The Will of the Empress (17 page)

Slowly, as if he feared to anger her, Ambros said, “Your mother,
Clehame
Amiliane, was most clear in her wishes. Those monies are
always
due to the
clehame
, whether the year is a good one or not. And I did not know you well enough at all to ask. I
still
don’t know you that well.” Very softly he added, “Cousin Sandry, the penalty for a steward who shorts his master—or mistress—is the lopping off of the thieving hand. Not only that, but I would lose the lands I hold in my own right. My family and I would be penniless.”

“I would
never
insist on such a thing!” cried Sandry.

Daja glanced back at the courtiers. If they had heard, they did not so much as turn around in their saddles.

Ambros rubbed his head wearily. “
Clehame
—”

“Sandry!” she snapped.

Meeting her eyes steadily, Ambros said, “
Clehame
, imperial spies are everywhere. The imperial courts are all too happy to uphold such matters on their own, particularly if there is a chance they may confiscate lands for the crown.
It is how Her Imperial Majesty grants titles and incomes to her favorites.”

Taking a breath to argue, Sandry thought the better of it and let the breath go. “Let’s just ride on,” she said, feeling weary in her bones. I should have paid attention. I should have fixed this years ago. Thanks, Mother. You’ve shamed us both. And I have shamed myself. “Tomorrow, if it is safe, Ambros? Please start work on that bridge at once. Repay the moneylenders all that you owe. Don’t send me anything for the next three years. I’ll write a note to that effect, and have it witnessed.”

This time she led the way down the muddy track to the ford, emerging from Tris’s shield to get wet. Briar turned. The moment he put two fingers in his mouth, Tris plugged her ears. Zhegorz and Daja both yelped in pain as Briar sounded the piercing whistle that he had once used to summon the dog who had stayed at Winding Circle. The courtiers heard, turned their mounts, and trotted back to the main group, the guards falling in behind.

As Daja swore at him in Trader-talk, Briar grinned at Tris. “You remembered. How sweet.”

She shrugged. “It’s not a sound I’m likely to forget. Besides, that’s how I could get Little Bear to come to me when he and I traveled together.” She tucked her book in a saddlebag so he couldn’t see her face. “It kept me in mind of you while I was away.”

Briar rode over to elbow her. “You just reminded yourself
how quiet it was without me to pester you when you were away,” he said, joking, actually touched. “You ain’t foolin’ me.”

She actually grinned at him.

In time they crossed at the ford and returned to the road on the other side of the unsafe bridge. Fifteen minutes after that, they crested a slight rise to find a good-sized village below them on both sides of the road. It boasted a mill, an inn, a smithy, a bakery, and a temple, in addition to housing for nearly five hundred families—a large place, as villages went. On the far side of the village and the river that powered the mill rose the high ground that supported the castle. From here they could see the outer, curtain wall, built of granite blocks. Behind that wall they could see four towers and the upper part of the wall that connected them.

“Landreg Castle,” said Ambros as they rode down toward the village. “Home estate of the
clehams
and
clehames
of Landreg for four hundred years.” As they followed him, the rain, which had slackened, began to fall harder. Tris sighed and raised her shield again just as someone in the village began to ring the temple bell. People came out of their houses to stand on either side of the road. Others ran in from outer buildings and nearby fields.

Sandry checked her mare, then caught up with Ambros. “Cousin, what are they doing? The villagers?”

Ambros looked at her with the tiniest of frowns, as if a bright pupil had given a bad answer to a question. “You are
the
clehame
,” he said gently. “It is their duty to greet you on your return.”

“How did they know she was coming?” asked Briar.

Ambros raised his pale brows. “I sent a rider ahead yesterday, of course,” he explained. “It’s my duty to send advance word of the
clehame
’s return.”

Sandry’s mare fidgeted: The young woman had too tight a grip on the reins, dragging the bit against the tender corners of her horse’s mouth. “Sorry, pet,” Sandry murmured, leaning forward to caress the mare’s sodden neck. She eased her grip. Without looking at Ambros, she said softly, “I didn’t want this, Cousin. I
don’t
want it. Please ask them to go about their business.”

“Bad idea,” said Jak. Sandry looked back at him. The dark-haired nobleman shrugged. “It is,” he insisted. “They have to show proper recognition of their sovereign lord. You can’t let them start thinking
casually
of us, Lady Sandry. Peasants should always know to whom they owe respect.”

“I don’t need ceremonies for respect,” snapped Sandry, growing cross. Her cheeks were red again as they passed between the outlying groups of villagers; she could feel it like banners telling the world she wanted to crawl under a rock. As she rode by, the men bowed and the women curtsied, keeping their eyes down. “And it’s not me they should be bowing to,” she insisted quietly, feeling like the world’s biggest lie. “It’s my cousin here. He’s the one who works for
their good. Do they do this for
you
?” she demanded of Ambros.

“They bow, if they’re about when I pass, but I’m not the
clehame
,” Ambros told her, keeping his voice low so the villagers would not hear. “You don’t understand, Cousin. We have a way of life in Namorn. The commoners tend the land, the artisans make things, the merchants sell them, and the nobles fight and govern. Everyone knows his place. We know the rules that reinforce those places. These are your lands; these people are your servants. If you try to change the rituals for the way in which we live, you undermine all order, not just your small corner of it.”

“He’s right,” said Fin. “Trust me, if they didn’t pay you proper respect—”

Rizu cut him off. “Lady Sandry, custom isn’t just enforced by the landholders. Rebellion in one village is seen as a threat to all nobility. They would have imperial lawkeepers here in a few days, and then they’d pay with one life in ten.”

“On my own lands?” whispered Sandry, appalled.

“Lords have been ill, or slow in mind, or absent,” Ambros replied, his voice soft. “Order must be kept.”

“I can’t tell them not to do that again?” Sandry wanted to know.

“Only if you want to weed the cabbage patch,” joked Fin. Caidlene poked him in the ribs with a sharp elbow.
“Well, that’s what we call ’em at home,” the young nobleman protested. “Cabbage heads. All rooted in dirt, without a noble thought anywhere.”

Weed the cabbage patch, thought Sandry, horrified. Kill peasants.

She looked at the villagers, trying to glimpse their faces. It took her a few moments to realize that while the rain was falling heavily, the people on the ground were not getting wetter. She looked up. The space covered by Tris’s magical umbrella had spread. It was so big, she couldn’t see the edges, only the flow of water overhead, as if the village were covered by a sheet of glass. She’s still reading, thought Sandry, looking back at Tris. She can hold off all this rain, and still keep reading.

A smile twitched the corners of Sandry’s mouth. She thought, Somebody’s been practicing.

They crossed the river, passed through the fringe of houses on the far side, then began the climb up the hill to the castle. Halfway up, they heard the rattle of a great chain. The portcullis that covered the open gate was being raised. The drawbridge was already down, bridging a moat too wide for a horse to jump. On top of the wall, men-at-arms in mail and helmets stood at every notch, watching her. One of them, standing directly over the gate, raised a trumpet to his lips and blew it. As Sandry and Ambros rode first over the drawbridge, golden notes rang out in the sodden air.

Inside they found the outer bailey, where many of the
industries that supported the castle household were placed. Everywhere men and women dropped what they did to line up along the curved road that led to the gate to the inner bailey. As their group passed, they bowed or curtsied.

Uncle Vedris would never allow them to waste time at work on this nonsense, Sandry thought, outraged, though she hid her true feelings to nod and smile at those who lined the road. He’d jump on you quick enough if he thought you were disrespectful, but he didn’t need all this, this
stupid
ceremony to prove it. I’m
so
glad he can’t see me now.

As they clattered through the inner gate, Sandry’s jaws began to hurt. She was actually grinding her teeth in frustration. With an effort she made herself relax, working her jaw to loosen the tight muscles. She glanced back at the others and saw something that made her grin. Little Chime sat on Tris’s saddle horn, wings unfurled, chin held high. The glass dragon obviously thought all of this celebration was for her.

And so it is, Sandry thought with a grin. It’s not for me—it’s for her.

With that idea in mind, she was able to smile more naturally at the men-at-arms who waited by the inner gate, and to nod at the groups of people who stood inside, in the court in front of the main castle. Her smile widened as four little girls, their ages ranging from five to twelve, broke free of the servants to race toward Ambros, shrieking, “Papa! Papa!”

He laughed and dismounted, kneeling in the mud so he
could hug all four at once. “You’d think I’d been gone for years instead of a few days,” he chided, his eyes glowing with pleasure. “What is your cousin supposed to think of such hoydens?”

Sandry dismounted before someone could help her to do it. “She thinks they are delightful,” she said, walking over to stand beside Ambros. “She thinks their father is blessed to have such lovely girls.”

“Their father is,” said Ambros, getting to his feet. “Girls, this is your cousin,
Clehame
Sandrilene fa Toren.”

Reminded of their manners, the girls all curtsied to Sandry. The one who looked to be about ten thrust a bouquet of slightly wilted flowers at Sandry. “I picked them myself,” she said.

“And I thank you,” Sandry replied, accepting them. “I love to get flowers after a long ride.”

“Good, because doubtless they were picked in your own garden,” Ambros said, an arm around the oldest girl’s shoulders. “And chances are, they were picked when someone should have been at her lessons.”

“But Papa, I was
finished
,” protested the flower-bearer. “I
was
!”

Ambros had just finished introducing his daughters when a tall woman, her hair more silvery than blond at an early age, came forward, still wiping her hands on a small cloth. “And this is the most beautiful flower in the castle gardens,”
said Ambros, his face alight. “
Clehame
Sandrilene fa Toren, may I present my lady wife,
Saghada
Ealaga fa Landreg.”

Sandry and Ealaga curtsied to each other gravely. Then the lady smiled at Sandry. “You and your companions must be dying for a hot bath,” Ealaga suggested. “A dreadful day to ride—you couldn’t have waited for better weather?” she asked her husband as hostlers rushed forward to help the riders dismount and to take the horses’ reins.

“I wished our cousin to have time to thoroughly review the state of things here before she must return for Midsummer,” Ambros explained. “The will of our empress is that
Clehame
Sandry bear her company for most of the season. As you can see, my dear, she sent four of her young courtiers to bear the
clehame
and her friends company until it was time to return.”

“Wonderful,” said Ealaga with a smile. “Rizu, you’re always welcome, and Ambros, you ought to remember Caidy is my mother’s own great-niece. And Jak and Fin I know quite well.” To Sandry, she explained, “He’s always
positive
we are spinning wildly out of control, when he is prepared for everything. Really, what can you do with such a man?”

Sandry laughed. “It seems as if you married him.” There was something about Ealaga that reminded her very much of Lark, one of the four’s foster-mothers. To Sandry, it was enough to make her relax.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” a thin, short woman informed Tris as the redhead was putting her book in a saddlebag. “Servants around to the side entrance, my lord should have told you. We need you to tell us which luggage belongs to the
Clehame.
”

Tris looked down her long nose at the speaker. “I’ve been demoted, seemingly,” she answered, her voice extra dry. “From traveling companion to maid. Do I
look
like a maid to you?”

The woman brushed her own russet brown dress and embroidered apron with one hand. Tris looked down and realized that a sensible navy riding tunic and breeches so wide they might be skirts could resemble a servant’s clothes.

“Ah. Well, I’m not,” she said. “Sandry doesn’t have a maid.”

The woman’s eyebrows went up; her jaw dropped. “No
maid
?” she asked, appalled. “But how does she dress?”

Tris bit her lip to stop herself from saying, “One piece of clothing at a time.” Instead, she rethought her answer, then said, “The
clehame
is accustomed to looking after herself.”

“But that’s indecent!” whispered the woman. “Who presses her gowns? Who stitches up any rents in her clothes?”

“She does it,” Tris replied, unbuckling her saddlebags with a glare for the hostler who had come to do the chore. Slinging the bags over her shoulder, Tris told the woman, “No one mentioned your
clehame
is a stitch witch? Trust
me, if you handled her clothes, you’d only mess them up. They never wrinkle or tear.” Helpfully, enjoying the sheer bafflement on the proper servant’s face, Tris added, “She weaves her own cloth, you see.”

A blunt-fingered hand rested lightly on Tris’s sleeve. “
Viymese
Tris, I just wanted to thank you for keeping us dry in all the wet today,” Rizu said. Her large, dark eyes danced with amusement. “I’ve never known anyone,
Viymese
or
Viynain
, who could hold protection like that and still read.”