“Ummph. You’re right. It already says at the Marshal’s discretion, so if we struck out ‘because of drought’ that would do. What else?”
“We had an odd case last spring come into the grange-court: a man, not mageborn, claimed to do magicks a new way.”
“A new way?”
“As scribes study writing, he said, so he studied magicks and performed them—for a fee. The judicar brought him to me because some of the people wanted him killed as a mageborn using forbidden power, or as a demon. When I investigated, it seemed to me that he performed what he agreed to, although I found the fee unduly high. And he had none of the appearance of a mageborn, and explained his magicks sufficiently that I feel sure he was not.”
“So what did you do?” asked Gird.
“Treated it as a matter of commerce. As someone in an unknown profession, of no registered guild, he had to demonstrate that he was honest and gave good weight, so to speak. The Code allows Marshals to impose a good-faith tax on newcomers who have no guild to speak for them, until their honesty is proven. He had not earned that much with his little shows of colored fire and magic crystals. I told him plainly that too many people disliked all magic for me to keep him safe, and if someone broke his head for him, he’d have only himself to blame. He got out of town safely enough, for I told the judicar and those listening that I would not take lightly an injury done him when he had done none yet himself. Since then I’ve heard nothing; he never came to the next grange west.”
“A new kind of magic . . .” said Gird. “I wonder what could be.”
“He thought of it as a craft, not some inborn talent, and I believe he was honest in that, at least.” Rahi frowned. “But without a guild, without knowledge of what his work is worth—assuming it’s honestly done—we have no way of knowing if his price is fair.”
Gird leaned back and tucked his fingers in his belt. “I suspect we can’t protect the sort of fool who will pay a man to work magicks. You were right, Rahi, to treat it as commerce, as a matter of contracts. Make sure he fulfills what he said; the buyer must decide if the price is fair.” He shook his head. “Though where we can fit that into the Code, I don’t know. I’ll talk to other Marshals about it.”
“I . . . quarreled with Luap, on the way here,” Rahi said. “It’s not his fault; I was angry about you.” She felt a childish pleasure in confessing that; he had always been more understanding with the child who confessed wrongdoing.
“He’s easy to quarrel with, this harvest time,” Gird said. “I don’t know what’s bothering him, unless it’s the old lady with her notions about royalty.”
“Someone mentioned an old lady. . . .” Rahi said. He looked as if he wanted to tell the tale; she wanted, at this moment, to listen to him talk.
“A good woman,” Gird said, lips pursed. “Her servant Eris says so, and so does Arranha. Widowed years ago. Very pious: but for worshipping the Sunlord, she’s much like old Tam’s mother, back home. She came in asking permission to put altar cloths she’d embroidered in the great Hall; it was clear she meant no mischief, so I said she might talk to Arranha about it.”
“But she’s mageborn? She knows Luap’s the king’s son?”
“Aye. She knows more than that—seems he’s not the last king’s son, but one before that. Garamis, his name was. She saw Luap himself as a child, when he lived in some lord’s house. It’s that, Arranha says, which upset him, though I can’t see why it would. Until we’re the oldest, if we live that long, there’s always someone who knew us as children. What harm in that?”
Rahi thought about it. It had been years since she had seen anyone from her vill. Would she feel anything strange if she met someone on the street who remembered her as a child? No—she had enjoyed being that child, that young woman. She would like to meet someone who remembered that. Had Luap not enjoyed being that boy? Surely it must have been easier than growing up a peasant child.
“It’s the change, I expect,” Gird went on. “Having to leave the lord’s house for a farmer’s cottage; he’s said before that was hard. He’s tried to forget that first bit, in recent years. And now she brings it back. One of the yeomen even told me she calls him ‘prince.’ ”
“But she shouldn’t!” Rahi was more shocked than she’d expected. Gird shook his head.
“She’s an old lady, lass. As stubborn as any village granny, for all she wears a fine dress and wears jewels. You know yourself that arguing with old ladies is like plowing water. If she wants to call Luap prince, she will; all I can do is hope it won’t go to his head.” He tried to stretch again and grimaced. “As yesterday’s ale has gone to mine. I’m too old for that, you’re right.”
Rahi grinned at him. “Remember the time that old dun cow got after me, for trying to ride her calf?” Gird’s slow smile widened, and he began to chuckle. “You told me that fools earned their lumps.”
“So I did. But that’s enough of that, lass, or I’ll decide you’re only my Marshal again. Marshals don’t lecture me—”
“I would,” said Rahi boldly. Gird groaned.
“You would, and your mother would have made a fine Marshal. Will you give over, now?”
“Aye. Shall I make up with Luap?”
“You might soothe his prickles a bit, and you might keep the edge of your tongue off the Autumn Rose, too. Don’t think I missed that bit of the quarrel.”
He had surprised her again. He could always do that, manage to know what no one suspected he knew, manage to do what no one suspected he could. Yet once he had done it, it always seemed right, inevitable.
“She irritates me,” Rahi said, “like a bed of nettles.”
“And why did we gather nettles?” He did not wait for her answer. “Because the plant is not evil, but harsh, and needs the right cook. Nourishing inside; irritating outside. There’s virtue in the Autumn Rose you’ve never found, lass: take it inside next time.”
Rebuke for rebuke, and although it stung, she could feel that he was right. She had never looked for anything in the Autumn Rose but what she knew she disliked. Finding that, she had been satisfied to despise her. She tried a last defense. “I have heard gossip that they might marry, Luap and the Rosemage.”
“Neither of them are such fools,” Gird said. “Nor are you, to believe it.”
“Well, if that’s your wish, I will study to adopt her as a sister,” Rahi said, half-joking. “No more quarrels, by my will.”
“You could have a worse sister,” Gird said. “She is as true as Luap once was false. Strange to us, but true.” He sounded very tired, now, and Rahi realized that it was nearly noon.
“I could make you a brew,” she said, half-shyly. “If Arya will let me use her hearth—”
His eyes brightened a moment. “That black stuff? No one else can do it right, lass, and if you’d fix that I’d be grateful.”
“Take your rest, then, and I’ll be up with it when it’s done.” This felt right, felt normal, even if it was the result of a drinking bout. She had Mali’s parrion, and her own skill; she knew she could mix healing brews better than most. She settled Gird with a cloth over his eyes and his feet propped up, then went back to the kitchen to ask permission to use the hearth.
She found Luap there, with a cook she had not met; Arya and Lia, the woman explained, had finished their day’s work. “Bakes the best bread, Arya,” the woman said. “But she trusts me to finish it now. I’m Meshi.”
Rahi explained what she needed, eyeing Luap, who looked completely comfortable as if he had been there awhile.
“Of course. No need to ask. The herbery’s through there—I expect you know—and I’ll just fetch the pot—” Meshi was a bustler, whose brisk busy movements around the room could make it seem crowded with only a few people in it. Rahi went out to the herbery, wondering why Luap seemed so relaxed with someone like that, and so tense with people she found more soothing. She found the herbs she needed, hardy aromatics that could be picked green until the first hard freeze. The rest of the ingredients were in the pantry, in neatly labelled pots and sacks: the same roots and barks used in cookery, most of them.