The Book of Deacon: Book 02 - The Great Convergence (10 page)

Grossmer's chair was maneuvered into place
and groaned under his weight as he sat. Hatchett hurriedly did
Myranda the same courtesy. She sat in a carefully measured way, so
as to make it clear to those around her that she was trying to
place as little of her body in contact with the chair as possible,
and was quite displeased at the prospect of touching it at all.
Pages were laid out carefully on the table before Myranda, small
bits of iron ore skillfully pinning them down against the constant
mountain wind.

"Now, in the past few years we've seen a
fairly stable profit of . . . " Grossmer began in a practiced
way.

"Fifty thousand," Myranda stated.

"I'm sorry?" Grossmer said, searching the
pages in front of her for some hint of the figure.

"Fifty thousand is the price," she
elaborated.

"With all due respect, Mistress, Fifty
thousand silver is only slightly more than we make in a single
year. I could not dream of letting the place go for . . . "
Grossmer objected.

"My good sir, the Tesselors do not deal in
silver
," Myranda scoffed, doing her best to make it seem as
though the mere sound of the word put a terrible taste in her
mouth.

"Fifty thousand . . . gold?" Grossmer said,
the word gleaming in his eye.

"Of course," Myranda said dismissively.

"That . . . that is a fair offer. But . . . "
the proprietor struggled to say.

"You, the strong one, fetch a chest from the
back of my carriage. Any one of them will do," Myranda ordered.

The worker glanced at Hatchett, who in turn
glanced at Grossmer. A chain of nods sent him on his way. He
trudged to the carriage, opened the storage area, and lifted one of
the larger chests. His muscles bulged, giving him the look of a
thing composed of little more than sinew and bone. His face
remained stoic as ever.

"But you see, the Grossmers have been the
owners of this mountainside since the first mine was dug. My blood
runs through these veins," he said, chuckling nervously. "A little
joke, you see."

"Very little. On the table please," Myranda
instructed.

"Miss?" the worker said doubtfully, the words
hissing from over worked lungs.

"On. The. Table," Myranda repeated standing
and stepping aside.

The worker carefully placed the chest on the
table as lightly as he could manage. The legs of the table creaked,
then swiftly gave way, dumping the chest and its contents, a number
of gold bars, across the gravel. The papers that were not buried
beneath the gold fluttered into the air, but no one save Myranda
noticed. All eyes were on the gold.

" . . . A very generous offer, yes," Grossmer
said, his voice lagging a few syllables behind his mouth. "But . .
. I ah . . . my sons. The . . . the legacy,"

Myranda sighed with irritation. "Fine. Sixty
thousand. I trust with ten thousand gold pieces even the
set-in-their-ways Grossmers can find a new legacy for
themselves."

"Sold," Grossmer said automatically. "I
presume that this represents the first payment."

"It does. The carriage contains the rest,"
Myranda said with a yawn. "Pack your things. I want you off of my
property today."

"You brought all of . . . today?!" Grossmer
sputtered, his mind at a loss for what to object to first. "I have
generations of heirlooms, I have . . . "

"You have a day to remove them. However, I am
a reasonable woman. Whatever you cannot take with you, I shall
purchase. Another ten thousand should do, I would say. That makes
seventy thousand for your land, your workers, your estate. The
servants you may take with you or release. Some of my own will be
by shortly. Oh, and send someone to tell the workers that they may
have the rest of the day off," Myranda said, grinning as she
finally reached the full price.

Grossmer objected no longer. He dismissed the
worker and vanished inside. By sunset, everything he was
particularly attached to was inside a caravan of carriages normally
used for transporting ore. A hasty description of the day to day
workings of the mine was delivered, and he was on his way. For the
sake of ease, the surplus gold was removed from the chariot Myranda
had arrived in and, after Desmeres had surreptitiously moved
himself and his cargo into the mansion, it was taken by the Luther
Grossmer and his equally corpulent wife. Myranda watched through
the window of the still remarkably furnished estate as the last of
the caravan disappeared from view. When they were gone, she heaved
a heavy sigh and collapsed into a stuffed chair.

"Not the best price we've gotten, but overall
a remarkable first performance," Desmeres said, startling Myranda
with his sudden appearance.

"I sold it for the price you told me to.
Besides, there is still twenty thousand gold pieces worth of ingots
and such in chests in the bedroom. That should be enough for
whatever you've got in mind," Myranda sneered.

"Easy now. I'd hate for all of this role
playing to spoil your normally pleasant attitude," Desmeres said,
his voice not betraying a hint of sarcasm. "The kitchen is rather
well stocked. Would you care for anything?"

"I'll get it myself . . . later," Myranda
said, exhausted.

"See that you do. Big day tomorrow," Desmeres
said before disappearing.

Myranda sat for a time in the emptiness of
the mansion. She was surrounded by room after room of overly
ornamental furnishings. If she had been in higher spirits she might
have realized she was, despite the situation, realizing a dream
she'd had as a child. And yet, as she sat in a massive estate,
dressed in clothes that no doubt cost a fortune, all she could
think of was how empty it felt. As she ate food she could scarcely
have imagined as a girl, her mind turned first to Myn, then to
Deacon. Her thoughts lingered on him as she drifted off to sleep.
When the morning came, Desmeres awakened her.

"Enjoying the good life?" he asked.

Myranda sighed.

"What next? I'd like to get this whole
unpleasantness behind me," she groaned.

"Well, you will be pleased to know that I
will be playing the role of lackey today, at least until we can
find one of the slaves that we can trust," Desmeres said.

"Slaves?" Myranda asked. "No. They are
workers. They are paid a wage."

"Mm. Yes. In case you hadn't noticed, we are
on a mountain and the only horses belong to the owner of the mines.
Any money that they make is paid back in exchange for . . . well,
room and board. Rather a clever system," Desmeres explained.

"How can you say that?" Myranda hissed.

"I said clever, not ethical or moral,"
Desmeres shrugged.

Myranda shuddered before asking. "Why can you
show your face now?"

"Because the slaves are the only ones left. I
assure you, no royal proclamations mandating my death will have
reached them," Desmeres explained.

The pair bundled up and made their way to the
workers' quarters. It was a small city of identical huts. Desmeres
recruited a pair of the first workers he encountered to man a cart
that handed out the rations for the day, and they set about handing
them out.

"What precisely is the purpose of all of
this?" Myranda whispered.

"We need to find someone to deliver 'the
offer,'" Desmeres replied. "The whole reason for this purchase. We
offer their freedom in exchange for a favor."

"… Truly? You are telling me that we cannot
simply offer it ourselves?" Myranda asked.

"We can certainly try it," Desmeres said. "In
fact, come with me."

The door to one of the huts was opened. The
inside was little more than a room with a simple bed against one
wall. The man and woman inside jumped to their feet when the well
dressed strangers entered. The two workers gave a sullen nod of
acknowledgment as Desmeres ladled a share of stew into the pot over
the meager fire and placed a coarse loaf of bread beside it. A
single copper coin was handed over in exchange.

"Attention, slaves. If you desire your
freedom it will be provided in exchange for a favor and a single
drop of blood," Desmeres announced.

Confusion came to the faces of the
slaves.

"That . . . that won't be necessary. The
ration is plenty. Paying us for these two days without work is
generosity enough," said the man.

"He . . . he's offered you your freedom,"
Myranda said, momentarily breaking out of character.

"Yes, and a kind offer it is. But the ration
is more than enough," the woman replied nervously.

"And if I force you do accept your freedom?"
Myranda asked.

"No, please! You are the new owner, are you
not? Miss, er, Mistress Tesselor, yes? Please, we will work. We
will work gladly. We do not even require the ration for the day!"
the woman blurted.

"Yes," agreed the man. "Yes, we did not work
for it, we do not deserve it."

Myranda tried twice more to coax them into
taking their freedom, but all she succeeded in doing was prompting
more vigorous assertions of loyalty. The next three huts resulted
in much the same reaction, to varying degrees.

"I . . . I don't understand. They live in
squalor. They have no freedom. They barely have enough to survive.
Why wouldn't they leap at the chance for freedom, at any price?"
Myranda asked quietly.

"Because of where the freedom is coming from.
The owners, old or new, would never offer it. To the slaves this is
a test. You are baiting them, trying to goad them into saying
something that will let you make an example of them. They wouldn't
have trusted their former master. They certainly won't trust a
strange new one," Desmeres explained.

"Then how will we find one that will help
us?" Myranda asked.

"We don't. We find one who doesn't care. We
will know him when we find him," Desmeres replied.

Hut after hut of downtrodden workers
attempted to quickly and enthusiastically assure their new master
of their happiness and dedication. Finally they came to a door that
did not open immediately. Desmeres raised an eyebrow. This, it
appeared, was a good sign.

"Open your door at once!" he barked.

There was a tap of footsteps, and finally the
door opened. There was the flash of recognition in the stooping
figure's eyes.

"Oh. It is you," he muttered, trudging back
to his bed.

"You are the one who carried the chest of
gold for me," Myranda recalled.

"And you are the one who made me smash a
table with it. Come to dock my wages? Help yourself. Fat lot of
difference it makes," the bitter man quipped.

Desmeres smiled. When the food and bread were
ladled out, Desmeres had the other workers leave the hut, closing
the door behind them.

"And what is
this
about? Punishment?
If you are looking for someone to whip me, Hallern, the fellow two
doors down, will be darn willing to lend a hand. Certainly hope you
don't intend to use this fop. Let him do the whipping and I'm
liable to forget he's even doing it," the man grumbled.

"What is your name, slave?" Desmeres
asked.

"Slave, is it? Are we using the proper term
now? I suppose you'll be wanting the coppers back then," he
replied.

"Name!" he ordered.

"Udo," he said.

"Udo, are you happy here?" Desmeres
asked.

"Happy as I
can
be," he remarked in a
tone that made it abundantly clear how he truly felt.

"Would you like to get out?" Desmeres
asked.

"Why? You offering?" he asked, assuming a
mock enthusiasm. "Golly, yes, master. I truly would love to escape.
Thank you so much for asking."

"Right. Have a look around, Udo. How many
guards to do you see? How many other owners? How many folks besides
slaves like yourself?" Desmeres asked.

"None," Udo said.

"And what does that mean to you?" Desmeres
prodded.

"It means either you are stupid or you are
poor," Udo said.

"If you know there are no guards to stop you,
why don't you just run away?"

"Getting hunted down by whatever bloodthirsty
bounty hunters you're bound to hire for running out on that little
pit of debt the fellow before you put us in doesn't strike me as an
improvement."

"My employer here owns the debts now."

"Well she'd be the one doing the hiring then.
Look, as much as I enjoy the conversation, I assume you'll be
wanting me to work tomorrow, and if it is the same to you, I'd like
some rest."

"Right, then. He's the one. Udo is it?"
Desmeres decided.

Carefully leafing through a stack of pages
he'd been carrying in a bag, he selected one.

"Udo, can you read?" he asked.

"Not as such," he said.

"Can you recognize your name?" Desmeres
continued.

"Yeah," he replied.

"There, on that page, is your name. It says
you owe seven silver coins," Desmeres explained.

"Lovely. I'll have it for you in a few years,
assuming I don't need to eat or sleep till then," he sneered.

Desmeres tore the page up.

"What . . . what's that about?" Udo
asked.

"You no longer have a debt. You have nothing
to tie you here," he said.

"There's . . . there's other papers like
that, yeah? This is a trick, yeah?" Udo said, emotion showing for
the first time in is voice.

"Not that you'd believe me, but no, that is
the only record of your debt," Desmeres explained. "Listen, my
employer here is, well, not the generous sort, but the sort who has
more unique tastes in labor. A lifetime of servitude is all well
and good, but a single, legitimate favor at just the right time,
that's something else. Never far from a friend, understand?"

"Oh, I understand, she's off her head," Udo
said, glancing at her. "No offense. A nice sort of off her
head."

"As though I honestly cared what you think,"
Myranda quipped quickly, not certain that she was supposed to leave
character yet.