Storm Rising (18 page)

Both the Chief Husbandman and the Chief Guildsman were old enough to be his grandsires, and the main difference between them was that the Chief Husbandman was weathered and wrinkled with years in the field, his face resembling a dried apple, while the Chief Guildsman wore his years more lightly. Both were gray-haired and bearded, both knotted and bent with the years, joints swollen and probably painful. Both had square jaws beneath the close-cropped beards, and cautious eyes that betrayed nothing.

All three took their seats, both of the Council members showing great deference to Sandar, seeing to it that he was seated comfortably before taking their own chairs in front of Tremane’s desk. Tremane had always been more at ease receiving civilians in his office rather than in any kind of a throne room; the former implied a businesslike approach that he found made civilians more inclined to cooperate.

They all exchanged the usual greetings; Tremane sent for hot drinks, since he had learned that Sandar was quite susceptible to cold. As soon as the aide was out of the room again, he leaned forward across the wooden expanse of the desktop.

“Well, what is it that you need to see me about so urgently?” he asked, coming to the point quickly, something that would have been so unheard of back in the Empire that his visitors would have been shocked
into utter speechlessness. “Not a complaint, I hope. Not only
can’t
I do anything about building noise, I won’t. We’re racing the winter, and I hope by now your people know how badly
all
of us need those walls.”

“Definitely not a complaint—or, rather not a complaint about you or your men,” Sandar replied, with both thin hands cupped around the mug of
kala
, though it was still too hot to sip. “If I have a complaint about anything, it would be about the weather.”

Tremane raised one eyebrow, and Sandar shrugged. “I hope you don’t expect me or my mages to do anything about that,” he replied, amused. “I wish we could, as heartily as you do. Not that we couldn’t have in the past, but—”

“I know, I know, it’s these confounded magestorms!” growled the Chief Husbandman, Devid Stoen. “Hang it all,
we
used to have three good weather-wizards that could at least give us a few days of guaranteed clear weather for harvest, and did a fine job of telling us what was on the way. But that was before that damned puppy Ancar stole the throne and conscripted ‘em all! For that matter, a pair of ‘em trailed back to us just after your lot moved in and started building walls—but all they can do is tell us that they can’t read the weather anymore, that because of the mage-storms, they can’t do a thing!”

Tremane’s other eyebrow rose to join its fellow; this was the first time he’d heard officially that there were any kind of Hardornen mages in the city. For that matter, it was the first time he’d heard the rumors his spies had reported confirmed. Were they admitting it just because those mages had proved to be powerless? Had they assumed he already knew? Or was it a slip of the tongue that Stoen was mentioning them now?

“If you can’t do anything, and you know my mages can’t either, then what is it about the weather that brings you here?” he asked carefully. No point in mentioning these weather-mages. If it was a slip, he’d rather they didn’t realize he’d taken note of it.

“Well,” Sandar said, after a pregnant pause, “you
must have noticed that there is a decided scarcity of healthy, strong young men around about here.” His expressive eyes were full of irony as he glanced down at his own frail body.

“Hmm. It’s hard
not
to notice.” He lowered his eyebrows. “I’d assumed that Ancar conscripted them, and—” He hesitated, not knowing how to phrase “used them as deployable decoys” politely.

“He used them up, most of them,” Sandar said bluntly. “A few came trailing back with the mages, but most of them were slaughtered in his senseless war on Valdemar and Karse. That’s how I became mayor; my father was barely young enough and definitely fit enough to be conscripted, and I had been his secretary from the time I was old enough to be useful. I knew everything he’d known, so I became mayor by default.”

Tremane wasn’t certain which aroused more pity in him; the old pain in Sandar’s voice as he spoke so casually of the loss of his father, or the resignation and acceptance of the situation.
Don’t become too involved with these people, Tremane. They aren’t yours, they never will be. You have no responsibility toward them beyond the immediate, and only then in ways that will benefit your troops
.

“Virtually every healthy male between the ages of fifteen and forty was taken,” Sandar continued. “And it wasn’t just in the towns; he sent his butchers out to every farm, not once, but repeatedly. You might be able to save your sons once, twice, or even three times, but sooner or later Ancar’s slavers would find them. That left us with old men, women, and children. In towns, that’s not a situation that’s impossible. At a task requiring skill rather than strength, old men and women are as good as any young man, and often better. At a task that requires strength, well, there were enough skilled crafts
people
in the town to come up with ways that someone with minimal strength can do the work of two or more powerful men. But out in the farms—” He shrugged.

Stoen took over. “The fact is, farms need strong
people to run, and lots of ‘em,” he said, “And we don’t have ‘em. Things have been goin’ downhill since Ancar took over, and that’s a fact. Now we did all right this year at planting. We were lucky, we had lots of good weather, though you can’t say that about other places in Hardorn. We did all right during the growing season, partly by not gettin’ much sleep, partly because if you spread enough children out, they can do the work of a man. But now—it’s harvest, we haven’t
got
the good weather, and frankly, sir, we’re in trouble. There’s not a chance we’re going to get more than half the crops in. We’ve tried, we’ve gotten some help from the city, but—” He spread his hands helplessly. “We can’t really
pay
nobody, and people generally aren’t bright enough to figure out that if they don’t help out now, they’re gonna be on short rations or
no
rations come spring.”

“And I can’t force anyone to work in the fields who doesn’t want to,” Sandar finished. “I can try to point out the consequences, but if they don’t want to go, or say, ‘let someone else do it,’ I can’t call up what old gaffers are left of the city constables and force people to go pull roots or gather wheat.”

“Nor can I,” said Master Goldsmith Bran Kerst. “Particularly not when there’s money to be made selling to
your
men, sir. Can’t ask someone to go pull roots in a cold, muddy field for nothing when he can be carting beer at a good wage here in town.”

Rather than ask the obvious question, Tremane simply waited for them to get to the point.

Stoen sighed gustily. “The point is this, Commander. We only need help for a few days, a fortnight or two at most, but those days are critical, or the crops are going to rot in the fields. Could you see your way clear to sending some of your men to help with the harvest?”

Tremane pretended to consider it for a moment. “Let me ask you this, first. How many people in your Guilds are skilled or semiskilled builders?
We
have a problem, too. We need to get new barracks up and the walls finished before the weather gets too cold to build in.” Before Kerst could say anything, he added, “They’ll be
paid a fair wage, of course—and work would go much more quickly with people who knew how to build than with those of my men who are fighters, not builders.”

Kerst opened his mouth, then closed it again. Tremane waited for either him or Sandar to say something, then continued when they said nothing. “I’ll be frank with you; I have enough supplies to last out the winter with no trouble. I don’t need to purchase anything locally. Nevertheless, I am no fool, and I can foresee problems if
your
people don’t have enough to support them. If your people are short of foodstuffs, there will be trouble here in my own camp before too long. Some of my men will steal Imperial stores and sell them illegally, some of
your
people will try to steal from our stores. I’ll catch them, of course, and I’ll be forced to punish everyone involved. I may have to order some hangings, depending on the amount of theft; I will certainly have to order some fairly harsh punishments to assure that I can keep order. This will mean—shall we just say—unpleasantness for garrison
and
town. I’d rather deal with the situation before it becomes a problem.”

“How?” Stoen asked, leaning forward intently.

Tremane took a quick glance at his ledgers before answering. If the payment didn’t have to be in hard cash….

“My coffers are not bottomless, but I have a certain amount of property my people don’t need at the moment,” he said carefully. “If I can barter that property for services—or, say, sell the property to some of the Guilds for coin—we can muster the most efficient use of all the workers in the Imperial forces
and
in the town to get all of our projects done before the snow flies. Everyone who works will be paid a fair wage, according to the skill of the job.” He gave each of the men a level look, and all three of them nodded as they met his eyes. “This will put some of my men—farm workers before they were recruited into the army—in the fields. That will be efficient for you; better to have one man who knows how to swing a scythe than five who don’t. People from the town who are unskilled
workers will either serve in the fields as common harvesters, or on the walls or barracks as haulers and other unskilled laborers. People from the town who are skilled builders will
definitely
be on the walls or the barracks. But for every man I send into the fields, I require someone to take his place here, and I will
not
send any builders of my own into the fields.”

“Regardless, everyone who works will be paid?” Stoen asked.

He nodded. “I consider it an investment in peace,” he replied frankly, as he mentally blessed the Hundred Little Gods for answering his prayers in such a timely manner. This was precisely what he needed, a way to mingle his men and Hardornens in a peaceful, productive pursuit where both sides benefited. He’d have paid double for this.

“I think this can work,” Sandar said cautiously, then flashed an unexpected grin. “It is rather ironic, since
your
gold, paid into the taverns and the like, will ultimately pay for your supplies, which will in turn go back into the town in the form of wages.”

“But I will have buildings and walls,” he reminded them. “With any fortune at all, by exchanging unskilled workers for skilled, I will have them faster. I will even grant you this; for jobs requiring neither skill nor strength I will hire two boys—and by ‘boys,’ I mean children ten years old and younger—at a man’s wage, and that is probably fairer than they would get anywhere else.”

It was, as he knew very well, more than fair. Girls didn’t normally work in the Empire, they went to school until they turned sixteen, then became servants or got married. Some few became mages, entertainers, or scholars, but seldom craftspeople. Boys who worked usually got whatever copper bits they could scrape up; if they were apprentices, they got room and board and stayed grateful for both if their masters were generous.

“I think we can agree to that,” Sandar said quickly— as Tremane had thought he would. “Send a list of what you have to dispose of over to my office; we’ll either barter the work of apprentices and journeymen for it or
buy it outright, provided it isn’t totally useless, like ornamental funeral urns or some such.”

“Oh, I think I can guarantee it won’t be anything of the sort,” Tremane said agreeably. He was already making a mental list of things his men wouldn’t need from the looted stores. Raw iron, tin, and copper bar-stock, for instance;
he
didn’t have any smiths, but there had been crate after crate of the stuff in the storehouse. By now, this town must be running low on raw metals—wars disrupted trade, after all, and he hadn’t seen any mines or smelters in operation around here. He had enough finished metal goods to last his men for years; he didn’t need the raw material. He had more horse tack than anyone would ever need; he had cured leather by the stack, and he knew by the state of some harness he’d seen, mended with bits of rope or patched together with bits cut away from worn-out straps, that they’d welcome both tack and leather. Those were just the things he could think of immediately. No, there would be no trouble finding things these people would be very happy to see.

“In that case, we’ll be getting on our way,” Sandar replied, showing a bit more color in his thin face than he’d had when he came in—and a bit more hope, as well. “We’ll have to send criers out all over town to round up the unskilled laborers, but Master Kerst will have an answer for you from the Guild of the Masons and Woodworkers shortly.”

“Is there a—a Thatcher’s Guild?” Tremane asked, wondering if he sounded like a fool for asking.

Stoen laughed. “No Guild, lad, but I’ll have plenty of thatchers for you once the harvest’s in. Never fear of that; most farmers know how to thatch a roof fair handily. You’ll be wanting thatching straw, then?”

He nodded, relieved to have that out of his hands. “Yes, and a great deal of it, I suppose. These barracks are going to be barnlike buildings, and a thatched roof has been recommended.”

“Just leave that to me,” Stoen assured him. “Thank your gods, the one thing we’ve no lack of is thatching
straw.” He sighed. “Keeps well, and there’ve been fewer roofs to mend these days.”

The men shook hands all around, and the delegation left, escorted by the aide. Tremane remained where he was, behind his desk with his nose buried in the account of the looted stores, going through the ledgers line by line, making up his list of barter goods. He found an amazing variety of absolutely useless items—useless to his men, that is. What in the name of all that was holy would they do with a hundred pairs of women’s half boots? Or three crates of gilded copper bracelets? Or regulation Healer’s tunics and trews in sizes too small for any man in the force? All of those could go; since his Healers wore the plainest of clothing without rank or regiment marks, even the tunics and trews could be redyed and used as common clothing. Tools—he had enough shovels to give every man two; he certainly didn’t need that many. Small hatchets, hammer-ended, made for pounding tent stakes into the ground and cutting firewood—again, he had twice as many of those as he had men. Did he really need all those tents? He certainly didn’t need six decorative dress-parade pavilions!