„That's all?"
„On my honor, Sire."
„You have no honor, you. ..."
„Shut your mouth, boy," Ragnarson snapped. „You're in up to your ears now." He looked for the woman in question. Her father had driven her away from the confrontation. The man wore a thin smile of anticipation. Ragnarson wondered if it hadn't been Abaca who had been maneuvered this time. The Estates remained mortally offended because a Marena Dimura had been appointed second in command of the army. Only the most trustworthy Nordmen were permitted to participate professionally.
Ragnarson turned to the youth. „You dared draw a blade in the Palace? Against one of my officers?"
The Nordmen would not keep his mouth shut. „Some body has to teach these... these... animals their place. I challenge!"
„You don't have a right to challenge," Ragnarson told him.
„I'll accept anyway," Abaca said. He was a small, lean, olive man. He had big black mustachios and deep lines in his face. His dark little pupils were flakes of obsidian.
„Credence!" Bragi said. „That's enough." Abaca stepped back, relaxed. He had superb self-control. „Good." Bragi faced the youth. „Son, you committed a felony. The Estates are allowed their weapons in the Palace, but you don't have a right to use them." He indicated the Marena Dimura group. Only Abaca was armed. „That's an honor, not a right. You abused it. You forfeited your right of challenge when you broke the law. It's a capital offense. I could have you hung." The youth blanched. „But it would be a shame to do that. The real crimes here are stupidity, arrogance, and a bad choice of parents. Sergeant Wortel," he snapped at the Guardsman nearest Abaca.
„Sire?"
„Take the boy outside. Give him twenty lashes. Just hard enough to make him think next time his mouth threatens to override his common sense."
„Yes, Sire." Wortel was pleased and did not hide it. An older man of Wesson stock, he had grown up to the crack of Nordmen whips.
Ragnarson ignored the departure. The youth did a lot of yelling and threatening. When he realized that he would actually get the whipping, he became silent, pale, and scared.
Bragi faced the young man's father.
There was a new order and a new law. The Estates no longer rode roughshod over the land. Nothing had to be said. The Nordmen knew they had to pay when their old habits got the best of them.
Nevertheless, Ragnarson wanted to make a point. He asked, „Would you rather have him dead?"
The Baron croaked, „Dead?"
„He'd be dead now if I'd let them fight."
The Baron sneered. „A Marena Dimura kill him? That's ridiculous."
„Lie to yourself if you like. Baron, I considered your son's age. He's not old enough to know better. I did what I had to to save him." A cry echoed in the courtyard. Murder flared in the Baron's eye. „I'd let you fight Credence, though. I figure you put the boy up to this, so it's really your battle. Credence. Choose your weapons."
„Knives, Sire. They don't like knives, the gentlemen of the Estates."
How can such a small mouth stretch into such a big grin? Ragnarson wondered. „My Lord Baron? Are you ready?"
The Nordmen reddened, sputtered, looked for support from his peers. Any he may have seen existed only in his own imagination. He drew himself up, said, „That's hardly the way gentlemen... ."
„What gentlemen?" Bragi asked. „This mess came up because you won't accept Colonel Abaca as a gentleman. Why expect him to change now?" Not wanting to pour it on too heavy, Ragnarson added, „One of the bases of the law, Baron, is that we all have to face the consequences of our actions. Birth doesn't grant you immunity anymore. It only allows you limited privilege. In return, you're supposed to protect and guide the people of your fief. It's all set forth in the traditional oath of fealty, which goes all the way back to Jan Iron-Hand. You yourself swore that oath three times. Before the old King. Before Queen Fiana. Then before me. All I've ever asked of the Estates is that their lords fulfill that oath."
He thought he was getting through. The Baron had begun to squirm. „Let's drop the whole business, shall we? Send your family back to their quarters. Wait for your boy. I'll have Doctor Wachtel attend him. Credence, confine your self to barracks for the night. I'll have more to say to you later. Derel, let's put some life back in this party."
When they were out of earshot of the Baron, Ragnarson asked, „How did I do?"
„Pretty good," Prataxis replied. The scholar had indulged in his own form of intimidation. He had written down every word spoken. The Nordmen had an almost superstitious fear of the magical recall of his notes. „Do you know him? Is he likely to hold a grudge?"
„I don't think so. He's just impulsive. He survived the civil war. I haven't had to hang him since. That's about the best you can expect from the Estates. Take a couple notes. Have the old noose hung out. The one we used on Lord Lindwedel, Sir Andybur, and the Captal. As a gentle re minder. And ask Varthlokkur to have the Unborn show himself. That should do it."
Ragnarson paused to obtain wine for Prataxis and beer for himself. „It's so damned depressing sometimes. Here I am, the third consecutive monarch to bust his ass to make this a good country to live in. And if you get more than a bowshot from Vorgreberg's gates, you're up to your ears in the same old hardheaded, completely irrational bullshit the old Krief met head-on when he was crowned."
„This is a feudal state, Sire. Rigidity is one of that form's characteristics. And it's a positive characteristic, consider ing the forces which act to create feudal societies. The structure has a place for every man, with his responsibilities and privileges clearly defined. The weakness of the form is its inflexible response to novel ideas. It's been rocked by too many of those during our lifetimes, dating back to the Scourge of God, who did not fade from the field at harvest time. Now it wants to make like a turtle and pull its head in till the worst blows over. Only the storm won't go away. So the mossbacks strike back. Civil strife is one result."
„You trying to tell me something?"
„Change will be slow and painful in a kingdom like Ravelin. You can push too hard. Reaction will be like a recurrent boil. You lanced ours once, by winning the civil war. Now it's rising again."
„And there's nothing I can do about it?"
„To pursue the medical analogy, use poultices to keep the swelling to a minimum and the pain short-lived."
„For instance me a poultice."
„A conciliatory message, in private, might help with the Baron. You don't want him thinking you humiliated him maliciously. Press the lifesaving point, and agree with his prejudices without saying so in so many words. These illiterates have a great awe of the magic of reading and writing. He'll be tremendously impressed because you took time to do a letter."
Ragnarson whistled silently. „I wanted to humiliate him. I wanted to hang him out to dry. Sometimes the Estates make me want to cry like a baby. Yes. Write me up one of your classic little notes. I'll rewrite it in my own hand and have Dahl sneak it over."
He bumped into someone. Hard. Wine splashed against his side. He looked down.
His daughter-in-law's friend looked up at him. She did a quick, flustered, apologetic curtsey. „I'm sorry, Your Majes ty. That was clumsy of me." Her voice was high. It con tained a tiny squeak. It wasn't her normal voice. He had heard that at the place in Lieneke Lane. She was nervous. And the fright was alive in her eyes.
„My apology, Miss. It was my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going."
He walked away wondering. Was she afraid of the man? In awe of his Crown? Or afraid of herself?