'Yes, thank your lord for the way that he has analyzed all elements of the cycle.' The high prince raised his voice above the buzz. 'The seed selection, the fertilization, the water channels, the grain barges, and the pushing back of the harvest of winter wheat to early spring, so that there are two crops a year instead of one. Without his guidance, you all still would be scratching out barely enough to feed yourselves. Instead, you nourish all of Arcadia and, indeed, even baronies across the sea. Tonight in his feasting hall, the millers, the barge captains, the traders, and the grainkeepers all come to pay homage to your lord's great use of craft.'
'And had he not been so clever,' someone shouted, down the line from where Jemidon stood, 'then at least we could have starved with some leisure. As it is now, we toil from sun to sun, and our stomachs growl all the same.'
'You need not avail yourselves of your lord's machinery and arts,' the high prince replied. 'Farm your rented land as you see fit. But if you rely only on the natural climate and soil, your neighbor who gives his labor in exchange for the benefits of the art will have a production that exceeds yours manyfold.'
'And so only the ones who march in step in the cages will be able to pay the increased rents that rise every year,' the man next to Jemidon muttered.
'And once you miss payment, you are trapped as a bondsman and forced to labor just the same as the rest,' a second replied. 'Free or fettered, it makes little difference. We will all be Kenton's in the end.'
'But if you owe nothing at the close of the season, unlike the others, you can leave,' a third said. 'Only if you are in debt are you legally bound.'
'Walk away to what?' The first one spat. 'The plain over the mountains to the east is ruled by a lord, just as is the one here. The walled cities will not admit one who does not have a craft.' He paused and shook his fist. 'A pox on whoever first applied thaumaturgy to the fields. It has tied us to the land far tighter than any edict ever could.'
The hubbub intensified. The high prince stamped his boot for silence, but no one heeded. A few of the men- at-arms pushed the shafts of their spears menacingly into the crowd. The agitation grew. The prince tried to speak once again, but he was drowned out. He paused for a second, then whirled about in disgust and waved his arms for the thaumaturges to follow. Rigidly erect, he marched through the small archway that led from the square and disappeared. The thaumaturges hastily shouldered their way after. In an instant, the square was deserted by the masters.
The men-at-arms became more aggressive in their pokes and jabs. Without any focus for their hostility, the feeling of the crowd ebbed away. The ranks to the rear started to turn. In twos and threes, they stepped back into the alleyways and disappeared. Those in front shouted one last defiance as they retreated into the empty space at their backs. Far more rapidly than it had filled, the square was emptied of everyone except the men-at-arms.
Jemidon frowned. His father had been right. He was no closer to the high prince than he had been at the start. The incantation for the spring harvest had presented no opportunity at all. He could only hope that, if somehow he got into Kenton's keep, his chances would be better. But for that he needed to accompany a grain trader or a miller.
A grain trader or a miller. Anton. Anton was a miller and forever in debt. Yes, that was it. Jemidon touched his full purse. Perhaps his cousin would be receptive to a little transaction to the benefit of both.
The afternoon passed swiftly before Jemidon found his cousin. Anton was as his father described, long on appearances but short of coin. And once the agreement was struck, the rest had been surprisingly easy. As darkness fell, Jemidon found himself in the feasting hall of lord Kenton and mere yards away from the high prince.
But barely an hour had gone by when Anton drained the last of his fifth goblet and waved it over his head to be refilled. With a lurch, he sagged against Jemidon's shoulder.
'You cannot empty the kegs alone, no matter how hard you try,' Jemidon whispered beneath the din. 'Pace yourself, Anton. The bargain was a seat at the table against the gold for a feathered cape. I did not offer to carry you home to your mill.'
'Nor did I agree to hear pious judgments from a freetoiler's son,' Anton slurred. His face was puffy, like rising dough. Beads of sweat trickled down ruddy temples, even though the huge room was cold. 'Had I not the need to dress to catch lord Kenton's eye, a sweet doxy would have been my choice for companion, not a cousin suddenly visiting from afar.'
Jemidon started to reply, but a page arrived with a flagon, and he contented himself with pushing Anton erect. He had far more important things to attend to. For the dozenth time, he looked around the large, rectangular room. All four walls were hung with tapestries from floor to ceiling, with cutouts for high doorways that led to the kitchens beyond. In each corner was a treadmill, a belt of wooden planks tied together with rope and looped around two axles in a tight band. An ambulator sat on each, muscular legs dangling over the sides. Long tables defined the perimeter of a central square. Around the outside edge sat over fifty revelers, eating Kenton's fowl and drinking his wine. The table to the south was slightly higher than the rest, and its center was the focus of Jemidon's attention.
Lord Kenton's loud and commanding presence dwarfed even that of the high prince, who sat on his right. The two men were most unalike. Prince Wilmad's face was thin, like a hatchetfish, and his eyes were set high above a nose that seemed razor-sharp. His head was always tilted slightly back. From under half-closed eyelids, he slowly scanned the room, daring anyone to relieve a majestic boredom. KentorTs face was round, with full cheeks that pushed his eyes into tiny dots. His chin bristled with a two-day growth of beard. After perfunctory wipes of a gravy-laden hand on a soiled surcoat, he was as likely as not to run his fingers through a tangle of jet-black hair. At his left was what looked like doll furniture, an array of tables and chairs, laid out in a scaled-down replica of the feasting hall.
With a booming command, Kenton slammed down his flagon and beckoned the wine steward for more. Pushing aside Wilmad's hand with a laugh, he grabbed the skin from the steward and filled the prince's cup until it overflowed. With what appeared like an afterthought, he splashed a few swallows into his own.
'Do not be so cautious, my liege.' Jemidon strained to catch Kenton's words. 'You are among friends, as safe as in the highest keep in Searoyal. Everyone here is a man of at least some means. Master thaumaturges, barge captains, millers, and sackmakers. The last harvest incantation is done. It is an excuse to enjoy yourself. Even a prince must sometimes indulge in simple pleasure.'
'Our interests in a successful harvest are mutual,' Wilmad said. 'The mood throughout the kingdom would grow more ugly if it fails, I do not deny that. But the whole does not necessarily follow from one of the parts. The crude humor of a misplaced melon peel does not compare with the experiences one can feel on Morgana.'
'Yet what will you do next season, my prince?' Kenton smiled. 'The rumors have it that sorcery is no more. Perhaps it is time now to cultivate new tastes.'
With a wave of his hand, he signaled to the far corner of the room. Jemidon turned to see the ambulator stand up and begin to pace on the treadmill. With a fluid kick, the man picked up speed, pushing the planks under his feet faster and faster. The creak of the boards as they rounded the axles added to the noise drowning out the prince's reply. Jemidon tensed. He knew the ambulators were one of the ways for providing the energy to an incantation. Kenton would not have started one running unless he intended to exercise the art.
'And now let me see,' the lord boomed. 'Who is in most need of stretching his legs to relieve the tedium of the feast?'
A sudden blur of motion streaked by Jemidon's side. He turned just in time to see Anton fall to the floor, his chair tumbling back to the wall.
'Ah, you always were the alert one.' Kenton laughed as the miller struggled to regain his feet. The buzz of conversation transformed into a chorus of laughter as Anton stomped on his new cape and fell again to the ground. Jemidon glanced back at the ambulator and confirmed his suspicion. The man now panted heavily, trying to rebuild the treadmill's speed. And where was the simulation? Jemidon scanned the hall for something that would be related to the chair. When he saw the small model held in Kenton's fingertips, he stopped and nodded. A trivial case of thaumaturgy, but an exercise of the art nonetheless.
'In the wheatlands, it is polite to help one's cousin.' Kenton caught Jemidon's eyes. With a deft motion, the lord flicked another model chair with his thumb. Jemidon felt his own seat scoot away. He grabbed for the tablecloth as he fell and crashed to the floor in a pile of plates, flagons, and spilled food. The laughter increased, and even the tapestries could not muffle the roar.
