Warlord

Beside him Stanson whispered sotto voce; with the acoustics in here, you could do that pretty safely.

'Yeah, talk to Tzetzas and you're done, the way the monkey did the miller's wife.'

Raj made a noncommittal grunt; there were some people it was never safe to talk about.

'But my lord!' the petitioner wailed, dropping the package of documents. 'He-the Honorable Chancellor-he owns the firms that have been delaying delivery of the construction materials!'

'Are you making allegations about my Chancellor? Perhaps you question my judgment, my uncle His Supremacy's judgment?'

'No, Your Exaltedness,' the man whispered.

Barholm smiled like a wardog in a butcher's shop. 'Well, move along then. As you mentioned, Chancellor Tzetzas has extensive interests in enterprises dedicated to the upbuilding of the State and the furtherance of the designs of Spirit of Man. Perhaps you could arrange a loan.'

observe.

* * *

. . and a banker in a skullcap was handing over deeds in a small office richly paneled in Zanj ebony, eyes cold with distaste as Tzetzas riffled through them. The gaslights glittered on the elaborate seals.

'And with these as security, I'm sure the further loan to His Exaltedness will go through at, oh, half of prime.' Silence, then: 'Unless, Joshua, you feel that you should join your compatriots in buying the forced war bond? Granted that it pays no interest at all, but given the Church's position on nonbelievers. . '

* * *

Stanson nudged his foot, less likely to be seen. 'What's that funny shimmer in front of your eyes?' he said.

Shut up, Raj said mentally. Whispering: 'Quiet.'

The other Guardsman shrugged slightly; Raj knew Stanson thought-what was the phrase he'd used-that Raj Whitehall had a serious pickle up the ass, and was too freshly down from the Descott hills. And I think he's a fop who feels his birth puts him above discipline. Not that it would be wise to say it; Stanson had killed four men in duels, and Raj had better things to do with his time than learn how to be a duelist-gunman. Now, with a saber it might be interesting. .

The next petitioners were complaining about the tax formers in their district; everyone expected them to squeeze-that was where their profit came from, the difference between what they bid for the district to the government and what they could collect from the populace-but these were supposedly stripping productive assets, not just money and goods.

observe.

* * *

A peasant stood in the furrows, watching gape-jawed as the tax-farmer's men walked away with the oxen, and the plow itself for good measure. A typical low country peon in a rough linen tunic of unbleached fabric, his beard reaching to his chest and half his teeth gone. Middle-aged even at the thirty he looked to be, with a burlap sack wrapped around his head against the gray slanting rain and more rags about his feet. The animals bawled in panic, their great brown eyes rolling. It must be a more than usually prosperous farm, to afford a team so sturdy. At the sound the peasant seemed to shake himself, take a few lumbering paces forward.

''are!' he said. ''are, wait nu, Oi've t' barley t'git in, y'kenna tek-'

The leader of the tax collectors was mounted on a fine black Alsatian, fifteen hands at the shoulder, whose bridle did not include the usual steel-cage muzzle. He was armed as well, pistol and shotgun, but he made no move toward the weapons; the dog half-turned, baring finger-long teeth and rumbling like thunder in the deep chest. The peon stopped, well out of snapping range, and stood with his fists clenched in impotent rage. The mounted man rode closer, the dog's feet sinking deep in the wet plowed earth; then he leaned over and slashed the peasant across the face with his crop.

'Well, then tell your master to pay his taxes, you clod! The oxen first, and your brats next year. Twenty pieces of silver, or two hundred bushels of corn, or a bale of first-grade tobacco; that's the assessment on this plot.'

Raj's lips tightened.

action by the Vice-Governor.

* * *

The tax collector, face covered with tears and mucus as soldiers cut him down from the flogging triangle. Wagons unloading china and silverware at a small manor house, with the squire's lady bustling about giving sharp- voiced directions:

'Watch tha clod feet, ninny! Like enough half is stolen nor broke already!'

Movement: the peasant looking up, an incredulous gap-toothed grin on his face as he dropped the rope over his shoulder and ran toward the gravel-surfaced road where gendarmes lead his plow team. He had been pulling the plow, his wife beside him, shapeless in her rags with a face as wrinkled as a winter apple, and a half-grown boy holding the handles.

action by the Chancellor.

* * *

Nothing but the peasant's face, bent beside his wife's as they strained against the ropes. Their breathing sounded deep and labored, and their feet made wet sucking sounds as they came free of the mud, carrying twenty-pound lumps at each step.

* * *

Barholm made a slight gesture, the usher said, 'Take your petition to the Honorable Chancellor, good sirs.'

The next two petitions were for leave to exercise eminent domain; one for an ox-powered railway to bring marble to the coast, down on the Kolobassa peninsula, another to build a reservoir and canal system on the edge of the southern desert, in the foothills of the Oxheads. Both approved, and sent to the Minister of Writs and Sessions. Real action, Raj thought dryly. Well, even Tzetzas can't steal everything.

'Your Exaltedness.'

A crisp military bow from this man; in conservative landowner's Court dress, his plain blue robe showing the tips of riding boots polished but worn. There were places worn shiny on his belt, as well, where a holster and saber-tache would hook. A thin eagle face, black eyes above high cheeks and a nose hooked enough for a Colonist or a Descotter. The usher brayed:

'Messer Mustaf Agrood Naxim, Hereditary Watch-keeper of Deep Fountain, County of Sna Barbra.'

Raj pricked up a soldier's ears. That was on the upper Drangosh River, far to the southeast, not a hundred kilometers from Sandoral. On the border of territory controlled by the Colony, and yes, the man had the look of a borderer.

'My lord,' Naxim said briskly. 'The blessings of the Spirit of Man of the Stars be upon you.' The border folk were notoriously orthodox. 'Your wisdom-and that of His Supremacy, of course-is our shield. Yet Your Exaltedness cannot be everywhere, and it is my duty to tell you that your servants have been shamefully neglectful on the frontiers of my county. Within the last year, two villages on my lands alone. .'

'Bandits are your responsibility, man,' Barholm said impatiently.

Naxim lowered his eyes and continued. 'My lord, these are no bandits, they are regular troops of the Colony and household retainers of Colonial noblemen, acting under orders. They brought artillery on the last raid! My lord, they burn and kill and carry off free folk as slaves. They trample the irrigation canals and cut down orchards to let in the desert! Those farmers are Your Exaltedness's barrier against the Muslim, and. .'

'And you are authorized to fortify your manors and raise a militia for exactly that purpose,' Barholm said. 'The Civil Government remits taxes to the extent of. . how much?'

The Minister of Finance turned to confer with his aids. Tzetzas' voice came smooth as water over tile in a courtyard garden. 'To the extent. . this is for the County of Sna Barbra alone, Your Exaltedness. . of fifty thousand silver credits annually. That is the land tax; adding in the loss of the hearth tax, poll tax, salt monopoly, excise tax, water rates, billeting and tax-in-kind for garrisons, assumption tax. . as much again, my lord.'