Part 16 (1/2)

Akros rubbed at his face. 'I'm a little shaky on this, so I might leave some things out. This was before the founding of the Church knights, so this Archprelate forced the Kings of Eosia to provide him with armies, and they marched through Zemoch. That was before Otha was born, so Zemoch wasn't much of a barrier. The Archprelate was interested in religious unity, but the n.o.blemen in his army were more interested in conquest. They ravaged the kingdom of Astel until Ayachin came.'

Talen leaned forward, his eyes bright. It was the boy's one weakness. A good story could paralyze him.

Akros took another drink. 'There are all sorts of conflicting stories about who Ayachin really was,' he continued. 'Some say he was a prince, some that he was a baron, and there are even those who say he was only a serf. Anyway, whoever he was, he was a fervent patriot. He roused such n.o.blemen as hadn't yet gone over to the invaders, and then he did something no one had ever dared do before. He armed the serfs. The campaign against the invaders lasted for years, and after a fairly large battle that he seemed to lose, Ayachin fled southward, luring the Eosian armies into the Astel marshes in the south of the kingdom. He'd made secret alliances with patriots in Edam, and there was a huge army lining the southern fringe of the marshes. Serfs who lived in the region guided Ayachin's armies through the bogs and quicksand, but the Eosians tried to just bull their way through, and most of them drowned, pulled under by all that muck. The few who reached the far side were slaughtered by the combined forces of Ayachin and his Edomish allies. He was a great national hero for a time, of course, till the n.o.bles who had been outraged because he'd armed the serfs conspired against him, and he was eventually murdered.'

'Why do these stories always have to end that way?' Talen complained.

'Our young friend here is a literary critic,' Stragen said. 'He wants his stories to all have happy endings.'

'The ancient history is all well and good,' Djukta growled, 'but the point of all this is that Ayachin's returned-or so the serfs say.'

'It's a part of the folk-lore of Astel,' Akros said. 'Serfs used to tell each other that someday a great crisis would arise, and that Ayachin would rise from the grave to lead them again.'

Stragen sighed. 'Can't anyone come up with a new story?'

'What's that?' Djukta asked him.

'Nothing, really. There's a similar story making the rounds in Eosia. Why would this concern us if we decided to go into business around here?'

'Part of that folk-lore Akros was telling you about is something that makes everybody's blood run cold. The serfs believe that when Ayachin returns, he's going to emanc.i.p.ate them. Now there's a hot-head out there stirring them up. We don't know his real name, but the serfs call him ”Sabre”. He's going around telling them that he's actually seen Ayachin. The serfs are secretly gathering weapons-or making them. They sneak out into the forests at night to listen to this ”Sabre” make speeches. You should probably know that they're out there, since it might be dangerous if you happened upon them unexpectedly.'

Djukta scratched at his s.h.a.ggy beard. 'I don't normally feel this way, but I wish the government would catch this Sabre fellow and hang him or something. He's got the serfs all worked up about throwing off the oppressors, and he's not too specific about which oppressors he means. He could be talking about the Tamuls, but many of his followers think he's talking about the upper cla.s.ses. Restless serfs are dangerous serfs. n.o.body knows how many of them there really are, and if they begin to get wild ideas about equality and justice, G.o.d only knows where it might end.'

Chapter 10.

'We'd go a long way toward understanding the situation if we could pinpoint just exactly what he is after, Emban added.

'Opportunity,' Ulath suggested. 'If everything's all settled and the wealth and power have all been distrib- uted, there's nothing left for the people coming up the ladder. The only way they can get their share is to turn everything upside down and shake it a few times.'

'That is a brutal political theory, Sir Ulath,' Oscagne said disapprovingly.

'It's a brutal world, your Excellency,' Ulath shrugged.

'I'd have to disagree,' Bevier stubbornly a.s.serted.

'Go right ahead, my young friend,' Ulath smiled. 'I don't mind all that much when people disagree with me.'

'There is such a thing as genuine political progress. The people's lot is much better now than it was five hundred years ago.'

'Granted, but what's it going to be like next year?' Ulath leaned back in his saddle, his blue eyes speculative. 'Ambitious people need followers, and the best way to get people to follow you is to promise them that you're going to correct everything that's wrong with the world. The promises are all very stirring, but only babies expect leaders to actually keep them.'

'You're a cynic, Ulath.'

'I think that's the word people use, yes.'

The weather grew increasingly threatening as the morning progressed. A thick bank of purplish cloud marched steadily in from the west, and there were flickers of lightning along the horizon.

'It's going to rain, isn't it?' Tynian asked Khalad.

Khalad looked pointedly toward the cloud-bank. 'That's a fairly safe bet, Sir Knight,' the young man replied.

'How long until we start to get wet?'

'An hour or so-unless the wind picks up.'

'What do you think, Sparhawk?' Tynian asked. 'Should we look for some kind of shelter?' There was a far-off rumble of thunder from the west.

'I think that answers that question,' Sparhawk decided. 'Men dressed in steel don't have any business being out in a thunderstorm.'

'Good point,' Tynian agreed. He looked around. 'The next question is where? I don't see any woods around.'

'We might have to set up the tents.'

'That's awfully tedious, Sparhawk.'

'So's being fried in your armour if you get struck by lightning.'

Kring came riding back toward the main column with a small, two-wheeled carriage following him. The man in the cariage was blond, plump and soft-looking. He wore clothing cut in a style which had gone out of fas.h.i.+on in the west forty years ago.

'This is the landowner Kotyk,' the Domi said to Sparhawk. 'He calls himself a baron. He wanted to meet you.'

'I am overwhelmed to meet the stalwarts of the church, Sir Knights,' the plump man gushed.

'We are honoured, Baron Kotyk,' Sparhawk replied, inclining his head politely.

'My manor house is nearby,' Kotyk rushed on, 'and I do foresee unpleasant weather on the horizon. Might I offer my poor hospitality?'

'As I've told you so many times in the past, Sparhawk,' Bevier said mildly, 'you have but to put your trust in G.o.d. He will provide.'

Kotyk looked puzzled. 'A somewhat feeble attempt at humour, my Lord,' Sparhawk explained. 'My companions and I were just discussing our need for shelter. Your most generous offer solves a rather vexing problem for us.' Sparhawk was not familiar with local customs, but the Baron's ornate speech hinted at a somewhat stiff formality.

'I note that you have ladies in your company,' Kotyk observed, looking toward the carriage in which Ehlana rode. 'Their comfort must be our first concern. We can become better acquainted once we are safely under my roof.'

'We shall be guided by you, my Lord,' Sparhawk agreed. 'I pray you, lead us whither you will, and I shall inform the ladies of this fortuitous encounter.' If Kotyk wanted formal, Sparhawk would give him formal. He wheeled Faran and rode back along the column.

'Who's the fat fellow in the carriage, Sparhawk?' Ehlana asked.

'Speak not disparagingly of our host, light of my life.'

'Aren't you feeling well?'

'The fat fellow has just offered us shelter from that thunderstorm snapping at our heels. Treat him with grat.i.tude if not respect.'

'What a nice man.'

'It might not be a bad idea for us to sort of keep your ident.i.ty to ourselves. We don't know exactly what we're walking into. Why don't I just introduce you as an aristocrat of some kind, and-'