“Lor’Beyvin has sent the almond contract back completely rewritten in their favor,” Dalkos said.
“They claim we are unreliable,” Rodan said.
Lor’Toshtolin had suffered a dozen such stabs the day before. They would only increase.
Taul directed his people to move the supply about so the shelves looked fuller.
“Lor’Vonshor is late with its delivery,” Rodan said.
Taul exhaled. The first stab of the day. What recourse did they have? Toshtolin had lost its leverage over them.
“No, no,” he said, dashing to a display of dried seasonings. “Spread them out this way.”
The acolyte who’d placed them, Xura’s daughter, nodded and stepped forward to rearrange the shelf. Taul did it himself and stood back proudly. All would be fine. Soon everyone would forget about his misstep. Gossip dies in winter, his grandmother used to say.
Jurin, a squire who worked at their other shop, entered, flustered. Taul motioned him to the back. Rodan, Xautan, and Dalkos formed a barrier between them and the curious onlookers.
“The magistrate,” Jurin said, “Xoural. You know the one? He’s at the Kalastra shop. Asking for you.”
“I see,” Taul said, avoiding the consorts’ looks. “Come with me, Jurin.” He directed the shop workers to continue. “Keep adjusting. All will be fine. When Vonshor arrives, take the goods to the back and begin sorting.” He smiled, but his face was stiff. The attendants, Ryldia’s relations, looked on. Soon all the Toshtolin priestesses would know what was happening.
They would blame it on Ryldia’s weak blood, or his.
Rodan grabbed his shoulder and forced Taul to face him.
“We are with you, Taul,” he said. The others nodded.
“We know it is a farce, a direct attack on us,” Xautan said. “You did nothing wrong.”
Dalkos just stared and, despite their words, Taul felt judged. It was easy for them. They didn’t bear his burden; none had the tendering gift; none ventured out into the orchards and fields. But they wore the best cloth and clinked glasses with the Sons of Hosmyr at the gatherings.
“Thank you for supporting your matron and house,” he said stiffly. They flinched. Duty to one’s house should be natural to them, not something worthy of thanks. “House above all,” he added. They repeated the phrase and gave him a respectful nod. Yes, he thought, you’d better show respect or Ryldia may cut you off and cast your branches into the ash fire.
Taul grabbed Jurin and they hurried, but not enough to appear summoned. People stood outside the Kalastra shop, shaking their heads. One of the high matron’s diviners with a squad of enforcers at one’s place of business was never a good sign. Taul slowed down and caught his breath. He was still a prime consort of an ancient house and to a matron of impeccable lineage. No matter how they might push and prod him, they couldn’t deny his place in their world. And there were witnesses, not that he should trust them. He scanned the faces. No, not a one.
The enforcers were not in knight’s garb, so that meant they could not openly attack him. Except for the small matter of overdue taxes, he’d committed no crime. It was only three months. Or was it six? And even that was no crime, but a lack of gratitude or solicitude for the High Matron’s request.
Taxation went against all tradition. Mornae called it a gift, a discreet display of honoring one’s obligations. High Matron Gishna had discarded all discretion. In his great grandfather’s time, the tax had not even existed, and debt had not existed—at least no one spoke of it that way. To yield to the necessity of borrowing from another house was a sure sign of giving up. Better to leave the crater far behind, his grandfather would say. If anyone knew the goddess, it was him.
Xoural the diviner, a magistrate with the power to pronounce judgments on the high matron’s behalf, stood in the center of Toshtolin’s main shop, bedecked in black with blue silk lining the vestments of his office. A thick chain with three intertwined medallions hung off narrow shoulders to his middle. His tattoos shone weakly through a low growth of dark gray and black hair.
“Ah, there he is,” he said calmly, “the prime consort of Lor’Toshtolin. Let us speak in private.”
Taul stepped into the doorway and turned. A gaggle of priestesses were coming down the street toward the shop and at their head, Xura. When a house is weak, it will often collapse from within at first. The outer signs, such as tax collectors and canceled contracts, were an inevitability. His eyes hardened, glaring at Xura as she approached, hands clasped with concern.
“Disperse them,” he said to Jurin. “Use that broom if you must.”
Jurin’s eyes widened. It was too much to ask of a squire. These women were priestesses, some several centuries old.
Taul entered the shop, also lightly stocked. He looked back, and Jurin was sweeping, forcing the crowd away from the stoop.
“What is it, magistrate?” he said to Xoural, summoning all his self-respect and station.
“There is the matter of Lor’Toshtolin’s taxes, prime consort.”
“Yes, and what of it? There are still three months until Theronal.”
On Theronal, the first appearance of Theron, the fourth celestial body, Lor’Toshtolin along with a hundred other houses would make its public oath to serve Ilor’Hosmyr for another year. Should they switch allegiance, their estates within Halkamas would be forfeit, but the orchards, the valley estates, those would still be theirs. They were Toshtolin’s before the Fall and the accords that followed, from the third accord. Their blood had fused with those old trunks and branches. And yet, a shiver ran through him. What recourse would he have should Hosmyr send knights to take it by force? Would their new high house defend him?
Daushalan would. The thought revolted him, but a man could only endure so much. Vakayne? And why not? They bought the pears, demanding the best quality. They would then have no need of Hosmyr for pears and other ingredients. Was it time to consider another way? When was the last time a vassal, and one of Hosmyr’s own branches, had broken away and oathed elsewhere? He couldn’t recall. Ryldia would never abandon Ilor’Hosmyr. It would cement her as the matron who had failed her ancient line.
“The high matron has need of the tax now,” Xoural said. “You know the law.”
“What law is that?” Taul retorted.
There were always new laws, changed laws, altered constantly to favor the high house. In the past, he’d not cared because they didn’t affect him. Now, the crone’s white-eyed gaze was upon his middling house.
“We’ve seized certain assets from the vaults,” Xoural said, examining the contents of a mostly empty shelf.
Taul swallowed as discreetly as possible.
“Yes, indeed,” Xoural said. “Ten crates of fine liquors. It would cover the interest on the taxes owed.”
Taul found his voice. “Interest?”
The term was not something he’d heard of before in relation to the tax. And even with loans, civility and courtesy allowed the borrower to thank the lender in an honor bound way, often more generously than if there had been a fixed interest. Loans were not a good thing in Mornae society, a sign of helplessness. Should a house really need one, they repaid it generously to prove their newfound strength.
Since the Fifth Accord, the Mornae had traded kithaun spears for chits, blue goddess-fire for contracts, the power to travel the stars for a brute fist. In the past, the product of his orchards would stir the battle lust of their knights, raise the thought of their sorcerers to prepare for great undertakings, and drive their priestesses into the goddess’s presence, a divine ecstasy.
