“The translator was quite adamant,” Lady Mercene insisted. Mercene was from Elisse, the lone Bacosh Peninsula state, recently defeated by the Rhodaani Steel, and now about to be liberated once more. Mercene, her family and country folk were eager at the prospect. “One gold sovereign equals five and a third deklen in Tracato, the price is well established.”
“But dear Mercene,” said Alora, “the ledger books we recovered from that little riverside village stated that farming income from a single acre was seventy-nine deklen, about fifteen sovereigns. And that in a less-than-average season. A farmstead in the most fertile regions of Larosa makes no more than four-and-a-half sovereigns in the best seasons.”
Sofy spied a farmhouse behind the line of trees. It had pretty brick walls overgrown with ivy, a chicken coop, and a pigsty. The house was of a stonework quality sufficient for minor nobility, yet far below the size demanded by noble honour. Could it be that such dwellings belonged to common folk? The ladies had nearly concluded such several days ago, and now changed the subject whenever it threatened to stray back.
These farmhouses clustered into not-quite-a-village, sharing a common series of little irrigation canals, with movable gates and good stonework. Where they had passed crops, all had seemed unusually lush and colourful. Sofy had no difficulty imagining that these lands, farmed by Rhodaani farmers using serrin-inspired methods, were at least three times more productive than what the Regent's allies liked to call the “Free Bacosh.” It would explain, for one thing, why the Steel armies of the Saalshen Bacosh were so well equipped, and the roads, bridges, and buildings of such high quality.
“Sir Teale,” Sofy announced, and one of the knights riding before the ladies' party reined back to Sofy's side. “I would like to know what village burns yonder.”
“Perhaps not a village, highness,” said Teale. “Perhaps a wood, or bales of hay, set to fire to deprive us of it.”
“Whatever the source,” Sofy repeated with certainty, “I would like to know it.”
Teale nodded within his scarred helmet. “Of course, Your Highness.”
Sofy bit her lip in frustration. About her the great army advanced, looting and burning as it went, as great armies would. Her husband, the soon-to-be High King Balthaar, assured at her insistence that the destruction would not be too great, that the lovely towns would not be burned unless enemies used them for defence, that artworks would be preserved, and families allowed to return to their homes, in time.
But they would not allow her to visit the towns that the column passed, claiming the region was thick with serrin, whose long bows could kill an armoured man from a hundred paces, and an unarmoured man from two. Now she was reduced to sending Sir Teale to enquire into the fate of passing towns, knowing that he lied to her when he returned, and hoping only that he did not lie too much.
The ladies rode in awkward silence. At times they spoke amongst themselves, of noble claims to these lands, and lineages long suspended. Two hundred years it had been, since the feudal ways had ruled in these parts. Many in the conquering army claimed ancestry, or argued for the suspension of whatever title now existed. But they did not argue the point too loudly in Sofy's presence, as they saw her worry for the fate of traitorous locals, and made snide remarks-when they thought she could not hear-that the queen-in-waiting worried more for serrin half-breeds than the lives of Bacosh outriders.
“I would speak with Lord Elot, if you please,” Sofy announced loudly to a nearby servant, who turned his horse to gallop to the rear.
Soon Elot appeared at her side, astride a large horse. Sofy's mare was a little taller, allowing her to view him almost eye to eye. Lord Elot bowed to her. He was a big, bearded man, a native of Rhodaan. A traitor, perhaps, though not in his eyes. He was a noble, believing in all those things the serrin law had denied nobility for two hundred years. Upheaval in the Rhodaani capital of Tracato had led him here, with Sofy's sister Sasha at his side-her to join with the Army of Lenayin, and him to join with the Army of the Bacosh, and reclaim his noble birthright, and those of all his fellows.
Now, however, and in spite of heroism in a glorious victory, Elot looked far from content with the fates.
“I sent Sir Teale to investigate the smoke yonder,” said Sofy. They spoke Torovan, the trading tongue of the Sharaal Sea routes, and common amongst the noble classes of Lenayin.
“He will find nothing,” said Elot, grimly. “He never finds anything.”
Sofy gave Elot a sideways look. He did not seem pleased to see his nation invaded. What had he expected, if not this? “Whose land is this?” Sofy asked.
“Family Miel,” said Elot. “A well-established claim, the title documents remain hidden, Lord Miel knows where, if he survives in Tracato. Yet Family Junae of Larosa now informs me that their claim through a defecting cousin is superior.”
Thus the grim look, Sofy thought. She'd been gathering something of these developments, and was not surprised.
“And your own family's lands?” she asked the Rhodaani lord.
“From Siadene to the north of here, all the way to the sea. Similarly challenged.” Sofy just looked at him. “Your Highness, I would be in deepest gratitude to you if you would speak with your lord husband, and put a stop to these frivolous claims. This should be a time of celebration for the forces of honour. We should not be divided against one another so early, before the final victory is even won.”
“It seems to me, Lord Elot,” Sofy said mildly, “that you have misunderstood the nature of the feudal society that you have idolised for so long from the isolation of Tracato. Gratitude and allegiances come after the acquisition of land, not before. If you have land, many wish to be your friend. Today, in Larosan eyes, you are landless, and in no position to make demands.”
“There are laws!” Elot insisted with anger.
“That can be reissued at my husband's single word,” said Sofy. “I understand that laws are a somewhat more permanent and serious matter in Tracato. Or they were, until your little internal war burned the law houses down.”
“That was not us,” Elot muttered. “That was the peasants.”
“And were you so sad? Given that those laws denied you the noble title that you seek as your right?”
“I can prove my claims,” said Elot, stubbornly. “When we reach Tracato, I shall do so, with our records.”
Sofy remained silent, and Elot met her gaze. Her eyes held warning. She was young yet, and recently naive in the ways of the world. No longer. Elot nodded slowly, noting the warning. His gaze held thanks. She dared not speak her fears, yet Elot was not a stupid man. If he should fail to reach Tracato alive, or his records could be destroyed before presentation to the soon-to-be king, it would be as though Elot's claims had never existed.
They had ridden a short distance further when Sir Teale returned at a gallop, silver armour shining in the sun.
“Highness,” he said, with a nod to her in the saddle. “I bring word from your husband, the Regent. He is aware of your concern, and wishes that you ride to see this town in person.”
Sofy blinked at him in surprise. A glance at the ladies of her party showed them similarly surprised, and some scowling.
“But of course, Sir Teale!” Sofy exclaimed. “Let us go at once! Lord Elot, would you join us? I would appreciate your insight.”
“An honour, Princess,” said Elot.
The ride to the town was a short canter across ploughed fields and men-at-arms stood ready at open gates. Even as Sofy marvelled at the beauty of the countryside, she spotted gleams of armour from amidst the trees, and the shuffling movement of horses. Her path was guarded, with some preparation. What was her husband's game?
By a little stream that meandered between fields and forest nestled a small village of stone walls and red tile. There was a barn afire in a nearby field, the source of the smoke. Cavalrymen milled in the fields, and watched as the princess approached.