Jemidon looked about the interior of the hut. The painful memories bubbled forth. The little cot was no longer against the wall, but the image of his sister was bright and firm. He clutched the brandel about his neck and for a moment swayed from the rush of emotion. He thought of his decision in Pluton and tried to hold firm to why he was going on. 'I return with the means to see you away to something better,' he said evenly. 'A vaultholder from Pluton gave me a full purse before I journeyed here.'
Jemilor looked critically at Jemidon's dress. 'A merchant, then,' he said softly after a long while. 'A partner in some trade with the islands. Perhaps it would not be so bad. As long as you managed well, you probably would fare better than your cousin Anton. He runs a mill now, but is forever in debt, trying to maintain lordly airs.' Jemilor rubbed his hand along his chin. 'Yes, it might be possible. These purses you receive-how often does one come and how many coppers does it contain? Do you have a chance of increasing your share if your work is good?'
Jemidon turned his head aside. 'I refused the offer,' he answered slowly. 'The one purse was a gift. There will be no more.'
'A single purse.' Jemilor's tone regained its harsh edge. 'A single purse for fine capes and expensive leggings. And, no doubt, for fancy meals and down-filled beds as well. After it is gone, do you plan to labor seven more years to get another?'
'No,' Jemidon said. 'I plan for my next reward to come much sooner. I have tracked the high prince here to warn him of great peril, if I can unravel its true cause as well, then the robe of the master may yet be mine.'
'The high prince!' Jemilor snorted. 'It is true enough that he is here. He shares the bounty of the village's labor with lord Kenton in his castle on the rise.'
'For nearly two months, I have been following his party,' Jemidon said, 'up the river from Searoyal harbor and through the midland baronies to the central plains. I just missed him at lord Burdon's as it is.'
'Burdon has accompanied the prince to Kenton's keep,' Jemilor said. 'But the movements of the nobility do not matter. You are as likely to audience with the prince there as he is to grace my hearth here in the village.'
'He will lead the incantation for the spring harvest in the square tomorrow. The winter wheat is to be reaped despite the lingering cold. I hope to have a chance to speak to him then.'
'And he feasts with Kenton in the keep come nightfall, as well. But in either case, what will you say to the thaumaturges who will block your path?'
'I will talk to them with these.' Jemidon growled. The desire for forgiveness suddenly no longer mattered. If his father could be so unyielding at every turn, then so could he. He reached under his cloak and withdrew his purse. Reaching inside, he scooped out two gold brandels and threw them at his father's feet. 'Use them for firewood,' he said as he turned to leave. 'Perhaps they will warm more than the air in the room.'
Jemidon grimaced as the butt end of the spear jabbed into his back. All morning he had simmered over his father's treatment the day before. And now he had wanted to wait until the incantation was finished before approaching the high prince. But the men-at-arms made it clear that it would do no good to protest. Everyone was to watch. Packed shoulder to shoulder with the others, he shuffled forward against the line in front.
Jemidon had been herded into the south end of the square, well away from the high prince and the double row of thaumaturges who flanked him on both sides. He looked around the familiar sights of his childhood and saw the same rough-hewn boards showing through blistered paint, the tattered awnings flapping limply over empty storefronts, and the drab signs that signaled little commerce and even less life. Only the thaumaturges carried an air of freshness. The morning sun filtered through tiny clouds to cast pale shadows of their crisply pressed robes on the cobbles of the square. A hint of wind from the west shook their hems as they moved toward the central fountain in stately cadence.
The high prince wore the robe of a master, although Jemidon knew that it was only a courtesy for the sake of tradition. The thaumaturges would speak the incantations and invoke the words of power. The prince was an actor, miming the motions for gullible subjects, and no more.
He was not the one who brought the crop to ripening at the desired time. It would mature as the thaumaturges directed, whether he gave his benediction or not.
Jemidon stood on tiptoe to see over the shoulder of the villager in front. He saw the procession stop its march next to a huge, banded candle. The tallow column was an alternation of white and gray disks that towered well above the tallest head. On the prince's signal, a journeyman climbed a ladder to light the wick. With the first spark, it burst into flame. Faster than one would have expected, the topmost layer burned away.
'Less than a minute for a full day,' the swarthy man on Jemidon's left grunted to his comrade. 'They will have to move quickly to ensure that each field is serviced at the proper time.'
As the candle began to consume the second layer, the master thaumaturges broke from their precise line and scattered around the courtyard. Each ran to position himself in front of an earthen pot from which sprouted a single long stalk of golden wheat. They began chanting a nonsense harmony, a complicated sequence of phrases and syllables that meant nothing to the untrained ear and disguised the words of power when they were spoken.
While the candle burned through the second layer, the journeyman scampered to the thaumaturge the farthest distance away. He carried a giant lens, and the master grabbed it from his hands when he approached. Carefully judging the distance and angles, the thaumaturge focused the sun's rays onto the ripening plant. Jemidon heard him grunt with satisfaction as a small billow of steam almost instantly snaked upward from the drying grain. The master handed the lens back to the journeyman and extracted the kernels, one by one, from the tassel of the tall grass.
As the candle wick began to expose the next level, the journeyman darted back across the square to another waiting master on the other side. The same steps were repeated with the second, while the first thaumaturge recited a solo incantation and then sat on the ground, his task done.
One by one, the masters tended to their singular crops, each one acting within the time span specified by the melting of a single band of wax. When the last was completed, nothing remained of the rapidly burning taper. All the masters focused their attention on the high prince.
'The rocky ground to the east.' The man on Jemidon's left spoke again. 'They ripen those fields last because Ocanar and Pelinad are so near. If any fields are to be sacrificed, they will be those.'
'Pelinad and Ocanar will be far away when the harvest starts tomorrow,' another said in reply. 'A large troop presses upriver from Searoyal at the high prince's command. Lord Kenton has convinced him that the threat is more than a brigand's idle boast.'
'Yes, that it will be,' the first growled, rubbing his stomach. 'Kenton again has increased his rents, and the late warming will mean the yield is poor. They call us freetoilers, but the margin between that and bondsmen has grown exceedingly thin. Pelinad might find many more in his camp.'
'Pelinad!' The other snorted. 'It would be a shame if any of stout heart hearkened to his banner. It is to Ocanar that the support must come. Of the two, only he has the wits to give the high prince any cause for alarm.'
'Yes, wits and craft enough to barter his own daughter for advantage, if he saw the need,' the first said. 'And if he were to win, then for us it would be no better. Kenton or Ocanar, to tithe to one lord is as good as to another.'
'You mention a troop from Searoyal,' Jemidon interrupted. 'Do you know the names of any who make the trip? Is there a Melizar as well as men-at-arms?'
The two men abruptly stopped speaking and looked at Jemidon critically. 'The cape is not the fashion here,' the first one muttered. 'Not one of our own.' The second nodded. 'He should ask our good lord himself at the feast tonight. The one to which no freetoiler is invited.'
Jemidon frowned. Perhaps a bribe would help. He reached for his purse, but stopped as the words of the high prince echoed across the square.
'Freetoilers of Arcadia,' the booming voice said, 'again the nobility has granted you a boon. Again you will harvest fine crops from the plots scattered around your fair plain. And again the wheat will mature and ripen in the proper sequence so that none is spoiled while waiting the thrasher's flails. Rejoice in your good fortune. Exult in the high yields. Thank the graciousness of your lord Kenton that you have the means to be, not slaves, but free.'
At the mention of Kenton's name, a low murmur started in the crowd, and the men-at-arms straightened from their slouches to a state of alert,
