Sara Douglass - Sinner

No, no, Goldman pleaded silently, don’t do it! Don’t –”

In order to stem the tide I have instructed the border guards at the Azle and Jervois Landing to exact the equivalent of ten thousand gold pieces from each family that intends to leave for the North.”

But that is ten times my annual income, Goldman thought. How will an ordinary craftsman pay it?

“That should go some way towards balancing the loss of their skills,” Askam said. “That is all, gentlemen, you have my permission to leave.”

That evening Goldman called more than a score of men to his townhouse in upper Carlon, all of them leading citizens and tradesmen, and there he spoke volubly about the new taxes and their implications.

“I will be ruined!” cried Netherem Pumster, Master Bell-Maker. “How else can I transport my bells if not by riverboat?”

“And I!” said Karl Hurst, one of the leading wool traders in Tencendor. “As will most of the peasants in the West! All rely on transporting their wool bales across the roadways of the West to the Icarii markets in the Minaret Peaks!”

His voice was joined by a dozen others, all increasingly angry and indignant as the implications of the tax sank in.

“As will everyone eventually be ruined,” Goldman said quietly into the hubbub. He held up his hands. “Gentlemen, please …”

Men slowly subsided into their seats, worry replacing anger.

“I should have moved north last year, when my brother went,” Hurst said as he sat down. “The North may be further from the markets that I’d like, but at least Zared wouldn’t try to take my soul to put meat on his table.”

“More like,” put in a stout silversmith, “he’d give his soul if he thought it might put meat on your table.”

Goldman nodded to himself, pleased with the direction the conversation had taken, content now to sit back and let the treason take its course.

Treason? he asked himself. Nay, natural justice, more like.

“Things have never been the same since Priam died,” said a fine-metal worker.

“Not the same since Axis SunSoar proclaimed Tencendor on the shores of our lake,” said another.

“Now, now,” Goldman demurred. “The SunSoars have done us proud. Have you ever known life to be better? More peaceful? Who dislikes trading with the beauty-loving and generous-spirited Icarii? Or even the Avar?”

There was a small silence, then Hurst spoke up again. “Our quarrel is not with Tencendor as such, nor with the Icarii or the Avar. I, for one, admire the SunSoars greatly for what they have done for our land.”

“Oh, aye!” a dozen voices echoed fervently.

“Aye,” Hurst repeated. “I voice no wish to resurrect the hatreds of the past.”

“Nay!” came the resounding cry.

“Nay,” Hurst echoed again, then looked about and licked his lips. “But these taxes … I cannot believe them! It never would have happened under King Priam, or even King Karel, from what I have heard of the man! Askam will destroy the West in his attempts to solve his debts!”

No-one missed the emphasis.

“Of course, Askam was not bred for such responsibility,” said a merchant named Bransom Heavorand. He was one of Goldman’s closest friends, and he knew the way the Master of the Guilds’ mind was travelling. “He has not the blood for it. No wonder he missteps so badly.”

“Yet his father, Belial, base-born as he was, was a kind and effective prince,” Goldman said, working as closely with Heavorand as two voices in a duet. “And he was Axis SunSoar’s right-hand man. Surely he deserved the reward of Princedom of the West?”

“Askam is not the man his father was,” Heavorand said. “Unlike Belial, he’s lived a life of ease. He’s not had to fight for his life, nor the life of his country. He’s not been tempered by the sacrifice and loss Belial endured. Nor has he inherited his father’s courage and fairness.”

Men nodded about the room.

“Given an estate to run, no doubt he would prove capable enough,” Heavorand finished. “But so large a responsibility as the Princedom of the West has Askam flummoxed.”

“And us bankrupt,” someone muttered, and the room broke into subdued laughter.

“Yet the North prospers,” Goldman said. “Zared, as his parents before him, has built steadily on solid foundations. He is generous but firm, courageous but conservative in the risks he takes – or exposes his people to. His people love him.”

“Many among our people love him, too,” said one of the men.

“And there’s the nub of the matter,” said Heavorand, speaking only at the slight nod of Goldman’s head. “Zared was born of the blood of kings, Askam was not. Thus the North prospers while the West strangles.”

Silence.

“Born of the blood of kings,” said a voice far back in a darkened corner. “Are you saying what I think you say? Zared was born to rule?”

“What I say is only fact,” Heavorand replied. “Zared is born of Rivkah, last princess of Achar, and Magariz, one of the highest-ranking nobles Achar had ever seen. They were legally married. Borneheld, Rivkah’s eldest, was illegitimate, and thus his attempts to claim the throne of Achar met with disaster. Axis, may he live forever, was also illegitimate, and while he founded the Throne of the Stars, he rightly made no claim to the Acharite throne. Zared was Rivkah’s only legitimate child. Zared,” he paused, reluctant to speak these words even among friends, before finally gathering his courage, “is the legitimate heir to the throne of Achar.”

“But Achar no longer exists,” Goldman put in. “The throne no longer exists. Axis destroyed both. Surely Zared is heir to nothing but memories?”

There was a moment of silence, then Hurst spoke up, his face red. “But is that right? The Icarii have their Talon, the Ravensbund have their Chief, and now the Avar even have their head, the Mage-King Isfrael! Why should the Acharites not have their head … nay, their pride back?”

The room broke into uproar, and Goldman was once again forced to stand and hold up his hands for quiet.

“May I remind you, my friends,” he said very softly, “that the term ‘Acharites’ is no longer lawful.” One of Caelum’s first edicts on taking the Throne of the Stars had been to ban the use of the term “Acharites” for the human population of Tencendor. To him it smacked too much of the hatreds that had torn Tencendor apart in the first instance.

“Whether we are Acharites, or Tencendorians, or bloody Manmallians,” said the silversmith angrily, “doesn’t change the fact that I’d prefer to have a King Zared ruling my life than a petty Prince Askam. No! Wait … there’s more. It doesn’t change the fact that whether prince or king or pauper for all I care, Zared is the man I’d prefer to have at my back in a street brawl, in a war, or as a drinking companion in a tavern. I respect Zared, I like Zared, and what I think of Askam doesn’t bear spoken word in this company!”

“And what’s more,” cried a voice, “Zared is the rightful ruler, not Askam!”

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Goldman cried. “Please … listen to me! Quiet down now! Yes … yes … thank you, that’s better. Gentlemen, I am Master of the Guilds of Carlon. I am your spokesman, your voice. What would you have me do?”

Silence.

“I think,” Heavorand said quietly, “that a little visit to Zared might be in order. I think the Prince needs to know just how his people –”

No-one in the room missed the use of the phrase “his people.”

“– feel about a number of issues.”

“Will he act?” said a voice. “Or will he back away?”