Pathfinder Tales: The Crusader Road, Page 2
Michael A. Stackpole
"In case you wish to hit me as well? Or perhaps Garath's get will do it. Not your daughter. Your son, maybe?" Blackshield stared past Tyressa at Jerrad. "For him, it would be five. And only if he hit me twice."
Jerrad ducked his head, cringing, his shoulders rising.
Tyressa moved to eclipse Blackshield. "Touch either of my children and you get two coins. One for each eye as they lower you into a grave."
"Ah, the Vishov temper—that which got your brother into trouble. Very good. Now that's we've shed pretense, perhaps we can reach agreement." Blackshield began to pace. "Your Silverlake will send all goods through Thornkeep. There will be a ten percent transfer tax—and our assessors will determine the value of the items."
"Seven percent, and I only pay on what is delivered to Silverlake. Theft and wastage prior to arrival are not taxed. I also reserve the right to hunt down bandits and their associates who steal from me. Their antics will profit neither of us."
"Eight and a half, and I believe banditry can be curbed."
"Agreed." Jerrad's mother tapped a finger against her chin. "Is anyone here worthy of their hire? Talented artisans?"
"I know you don't mean to disparage my citizens."
"I beg your pardon. The question stands."
"Cranstin can locate laborers. You'll pay him, he will pay them."
"Will he supervise?"
"He will send someone." Blackshield's smile broadened. "You'll want lumber. You can negotiate with the timber men yourself. Enjoy it. If you were wise, you'd build your own lumber mill. Then you would be a good trading partner."
"I shall take that under advisement." Tyressa lowered her hand. "Will the harvest be good this year, or shall I have to send to Ustalav for provisions?"
"That would be a wise course regardless." Blackshield folded his arms over his chest. "The land is fertile, but little is cleared—before or after planting."
"I'm not certain I understand."
"This I will give you for nothing, Tyressa of Silverlake: These lands have woven into them Azlanti sorceries. The where of big things—like rivers, lakes, and towns—is simple, but all else is confusing. Perhaps, when a child, you played a game where you spun about quickly, then tried to chase after another. You knew where you wanted to go, but could not get there."
He spread his arms wide. "So it is here. Farmers may clear land, plant it, but then never find it again. This is what makes the timbermen so prickly. They harvest a hillside, create a wood yard, and yet it hides itself. Not always malignly—often playfully—but frustrating regardless."
Tyressa glanced up at the gallery of animal heads. "I should think that would make hunting especially difficult."
"I've found the magic quite accommodating when it comes to bloodletting." Blackshield smiled slowly. "Blissfully accommodating."
Jerrad shivered first at the joy in the man's voice, but more as he considered the enchantments Blackshield described. The Vishov estates in Ustalav had been in the family for centuries, and Jerrad had spent a lot of time alone wandering through field and forest. He'd spent hours and days drawing maps and writing up stories of what had happened there. The idea that a land could be essentially unmappable intrigued and terrified him.
If I were to get lost ...The prospect frightened him, yet not as much as the idea of someone like Blackshield hunting him. Jerrad got the distinct feeling the man would revel in the chase first, and consider the consequences of killing him later. Much later. If at all.
"We shall do our best to make certain our people don't wander off. There will be enough work at Silverlake to keep them close. Is it worth creating a fishery?"
"Yes, do that, if you're able." Blackshield stared at her for a handful of heartbeats, then stroked his chin with a hand. "There are rules, Tyressa. Abide by them, and we need have little trouble—trouble of the sort which accountants cannot repair."
"Please, my lord."
"You'd do well to keep shy of the Broken Men. Your husband led brave men to the Worldwound. Broken Men are soldiers the Crusades destroyed, but did not kill—not all the way. Many are scarred, but not all demon-caused scars are visible. There are camps of these men out there. Leave them alone and they'll pass you by."
He raised a finger. "The primary rule, and one which carries dire consequences for all who violate it, is this: stay away from Mosswater. Ignore the tales of riches to be found in that ruin of a settlement. The ogres took the town fifty years ago and are not inclined to give it up. They patrol constantly and guard it jealously. They have been known to strike at those who disturb them. The last thing any of us want is to earn their ire."
Tyressa nodded. "I understand, my lord. I appreciate the warnings, and will see to it that no one violates Mosswater."
"Good." Blackshield's eyes narrowed. "I believe, then, we have but one last issue to settle. That would be the matter of tribute."
"Indeed. Your thoughts on the matter, my lord?"
"I thought two hundred gold a month would be suitable."
Tyressa bowed her head for a second. "Baron Blackshield is most generous."
"Am I? We can't have that." Blackshield smiled at Jerrad's mother. "Three hundred, then, the first installment due now, shall we say?"
"Excellent, my lord." Tyressa's head came up. "And you will deliver further tribute to us at Silverlake, then?"
Blackshield's backhanded slap spun Tyressa around and down to a knee. "Insolent cow!"
Mother!
Lord Sunnock sought to protest, but a kick to his breastbone dropped him onto his back.
"You dare demand tribute from me?"
Jerrad ran forward, skidding to his knees beside his mother. "Leave her alone!"
Blackshield snorted. "So, the boy emerges from his mother's shadow. Not a good time to grow a spine, child. Echo Wood will rip it right out of you."
Jerrad did his best to ignore Blackshield and hoped his involuntary shiver didn't betray him. He rested hands on his mother's shoulders. "Are you hurt?"
"No, pet." Tyressa's left hand covered her cheek, but could not hide the blood from her split lip.
Jerrad turned quickly, his fists balling, but stumbled and fell beside his mother.
Blackshield's cold laughter filled the chamber. "Oh, the Vishovs have fallen even further than I could have imagined. I suppose you would have me admire your arrogance, but it's as hollow and rotten as your family's future. A daughter cowers, and this one, your husband's weak seed, comforts you, then collapses when he turns to face me. Clearly it was not friendship that prompted the prince to send you east. He pitied you."
Jerrad started to rise, but Tyressa grabbed his left arm. "No."
"That's right, boy, listen to her. I would not visit more humiliation upon you tonight, save that you give me cause." Blackshield snorted. "Did we say three hundred? Four, I think, and if gold is scarce, it can be taken in trade."
Tyressa rose slowly, smearing blood over her chin with a hand. "Four it shall be then, and you will pay.»
Blackshield raised his hand again. "'Ware, woman, lest your deafness cost you even more."
Tyressa's eyes tightened. "Here is why you will pay, my lord: You remember that Thornkeep was created by Antun Druscor. Lord Sunnock here can bore you with the family history, since the Creelisks are related to the Druscors—as, obviously, is your wife. Of import is the fact that only ninety years ago did the holding pass from the hands of an Ustalavic lord. After you took possession, you came to Ustalav, shopping for a wife with a specific pedigree. Through Ivis's Druscor blood, you've legitimized your claim to this holding.
"The prince is aware of this. He is likewise aware that the Druscors have never paid taxes or tribute, or even showed common courtesy to Ustalavic envoys and citizens. Your own experience with my husband is proof enough of that. But the prince's patience has run out. I have but fifteen soldiers. The prince has fifteen thousand. Do you really wish him to lay siege to your home?"
Blackshield's hand slowly fell. "You're bluffing."<
br />
"You have choices, Baron. You can believe whatever your wife has told you of me—and I'm certain no matter what she's said, she never said I was either stupid or out of favor with the prince. You can believe what was written in that fictional tripe and accept that the prince and I were lovers and that Jerrad here is his son." Tyressa shrugged. "It matters not what you believe, save that you understand that the prince has as much at stake in my success as my family does. If you or Thornkeep prove an impediment to Silverlake's success, do you imagine Ustalav's finest soldiers would hesitate to level your home?"
Emotions flashed over the man's face faster than Jerrad could read. Blackshield clearly didn't like what he was hearing, but he couldn't dismiss it out of hand. Tyressa had struck a nerve when she revealed Blackshield's true motive for marrying Lady Ivis. More importantly, it struck Jerrad, Blackshield wasn't used to someone standing up to him so directly. He wasn't sure how to react to that.
"It would seem, Tyressa of Silverlake, mistakes and misapprehensions have clouded our discussions. This issue of tribute should be mooted for the nonce."
"It's clearly too important a point to be disposed of quickly."
"My thoughts exactly." Blackshield spun and seated himself again on his throne. "Cranstin shall draw up an agreement on the other points we discussed and present it to you in the morning. Until then, I hope you'll enjoy Thornkeep's hospitality."
"Given the taste of it I've had already, my lord, I'm certain it is a place of infinite surprises. Good evening to you. And you, Lady Ivis. When the time comes for you to visit," Tyressa said, her tongue tip probing her split lip, " I'm certain you'll find Silverlake equally inviting."
paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas
Chapter Two
Unexpected Danger
Sleep had teased Jerrad and nightmares had ambushed him. All the animals from the walls had chased him. He scurried hither and thither like a mouse, yet they found him. Each creature backhanded him, spinning him around and bouncing him off walls. He woke countless times with a start, then forced himself to get back to sleep. He didn't want his mother worrying that his night had been less than restful.
She has enough to concern her.
It hadn't helped at all that Baron Blackshield had provided accommodations in a part of the barracks wing of his keep. The holed roof meant the large hall served better as a cistern during the rain than it did as dry quarters. The Vishov party pitched tents as best they could within the wing, and soldiers took turns in the castle grounds to make sure their supplies and livestock didn't get borrowed during the night.
Whenever he did finally get to sleep, all Jerrad saw was Baron Blackshield slapping his mother. As she fell, spittle and blood spraying, Jerrad got a good look at the pure delight on Lady Ivis's face. During their journey from Ustalav he'd seen plenty of people happy that they were going, but it hadn't been the same. Those people were pleased that traitors were paying a price. Their disapproval was born from their love for Prince and country.
With Lady Ivis, it was purely personal. Jerrad couldn't understand that. He'd never seen his mother act cruelly to anyone—unless they'd earned her ire, that was. He couldn't believe she could have done anything to hurt Ivis that much, but supposed it was possible. Adults had ways of feeling slights and bearing grudges that he couldn't really comprehend.
His sister snarled furiously—proving she was closer to being an adult than he wanted to give her credit for. She emerged from a large tent, her blonde hair tangled, a comb buried deep in her locks. She glanced about, clearly expecting to be the center of attention, and her eyes narrowed as the servants all wisely avoided her gaze and continued working.
He hoped she'd find her maidservant, Aneska, before she saw him, but luck was not with him. "You, Mouse! This is all your fault!"
Jerrad swallowed. "No it's not."
"It is. Every bit of it." She tugged at her comb, and when it wouldn't slide through her hair, she slowly drew it out as if a dagger emerging from a sheath. "If not for your nattering on about the history of Thornkeep and its curious political situation, we never would have stopped here. It never would have rained. I never would have been frozen in this wet tent and my hair wouldn't be tangled. All. Your. Fault!"
"But I didn't!"
She pointed the comb at him. "Don't try to squirm out, Mouse."
"I'm not." Jerrad cringed out of habit, and hated himself for it. He looked around, hoping someone would come to his rescue, or that a lightning bolt running late for the previous night's storm might just flash through the roof and kill him. "I don't even know what you're talking about."
"No, of course not. You read all the time. You always show off how smart you are, but when it counts, you're worthless." Her face—which others said was very pretty—puckered sourly. "You want to know the real reason we stopped here? Do you?"
Jerrad blinked.
"Serra, be quiet now."
"No, Mother. He has to know." Serrana turned back to him, venom filling her gaze. "We stopped her because mother thinks the wilderness will be too tough on you. Because you're a weakling. A mouse. You're nothing like my father!"
Jerrad's jaw dropped open, but he said nothing. He couldn't speak past the lump in his throat. Why can't the earth just swallow me up? He snapped his mouth shut, grinding his teeth and willing himself not to cry.
"Serrana Aleksandra Viktoria Vishov, you will apologize now!"
"No! I hate this place. I want to go home."
Tyressa, head held high, ignoring the stares from servants, strode briskly toward her daughter. "One more outburst, young woman, and all of your gowns and combs and ribbons and mirrors—every bit of finery you own—will be packed up and dumped in the river to float home."
Serrana's nostril's flared. "Every bit? Most of it is back there now!"
"You're not going with it, no matter how beastly you act." Tyressa matched her daughter's hard stare, and Serrana retreated just a little. "You call Jerrad a weakling, but last night he advanced where you recoiled. He may not be his father—but at his age, Garath wasn't the man he'd become either. More importantly, your antics would sorely disappoint your father. They're unworthy of him and the Vishov family. Do you understand that?"
Serrana stared at the dark wooden floor. "Yes, Mother."
Tyressa looked over at Jerrad. "Your things are packed, I see. You should take them out to the pack animals. We'll be leaving for Silverlake by noon. Return by then."
Jerrad nodded and retreated as quickly as he could. Holding tears back while in his mother's shadow hadn't been easy, but he'd managed it for her sake. She has enough to be worried about. He hung a bedroll, small pack, and folded ground cloth over his shoulder, then scrambled out through a narrow doorway into the castle's courtyard.
Though he was pretty sure he'd never get used to his sister's tantrums, he did his best to understand them. Serra had always been smart, and she applied her smarts in ways that charmed most people, but concealed a hint of cruelty. He saw the cruelty more often than anyone. His mother had told him that his uncle had always teased her, too—that was just the way of brothers and sisters. No matter what, however, blood was blood, and Tyressa convinced him that Serrana would defend him and the family when things got difficult.
The trip east made that idea almost impossible to believe. Serrana had always been a creature of court. She delighted in gossip and intrigues. She devoured Ailson Kindler novels, and easily imagined herself as the heroine of those gothic tales. Then their uncle was arrested and hung, and Ailson Kindler turned on the family. Disgrace flowed into exile, crushing Serrana and stealing her from the only world she'd known.
For Jerrad, who'd always been quiet and solitary, the move east was just one big adventure. He told himself that every single day. It wasn't that he didn't miss Ustalav. He did, but that was because he knew how to hide well there. He could stay out of trouble pretty easily. Shouldn't be that hard to do that here—if I can't lose myself
, the wood will do that for me.
Serra loved being the center of attention. She'd been that at court, but the expedition came with priorities higher than gossip and noticing her. This had become ever more apparent every mile from Ustalav, and she'd not taken it well. The morning's outburst hadn't been the first since they set out, but was certainly the most volcanic.
And it had really hurt when she'd referred to her father. Garath Sharpax had gone off to fight when Jerrad was barely three. He couldn't remember his father at all, and only knew him through stories others told. Serrana regaled him with tales of how Father had taken her riding or had bought her anything she wanted, or returned from trips with presents for her. To hear her tell it, she'd been the jewel in his crown.
Jerrad, while he'd been told he had his father's strong jaw and quick wit, lacked any other serious—or useful—resemblance to Garath. Their father had always been larger than life and, in the death his mother refused to acknowledge, had become even more legendary. Within the borders of Ustalav, Garath was a hero; and Tyressa's belief that he still somehow lived added a tragically romantic note to his fame.
Despite what Mother had said, there were stories of Garath having performed miracles when he was Jerrad's age. And younger. A favorite tale told around winter fires was about how Garath had slain a bear with nothing more than a long dagger before he'd ever had to shave. Jerrad didn't know if it was true or not, but the expedition sorely needed a man of whom it was true.
And that's not me.
Past the gatehouse, Jerrad piled his stuff with the things being loaded on the expedition's beasts and carts, glanced skyward to note the sun's position, then headed south toward Thornkeep's town. The sojourn took him through a small grove, then into a motley collection of tired buildings and sluggish bogs that masqueraded as streets.
He paused, taking stock of the scene. With a practiced eye he measured the streets and took note of how deeply wagon wheels sank in the mire. He sorted new buildings from old, prosperous from poor, and well-run from suspicious. He cataloged everything which, later, he'd transfer to his journal.
