Heroes at Odds (45 page)

“What kind of display?” Taro asked.

Bailey merely smiled.

Really, he wasn’t nearly as stoic as stories with characters in his occupation would seem to suggest.

As we followed Bailey through the manor to the rear, it seemed to me that the building felt empty. This was unusual. There were always servants running around, doing things. But I saw and heard nothing. At least, not until we reached the rear entrance.

I’d never seen so many people crammed into the garden, even for the funerals. Whalers, fishers, farmers and tradespeople, with more coming as I watched.

My first reaction was a spurt of panic. What stunt were they pulling now? Hadn’t Fiona been through enough? Couldn’t they just perform their tasks and let Fiona perform hers?

But as I looked at them, trying to pick out angry expressions, wondering who I had to worry about the most, I realized that the mood of the crowd didn’t appear to be hostile. There was a lot of chatter, but no shouting. I couldn’t hear any threats or complaints.

The chatter stopped when Fiona strode into the garden from around the manor. She looked calm, self-assured. I must have been getting to know her rather well, because I could see tension in the way she held her shoulders.

Four people separated from the crowd. Two men, two women, lean with years of hard work. By their tools I determined that they were a whaler, a fisher, a farmer and a tradeswoman. They stood in front of Fiona, about a man’s height away.

“I don’t know what tenants at other estates do,” the whaler announced in a loud voice that still failed to reach all of the spectators. His voice didn’t resonate. “But here, we choose representatives to speak on our behalf in certain situations, mediate disputes, determine where surplus supplies go when there are others in need.”

In other words, some of the responsibilities that were within Fiona’s domain. I would be offended if I were Fiona, but the Duchess’s expression was one of polite interest.

“To be chosen to represent one’s assembly,” the whaler continued, “is a great honor bestowed upon one who is considered by most to be wise and trustworthy. We”—he gestured at the three people beside him—“have been so chosen.”

So, that meant what? Was there some ancient rite enabling tenants of their stature to oust their titleholders?

I was losing my patience with ancient rites.

“Things have been difficult,” the whaler said. “We have lost lives, homes and produce. We are angry. We have held you responsible for our misfortunes.”

Which was wrong, in my opinion, but Fiona merely nodded, as though she were willing to accept the charge.

“Although many of us have struggled with the idea of someone who is not a Karish governing this land, we are forced to concede to Source Karish’s argument, that the most recent of Karish titleholders did not shoulder their responsibilities as they should have, and that it is because of this lack that we have felt forced to create our own means to govern ourselves.”

The whaler looked down at the head spade in his hands. “We all have great respect for Source Karish. He has demonstrated he is an able Source, and he has been willing to engage in tasks outside of his regular duties.” The whaler suddenly grinned. “He even tried his hand at whaling, though his efforts were less than adept.”

Many in the crowd chuckled. Taro accepted the ribbing with grace. It wasn’t as though he had wanted to learn to hunt whales. He thought the pursuit dangerous and insane.

“But Source Karish wasn’t raised here. Not truly. We are aware he was given no exposure to the tasks and demands of running the estate. We are aware that being called to the Source Academy has greater significance than merely being called to the Source Academy, that it severs family ties and responsibilities. That you then refused the title”—the whaler gave Taro a bit of a hard look, which suggested to me he still hadn’t quite forgiven my Source for his decisions—“is also, we think, more than just a choice; it had far-reaching effects. Effects that can’t be reversed.”

Couldn’t they? If Fiona decided she no longer wanted the Westsea title, she could give it to Taro, couldn’t she? Or was there something else going on that I knew nothing about?

“We have to concede that we have no reason to believe similar events wouldn’t have occurred if Source Karish had taken the title, and great reason to believe that perhaps he might not have been able to address those events effectively.”

This time, the look the whaler sent Taro was apologetic. Taro raised his hand slightly and shook his head. No hard feelings.

“Given these circumstances . . .” He stepped closer to Fiona, holding out his spade in both hands, horizontally, as though he were offering a sword or a scepter. “We welcome you, Your Grace, to our lives and homes.”

Fiona accepted the spade with the same spirit of solemnity in which it had been offered.

I smiled. This was good.

The whaler bowed and stepped back, and the fisher stepped forward, offering her fishing gaff with both hands. “We welcome you, Your Grace, to our lives and homes.”

A little awkwardly, Fiona balanced the spade on her forearms so she could accept the gaff.

The farmer offered a goad. “We welcome you, Your Grace, to our lives and homes.”

This was so much more meaningful than the oath of fealty they had sworn not long ago. Then, they had merely complied with Fiona’s demands. This, this was something the tenants had devised, had offered up on their own initiative. This was fantastic.

The tradeswoman’s offering was a mallet.

Fiona managed to hold all of these implements without looking ridiculous. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m honored with your trust.”

Not the prettiest rhetoric I had ever heard, but it seemed to satisfy everyone.

I felt like applauding.

And I experienced a feeling of settlement that I hadn’t even noticed I’d been lacking since coming to Flown Raven. It was nice.

Imperial Guards arrived a few days later, to pick up Kent and his casters. I hadn’t gone near Kent during his incarceration. I had been told he’d spent hours shouting threats, then promises. He’d tried to starve himself, but had broken down once he was hungry enough. He’d tried to hang himself but had only rendered himself unconscious by the time he was discovered. At that point, apparently, he’d lost all will to do anything, leaving the various tools in the tack room untouched.

Good. I didn’t care. He deserved to have the worst life could throw at him.

As for the casters, they had spent much of their incarceration gagged. That couldn’t have been pleasant. It must have been effective, though, for I heard nothing of them managing to cast any spells.

No one hung around to watch the Guards take Kent and his casters. The Guards sent to investigate the use of casting in Flown Raven had been arrogant and condescending and stupid, and they’d tried to flog Browne. No one wanted to attract the attention of these Guards.

Having Kent gone, that made everything seem a little more settled, too.

I couldn’t get too comfortable, though. We still hadn’t heard anything from the Triple S. Word of what Taro had done had surely made it back to them, but days passed without a single piece of correspondence from them. I didn’t know what that meant. Maybe they didn’t believe what they were told. Maybe they did, but had more important things to worry about. Maybe all of the councilors had died and the resulting chaos meant the information had been lost. I didn’t know, and I hated that.

And then, so quickly, it was the day of the wedding. I almost couldn’t believe it. The idea of it was just so bizarre. I’d never thought I’d ever do anything like this. And it was yet another ritual. I hated rituals.

At least everyone had agreed to cut the three-day ceremony to something under a few hours. Less demanding, and less to go wrong.

Except, that morning, when I put on the dress, I found it didn’t fit.

It was a lovely gown, more elaborate than any I’d ever worn. The green sleeves fell over my wrists and hung to the floor, wildly impractical. The neckline was nice and high, a simple collar around my throat. The bodice was supposed to wrap closely around my torso from neck to lower stomach and the small of my back. The front of the skirt fell to my feet, while the back trailed several useless feet behind me.

The most astonishing thing about the dress was the intricate embroidery covering the front panel and flowing down in a few lines along the sleeves and the skirt. I couldn’t imagine how it had been stitched so quickly. The thread was white, and had clearly been inspired by the design of my white Shield’s braid. It was the first time I’d worn clothing that wasn’t marred, in some way, by my braid.

It was a lovely dress, and it didn’t fit. The bodice was hanging noticeably loose.

“How is this possible?” I pressed the front panel to my stomach. “He just made this. He measured it only a few days ago.” Though, now that I thought about it, I remembered it had felt just the slightest bit loose then. I hadn’t told the dressmaker. I had wanted to be able to breathe on my wedding day. Fainting would be undignified.

“You haven’t been eating much, the past couple of weeks,” Taro said.

He was wearing a black tunic, black trousers, black boots. He had also had a cape inflicted on him, green silk, pinned to his right shoulder with one silver broach and to the left side of his waist with another. It looked a little ridiculous, poor man.

“It’s not like I’ve been starving myself.”

“You’ve practically been living off coffee and tree tears.”

Hm. Unfortunately, the dress didn’t look nearly as good hanging as loose as it did. But there was nothing to be done about it.

“Your hair looks sleek.”

Hester had skill with dressing hair. The shape of my face meant having all of my hair tied back wasn’t flattering. What she had done was smooth most of it into a coil at the back of my head, with the locks closest to my face left free to fall in the lazy curls she had burnt into it. It didn’t look too bad.

“Should I tell you that yours does, too?” I asked him. “It always does.”

He just shrugged. Usually, he didn’t care to hear compliments from me when it came to his looks, though he showed no difficulty in accepting them from others. Someday, perhaps, I would ask him why.

As ready as we were going to be, we went down to Fiona’s office, to tell her it was time to start the fiasco. We found her staring at a letter, looking shocked.

“What’s wrong?” Taro demanded sharply.

“Nothing,” she answered almost absentmindedly.

“Oh,” said Taro, a little confused, like he’d been ready to charge to her rescue and was surprised to learn it wasn’t necessary.

“This is from the Emperor.” She raised the letter a little.

“He didn’t take the title from you, did he?” I demanded abruptly.

She chuckled, but it was a short sound of derision. “The opposite. He’s given me Kent.”

I thought about that for a few moments, but thought didn’t make it any less confusing. “That doesn’t make sense.” The Emperor didn’t like Fiona. Why would he give her a new estate without demanding she hand in the old?

“He’s collapsed Centerfield, Westsea, and Kent into one estate,” Fiona added.

“What does that mean?”

“There are a whole lot of legal implications,” she said. “Mostly, it just means there’s only one title for all of them. I’m not the Countess of Kent. My Centerfield title no longer exists. I’m just the Duchess of Westsea, and Westsea covers all of the estates. I can speak with only one voice at council. All estates will be taxed identically. And so on.”

“But why would he do that?” Taro asked.

A whole slew of disparate pieces of information fell into place. “The Emperor isn’t after you to take the title anymore,” I said to Taro. “It was your—it was the Dowager who wanted you to have the title. And now—” She was dead.

“All right, he doesn’t care about the Westsea title,” said Fiona. “That doesn’t explain why he’s willing to give Kent to me.”

“The Earl didn’t have an heir,” Taro reminded her.

A lot of titleholders didn’t bother with heirs, it seemed to me. Shortsighted.

“The logical thing,” said Fiona, “would have been to give it to one of his cronies. Unless . . .”

And she said nothing more.

“Unless what?” Taro prodded.

“The Earl was right. I haven’t been paying enough attention to the maneuvering in the court at Erstwhile. There’s a reason Gifford is giving Kent to me; it’s to his advantage in some way. But I don’t know what that is.”

“You could refuse to take the earldom, couldn’t you?” I asked.

Fiona snickered. “Why would I do that?”

And my understanding of Fiona took a sharp step to the left. She wanted the earldom, regardless of the difficulties it might bring. That was surprising. And disheartening.

But the largest part of my mind didn’t care. The most important effect of the Emperor’s decision was that, finally, Taro would be left alone. Finally.

Fiona let the letter drift back to her desk. “Well, then,” she said in a brighter tone. “It’s time to get you two married.” Then she frowned at me. “Do you need to get that dress adjusted a bit?”

“I’d rather not take the time.” I just wanted to get the whole spectacle over with.

She shrugged. “Let’s get it started, then.”

A lot of effort had been put to arranging the garden into a traditional wedding arena. A large circle was outlined with thousands of tiny white rocks, into which had been mixed tiny shards of black sea shells. White sand was sprinkled within the circle. From the same finicky process, two paths had been created, stretching from the outer edge of the garden to the edge of the circle.

To one side there was a collection of white tables and chairs where guests would be emptying Fiona’s barrels and larder. Musicians were already playing nice bland music that was unlikely to make me crazy in front of everyone. The spectators—a lot of them, servants and tenants and local aristocrats—were already arranged between the paths.