Andre Norton - The Duke's Ballad

When the merchant would not open the door she broke a window. Then another. A crowd had gathered, and she turned to them.

“The pig within this building piles food high to eat. My children starve. He will sell us nothing. When has he ever dealt honestly with us?” The gathering crowd responded with a sullen muttering of agreement. The merchant was well known for weighing down the scales with his ringer when he measured grain for purchase. The woman picked up another stone and smashed at the storehouse lock.

“Let him be the one who hunts rats. Let it be his daughters who must sell themselves to eat… if they can find any takers.” The sneer in that curse would have etched glass. The merchant’s daughters were arrogant and unlovely. Their servants hated them and with cause. None of that was any secret to the dwellers in the low quarter. She smashed again and again at the lock.

Inside the merchant made his error. Had he been content to stay inside and do nothing it is possible the woman would have found the door immovable and given up. But the merchant, facing the loss of his food, acted. He called out his guards and flung them against the crowd. The woman fell, run through and dying. She screamed her dying hate as she fell, and the crowd became a mob surging forward.

The guards killed again and again. Trapped in the narrow street the crowd could not escape and then it no longer wished to. The mob roared, swirled, coalesced, and struck back. The guards were pulled down one by one until all five were dead. Then the mob moved in on storehouse and home. They smashed in the doors, looting the food and all else portable.

The merchant, in the end a brave man, tried to protect his family. The crowd reached for him, and he died quickly. His wife and daughters did not, although they were dead by the time the mob scattered and were gone with their loot. When the Kars guard arrived there was only an empty warehouse, a looted home, and a number of dead bodies, stripped and left where they had fallen.

The guard reported, and Shastro, white with rage at this challenge to his authority, went in search of his sorcerer. “You wanted more specimens for your studies?”

“You said it cost too dear in guard’s lives last time.” Kirion hid his amusement. He’d already heard about the riot and could guess the rest.

“I’ve changed my mind. Outside I have twenty guards waiting. Another dozen will join them once they reach the low quarter. Go with them if you wish. You can smell out those with traces of the power; they can’t. Take whomever you find. Do what you will, just find a way to rid Kars of that honor-lost Franzo and his damned army!”

Kirion went out to guide more than thirty guards in a ruthless sweep, but the mob had come to understand it had power of its own. The people fought, taking to the sun-baked roofs, dropping stones, throwing rotting offal. And when a small number of the guards were cut off, the ambushers descended to fight them with a trapped-rat-like courage. The guards retreated with prisoners enough to content Kirion for a while, but the mob was left with a greater sense of its own strength.

That night they emerged from their warrens and rioted again. Guards quietly drifted in the opposite direction. They usually patrolled in threes. Three men could not stop fifty, and they were too smart to attempt it. When none appeared to halt the trouble, the mob knew they were the masters now. One of them reminded his friends of past grievances. They closed in on the home of a justice. That prudent man had an escape route and reached it together with his family. But his home was burned to the ground before he returned with help.

The mob split, gathered to itself others, blossomed into hundreds and split again. It flowed through the quarter where more affluent tradesmen and minor merchants dwelled, lighting fires, smashing doors, committing atrocities, and moving on. Guard horns blew as Shastro was informed and gave orders, his face red with fury. Guards formed up in ranks, pikes and heavy horses—mob smashers.

In his throne room the duke snarled. “There’s always more rats. I don’t care how many you kill. Let them taste blood. You’ll march in and kill until I give the order to withdraw. I’ll teach them who is master in Kars.” He pointed a finger at his guard-sergeant. “I and my advisor are coming with you. Detail your six best men to cover us. And empty the barracks. I’m going to smash the filth who defy me.”

“Yes, sire. At your command.” The sergeant had dead men of his own to avenge. “If it be acceptable I shall use the guards in three companies. We’ll circle the quarter, strike simultaneously from three directions, and have them encircled. We can then drive in, killing as we go until we have them well reminded who rules, sire.” The sergeant had been disgusted at the rioting and horrified at the failure of his men to prevent it. He’d redeem his own honor as well.

Shastro eyed him with approval. “Excellent. Give the orders. I will be with you shortly.” He waited until the man was gone then turned to Kirion. “You’ll come with me.”

“I am a sorcerer, not some bloody-handed guard,” Kirion said coldly. “Am I to waste gathered power dueling filth in the alleys?”

“You’re to guard your duke,” Shastro said savagely. “Half of this trouble came because of your advice and your constant demands for more sources of power.” He became angrier as he felt the truth of his words. “Get out into the gutters for once, Sorcerer, and do some of your own work. See what trouble your advice causes.”

He shut his mouth abruptly, but Kirion had caught the undertone. None of his advice had been responsible for this. It had been Shastro who’d wished to punish the Coast Clan, Shastro who’d demanded Kirion use his sorcery to bring them grief and deaths. But was that what the duke would say to others? Or was he trying to load all the blame, all the actions onto his advisor? Kirion’s mind jumped forward. And if the duke was blaming his sorcerer, to whom was he saying that? Kirion could guess.

If only he was placed behind the duke. But Shastro made certain his sorcerer was before him as they rode off surrounded by armed men. The engagement was savage. It lasted three candlemarks, and in the low quarter whole streets lost some from every home. When it ended the people were cowed. They crawled into their hovels, hating sullenly but too afraid of their duke to emerge from the quarter again or not for some while.

But if Kirion thought that would be the end of it he swiftly learned he was wrong. On a quiet estate in the nobles’ quarter, letters had been written. Aisling had scried the first riot. Keelan thought of the plan.

“Look, Rann. You’re going back and forth with letters. What would happen if you dropped one and it was read?”

“The duke would have me strung up,” Hadrann said promptly.

“No, listen. I don’t mean the real letters. We could write new ones. The city would love to hear that its troubles would be over if they just handed out Shastro and Kirion.”

Aisling looked thoughtful. “That’s very true. And what if they also read letters that were offers. One, say, suggesting that Kirion hand over Shastro only as the real cause of the troubles?”

“And another the opposite?” Keelan queried. “Yes. It’d raise some eyebrows.”

Aisling grinned. “And four of them would belong to Shastro and Kirion if the letters fell into their hands. I could set the merest trace of a spell to help that along. Just so they’d see the right letter for each. I’d wager each has in mind selling out the other anyhow, even if they haven’t offered it yet. Rann, you can disguise your writing. Let’s see what we can do.”

“How do we get the letters somewhere believable?” Hadrann was cautious.