Taul let out the deepest breath. His hands trembled, then shook. He held them tight on his lap.

“Goddess above,” he said through clenched teeth, “grant me strength to do my duty.”

His will simmered warmly in his breast, strong in its decision, sure of it. It was the most natural and true thing he could do.

46

Standing in a one-room cottage, dressed like a magistrate’s courier, Ren flipped through a thresher’s debt claims and, finally, his contract with Lor’Sarstin.

“It all looks in order,” Ren said. “They owe you a great deal.”

Not that much, even with his emptying vault, but it was everything to a man living in a one-room cottage—a hovel, really. The thresher slept on a cot on one side with his threshing equipment and other tools on the other. The tools were clean and assembled like a row of spearmen; his clothes, lovingly mended, hung neatly from pegs. It was fine stitching, and one tunic had lovely embroidery along the neck.

Ren sighed. The man must have the interest of a priestess.

“The Owls have money,” Hugos, a thresher, said. “They’ve been throwing it around like seed, emptying the work lines, but I’ve got this contract for another six years.”

“And you’ll honor it?”

Hugos bowed his head.

“The goddess demands it?” Ren pressed.

Hugos nodded. “I had a team of threshers once,” he said. “Even my own devices handed down. But we lost our estate. My house did, I mean. My grandfather was a real consort until his matron died suddenly. The new matron sent him to his na’house, but it had already dissolved or gone beyond the Southern. The Owls are taking over this part of the valley. Never thought I’d see the day.”

The Owls were Zauhune houses that had taken over three small farms. The farms were on the edge of the enchanted rock, where they were less likely to need special sorcery. Just the usual kind that Zauhune must have knowledge of. They harvested meager crops in the north valley, after all.

“What’s this other contract?” Ren asked.

“I rent an acre of flax from them.”

Ren searched through the claims. “I see you owe them as much as they owe you.” He glanced over at the man with a pitiful face.

“I have tried,” Hugos said.

“You owe thirteen months’ rent, then.”

“Thirteen? I only owe twelve!”

Ren stuffed the claims and contract in a satchel.

“The thirteenth will sweeten our deal,” he said, “To let you out of the contract and encourage you to keep quiet after my visit. You’ll be free to work for the Owls if you wish.”

“That would work for me, milord,” Hugos said thankfully. “The crops have been so bad this year.”

“Aren’t they always?” Ren asked with his most sympathetic face. It was always bad for those who had no business planting a single seed in these lands. He didn’t dislike the man. He was trying, even if doomed. Did they think just sun and rain and soil would make something grow on the goddess’s black rock?

Ren glanced at the embroidered tunic. It really was very tender. His heart ached for a moment, recalling the work that the priestess had done for him long ago.

“Have you plans to consort?” he asked Hugos.

The thresher smiled broadly. “Yes, into a small house near the Fringe. Once I prove myself. They’d like me to tend their vines. But I haven’t done it since I was a boy.”

“Maybe you should find a house with a vineyard to hire you. You won’t know unless you try.”

“Yes, thank you, milord.”

Ren liked this ruse of the sage, benevolent counselor. He handed Hugos a pouch of silver bits and a string of three silver talents. This is what it felt like to be above ordinary concerns. He regretted not doing more to help Hugos get to his consort on the Fringe. What a pleasant life he’d have there.

“Good luck,” Ren said, chin raised.

He left the cottage and strode out of the village on foot. Outside the village, on a sloping hill, he surveyed the winding road to the Lor’Sarstin estate. He cut through a field and found a trail leading to the back entrance. No need to make a fuss over him. He’d show them his discretion by coming through the rear entrance.

Everyone had a sob story like the thresher. As did Lor’Sarstin. He’d made the rounds of everyone to whom Lor’Sarstin owed a significant amount. Sarstin not only owed the Hosmyr tax, but they also owed their workers, stewards, and other houses from whom they’d borrowed. The weakness was deep, and most were happy to part with bills of debt for hard silver. With each one, Ren used a different disguise. Just because he’d lost his use as an agent didn’t mean he had to be sloppy. He had sixty-five talents worth of debt in his satchel, a huge amount for the beady-eyed boy, even if he was Maunyn’s.

If the boy had not been Maunyn’s, Sarstin would have traded him long ago. The elder, handsome one would solve all their problems eventually, unless this debt buried them. Ren grinned to himself. He would arrive as their savior and give them back their dignity. No longer would their matron need to open herself to Maunyn.

Sayin, glorious friend to the valley, had set, and all that remained of him was a faint orange glow lining the southern range and crater peaks. Only Yalloc sat in the sky, gray and distant. This was the most dangerous time when those hateful hounds would be out searching.

At the estate’s back entrance, Ren took out a slug of crudely marked kithaun. He’d traded for it in the underdark market. It was a risk to use it, but he was near death anyway. He rubbed it with his thumb, coaxing shadow-threads out of it, all the while imagining a man he’d seen in the south valley. Heat braced his skull and what sounded like a chortle wisped past his ears. Maybe it was the wind, his imagination, or some malevolent sorcerer. It said nothing else to him. It was a weak device but had the power he needed. Darkness swirled about him, forming a weave to hide his person. Viewers, provided they were not practitioners themselves, would see what Ren wanted them to see. In this case, he was an up-and-coming lordling from the north valley.

It might have caused Sarstin to hesitate, but Zauhune vassals would soon flood this part of the east valley. Strange how that happened. Who’d ever have thought to see owl banners here?

He grimaced and put that aside. It served his purpose. He concentrated on the image he wished to present, down to the tabard and middling linens, and a simple blade at his thigh. The matron would need to see herself in a position of power, although he was there to rescue them.

The ruse would last an hour or two if they were dense. He doubted that. Maunyn would want good bloodlines to mix with. And if not, what did it matter? Lor’Toshtolin would get a healthy boy, and all would be right in the world. Ren was the goddess’s justicar that night.

He waited for Sayin’s glow to disappear and then pulled the cord on the outer gate. A dull clang sounded on the other side. A patter of steps followed, and then a woman looked out through a small grate in the door.

“I have business with your matron,” he said. “I am Zaudor Lor’Malue, third tier vassal of Ilor’Zauhune.”

The ruse worked well, as the woman’s eyes widened with excitement. He must have overdone it.

“Yes, milord,” she said and closed the window. She opened the door right away without asking her matron first. Ren stepped in, full of himself, as if he were Maunyn himself.

“Announce me, if you will,” he said.

“Oh yes, right away, milord.”

She bowed as she backed away to the door.

Ren stood as majestically as he could manage until she disappeared.

Valley Mornae usually followed the sun. Their work demanded it. Some had homes in Vaidolin, and when they stayed there, they shifted to a night cycle. Some were stubborn, old-fashioned, and built their valley estates like Vaidolin’s ancient villas, with small windows and high walls to keep Sayin out and live by Vai’s night. But those were rare, silly, and pretentious.

A well-dressed servant appeared—the steward, most likely. Looking Ren over, his brow arched, and his eyes tightened.

“Lor’Malue, you say?” he asked. “I’m not familiar with it.”