A Noble Estate (8 page)

“We can do that,” Baethsten replied, grinning. “But first, we must celebrate your arrival and give thanks to Si’Yeni for freeing our people from the prison of the city!”

Tεtrεra Atεlio, Aoranz Fεngari

4th day, 2nd week, Auranz’s moon

Musday, the 15th of Auranmon

After several days of travel, they were almost there. Desiring a chance to freshen up before facing the people he’d soon rule over, Jisten asked Scorth to find him a good place to stop. Scorth directed them to a small pond created by a beaver’s dam across a small stream feeding into the Dacti.

Everyone had been grateful for a chance to clean up, and once he was dry, Jisten carefully dressed in the finery suitable for a nobleman. At his request, Rak donned full, formal temple robes, sans torque, and Dolron retrieved the Thezi banner from the cart. Largo likewise retrieved a banner, which Jisten assumed to be the device of the crown prince. Both banners remained in their leather casing for now.

Jethain had also availed himself of the opportunity to bathe and was now dressed as regally as if he’d just stepped out of the throne room after audiences. He grinned at Jisten. “Ready for this?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Ready for what?” Rak asked.

“Jisten has to present his grants from the king to the steward to make it official. It’s considered a special moment, for after this, he will be a landed noble, not just some hedge knight.”

Jisten smiled sheepishly. “That’s why I wanted to stop and change.”

“I just thought you wanted to smell more like river weed and less like avtappi,” Rak teased gently.

“There is that,” Jethain agreed. “River weed is a subtle perfume, though, and might not outcompete that soap of yours.”

“We Okyrans always put the orange citrus fruit into our soap,” Dolron said peaceably. “Smells good and gets things clean. Works really well on grease, too.”

“I wasn’t complaining,” Jethain said. He glanced at the sky. “Are we ready?”

“Yes, my prince,” said Jisten, swinging into Zala’s saddle.

Rak mounted Vyld a moment later, and everyone else was mounted shortly after that. Dolron and Largo took point, their cased banners looking like a pair of odd lances. Jisten, Rak and Jethain rode three abreast with Jisten in the middle, followed by Sedrael and Pikara. Liast and Tebber came next. Fentri, Tegaelin, Orste and Kal brought up the rear, alternating who rode before or behind the wagon.

Scorth had chosen their stopping point well, Jisten discovered, for less than an hour passed before they could see the road posts marking the formal boundary of Relyt Manor. Dolron and Largo removed the leather casings from their banners and shook them out.

Jisten had seen the Thezi banner before, but he still took a moment to admire it before glancing at the other one. Jisten blinked in surprise, for it wasn’t Jethain’s sigil embroidered on the fabric but his own.

“Do you like it?” Jethain asked. “I had it made when you selected your device. Been looking forward to seeing you use it.”

“Thank you,” Jisten said quietly. “I like it a lot.”

Now looking much more official, the party crossed between the posts and the packed clay road abruptly turned into paved stone. By the time they reached the manor house, a three-story edifice that spread out before them in an almost ostentatious display, several men stood waiting on the receiving porch. Dolron and Largo parted, turning their avtappi to either side, and Jisten led Jethain and Rak between them and right up to the porch. The standard-bearers resumed position behind them, and the entire party came to a halt.

A tall man, with greying brown hair and sagging, tired-looking features, stepped forward. “I am Steward Cisteon, the manager of these lands. Who might I have the honor of addressing?”

“I am Captain Jisten Kydem and Baron of Relyt.” He offered the leather folder holding the grants.

Cisteon took the folder, opened it and carefully read the grants inside. “I see, sir. May I say it’s a pleasure to have you? It’s been a long time since Relyt had a real hand at the helm, although I’ve done my best, of course.”

Jisten smiled tightly and resisted the urge to intone “you may,” as gravely as possible, just to see how the steward would react. Instead, he said, “Accompanying me are Crown Prince Jethain and High Priest S’Rak. Please make them feel as welcome as possible.”

The steward bowed to them all. “Of course, my lord. Please, you must all be tired from the road. Come inside and I will have refreshments brought at once.”

“Not quite yet,” Jisten said. “First, I want to meet my people. All of them.”

It took some time and some firmness on Jisten’s part, but eventually, Cisteon had all the people brought out. In addition to himself, Jisten was made known to Dius, Hoxel and Chegalen. They were the house overseer, the grounds overseer and the forester, respectively. There were six indoor slaves, all female, and twelve outdoor slaves, all male.

Once everyone was lined up for his inspection, Jisten positioned Zala to face them. Rak and Jethain remained beside him, and the two standard-bearers were to their outside. The others had taken the wagon and avtappi to the stable in the back.

In a parade-ground voice, Jisten announced, “As you know, I am the new Baron of Relyt. I am also a Valer, the Captain of the Palace Guard and the Crown Prince’s Champion. Rumor has no need of wings to fly, but truth is often hobbled. This is High Priest S’Rak of the Thezi sect of the Lord of Night.”

“We’re all gonna die!” wailed one of the worker slaves.

Hoxel scowled and took a step toward the man, his belt whip in hand.

Rak raised his hands and said, “Free will being sacred, no man nor woman nor intelligent beast shall be bound unwilling.” Green electricity crackled threateningly about the overseer, who gasped and dropped his whip.

“No more whips,” Jisten announced. “No more collars. You are all free.”

“Lord Zotien,” Rak prayed in Koilathan, “we beseech You to free these people, enslaved in defiance of Your divine law.” Black fire descended, laced with green, red, blue and violet and every single collar cracked asunder and fell to the ground in pieces. Then the flames danced, healing every bruise, scrape and welt.

Jisten laughed in delight. He hadn’t discussed his plans in any detail, but his mate certainly knew what he’d wanted.

Some of the ex-slaves felt their necks, some grabbed the collars from the ground, others hugged each other.

Jisten turned his gaze on the two overseers. “Do you stay and accept that the people you oversee are free, or do you wish to depart—immediately?”

“I’ll stay,” said Dius, shrugging. He nudged Hoxel.

“I’ll…stay.” Hoxel didn’t look too pleased, and Jisten was frankly surprised that he’d opted to remain.

He turned next to the ex-slaves. “You also have a choice. Stay and be paid fair wages for your work or depart my lands. Whether you chose to remain or depart, I shall gift each of you gold enough to reach Okyro, where slavery is anathema, in addition to your manumissions.”

Tebber and Pikara came out of the manor carrying a table, which they set down under the shade of the overhanging porch. Sed, Kal and Orste brought out three chairs, which they set along one side of the table. Tebber set a stack of papers down along with a bottle of ink and a pen.

Jisten was pleased by how quickly his instructions had been carried out. He sat down and rifled through the papers.

The papers were manumission forms that Jisten had brought from Karpos, and he had already filled out most of the information. All that he’d have to do was write in each slave’s name and number. He looked at Cisteon. “I’ll need the slave register.”

“At once, my lord.” The steward vanished through the doors so swiftly that Jisten wondered if he’d ever see the man again.

Jethain was watching at the milling ex-slaves as he sat down. “Araken, how frisky are you feeling? Did you arrange for a portal to Okyro?”

“That really depends on how frisky S’Avetina is feeling,” said Dolron, deadpan.

“Of course I did,” said Rak, sitting on Jisten’s other side. “But we do hope that enough people remain to keep this place running.”

“As for that,” Jisten said, “I sent out a call amongst the Valers for assistance in the form of employment. The café and cacao trees here were spared the blight in the Vales.”

“Still, this is the land these people have worked, the land they know better than any other. They should have first option,” Rak replied.

Jisten nodded. “I agree. Thank you for your help. I didn’t think anything short of a display of power would convince them. Now, they can stay and not fear re-enslavement.”

Rak turned to the milling crowd, “Those that remain will be paid fair wages, in addition to room and board, and also, should you desire, priests will come here and teach you how to read, write and figure. For those who fear retaliation…” He gestured skyward, and on queue, Scorth flew overhead, low enough that Jisten thought they could reach up and touch his belly scales. “This barony is protected by a dragon. He will not eat you, nor kill your beasts without permission, and he will defend you and these lands.”

Jethain carefully wrote in each slave’s name on the manumissions and separated the copies in a fussy manner to reassure the people. As each told Jethain his or her name, they also said whether they would stay or go. Not surprisingly, not one of them chose to brave the unknown. This pleased Jisten—it meant that the overseers hadn’t been abusive enough that the ex-slaves were desperate to get away.

Jisten brushed Rak’s hand. “Have you ever tasted café that was brewed within hours of being harvested?”

“Do not the beans require roasting?” asked Rak dubiously.

Jisten rolled his grey gaze skyward. “Yes, yes, o exact one.”

I will roast your beans
, volunteered Scorth.

“Dragon roasted!” Jisten laughed.

“A new sales pitch,” said Rak with a huge grin.

Scorth came in for a landing with an ox clutched in his talons.

“Will the new cooking staff please prepare the ox?” Jisten called out. “The dragon only eats animals, for he claims that humans taste terrible!”

“Ach! I prepare ox!” Despina marched out of the manor grinning ear to ear with Cisteon at her elbow, also smiling.

Jisten stood abruptly and hugged Despina. “Mother! How?”

“We leave Karpos. All of us. I come here, bring much help, tell them you come and free everyone. Mai’eras go to Kydem clan, tell chief of your lands, your needs.” Despina was beaming at him.

Cisteon handed the slave register over. “And please burn this once you’re done with it,” he said fervently.

Jisten opened the register and filled in each slave’s registration number on the manumission forms Jethain had already filled out with the slave’s name. He crossed each out of the register as he finished with it. Then, he tossed the register toward Scorth, who spat just enough flame to incinerate it before it hit the ground.

The newly freed workers cheered and many hands leapt to help Despina with the ox.

* * * *

Sino, the capitol of Lini, was called the City of Gardens. Greenery was everywhere. Every house had a garden. Larger buildings had more than one garden. There were hanging gardens, rooftop gardens, hedge mazes, mathematically precise flower gardens, water gardens, stone and sand gardens, air gardens, even fire gardens. It was beautiful. And it was burning.

The Lythadi conquerors had no respect for the work that had gone into making the city, no eye for the beauty of its gardens, no concern for anything but their brutal business of raping, pillaging and burning. Men they killed or enslaved, women they used and enslaved, but young boys not yet old enough to fight they captured and turned into more of themselves.

The gardens of Sino burned and the buildings were toppled until no two stones remained one atop another. The dead were left to rot where they fell, no more than food for scavengers. Yagebor looked upon his work and was pleased. Tokgud, his shaman and right-hand man, was chanting, dedicating the battlefield to the spirit of the great squirrel.

Soon, all of Lini would bow to him. There were reports of Linish nobles and forces gathering in the east. He looked forward to a real battle. Thus far, all he’d seen were yellow-bellied cowards who were quick to bend the knee and place their necks beneath his heels. The Lythadi already had several hundred of such not-men collared in long coffles. Soon, they would have to travel to Chloi to sell the slaves off, for there were too many to manage easily.

“Once Lini is ours,” he told Tokgud, “We ride for Chloi.”

Rak prowled the main floor of the manor, looking at every room, no matter how small or out of the way. Meno and Ytaes accompanied him. He’d been pleased to find them here and even more pleased to learn they were migrating the Valer Chapel. There would no longer be any Valers in Karpos, not if Rak had his way.

Finally, when the inspection tour ended, Rak turned back down the main, central corridor that ran the length of the building. “I think that odd room, the one beside the ballroom, would be best for the chapel.”

The three men returned to the room in question, opened the double doors and stepped into the large, open space. The room was clearly not used for anything but storage. A pile of crates stood along one wall, and all the furniture was covered by sheets. There wasn’t much dust, so the staff kept it relatively clean.

“I wonder what this room was used for?” mused Meno.

“The last baron used it as a games room. Cards, tabliv and billiards,” said Dius, entering behind them. He inclined his head when Rak turned to him.

“So there is nothing here that cannot be moved?”

“Correct. You want the room emptied out, High Priest?”

“I do. We must raise a chapel, and this seems the best room for that.”

“Very well, I’ll get right on it.” Dius strode out. Two hours later, the room was empty. Dius had enlisted the help of the dozen field hands. He didn’t even need to tap on the palace guards to get it done. Rak was impressed. The overseer hadn’t so much as raised his voice.