“The city is in terror,” Campas said. “Before there was no outlet for resentment against the deissin, but now Tastis allows it. Corrupt magistrates have been arrested and condemned, deissin have had their goods confiscated and distributed to the poor, usury has been outlawed.”
“Ai, gods,” Necias murmured. How many of his own allies in Arrandal could survive if those sort of standards were applied to them?
“He’s done more,” Campas explained. “He’s altered the makeup of the Guilds: now there’s a League of Journeymen within each Guild — policy’s no longer decided simply by the Masters.”
“Ai, gods,” Necias said again, the full horror of this easily penetrating. The craft guilds were composed of three classes, the Apprentices, Journeymen, and Masters: always power had been held firmly by the latter. This had always been resented by the Journeymen, who were kept on low wages until a Master died and they could fill his place, at which point the Guild gave permission for the new Master to seek contracts of his own. Now, with the Journeymen taking a more active part, they could start demanding higher wages, perhaps even seeking commissions. The entire system would crumble.
“Tastis has a lot of money now,” Campas explained. “He’s purged some houses altogether, confiscating their goods, and he’s forced other of the deissin to pay heavy fines; he’s also seized direct control of some of the banks. The dole to the poor has been increased, and the rest has been used to recruit mercenaries and pay his militia. He’s got a lot of volunteers for the city forces and the fleet because suddenly the volunteers are making more money than they’ve ever made before.”
“It can’t work,” Necias said. “Not in the long run. It’s too — too convenient for all these people.” His mind, after recovering its shock, was beginning to work on these little pieces of information, to assemble them into a mosaic; and he thought he saw that some of the pieces wouldn’t properly fit with the others.
“He’ll bankrupt himself,” he said. “How can he afford all those payments — to the poor, to his militia, to the mercenaries? He can’t keep confiscating the wealth of the citizens, not over and over — he’ll run out.” He gulped wine, then held up a finger to make a point. “And he can’t change the Guild system without debasing their product — it was set up to guarantee the quality of goods. With the journeymen being in competition with the masters everyone will lose; there’ll be too much craft coming out of the city, and too much of it will be poor craft, and prices will be too low to support anyone. He’s depending too much on the small traders. These little diné are too poor to control the big trading fleets the city depends on. He can make laws against usury on loans, but he can’t force the lenders to make loans against their will. The money supply will dry up.”
“He can keep the bankers terrified, that’s how he’ll do it,” Campas reminded him. “This new system will keep him afloat for a few years, and that’s all he cares about. If he can get a large part of the citizens to aid in the defense of their city, thinking the changes will bring them benefit, then he’ll be able to hold on longer, and any troubles he has can be blamed on us.”
“All the more reason to crush him now.” Necias frowned. “Before his notions have a chance to spread.”
Campas nodded. “Yes. Think how Tastis’ ideas might sound to our own poor, to our own journeymen — and for that matter, to our mercenaries. He’s paying his own a lot of bonuses. And however much the flenssin dislike the Brodaini, they respect them as fellow-soldiers; perhaps they’d rather serve soldiers than merchants.”
Necias heaved himself up from his chair, rubbed his chin briskly, and began to pace. “We’ve got to isolate our prisoners, then,” he said. He turned to Listas and prodded his chest with a stubby finger. “You,” he said. “Get to Tegestu immediately and tell him to relieve the prisoners’ guards with his own people. The Brodaini are to have sole custody, hey?”
“Y-yes, Father,” Listas said, rising unsteadily. He rubbed his chest where the finger had poked him, then snatched his cloak and made for the entrance to the pavilion.
“Listas!” Necias bellowed, as another thought struck him. Listas turned.
“Yes?”
“Request Tegestu to visit me at his earliest convenience.” He gave a look at Campas. “I want to know what the Brodaini think of this. They might have a notion or two that we haven’t thought of.” He swiveled back to Listas. “Use all courtesy, mind!”
“Right away, Father,” Listas said, and ran for it. Necias paced silently, his mind working doggedly on the problem of Tastis. Thank the gods Arrandal had won this battle; it would make Tastis’ more faint-hearted supporters fall away and make the others, at least, glance nervously behind them, wondering what might befall them if their side lost — both sides, as all knew, could play at this game of purges. And a lot of Tastis’ best troops were smashed up; that would make his militia wonder if their prowess was as great as Tastis told them it was.
There was a tramp and jingle of armor outside the pavilion, and the captain of Necias’ guards entered. He was a nephew, the only son of Necias’ brother Castas, who had died keeping the assassin’s dagger away. He was named Acragas Necias, and was therefore referred to as Little Necias, a name Necias suspected he resented, since he was a tall, broad-shouldered man, as tall as his father.
“Drandor Tegestu,” Little Necias reported, “with his retinue.” Necias nodded, then stepped from behind the screens that divided his private chamber from his public one and received the Brodaini, watching as they bowed in homage. “I trust your people will make their needs known to my servants,” he said as Tegestu rose. “My friend, I need to speak with you.”
He told a servant to bring Tegestu a stool and then walked with him into the private chamber, seeing Campas rise and bow in the formal Brodaini way. “Tell him,” he snapped at Campas; and the poet nodded and began rattling out Gostu. Tegestu listened in silence, his face impassive, his eyes slitted in thought.
“Well,” Necias said when the poet was finished. “What do you make of it, hey?”
Tegestu slowly shook his head. “It is not our way. Very strange.” He hesitated for a moment, then turned to Campas. “May your arm never weaken, canlan Necias, I am sorry that I do not have the words. In our own tongue, this is an-hosta, very bad. Dai-terru, to tamper this way with a governing. It breaks the lines of nartil.”
Campas took a deep breath and blew his cheeks, struggling with the dismal facts of translation, then turned to Necias. “Disharmonious,” he said. “Tastis has taken too much on himself, to break up authority that way. It is not the Brodaini way.”
Tegestu seemed to be pondering deeply. “It is very like Tastis, this news,” he said. “He has always been, ah, flexible. Thinks quickly. Ah, improvises very well. Adapts.” He shook his head. “But it is not Brodaini, it is something else. A strange... compromise. I do not know how to think of it.”
Necias pounced on Tegestu’s words, harsh delight bubbling through him as he saw Tastis’ weakness. “Tastis has compromised the Brodaini way, hey?” he said. “He’s made too many changes, acted too quickly.” He leaned closer to Tegestu, his voice eager. “Will his own people support him in all of this? Or will they think as you do?”
Tegestu paused for a moment, his deep eyes troubled. Then he looked at Necias and nodded. “Some will not approve,” he said. “But Tastis must have the support of most of the aldran; otherwise he could not proceed in this at all.”
“Can we work on that?” Necias asked. “Many of his, his kamlissi are divided between Neda-Calacas and Arrandal, with the senior people in Arrandal. Can you urge Tastis’ people, the ones who think as you do, to return to their old allegiance, to yourself and the others of your welldran?”