“Separatist?” roared Fearghal, “Is that what they’re calling themselves now? The only thing the Silverback wants separated is King Diarmuid’s head from his shoulders!”
Peadair placed a hand on Fearghal’s arm and shushed him, nodding back towards Morrígan. The butcher lowered his gaze and mumbled apologetically.
Some people broke away from the crowd as they made their way down the High Road.
Going to get drunk again. But she didn’t care; she wanted to hear more about this Silverback.
“The Simians claim they’ve changed their ways since the Fall of Sin,” said Peadair. “They say that they’ve learned, that they’ve left the days of dissent behind. But all this with the Silverback and the railroad—”
Peadair cut himself off as the town square came into view. Immediately, Morrígan saw why.
Four groups of men dressed in solid, bright colours had gathered in the centre of the village. Reds, blues, greens, and greys, they stood still as statues in a strict, military manner.
“Soldiers!” gasped Peadair. Morrígan followed as they hurried down the High Road, walking almost at the pace of a jog towards the Square. Excitement rose like a balloon in her chest.
Maybe the king found out about the troll! Maybe he sent them here so nobody else would have to die like Mother did!
As she got closer, she noticed one soldier in solid green armour adorned with bright medals, standing before the rest. He wore a cloak, fastened with a brass brooch that glimmered in the sun. His stern face surveyed the crowd.
By the time Morrígan entered the Square, a crowd of villagers had already gathered before the stranger.
“—and I assure you, the Crown has brought in these measures to ensure your safety during such dangerous times.”
Peadair and Fearghal stood at the edge of the crowd, where Morrígan joined them.
“They’ve announced the king’s new taxes,” whispered Peadair. “The Crown now claims an eighth of our profits, in place of a tithe.”
“Curse their eyes!” swore Fearghal. “What right do they have to march in here and take our earnings like this?”
“The king’s divine right,” muttered Peadair, throwing a smile towards Morrígan. She smiled too, then noticed her uncle weaving through the crowd just over the innkeeper’s shoulder. Yarlaith the White seemed far more exhausted than usual.
“What’s going on?” Yarlaith asked in a breathless rasp.
“Taxes,” said Peadair with a knowing nod. He had been the one who warned Morrígan’s parents about the impending increase the day before the troll attacked.
A strange thought occurred to her. We never would have been working that early, alone on the farm, if it wasn’t for these new taxes. If it wasn’t for them, would Mother still be alive?
“That one has the look of a Geomancer,” noted Yarlaith. Behind the speaker, a crowd of hooded soldiers stood grouped together by their colour. Morrígan counted twelve of each. Yarlaith leaned closer to Peadair, keeping his voice low.
“And they’re not carrying any weapons.”
Peadair raised his eyebrows. “Battlemages! But why bring half an army to spread the Crown’s news?”
“It may not be as simple as that,” said Yarlaith, nodding towards the speaker. “From that one’s insignias, I’d guess that he’s a colonel, and the number of mages behind him equal that of a full battalion: forty-eight.”
“I don’t like where you’re going with this, Yarlaith.”
The colonel pulled out a roll of parchment from under his cloak. “There is another measure that His Grace has taken to guarantee your safety in these tremulous times. Point Grey is not far from here, and the Crown has seen that it has been fortified with his royal forces. His Grace recognises that there are many who are not protected by stone walls. For your safety, he has garrisoned battalions in every major and minor settlement along the Clifflands.”
He gestured to the men behind him, each standing tall and proud in attention. “These are men I have trained for the field myself. They are honourable and brave warriors, and they will put the safety of this village first. You have my word.” He paused and searched through the parchment in his hand. “Now, could the landlord of The Bear and the Beadhbh please make himself known?”
All eyes turned to Peadair.
“Aye, that’d be me. What do you need?”
“A word, please.”
The crowd parted once the colonel stopped speaking, but Morrígan and Yarlaith made no move to leave.
The colonel approached Peadair and held out a hand, but the innkeeper didn’t shake it.
“If it’s a round you want, you’ll be paying like all the other folk.”
“Ah,” said the colonel. “That won’t be necessary.” He handed Peadair the parchment he had been reading from. “This is a writ of accession, signed by the king himself. It demands you to hand over your property to the Crown. Until His Grace says otherwise, my battalion will be stationed in your inn.”
Dumbfounded, Peadair took the document from the colonel and stared at it, though Morrígan knew that he couldn’t read.
“The Bear,” he said eventually. “No, this is preposterous!”
“This is the law, and His Grace has declared a state of emergency given the growing threat of the Simian dissidents.”
“You can’t have it!” he said, pointing a finger at the colonel. “This inn is my life; it’s been in my family for generations.”
“I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter. His Grace has signed the writ in sacred blood. I am obliged to execute its orders, and you are obliged to follow them. This will only be temporary, and there will be compensation.”
With that, the colonel untied a large coin-purse from his belt and threw it to Peadair.
Peadair caught the purse in both hands. “There must be some kind of—”
