Sinner

The mood of the North was buoyant and optimistic. The income of families grew each year, and men and women knew their futures were strong and certain. Trade, working and taxation restrictions were so slight as to be negligible, and success waited for all who wished to avail themselves of it.

The picture could not have contrasted more with the West, where it seemed that month after month Askam was forced to increase taxes to meet debt repayments.

It was not his fault, Leagh told herself, willing herself to believe it. Who could have foreseen that a storm would virtually destroy Askam’s entire fishing fleet, or that the gloam mines of Escator would be flooded? But Askam’s misfortunes did not help her situation. Especially not when Askam was aware that each week saw more skilled craftsmen and independent farmers of the West slip across the border to avail themselves of the opportunities created by Zared’s policies.

“Leagh?”

She jumped, startled from her thoughts. Askam had entered her chamber, and now walked towards her. “You wanted to see me, sister?”

“Yes.” Leagh stood up and smiled. “I trust I have not disturbed you from important council?”

Askam waved a hand for her to sit back down, and took a seat across the table. “Nothing that cannot wait, Leagh.”

His tone turned brisk, belying his words. “What is it I can do for you?”

Leagh kept her own voice light, not wanting to antagonise her brother any more than she had to. “Askam, it is many weeks since you have made any mention of my marriage –”

Askam’s face tightened and he looked away.

“– to Zared.” Leagh shifted slightly, impatiently. “Askam, time passes, and neither Zared nor myself grow any younger! I long to be by his side, and –”

“Leagh, be still. You are noble born and raised, and you understand the negotiations that must be endured for such a marriage to be agreed to.”

“Negotiations that have been going on for five years!”

Askam looked back at his sister, his eyes narrowed and unreadable. “And for that you can only thank yourself for choosing such a marriage partner. Dammit, Leagh, could you not have chosen another man? Three nobles from the West have asked for your hand. Why not choose one of them? They cannot all be covered with warts and possessed of foul breath!”

“I love Zared,” Leagh said quietly. “I choose Zared.”

Askam’s face, so like his father’s with its mop of fine brown hair and hazel eyes, closed over at the mention of love. “Love has no place in the choosing of a noble marriage partner, Leagh. Forget love. Think instead of a marriage with a man which would keep the West intact and independent.”

He paused, let vent an exasperated sigh, then smiled, trying to take the tension out of their conversation. “Leagh, listen to me, and listen to reason, for the gods’ sakes. I wish you only happiness in life, but I must temper that wish with knowing that I, as you,” his tone hardened slightly, “must always do what is best for our people, not what is best for our hearts.”

Leagh did not reply, but held her brother’s gaze with determined eyes.

Askam let another minute slide by before he resumed speaking. “Leagh, it is time you knew that the yea or nay to this marriage has been taken from my hands.”

“What? By whom?” But even as she asked, Leagh knew.

“Caelum. He is as disturbed as I by the implications of a union between you and Zared. Last week I received word from him to delay a decision until he could meet with me personally to –”

“And yet he does not wish to speak to me, or to Zared?”

“Caelum sits the Throne of the Stars, Leagh. He has heavier responsibilities than you can imagine.”

Leagh bridled at her brother’s school-masterish tone, but held her tongue.

“Caelum knows well that the continued well-being of Tencendor matters before the wishes of any single person. Leagh, you are a Princess of Tencendor. As such you enjoy rights and privileges beyond those enjoyed by other Tencendorians. But these rights and privileges mean you also carry more responsibility. You simply can not live your life to the dictates of your heart, only to the dictates of Tencendor. I have tried these past five years to discourage you from choosing Zared, but you have not listened. Now, perhaps, you will listen to Caelum.”

Both his words and his tone told Leagh everything she needed to know. Caelum would not assent to the marriage either.

As Askam rose and left the room, Leagh finally gave in to her heartache and let tears slide down her cheeks. The very worst thing to bear was that she understood everything that stood in the way of her marriage. Why couldn’t she have accepted the hand of a nobleman from the West? It would be so much easier, so much more acceptable for the current balance of power. But what she understood intellectually didn’t matter when she’d totally given her heart to Zared. All she wanted in life was the man she loved.

Far to the north Zared straightened his back, refusing to let weariness slump his shoulders. He’d spent an entire week clambering over the ruins of Hsingard with several of his engineers to see if there was any point in trying to rebuild the town, only to come to the conclusion that the Skraelings had so destroyed the buildings that all Hsingard could be used for was as a stone quarry. Now he’d spent ten days riding hard for Severin, and even though he was lean and fit, the week at Hsingard and the arduous ride home had exhausted him.

But now Severin rose before Zared and, in spite of his tiredness, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was a beautiful town, built not only with sandstone and red brick to withstand the harsh winters of the north, but also with skill and imagination, so that the structural strength of each building was perfectly married with grace of line and beauty of feature. Severin was a town built to satisfy the spirits as much as it was to harbour the bodies of those who lived within.

Thank the gods for my parents’ foresight, he thought. Rivkah and Magariz had lived out the final twenty-five years of their lives in the town they’d had built, and had loved it almost as much as they had loved each other and the son they’d made between them. His parents had not only laid the foundation stones of Severin, but also of the territory Zared had inherited from them. The North had been the most severely ravaged region of Tencendor during the wars between Axis SunSoar and his brothers Borneheld and Gorgrael. Once it had crawled with ice, and worse – IceWorms, Skraelings, and Gryphon. Now fields ripened and cattle fattened, and any man, woman or child could travel from the Fortress Ranges to the coast of the Andeis Sea and encounter nothing more dangerous than the chill of a northern breeze.

Zared pulled his horse in slightly, waiting for his escort to catch up with him. He was a tall, spare but striking man with his father’s dark good looks and his mother’s light grey eyes. Even though he was now in early middle-age, Zared was as agile as most young men, and could still best any swordsman in the country. He had been bred in an age of war, and his father had spent many years training him in the arts of war, although for what, Zared was not sure. For forty years, since Axis had finally bested Gorgrael, Tencendor had lain peaceful and largely prosperous in the sun. Axis had ruled well and wisely – a glib enough statement, but true. And since, nine years ago, Axis had handed over control of Tencendor to his eldest son, Caelum had continued to lead Tencendor with the integrity that was the hallmark of the House of the Stars. And yet … and yet Zared would rest the easier once Caelum had proved his worth in true crisis.

His escort now directly behind him, Zared rode his horse through the gates in the town walls, returning the salutes of the guards standing to either side. For an instant the walls blocked out the noon-day sun and, as their shadow settled over Zared, so his mind turned to the one shadow in his own life – Askam.

He drove the thought from his mind almost as soon as it had surfaced, reining back his horse to a walk in the crowded streets. It was too warm a day to let thoughts of Askam cloud it over.

Zared’s path back to his palace on the hill overlooking the town was slowed, not only by the crowds, but by the individuals who called out greetings and, occasionally, stopped him for a quick word. Zared had never been a distant prince, not only holding open court in his palace every Thursday afternoon when he was in residence so that any citizen of the North had the chance to gain his ear, but making sure that he did not ride the streets of Severin so encased by retainers that all his people ever saw of him was a brief glimpse of a linen shirt or glittering sword hilt.

Now a man – a carpenter, Zared thought, by the tools at his belt – called out a cheerful greeting in unmistakable southern brogue. Zared grinned widely as he nodded back at him. That man was from Romsdale. Yet another who had chosen Zared over Askam.

It cheered Zared to think that so many skilled craftsmen and farmers chose to relocate to the North, but at the same time it concerned him. The tension between himself and Askam was a decade old, and growing stronger with each passing year. Every carpenter, every brickworker, every field-hand who moved north deepened the tension just that fraction more.

Ah! There was Askam again, intruding on his thoughts! Zared’s face lost its humour, and he pushed as quickly as was polite through the remaining streets to reach his palace. There, after a few words to the captain of the guard and a smile of thanks for his escort, Zared handed the reins of his horse over to a stableboy and hurried inside.

A bath and a meal later, Zared felt more refreshed. As his personal manservant cleared his table, Zared took a glass of wine and wandered into the reception gallery of his residence. His home was a palace in name only, a term designated by his subjects who somehow thought that as a prince he ought to live in a palace. Built initially by Rivkah and Magariz, the house was a roomy, elegant mansion that spread over the hill which rose on the northern borders of the town. When Zared was twenty-seven he had taken a wife, Isabeau, sister of Earl Herme of Avonsdale, and had added on a light and airy southern wing that together they’d planned to fill with the laughter of their children.

Zared’s steps slowed at the first portrait that lined the gallery. Isabeau. Her dark red hair cascaded about her shoulders, her mouth curled in secret laughter, her bright eyes danced with love for him. The portrait had been painted eighteen months into their marriage. Two weeks after it had been finished Isabeau was dead, crushed beneath the body of her horse which had slipped and fallen during the excitement of the hunt.

She had been five months pregnant with their first child.

Zared had never forgiven himself for her death. He should never have given her that horse – but she was so skilled a horsewoman. She should never have been riding at that stage in her pregnancy – but she was so healthy, so vibrant. He should have forbidden her to follow the hounds and hawks – but she did so love the hunt.

He’d never ridden to the hunt again. The day after her death Zared had given away his hawks, and the hunting horses in his stable. His huntmaster had drifted away, seeking employment with lords to the south.

And Zared had promised himself never to love so deeply again, and never again to expose himself to such hurt.

He took a mouthful of wine and moved along to the next portrait. His father, Magariz. And next to his portrait, that of his mother, Rivkah.

They were, Zared supposed, the reason he had succumbed to love again. Magariz and Rivkah had lived life so completely in love, and so contented in that love, that Zared just could not imagine living himself without a soulmate to share his life with. For years after Isabeau’s death he’d kept himself distant from women, keeping to his promise … and then he’d met Leagh.

Re-met her, actually, for Zared had known Leagh as a tiny girl in Belial’s arms. But once he’d assumed the Princedom of the North, his responsibilities had kept Zared away from Carlon, and he didn’t see Leagh again until she was twenty-one.

They’d met, not at Carlon, but at Sigholt. Wreathed in its magical blue mists, Sigholt was normally the province only of the enchanted SunSoar family, but the year Leagh turned twenty-one she’d travelled to Sigholt with Askam for a meeting of the Council of the Five First Families. Askam and Zared, as the heads of the two leading families, had attended, along with FreeFall SunSoar, the Icarii Talon, Sa’Domai, the Ravensbund Chief, and Prince Yllgaine of Nor. Leagh had gone, partly at Caelum’s invitation – a gift for her coming of age – and partly because she was close friends with Caelum’s youngest sister, Zenith.

Zared had found himself alone with her late one night atop the Keep of Sigholt, both there for the night air. They’d spent the night talking, laughing, and – as they both discovered to their amazement – falling deeply in love.

Loving her was the easy part, Zared reflected. Being together, spending their lives together, seemed all but impossible. He’d come home from that Council so optimistically in love that he’d ordered the private apartments of his residence to be redecorated in the blue of Leagh’s eyes.

Almost immediately he’d opened the diplomatic negotiations needed for such a high-ranking marriage, only to be confronted with a wall of distrust from Askam. Certainly the two had never liked each other, and they’d been economic rivals for years, but Zared had never thought that such matters would come between him and Leagh.

It was naive of him. Stupid of him.

Zared’s fingers tightened about his wine glass, and he moved a little further down the gallery. He didn’t want to be so close to his parents’ portraits. Now the likenesses only reminded him that his parents had spent some thirty years apart, and Zared didn’t want to think that he and Leagh might have to endure a similar separation.

Damn Askam! If he hadn’t got himself into such dire debt, if he hadn’t imposed such heavy taxes, then maybe the West would prosper as much as did Zared’s North. And maybe Askam would not feel so threatened by a marriage between his sister and Zared.

Zared was not a proud man, but neither was he foolishly modest. He knew that if he had been Prince of the West, he would not have made such risky investments as had Askam, nor would he have made his subjects pay for his mistakes. If he was Prince of the West as well as of North, then virtually the entire human population of Tencendor would live lives of heady prosperity. If. If. Damned ifs!

Now Zared stood in front of portraits of Rivkah’s brother, Priam, and her father, Karel. They had once ruled as kings of Achar, a vast realm that had stretched between the Andeis and Widowmaker seas and from the Icescarp Alps to the Sea of Tyrre.

But as Achar was no more, so too had the monarchy died. Acharite lands had been split up between Avar, Icarii and human, its territory incorporated into the larger Tencendor, its peoples divested of their king.

As he stared at the portraits of his uncle and grandfather, Zared remembered how well both had reigned. True, they had supported the Brotherhood of the Seneschal, an organisation that had brought only evil to all those who lived in the land, but in their own way Priam and Karel had ruled well and wisely. The monarchy had been brought into disrepute only when Zared’s older half-brother, Borneheld, had murdered Priam and taken the throne.

There was no portrait of Borneheld. Zared’s mouth quirked. Borneheld was a son and brother best forgotten.

He swallowed the last of his wine, still staring at the likenesses of Priam and Karel. What would it be like to govern (Zared’s mind shied away from the word “reign”) over such a large territory? What would he do with it? How would he improve it? How might he best help the West recover from the debts Askam had saddled it with?

Ah! These thoughts were treason!

Zared blinked, and started to turn away, but as he did so his eyes were caught by the golden circlet on Priam’s brow, and he stopped, his thoughtful gaze lingering on the gleam of gold as the shadows of dusk gathered about him.

2 Master Goldman’s Soiree

“Curse the Corolean Emperor to all the fire pits of the AfterLife,” Askam seethed, and tore the parchment he held into tiny pieces. “Why does he hound my life so?”

Askam’s four advisers, two minor noblemen, the Master of the Guilds of Carlon and the Chamberlain of Askam’s household, stood diplomatically silent. One million, three hundred and eighty-five thousand gold pieces was the reason the Corolean Emperor so hounded Askam. To be precise, one million, three hundred and eighty-five gold pieces that Askam owed the Emperor.

Jannymire Goldman, the Master of the Guilds, dropped his gaze to his thick-fingered hands folded politely before him. He’d advised Askam not to take out such a massive loan with the Emperor, but Askam had needed the money badly, and the Emperor had been willing to lend.

Now he wanted it back.

And what if Askam could not pay (and Goldman knew Askam could not pay)? What then? What might the Emperor demand as recompense? Goldman shuddered to think. The Coroleans would not invade, never that, but they certainly might lay claim to some lands or, gods forbid, to Carlon itself.

Would that make StarSon Caelum finally take a more personal hand in the West’s affairs? Caelum, although concerned about Askam’s increasing debt, had thus far preferred to see if Askam could not solve his problems himself, but Goldman knew that Caelum would never stand by and allow the Coroleans to assume control of even the most barren of fields in Tencendor.

“Well, there’s nothing for it,” Askam said in a milder tone of voice, “but to pay the damned man.”

Goldman raised his eyes in surprise, as did the other three advisers. Pay? How?

Askam took a very deep breath and sat back in his chair, staring at the four men ranged before his desk. All the gods in the universe knew he hated to do this but … not only would it solve most of his financial problems, it would also stop the flow of his people north.

And, perhaps, wipe the smirk off Zared’s face.

“Gentlemen,” Askam said softly, “I have no option. From fifth-day next week the taxes on goods moving up and down the Nordra, as goods moving along all inland roads in the West, will be raised to a third of the total value of the goods so moved.”

Goldman could not believe he’d heard right. A third? A third tax on all goods moved would cripple most merchants and traders, but it would destroy any peasant bringing a meagre bag of grain to the market. And what of the man who thought to take a basket of eggs to his widowed mother in the next village? Would that also be taxed a third?

He opened his mouth to object, but Askam forestalled him.

“Gentlemen, I know this is an onerous burden for all western Tencendorians to bear, but it should last only a year, perhaps two.”

A year or two would be enough to drive most to starvation, Goldman thought, on top of the taxes they already had to pay.

“And,” Askam continued, “think of the rewards we will reap from those …” he hesitated slightly, “… others who move their goods through our territory. For years they have taken advantage of our roads and riverboats to move their goods to market, whether here in Carlon or further south to Coroleas. It is high time they paid for the maintenance of the roads and boats they use.”

And by “others” Goldman and his three companions knew precisely whom Askam meant. Zared. Zared, who moved the wealth of his grain and gems and furs along the Nordra down to the markets that made him – and his people – prosperous.

“Sir Prince,” Goldman said, “this is indeed a weighty tax. If I might advise against it, I –”

“I have made up my mind, Goldman,” Askam said. “I called you here, as the Chamberlain Roscic and Barons Jessup and Berin, not to ask you for advice, but to inform you of the measures that must be taken.”

Roscic exchanged a glance with Goldman, then spoke very carefully. “Sir Prince, perhaps it might be best if you talked this over with StarSon Cae –”

“I will inform Caelum of my decision, Roscic!”

The Chamberlain subsided. He had already said too much, considering that his very position relied on Askam’s goodwill. Goldman, however, had no such qualms.

“These taxes are so grievous, Sir Prince, that perhaps they should be discussed with –”

“StarMan Axis SunSoar himself gave my father the right to tax the West as he willed, Master Goldman! I will inform StarSon Caelum, but I have every right to impose these taxes without his assent. Is that understood?”

The four bowed their heads.

Askam looked at them a moment, then resumed. “There is one other thing. Over the past eighteen months, if not more, over two thousand men have moved their families north of the Azle.”

Askam shrugged a little. “If they want to subject their families to the northern winters, then so be it, but the fact remains that most of those two thousand have been men skilled in their crafts, professional businessmen, or successful farmers. They have left a considerable gap in the West’s resources – no wonder I have so much trouble trying to meet debt repayments.”

No, no, Goldman pleaded silently, don’t do it! Don’t –”

In order to stem the tide I have instructed the border guards at the Azle and Jervois Landing to exact the equivalent of ten thousand gold pieces from each family that intends to leave for the North.”

But that is ten times my annual income, Goldman thought. How will an ordinary craftsman pay it?

“That should go some way towards balancing the loss of their skills,” Askam said. “That is all, gentlemen, you have my permission to leave.”

That evening Goldman called more than a score of men to his townhouse in upper Carlon, all of them leading citizens and tradesmen, and there he spoke volubly about the new taxes and their implications.

“I will be ruined!” cried Netherem Pumster, Master Bell-Maker. “How else can I transport my bells if not by riverboat?”

“And I!” said Karl Hurst, one of the leading wool traders in Tencendor. “As will most of the peasants in the West! All rely on transporting their wool bales across the roadways of the West to the Icarii markets in the Minaret Peaks!”

His voice was joined by a dozen others, all increasingly angry and indignant as the implications of the tax sank in.

“As will everyone eventually be ruined,” Goldman said quietly into the hubbub. He held up his hands. “Gentlemen, please …”

Men slowly subsided into their seats, worry replacing anger.

“I should have moved north last year, when my brother went,” Hurst said as he sat down. “The North may be further from the markets that I’d like, but at least Zared wouldn’t try to take my soul to put meat on his table.”

“More like,” put in a stout silversmith, “he’d give his soul if he thought it might put meat on your table.”

Goldman nodded to himself, pleased with the direction the conversation had taken, content now to sit back and let the treason take its course.

Treason? he asked himself. Nay, natural justice, more like.

“Things have never been the same since Priam died,” said a fine-metal worker.

“Not the same since Axis SunSoar proclaimed Tencendor on the shores of our lake,” said another.

“Now, now,” Goldman demurred. “The SunSoars have done us proud. Have you ever known life to be better? More peaceful? Who dislikes trading with the beauty-loving and generous-spirited Icarii? Or even the Avar?”

There was a small silence, then Hurst spoke up again. “Our quarrel is not with Tencendor as such, nor with the Icarii or the Avar. I, for one, admire the SunSoars greatly for what they have done for our land.”