Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Page 4

  “They can inhabit other land.” Pike flicked his wrist in a generally westward direction. “High Ward Antoris-Tor has ordered this area confiscated and razed for expansion. The inhabitants were notified.”

  “This morning,” Whitt snapped. “That leaves no time to dispute the action.”

  “Not my problem, Whitt. We follow orders.”

  “Did the order say to kill livestock?”

  Pike glanced at the dead goats. “That was unfortunate. I’d recommend seeking compensation from the high ward.”

  “I’ll do that after I tell him he’s ignoring the law.”

  “I’ll give you two hours,” Pike said. “If you don’t present new orders by the fourth bell, I’ll go through your warriors and let the high ward argue it out with Guardian.”

  Whitt stared at the man, the time insufficient.

  “I’m being generous,” Pike added with a shrug.

  Whitt glanced at Tavor. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “No hurry,” Tavor said. “I’ve nothing to do besides stand in the sun and sweat.”

  “Just don’t let anyone get hurt.”

  “Our side or theirs?” Cale asked, her face devoid of humor.

  “Either side,” he replied and strode toward the city gates.

  ***

  Whitt paced the corridor outside the high ward’s hall, a granite palace by Tor standards though modest in size compared to the top tiers in the northern provinces. All extravagance lay in the imported furnishings: sheer glass windows and painted vases from Lim-Mistral, tapestries and carpets from Dar-Callin, ornately carved furniture and filigreed hardware from Se-Vien. The selections reminded him of Vianne’s elegant chambers in Ava-Grea.

  Memories of Vianne funneled his attention straight to Catling. He hadn’t thought of her in days, his head occupied by all Sim and Shafter had shown him. And by his mission. His time in the Far Wolds had been kind to him, free of the boredom that occasionally plagued him in Guardian and turned him into a brooder. Despite the frustration, he believed he was accomplishing something vital, something that made a difference.

  The fourth bell chimed from the city’s central tower, and Whitt heaved out an aggravated sigh, his time up. The high ward forced him to wait simply to impress upon him the fact of his insignificance. A page had announced him two hours ago, and the man’s last visitors departed a short time later. The sentries at the door had taken his weapons and watched him in silence.

  “Perhaps Antoris-Tor needs a reminder,” Whitt suggested.

  “We announced you,” the older guard replied.

  “I see.” Whitt picked up a delicate vase of inlaid glass that perched on a stone pedestal. The guards eyed him as he studied the workmanship. “It’s just that I become so clumsy when I’m kept waiting for no reason.” He put the vase back on the pedestal, fumbling with it as it teetered. “Perhaps he needs a reminder.”

  The older guard nodded to the younger one who disappeared behind the high ward’s door. Moments later, Whitt entered the lavish hall. Eight guards stood at attention around the room, and a ninth inspected him for hidden weapons. He waved Whitt forward.

  The high ward sat on the closest thing Whitt had seen to a throne since his visit to Elan-Sia. Carved of wood and polished to a golden gleam, the regal chair dominated a dais at the end of the windowed room. The stone floor shone like an onyx mirror, and the stuffed heads of native animals adorned the walls, majestic in their power to induce awe.

  A plump and unimpressive justice looked up from a brass-rimmed table littered with scrolls and stacked paper. Two other men, both with the fractal woads of influencers observed him with interest.

  Whitt balked at the sight, the first influencers he’d seen in Tor. The taller of the two, a dark-haired man, reminded him of a younger Dalcoran, impeccably presented and stiff, his chin held high. The other lacked the polished bearing of his peer but made up for it in aloof disdain. There was nothing subtle about his smirk or his crossed arms. His goatee ended in a point and thin blond hair stuck to his skull like a cap.

  Whitt checked himself for influence, any feelings alien to him since entering the hall. If the influencers dabbled with his emotions, they did so with subtlety. Was his awe at the grandeur of the hall his own? Were his feelings of deference and trepidation genuine? He couldn’t tell.

  Heels tapping his uneven gait, he marched forward and bowed. “My respects, High Ward Antoris-Tor.”

  An older man, the high ward was spindly-limbed and bearded with an ivory bristle that dwarfed his face. He dressed in the style of Elan-Sia’s nobility—a long brocaded jacket over slim trousers and tall black boots. His blue eyes possessed the keen sparkle of brilliance belonging to a man on the verge of lunacy. A man to fear. “You have a grievance you wish to air?”

  “I do,” Whitt responded with another dip of his head. “My name is Whitt. I’m a lieutenant with Guardian, dispatched by Commander Jagur to observe the strife occurring in the territory, form an assessment, and report back my recommendations.”

  “Your opinion thus far?”

  “Before I begin, I request that I be freed of influence? I believe it serves you to hear my opinions undiluted by your influencers’ sway. Particularly since those opinions will be communicated north to Guardian and in turn to Elan-Sia.”

  The high ward paused and then gestured to the two men. “You have the queen’s ear, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, Antoris-Tor. I assisted the queen in quelling the revolt in the tier cities, and now support her efforts to bring peace to the Far Wolds.” It was the truth even if he overstated his importance.

  “And your uninfluenced opinion?”

  “I don’t mean to offend,” Whitt said with an attempt at diplomacy. “But it appears your guards and citizens, your Ellegean citizens, don’t understand the details of our treaty with the Farlanders.”

  The high ward raised his eyebrows and deferred to his justice. “Justice Narl?”

  The sturdy justice pursed his lips and retracted his chin. His thin eyebrows scaled his forehead in mock surprise. “We’ve reviewed the details of our treaty thoroughly.” He shared his astonished expression with the blond influencer. “Olivan-Bes and I labored over the entire document.”

  “We were thorough,” Olivan agreed.

  Whitt’s patience had evaporated at the last bell. “The treaty doesn’t permit the usurping of Farlander dwellings and holdings outside the gates.”

  “It does if we find those interests in decrepit condition and posing a hazard,” Olivan replied.

  “They don’t pose a hazard,” Whitt argued. “They are modest but habitable.”

  “A matter of opinion,” the dark-haired influencer countered.

  “May I ask your name?” Whitt offered a small bow.

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Ardal-Mur, senior influencer to the Far Wolds.”

  Justice Narl tapped the table with a thick finger. “We are also entitled to raze the buildings where we suspect rebels are conspiring against the realm. An insurgency would be detrimental to our citizens and theirs, and we are empowered to impede or halt efforts in that direction. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Your determinations are faulty,” Whitt replied. “And your tactics work against you.” The ease in which the justice bent the truth annoyed him. “Your actions initiate a cycle of rebuilding and ruin; you chop down the sacred trees where they hang their ancestors’ bones. Rather than avert rebellion, every action you take against innocent Farlanders ignites resistance and fires dreams of uprising.”

  “Can you prove it?” Olivan asked.

  “As well as you can prove your claims.” Whitt addressed the high ward, “The ongoing destruction of Farlander homes violates Ellegean law. Unless it stops, I intend to advise my commander and my queen that Tor uses these demolitions to harass and inflame the native people with one goal—to seize their land.”

  “It isn’t their land,” Narl said. “They’ll tell you the same.”

  “A
matter of belief, not law,” Whitt countered, his exasperation making him want to shout. “They don’t believe land can be owned by anyone. But this land has been inhabited by them for generations.” He faced the high ward and took a breath, calming his voice. “Regardless of what your justices profess and the means used to acquire the land, any movement of Ellegean citizens into occupied Farlander territory remains an overt breach of the realm’s law.”

  High Ward Antoris studied him, and Whitt could almost detail the analysis occurring behind the shrewd eyes. If Whitt had swayed the man, it would count a miracle. More likely, the high ward was deciding his strategy and weighing the cost.

  The justice opened his thick lips, and the high ward raised a hand, silencing whatever he intended to say. “I will take your recommendation under advisement.”

  Whitt sighed, the dismissal clear. “There is a matter of goats from—”

  “Under advisement,” Antoris repeated. A wave of intimidation struck Whitt in the chest, the high ward’s authority propelling him back a step. He glanced at the influencers. The dark-haired man’s lips twitched with a discreet smile. Two of the guards ringing the room stepped forward, one showing the way to the door with an open palm. The stuffed heads of dead bears and horned antelope glared at him through their glass eyes. Whitt bowed to the high ward and strode out, grabbed his weapons and fled.

  Once outside, he shook off the remnants of influence, marveling at how, once awakened, the false feelings clung to his skin. The fourth bell had long passed, and Pike was a stickler for keeping his word. Whitt jogged toward the site of the earlier standoff, expecting the worse and hoping no one got hurt.

  The late-day roads were busy with laborers and servants, men and women finishing last tasks before returning home. He turned a corner and slowed, four Ellegeans with sledgehammers and axes headed his way, their day’s destruction done. One sported a purpling bruise on his cheek, and another dabbed at a bloated lip. Dusty and battered, they halted and spread out across the narrow road.

  Whitt took stock of his situation, the location of alleyways, the presence of witnesses who might or might not come to his aid. He gripped his staff, the least deadly of his weapons, trusting the message proved clear. “The high ward didn’t see things my way.”

  A man with an axe resting on his shoulder spat into the dirt. “We could have spared you the trouble.”

  “I assume you finished your task.” Whitt took a wary step forward, adjusting his grip.

  “Not quite,” the man replied. “We have one more Guardian to clear out of our way.”

  Whitt snapped his staff into ready position, whipped the end up and caught the axeman in his groan. A woman in the road behind Whitt screamed as the man bent forward, his eyes bugging, not a sound escaping his open mouth. Whitt rotated, the other end tapping the crooked man on the temple and assisting him to the ground.

  Spectators gathered, eyes bright at the prospect of a fight, wagers shouted across the road. They kept a safe distance as Whitt swung the staff around and flew through a series of basic patterns intended to intimidate most assailants. He called to the other three men. “He’ll be fine. Just let me pass.”

  One of them shuffled forward, grinning at the jeering crowd. The sledgehammer on his shoulder arced clumsily for Whitt’s ribs. Whitt back-stepped and the ponderous weapon, dismally slow for an effective attack, sailed by him. His staff snapped around, smacked the man’s forehead, reversed to the small of the back, and popped up into another man’s chin.

  The fourth assailant’s gaze flickered over Whitt’s shoulder, the danger registering. Whitt twisted aside, staff powering up for a block. The club hit the wood, jarring him, and his leg buckled with a kick to the back of his knee. Someone struck the thick of his skull, and he was down, lights blasting across his vision. He curled into a ball as a kick landed on his shoulder, more on his legs, and the crowd’s shouting echoed in his head.

  It ended as quickly as it started, one voice bellowing above the rest. Tavor knelt beside him, Cale frowning over his shoulder. “Figured we’d come looking for you.”

  Whitt unfolded, the drubbing thorough but not close to deadly. They hadn’t beheaded him when he was down, a decision leaving him thankful. “What happened to the Farlander homes? Was anyone hurt?”

  “Gave them a mouthful of knuckles to gnaw on and a little incentive to come after you, apparently.” Tavor helped him up.

  Whitt winced and hissed through his teeth as he attempted to straighten. “The homes?” Tavor handed him his staff, and he leaned on it like a kinked branch.

  “Rubble,” Cale replied. “Sim showed up.”

  “That must have been ugly.” Whitt shook his head, the day a disaster.

  “Worse,” Tavor said. “That woman is going to get herself killed.”

  Chapter Five

  Catling stood to the left and a single step back of Lelaine’s chair, the mirror image of Colton, the tall guard at the queen’s right. The councilors droned like bees regarding the day’s business, and she shielded Lelaine from influence though only one person concerned her.

  The afternoon sun streamed through the open windows and heated the council chamber on an unusually steamy Springseed day. Normally a sea breeze would deliver cool relief and the fresh scent of brine, but the wind wandered elsewhere, and the shallow waves mirrored a cloudless sky. Ships hadn’t bothered sailing, and those on the sea drifted so slowly they might as well have anchored to the reefs.

  The three councilors—Oaron, Edark, and Laris—quarreled over every point, presenting an array of opinions that Lelaine decided upon before a final recommendation surfaced. Left to their own machinations, diplomacies, and schemes the councilors would decide nothing at all, ever.

  The Cull Tarr ambassador, Varon Kest, attended the council meetings, his fretful influencer seated with her peers among the queen’s clerks and scribes. Catling shielded Lelaine rather than block the influencer, leaving Chava free to ply the poor woman with a sense of ease, undoubtedly a precious break from a life of anxiety. Chava, the carrot-haired oathbreaker who had saved Catling’s life, sat beside Fontine who focused entirely on Oaron, instilling in him a feeling of mastery and confidence.

  Kest preferred to lean against the wall or pace. A muscular man, the embellished shoulders on his jacket made him appear twice as brawny as the other men in the room, and he wore the short, wide trousers of the seafarers even though he spent his days in the tier city. The stripes shaved into his jet hair also hadn’t changed, nor the gold draping his ankles and wrists. He observed the discussion with a face devoid of emotion, his eyes half-lidded, thoughts constantly churning.

  Catling didn’t care for the man, didn’t appreciate his immunity to influence, a notion startling in its irony. She hated influence, false emotions the source of her life’s tragedies, and yet with the Cull Tarr, she conceded that its absence generated a host of risks. In truth, the realm would be better off if the power vanished along with all those who knew how to wield it.

  Gannon glared at the ambassador between bouts of suppressed yawning. Catling stifled her own yawn, and when Gannon caught her, she switched to stifling a smile. She hadn’t slept well and worried she’d collapse with boredom.

  Fingering through his stack of papers, Oaron produced a letter. “A missive from Commander Jagur, Your Grace. Shall I read it?

  “Please,” Lelaine rolled her wrist, tedium evident in her long exhale.

  Oaron read, and the references to Whitt perked up Catling’s ears. The news of his promotion to lieutenant and assignment in the Far Wolds elicited an ambivalent smile. Little Whitt had grown up and created a life for himself. Despite her pleasure with his success, she missed him and tears threatened to blur her eyes.

  Oaron finished with Jagur’s final thoughts. “…You have always requested frankness, Your Grace, and I will not disappoint. Based on the lieutenant’s observations, my recommendation is that you authorize Guardian to dispatch a force of five hundred warriors into the Far Wol
ds to establish order and restore the settlements’ original boundaries. This would demonstrate a commitment to Ellegean law, to our treaty, and to ordinary decency of which we are sorely lacking. Once we are confident that the…” Oaron paused and glanced at the queen.

  “Read on,” Lelaine said. “The commander isn’t likely to turn my ears pink.”

  Oaron nodded and continued, “Once we are confident that the blasted high wards are capable of restraint, I would suggest we maintain a long-term Guardian presence to ensure it. Any further delay on this issue is likely to result in violence and harm to the already fragile relationship. Ignoring the problem is no longer—”

  “Wait! He’s suggesting that I ignored the problem, isn’t he?” Lelaine huffed, straightening her back. “He’s insufferable. Fortunately, for him, he’s also competent. Continue,” she beckoned, urging the councilor onward.

  “There is little more.” Oaron returned to the letter and cleared his throat. “Ignoring the problem is no longer advisable. I await your reply. Your ever humble servant, Commander Jagur, Guardian.”

  “Ever humble.” Lelaine raised her goblet, and a servant replenished her wine.

  “The man is arrogant,” Kest said. “He should demonstrate greater respect for his queen.”

  Lelaine waved a dismissive hand. “I shall endure his lapses in manners, Ambassador, in exchange for his advice and capable skills as a leader. Now, suggestions?” She tossed the problem to her councilors, and the arguments recommenced.

  Gannon rose, bowed to Lelaine with a sweet but apologetic smile, and slipped quietly from the room. Off to play with Rose, no doubt, as fond of the little girl as she was of him. Catling smiled with a bittersweet poignancy that swept her whenever she thought of her young life and those who had sculpted her with their love and cruelty.

  More than two seasons had passed since she’d last seen Whitt, since he’d asked Lelaine to release her from her vow. She’d received one letter from him in the autumn before Rose’s birth, a rambling essay about his life in Guardian. Then a short message sent by bird during the winter, a note carefully crafted in tiny handwriting, wishing her well and a life of happiness. Had his final note come after his assignment to the south? Maybe that was the catalyst for what felt again like farewell.