“If any give you trouble, report them to me, Gadaí. I can assure all those who are listening to us now that I have had my fill of dissent and questions.”
When Gadaí had gone a tall girl of perhaps a hundred or so came and knelt before her.
“Oh Sisters, just say what you’ve come for girl. I’ll not be hanging people for speaking at me.”
“Y-yes, Treorai.” She stood, her eyes still cast at the floor. “Your Binse awaits you in the hall. And after the heads of the colleges—”
“Should Síocháin not be telling me these things?”
“She is… indisposed. With the… with…”
“Inney. Her name is Inney.”
Rianaire pushed past the girl, her mood ruined in the space of a pair of sentences. It was all she could do to keep from fleeing for the brothels and the simple privacy of paid company. The work, to say the least, was too important. The hippocamps would come. A horde could even be among them in some hidden place. Sisters know there was enough space unused in the province for them to stuff themselves. Corners and mountains and abandoned keeps. She hoped that they’d moved south. The lack of reported attacks gave her hope, but not enough to abandon good sense. A lack of one thing was not proof of the other, after all.
She climbed the stairs for the cold stone room that she so hated. Pulling the doors open she found Méid and Tola in seats. They stood as she came in and lowered their heads.
“Rianaire,” Tola said. “A welcome home is no doubt in order.”
“Welcome. So rarely true inside these walls. But I don’t mean to be so dour in the face of kindness. My thanks, Tola. I expect you and Méid have made introductions.”
Méid chirped. “We have. A fine man, and earnest. He’s been a great help to me already.”
Rianaire passed a burning fire at the corner of the room. It brought the room to a temperature comfortable enough to do without coats, though Rianaire would not remove her own. It was a long thing, simple, dark. She had taken to more serious clothes since returning. She ignored it for now and made for her own seat at the end of the table. Tola and Méid sat again and looked to her.
“Well, let us have it. Méid, I should hear your news first, if there is any.”
Méid nodded. “Aye. That… Where to begin.” She was nervous now that it had come to the talking. It was endearing, at least. “The smiths have worked without question. They are talented, sure, and eager besides. I had no need to bargain with them, even. They took the rate I offered and spoke well of you. Provisions for the roads have been made, though no two cities could agree to materials. I had them get on with their work, saying use whatever would live longest under hoof and cart.”
“Well-sorted.” Rianaire was as pleased with herself as she was with Méid. She’d expected to be bogged with issues. “There were no issues then?”
Méid became suddenly bashful. “I… there was one. A smith of the Inner Crescent. Insisted his wares were beyond such as we’d offered him.”
Rianaire knew who she meant without asking. Cantankerous, old, and more a maker of metal art than meaningful weapons, or so she’d been told. He had a strange child with him whenever he was seen about the city.
“Along the South Road?”
“Yes. Buail is his name. He has come around, however.”
“Has he?”
“I… may… I suggested that he may be moved to the Outer Crescent to better avail willing smiths to the tools of his shop.”
Rianaire laughed aloud. Perfect. She’d never have considered it. Méid, it must be said, knew the way to strike at a smith’s heart. Both her Binse jumped as Rianaire slapped at the table.
“I love it. I’d kiss you if I weren’t so fond of Olla. He’d be lost in grief if you left him for me, I’m sure.” She turned, chuckling, in her seat. “Tola. I apologize there’s been so little time for us to understand one another.”
Tola nodded formally. “No need of an apology, Rianaire. The work makes itself plain enough, if I find much of the help wanting.”
“You’re welcome to make whatever changes you see fit. Mion can likely help you find folk suitable with coin as it is.”
“I’d sooner not have his help or the sight of his face weighing in my mind.”
Rianaire stifled a laugh. Tola continued.
“There is coin enough in the coffers, and even with the harbor shut as it is, trade is firm. Though it’s not mine to do, necessarily, I’ve seen to the food stores as well. They are ample, if less than ideal should the cold run long into Breithe.”
“And the sour news?”
Tola was silent a moment. “I suppose it depends on how you would prefer things handled. Taxes are underpaid almost as a matter of course, if the books I’ve had time to view are to be believed.”
“I mean to raise an army, Tola. They will need rations and pay.”
“Then, there is sour news. For the moment. The coffers are well seen to, for the state of things. A force of any real size will find them wanting.”
Rianaire nodded. “Forgo taxes unpaid past the latest year. But have the guard collect on any owed for the seasons of this one unless it would prove a burden. Any who are able but refuse or argue should be relieved of whatever has worth like to what is owed. Have the criers explain our cause and our need. It should reduce complaint.”
Tola nodded and wrote some notes quickly at the edges of the book in front of him.
“Is there anything more?”
Her Binse looked at one another and decided there was not. They took their leave. It had been painless enough, to her grand surprise. Perhaps a hopeful view of things to come.
Left alone
