Roger Taylor - Farnor

He was aware of Rannick watching, listening; his eyes, his new vigour filling his whole attention.

And then he was free. The birds were singing again, the ubiquitous sounds of the valley folded about him.

And Rannick was gone. Gryss looked around, but there was no sign of him.

He could not remember seeing him go. Had he been dreaming? Or momentarily ill? He was certainly breathless. Then, without command, the horse began to move again and jerked Gryss sharply back to the practical.

It was trotting.

Gryss tugged on the reins to slow the animal, but it did not respond until he applied some considerable force. It occurred to him that the horse was anxious to be away. And indeed, he decided, so was he. The strange meeting with Rannick had served only to add more confusion and turmoil to the many thoughts and speculations that were already tumbling through his mind.

Where the devil had he come from so suddenly? And where had he disappeared to? And, for that matter, where had he been these past days, and what had happened to so change him? He had no answers, though he could not set aside the feeling that such answers would be important.

As they moved further away from the place where Rannick had appeared, so the horse began to pull less and, after a while, Gryss gave it its head and devoted himself to searching for some order out of his whirling thoughts.

By the time he had reached Garren’s farm he had given up. One thing at a time, he had decided. The tithe was his business, and getting the gatherers out of here. Then getting the village back on a straight furrow after the upheaval. The tithe day had been a bizarre experi-ence, with the traditional celebratory meals being eaten in atmospheres ranging from forced jocularity to downright ill-humour. It was as if the guests at a wedding had suddenly discovered it was a funeral.

And whatever the interest of these foreigners in the north and the Great Forest, their actions were beyond both his control and his persuasion and he would have to await events.

As for Rannick, maybe the man had finally gone melancholy mad and would end his years a demented recluse dwelling in a cave up the side of the valley somewhere. It had happened before and, frankly, at the moment he couldn’t care less.

Rannick, however, was far from melancholy mad. He was exhilarated. Old Gryss had been like so much malleable clay in his hands. And these soldiers… these so-called gatherers. They were his kind of people, he knew; the air was full of their presence. They must be brought to his service.

Silently he moved on past the castle and up into the woods beyond, treading the golden road that had been opened for him and which he had only to follow to achieve the greatness that was his true destiny.

The next day was bright and sunny again, but a strong wind was buffeting noisily through the valley. Trees and bushes, grasses and flowers, all followed its urging and leaned with it as if striving to hear the insistent command that was drawing the armies of clouds so purposefully overhead and sending their shadows scuttling over fields, fences and rooftops in frantic pursuit. People, on the other hand, followed their own urgings and when the whim took them set their faces resolutely against the wind and leaned against it in direct and wilful opposition, not hesitating to curse it when it unbalanced them in mid-step or threw dust in their faces.

Gryss was standing dutifully by the tithe barn door with Garren and the full village Council when Nilsson and his party eventually arrived. The rest of the area in front of the barn and the sides of the road leading to it were filled with almost the entire population of the village.

Nilsson was over an hour late and Gryss had repeat-edly had to reassure his companions that this was probably just a bargaining ploy, as their mood had shown signs of souring during the delay. Fortunately, and to Gryss’s considerable relief, little discontent was outwardly apparent as Nilsson arrived, and the Councillors, although somewhat dishevelled by the wind, still made quite a dignified group: well scrubbed, and decked in their best holiday clothes, this having been Gryss’s instruction to them in the absence of any more specific knowledge about what was required on such an occasion.

Nilsson dismounted and led forward a sharp-featured individual with a florid face and restless eyes. He smiled broadly at Gryss, but offered no apology for the delay. ‘May I introduce you to Saddre?’ he said. ‘He’s the…’

He searched for a word. ‘The clerk of the tithe.’

‘Tithe master?’ Gryss suggested.

Nilsson shrugged. ‘You must forgive me if I have difficulty with your language from time to time,’ he said. He turned to Saddre. ‘I don’t think you’re a… tithe master… are you?’ he asked. Saddre’s eyes fixed on him momentarily then he smiled regretfully and shook his head.

Nilsson turned back to Gryss. ‘He’s just army, like the rest of us,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘Co-opted to this duty and trained in what’s needed for routine work.’ Then, concerned that he might have laid a trap for himself, he added significantly, ‘He has full authority here, though. In tithe matters his word is law, and whatever he decides I have to enforce. Serious disputes have to be sorted out later by… palace officers. If necessary.’

Gryss nodded. ‘I’m sure we’ll have no difficulties,’ he said, amiably. ‘Shall I open the barn?’

Nilsson motioned him to proceed.

Somewhat self-consciously, Gryss lowered the sun-stone and carefully capped it, then he handed it to Garren who passed it to someone else. It disappeared quickly into the crowd. That was a damned good stone and nothing to do with the tithe, and it wasn’t going to be allowed near any bargaining!

Gryss beckoned Saddre forward. ‘You can see how we’ve sealed the barn,’ he said, pointing to a decorated and waxed rope that was elaborately wound round two plain wooden handles. ‘And this…’ He rooted awk-wardly inside his jacket and eventually produced a small sheaf of papers, ‘… is an account of everything we’ve collected, and the basis on which we’ve calculated it.’

The papers flapped noisily in the wind as Saddre took them and carefully thumbed through them. He maintained a sage expression throughout and, after a moment, he pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Seems reasonable,’ he said. ‘But show me what you’ve done as we examine the tithe in detail.’ His voice had a rasp to it that seemed to fit his sharp features.

‘As you wish,’ Gryss said. He gestured to Garren, who stepped forward and deftly untied the decorated rope. Then, producing a large key, he unlocked the barn door.

Such dignified formality as there was in these pro-ceedings ended with this act, as several hands were needed to control the large doors in the wind as soon as Gryss began to open them. After a brief but noisy struggle they were fastened back against the wall and, urged on by the wind, Gryss, flanked by Nilsson and Saddre, scurried into the barn. The villagers moved forward to fill the doorway but, following Gryss’s prior instruction, they remained outside.

Decorative ribbons and floral displays fluttered and danced as if in welcome as the wind ignored protocol and surged inquisitively around the inside of the barn, performing its own audit of the contents. The high-timbered roof creaked ominously.

Standing next to his father in the doorway, Farnor looked at the carefully piled barrels and sacks of produce, the elaborate displays of fruits and vegetables, the rows of kegs and bottles. For the first time the enormity of what was about to happen struck him. All that, going to outsiders. And foreigners at that! His outward expression of this outrage, however, was mild.