David Farland - The Sum of All Men

Indeed, it was said that the guildmaster could quote every contract he'd ever written, word for word; Hollicks always knew to the moment when his loans came due.

Certainly, he knew how much blood metal the Southern traders had weighed out in the past week. As Master of the Fair, he was in charge of assuring that all goods were properly weighed, that products sold were of highest quality.

“I...uh, so far, the Southern merchants have weighed in only thirteen pounds of blood metal. They...say the mines in Kartish have not produced well this year...”

Enough to make less than a hundred forcibles. Hollicks cringed, as if Sylvarresta might fly into rage at the news.

Iome's father nodded thoughtfully. “I doubt Raj Ahten knows that so much made it across his borders. We won't see any more, next year. Then to our tally of damages, add a ransom of thirty pounds of blood metal.”

“They don't have that much!” Master Hollicks complained.

“They'll find it,” Sylvarresta said. “If they're smuggling it in, they'll have some secreted away.

“Now, go, send word to our foreign friends. Tell them that the King is beside himself with rage. Urge them to act quickly, for Sylvarresta can hardly be restrained from taking vengeance. Tell them that even now, I'm in my buttery, getting blind drunk on brandy, vacillating about whether I should torture secrets from the man first, or if I should just slit his belly and strangle him with his own guts.”

“Aye, milord,” Hollicks said, flustered. The parti-colored merchant bowed and took his leave, sweating profusely at the thought of the negotiations about to begin.

During this whole discussion, the somber Chancellor Rodderman had kept silent, sitting on a bench by the Queen, narrowly studying the exchange between the King and the Master of the Fair. Sometimes he stroked his long white sideburns. When Hollicks left, the chancellor said, “Your Grace, do you think you'll get that much ransom?”

Lord Sylvarresta said simply, “Let us hope.”

Iome knew her father needed money. The costs of armor and endowments and supplies associated with waging the upcoming war would be onerous.

Sylvarresta glanced about. “Now, Chancellor, fetch me Captain Derrow. If I am not mistaken, we shall be visited by assassins tonight. We must arrange a proper greeting.”

The chancellor got up stiffly, rubbed the small of his back and then left.

Iome's father looked deep in thought. As she prepared to leave, a nagging question took her. “Father, when you played chess with Raj Ahten, who came off victor?”

King Sylvarresta smiled appreciatively. “He did.”

Iome began to leave, but another perplexing question came to mind. “Father, now that we've seen Raj Ahten's knight, should we prepare for him to bring out his wizards?”

Her father's frown was answer enough.

Borenson studied Gaborn's eyes. “Do I feel anything, milord? What do you mean? Like hunger, excitement? I feel many things.”

Gaborn couldn't quite express the odd sensation that assailed him in the market at Bannisferre. “No, nothing so ordinary. It's like...the earth...trembling in anticipation? Or...” He suddenly caught an image in his mind. “It's like that moment when you put your hand to the plow, and you thrill to see dark soil fold over, knowing that the seeds will soon be in the ground, and fruit will come of it. Endless trees and fields spreading across the horizon.”

It was odd, but the image came to mind with such force that Gaborn could not think to say anything else. Words did not suffice for what he felt, for he could literally feel his hand wrapping around the worn wooden handles of the plow, feel the strain of the lines from the ox cutting into his back, feel the keen edge of the plow biting into the soil, turning over dark dirt, discovering worms. He could taste the metallic tang of soil in his mouth, see fields and forests streaming out before him. His pockets were heavy with seeds, ready to plant.

He felt as if he were experiencing all these things at once, and he wondered if any gardener had really ever felt such a keen thrill of anticipation as the one that assailed him at this moment. Oddest of all, Gaborn had never done these things—had never hitched himself to a plow or stooped to plant the earth.

Yet he wished at this moment that he had. He wished that at this very second, he stood in the earth.

Myrrima looked at him strangely. Gaborn's Days gave no reply, playing the invisible observer.

But Borenson's eyes shone with laughter. “Milord, I think you have had too much air today. Your face is pale and sweaty. Do you feel well?”

“I feel...very...healthy,” Gaborn said, wondering if he was ill. Wondering if he was mad. Few weaknesses ever impaired a Runelord. An endowment of wit could repair a lord with poor memory, an endowment of stamina could bolster a sickly king. But madness...

“Well then,” Gaborn said, suddenly wanting to be alone with his thoughts, to consider what could cause these profound feelings of...planting, “I think you two should spend some time getting acquainted—the afternoon.”

“My lord, I am your body—” Borenson said, not willing to leave his side. Gaborn could count the times on his fingers when Borenson had been away for more than a night.

“And I will be lounging in a hostel, with nothing more dangerous than a joint of pork before me.” Borenson could hardly refuse. Custom dictated that he go privately to the woman's house to beg her hand in marriage. With a witless mother and no father, custom might be somewhat circumvented in this case, but it could not be put aside entirely.

“Are you certain? I don't think this is wise,” Borenson said, his manner becoming deadly earnest. Gaborn was in a strange country, after all, and he was heir apparent to the wealthiest nation in Rofehavan.

“Just go, will you?” Gaborn urged them, smiling. “If it makes you feel better, I promise that as soon as I lunch, I will go to my room and bolt the door.”

“We'll be back well before dark,” Myrrima said.

Gaborn said, “No, I'll seek out your home. I'd like to meet your kind sisters, and your mother.”

Myrrima urged, breathlessly, “Across the Himmeroft Bridge—four miles down the Bluebell Way, a gray cabin in the meadow.”

Borenson shook his head adamantly. “No, I'll come back for you. I won't have you riding alone.”

“Farewell, then, until this afternoon,” Gaborn said. He watched them scurry off through the crowd, hand-in-hand, a certain lightness to their steps.

For a few moments, Gaborn stayed in the market, watching an entertainer who had trained albino doves to do all manner of aerial acrobatics; then he wandered the cobbled streets of Bannisferre, every step dogged by his Days.

In the city's center towered a dozen graystone songhouses, six and seven stories tall, with elaborate friezes and statuary about them.

On the steps of one songhouse, a handsome young woman sang a delicate aria, accompanied by woodwinds and harp. A group of peasants crowded round. Her voice drifted hauntingly, echoing from the tall stone buildings, mesmerizing. She merely advertised, of course. She hoped to attract an audience for her performance later tonight.

Gaborn decided he would attend, bring Borenson and Myrrima.

Sturdy bathhouses and gymnasiums squatted farther down the street. On the broad avenues, several carriages could maneuver with ease. Fine shops displayed bone china, silver goods, and gentlemen's weaponry.

Bannisferre was a young city, less than four hundred years old. It had started simply as a meeting ground for local farmers to exchange wares, until iron was discovered along the Durkin Hills. The ironsmiths opened a foundry, where the quality of the goods soon attracted a wealthy clientele who demanded fine accommodations and entertainment.