“Sign this,” Xoural said, placing a document before him.
“Leave this shop. It is Lor’Toshtolin’s property.”
The magistrate chuckled. “Everything within Halkamas is the high matron’s property. Even you, while you’re oathed.”
The suggestion was intolerable, a violation of every accord except the Fifth. The high houses could read and interpret that accord as they wished. Mornae should only obey their matron. But what if your matron is weak?
Heat braced his head. Yes, the heat seemed to say. We can’t have weak matrons.
Taul blinked hard as his eyes watered from the fire boiling his brain. Where had that thought come from? He tugged at his collar and rubbed his eyes. All his face burned and itched.
Xoural gave him an unnerving look like he read Taul’s mind.
The gaggle of priestesses still huddled around the entrance, unyielding to Jurin’s broom. The truth was Jurin wouldn’t dare sweep them away. He was a devout lad.
“The high matron has graciously allowed you another month to repay the tax or else she will seize more assets,” Xoural said.
He steepled his fingers over his chest, pronouncing judgment, smirking, relishing his task. In the lamp’s white light, his diviner marks glimmered through his scruff. They covered his head down to his ear and even behind his neck. He must be quite old and of high rank.
“I can request an audience with Matron Lor’Toshtolin if you think that would help,” Xoural said.
Taul’s face hardened. There was nothing more shaming to a prime consort than troubling his matron with his responsibilities.
“That will not be necessary,” he said.
The magistrate sighed. “That pleases me, as I would hate to disturb her recovery from such a tragic event.” He shook his head and sighed some more, waiting for Taul to say something.
Taul’s mind raced, thinking about how they could raise the money in a month. They’d have to cut flesh from their bones. Anything but the orchards.
“Lor’Toshtolin will pay the tax on time, magistrate,” he said.
A broad smile formed on Xoural’s face, his ears lifting like spears.
“Excellent. I’m sure your efforts will please the high matron.”
He turned to the store entrance.
“Let it be known,” he proclaimed to the assembled crowd, “that Lor’Toshtolin is a faithful steward of the third high house.”
A steward? Not even a vassal. And since when, and by which law, had all property within Halkamas become Hosmyr’s? Longing for the fields and orchards welled in Taul. The dry air was slow to fill his lungs, almost alien.
Xoural had applied pressure and enforced obedience. Now, all could go back to normal.
Until the high matron squeezed again. They were now lackeys, their freedom lost, all because of this need of his to solve Ryldia’s problem. His problem, he corrected. Everything that was hers was his. The power of the binding twisted his heart. Now he had to extricate Lor’Toshtolin from Hosmyr’s grip. His birth house was a Hosmyr branch, and he had always been proud to be a part of it. Today, that fact cramped his belly.
Three days remained until the meeting with the lord’s agent, but who was that lord? Was it a trap to lure him in and lead Lor’Toshtolin to exile, or worse, to steal Zeldra from them?
He needed time to think. There were too many threads, all fraying.
“Sildor, take charge here,” he said to the shop attendant. “Tell Rolos to fetch all our crates from the vaults. Store it all at the Halkamas estate if necessary.” He thought for a moment. “No, send it to the east valley, to the main house. Summon our knights.”
Sildor protested. It was the season for tournaments.
“Phrase it as a command,” Taul said. “Weapons sharp. Do not stop for anyone.”
Sildor nodded.
“Send word to Matron Lor’Toshtolin that I will go with the goods,” Taul said. “I’ll be away for a day or two. Then she should be ready to move as well. Remember to speak the words exactly right so she’ll know it’s urgent. Have the knights meet me at the east gate by sundown.”
Taul turned and found himself blocked by the priestesses of his house.
“We will make ready,” Xura said.
“An attack on one is an attack on all,” Naldira said. “Ryldia is blessed to have such a dedicated consort.”
They all offered a nod, displaying their obedience for the onlookers to take note. They seemed genuine. His jaw tightened, and he nodded back.
He’d not trust them yet.
31
Leaves unfurled silently. They breathed, and Gishna with them. She sat on a plain wood bench in the seer’s greenhouse. A variety of potted plants with dark leaves and stems, near black blooms, surrounded her. On the table behind her, the remains of his meals hemmed her in. Worms and other insects, beetles, he called them, rummaged through the composting matter. A pointless skylight opened to an always hazy gray sky.
The man was a pig. Still, she needed him, and must tolerate his eccentricities.
“They are necessary to the process, high matron,” he’d said. “They need it, and it needs them. Magic, neh?”
She allowed no one else in this room on pain of death. Not because she didn’t trust Thensil and Sinnin, or even Maunyn, but she needed a place to be herself with him.
