit. They’re down at the smithy if you’re interested, or would you rather have a bite to eat?”

Arista’s stomach twisted. “No, thank you. I think I’ll wait a bit longer.”

Arbor worked with a skilled hand born of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of repetitions.

How does she do it?

She knew the baker’s wife got up every morning and repeated the same actions as the day before.

Where is the challenge?

Arista was certain Arbor could not read and probably had few possessions, yet she seemed happy. She and Dunstan had a pleasant home, and compared to that of those toiling in the fields, her work was relatively easy. Dunstan seemed a kind and decent man and their neighbors were good, friendly folk. While not terribly exciting, it was nonetheless a safe, comfortable life, and Arista felt a twinge of envy.

“What’s it like to be wealthy?”

“Hmm? Oh—well, actually, it makes life easier but perhaps not as rewarding.”

“But you travel and can see the world. Your clothing is so fine and you ride horses! I’ll bet you’ve even ridden in a carriage, haven’t you?”

Arista snorted. “Yes, I’ve certainly ridden in a carriage.”

“And been to balls in castles where musicians played and the ladies dressed in embroidered gowns of velvet?”

“Silk, actually.”

“Silk? I’ve heard of that but never seen it. What’s it like?”

“I can show you.” Arista went back into the storeroom and returned with the silver gown.

At the sight of the dress, Arbor gasped, her eyes wide. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. It’s like—it’s like …” Arista waited but Arbor never found her words. Finally, she said, “May I touch it?”

Arista hesitated, looking first at Arbor, then at the dress.

“That’s okay,” Arbor said quickly with an understanding smile. She looked at her hands. “I would ruin it.”

“No, no,” Arista told her. “I wasn’t thinking that at all.” She looked down at the dress in her arms once more. “What I was thinking was it was stupid for me to have brought this. I don’t think I’ll have a chance to wear it, and it’s taking up so much space in my pack. I was wondering—would you like to have it?”

Arbor looked like she was going to faint. She shook her head adamantly, her eyes wide as if with terror. “No, I—I couldn’t.”

“Why not? We’re about the same size. I think you’d look beautiful in it.”

A self-conscious laugh escaped Arbor and she covered her face with her hands, leaving flour on the tip of her nose. “Oh, I’d be a sight, wouldn’t I? Walking up and down Hintindar in
that.
It’s awfully nice of you, but I don’t go to grand balls or ride in carriages.”

“Maybe one day you will, and then you’ll be happy you have it. In the meantime, if you ever have a bad day, you can put it on and perhaps it’ll make you feel better.”

Arbor laughed again, only now there were tears in her eyes.

“Take it—really—you’d be doing me a favor. I do need the space.” She held out the dress. Arbor reached toward it and gasped at the sight of her hands. She ran off and scrubbed them red before taking the dress in her quivering arms, cradling it as if it were a child.

“I promise to keep it safe for you. Come back and pick it up anytime, all right?”

“Of course,” Arista replied, smiling. “Oh, and one more thing.” Arista handed her the corset. “If you would be so kind, I never wish to see this thing again.”

Arbor carefully laid the dress down and put her arms around Arista, hugging her close as she whispered, “Thank you.”

When Arista stepped out of the bakery into the sleepy village, her head throbbed, jolted by the brilliant sunlight. She shaded her eyes and spotted Armigil working in front of her shop, stoking logs under her massive cooker.

“Morning, Erma,” Armigil called to her. “Yer looking a mite pale, lassie.”

“It’s your fault,” Arista growled.

Armigil chuckled. “I try my best. I do indeed.”

Arista shuffled over. “Can you direct me to the well?”

“Up the road four houses. You’ll find it in front of the smithy.”

“Thank you.”

Following the unmistakable clanging of a metal hammer, Arista found Royce and Hadrian under the sun canopy in the smithy’s yard, watching another man beating a bit of molten metal on an anvil. He was muscular and completely bald-headed, with a bushy brown mustache. If he had been in the bakery the previous night, Arista did not remember. Beside
him was a barrel of water, and not far away was the well, a full bucket resting on its edge.

The bald man dropped the hot metal into his barrel, where it hissed. “Your father taught me that,” the man said. “He was a fine smith—the finest.”

Hadrian nodded and recited, “Choke the hammer after stroke, grip it high when drilling die.”

This brought laughter from the smith. “I learned that one too. Mr. Blackwater was always making up rhymes.”

“So this is where you were born?” Arista asked, dipping a community cup into the bucket of water and taking a seat on the bench beside the well.

“Not exactly,” Hadrian replied. “I lived and worked here. I was actually born across the street there at Gerty and Abe-lard’s home.” He pointed at a tiny wattle-and-daub hovel without even a chimney. “Gerty was the midwife back then. My father kept pestering her so much that she took Mum to her house and Da had to wait outside in the rain during a terrible thunderstorm, or so I was told.”

Hadrian motioned to the smith. “This is Grimbald. He apprenticed with my father after I left—does a good job too.”

“You inherited the smithy from Danbury?” Royce asked.

“No, Lord Baldwin owns the smithy. Danbury rented from him, just as I do. I pay ten pieces of silver a year, and in return for charcoal, I do work for the manor at no cost.”

Royce nodded. “What about personal belongings? What became of Danbury’s things?”

Grimbald raised a suspicious eyebrow. “He left me his tools and if’n you’re after them, you’ll have to fight me before the steward in the manor court.”

Hadrian raised his hands and shook his head, calming the burly man. “No, no, I’m not here after anything. His tools are in good hands.”

Grimbald relaxed a bit. “Ah, okay, good, then. I do have something for you, though. When Danbury died, he made a list of all his things and who they should go to. Almost everyone in the village got a little something. I didn’t even know the man could write until I saw him scribbling it. There was a letter and instructions to give it to his son, if he ever returned. I read it, but it didn’t make much sense. I kept it, though.”

Grimbald set down his hammer and ducked inside the shop, then emerged a few minutes later with the letter.

Hadrian took the folded parchment and, without opening it, stuffed the note into his shirt pocket and walked away.

“What’s going on?” Arista asked Royce. “He didn’t even read it.”

“He’s in one of his moods,” Royce told her. “He’ll mope for a while. Maybe get drunk. He’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“But why?”

Royce shrugged. “Just the way he is lately. It’s nothing, really.”

Arista watched Hadrian disappear around the side of the candlemaker’s shop. Picking up the hem of her dress, she chased after him. When she rounded the corner, she found him seated on a fence rail, his head in his hands. He glanced up.

Is that annoyance or embarrassment on his face?

Biting her lip, she hesitated, then walked over and sat beside him. “Are you all right?” she asked.

He nodded in reply but said nothing. They sat in silence for a while.

“I used to hate this village,” he offered at length, his tone distant and his eyes searching the side of the shop. “It was always so small.” He lowered his head again.