other from Parnilesse."
He turned his wrath on the whole gathering. "How many of you acknowledge the blood that runs through your heart or in the veins of the wife who tends your hearth, who bore your children? You wrap yourself in Vanam cloth and muffle your true voices. Have you no pride? Have you no honour? Our fine guests here joke about Lescari folly and Lescari thieves and you show your teeth in a meek little smile. You should be snarling!"
He waved at the waiting banquet, spitting with fury.
"Am I the only one sick to my stomach of festival gatherings where we sit on our fat arses and cuddle our fat purses? Have you no feeling for your kith and kin who can only fear the lengthening days as the year turns to Aft-Spring? Will For-Summer bring armies to plunder their crops again, militias to enlist their sons or mercenaries to despoil their daughters? Doesn't this fine white bread taste of bitter ashes when you know Caladhria's farmers will be giving thanks to Drianon this Spring Festival for last year's fine harvest? As they debate whether they'll earn more gold selling their wheat to the mercenary camps or to the dukes as they lure men to sign up for militia service to save their children from starvation."
Tathrin saw the whole gathering standing frozen, some faces appalled, more ashamed.
The old man continued before anyone could attempt a reply. "Whatever duke presumed to claim our allegiance when we were born, we all left such quarrels behind when we came to Vanam, to any of the cities across Ensaimin. For the love of whatever gods your beleaguered families cherish..." His voice cracked with anguish, tears standing in his faded eyes. "Can we not find a way to stop this strife that curses our unhappy homeland?"
The hall erupted. Anguished voices protested how often they sent coin to salve the worst hurts of warfare. Men and women insisted they offered friends and relatives a safe haven in times of trial, even securing apprenticeships for their sons and respectable marriages for their daughters.
His heart racing, Tathrin tried to pick out the most earnest faces. He did his utmost to find some distinguishing feature, some quirk of dress. An enamelled collar here, a fistful of diamond rings there--anything that might help him identify the men and women who seemed to be in fiercest agreement with the old man.
"Wyess, Garvan." The cloth merchant spread apologetic hands, colouring with embarrassment. "You know I hold you in the highest esteem--"
"Gruit's been drinking too much of his own wine," Kierst sneered. "Too much time on his hands since he buried his wife and married off his daughters."
To Tathrin's utter astonishment, Wyess spun around and knocked the long-nosed man clean off his feet with a single colossal punch.
Chapter Three
Karn
Emirle Bridge, in the Dukedom of Draximal,
Spring Equinox Festival, Fourth Day, Morning
"Why change horses here?" A thin-faced woman stepped down from her carriage with an angry flounce of her gown.
"This is the last town safely inside Draximal."
Karn didn't care if the harassed man with her was her steward or her husband. He was just pleased their argument was attracting everyone's attention. Chewing the last of his morning bread, he headed for the wide gate to leave the inn's stable yard unremarked.
"We must hire a team here to take us across the bridge," the hapless man explained. "Then we change horses in Tewhay."
He should just tell the shrew to shut up, Karn thought, and let him manage their journey.
"We're paying a day's hire for horses taking us three leagues?"
The woman's shrill outrage followed Karn into the road and he looked back over his shoulder. It was curious that someone should set out to travel between Draximal and Parnilesse and not know that the horsemasters at inns all along the highway refused to allow their beasts to cross the border. North and south, they condemned their counterparts as thieves and scoundrels with near-identical
He turned his wrath on the whole gathering. "How many of you acknowledge the blood that runs through your heart or in the veins of the wife who tends your hearth, who bore your children? You wrap yourself in Vanam cloth and muffle your true voices. Have you no pride? Have you no honour? Our fine guests here joke about Lescari folly and Lescari thieves and you show your teeth in a meek little smile. You should be snarling!"
He waved at the waiting banquet, spitting with fury.
"Am I the only one sick to my stomach of festival gatherings where we sit on our fat arses and cuddle our fat purses? Have you no feeling for your kith and kin who can only fear the lengthening days as the year turns to Aft-Spring? Will For-Summer bring armies to plunder their crops again, militias to enlist their sons or mercenaries to despoil their daughters? Doesn't this fine white bread taste of bitter ashes when you know Caladhria's farmers will be giving thanks to Drianon this Spring Festival for last year's fine harvest? As they debate whether they'll earn more gold selling their wheat to the mercenary camps or to the dukes as they lure men to sign up for militia service to save their children from starvation."
Tathrin saw the whole gathering standing frozen, some faces appalled, more ashamed.
The old man continued before anyone could attempt a reply. "Whatever duke presumed to claim our allegiance when we were born, we all left such quarrels behind when we came to Vanam, to any of the cities across Ensaimin. For the love of whatever gods your beleaguered families cherish..." His voice cracked with anguish, tears standing in his faded eyes. "Can we not find a way to stop this strife that curses our unhappy homeland?"
The hall erupted. Anguished voices protested how often they sent coin to salve the worst hurts of warfare. Men and women insisted they offered friends and relatives a safe haven in times of trial, even securing apprenticeships for their sons and respectable marriages for their daughters.
His heart racing, Tathrin tried to pick out the most earnest faces. He did his utmost to find some distinguishing feature, some quirk of dress. An enamelled collar here, a fistful of diamond rings there--anything that might help him identify the men and women who seemed to be in fiercest agreement with the old man.
"Wyess, Garvan." The cloth merchant spread apologetic hands, colouring with embarrassment. "You know I hold you in the highest esteem--"
"Gruit's been drinking too much of his own wine," Kierst sneered. "Too much time on his hands since he buried his wife and married off his daughters."
To Tathrin's utter astonishment, Wyess spun around and knocked the long-nosed man clean off his feet with a single colossal punch.
Chapter Three
Karn
Emirle Bridge, in the Dukedom of Draximal,
Spring Equinox Festival, Fourth Day, Morning
"Why change horses here?" A thin-faced woman stepped down from her carriage with an angry flounce of her gown.
"This is the last town safely inside Draximal."
Karn didn't care if the harassed man with her was her steward or her husband. He was just pleased their argument was attracting everyone's attention. Chewing the last of his morning bread, he headed for the wide gate to leave the inn's stable yard unremarked.
"We must hire a team here to take us across the bridge," the hapless man explained. "Then we change horses in Tewhay."
He should just tell the shrew to shut up, Karn thought, and let him manage their journey.
"We're paying a day's hire for horses taking us three leagues?"
The woman's shrill outrage followed Karn into the road and he looked back over his shoulder. It was curious that someone should set out to travel between Draximal and Parnilesse and not know that the horsemasters at inns all along the highway refused to allow their beasts to cross the border. North and south, they condemned their counterparts as thieves and scoundrels with near-identical
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