"Douglass, Sara - Wayfarer Redemption 1 - Sinner.9" - читать интересную книгу автора (Douglass Sara)

A bath and a meal later, Zared felt more refreshed. As his personal manservant cleared his table, Zared took a glass of wine and wandered into the reception gallery of his residence. His home was a palace in name only, a term designated by his subjects who somehow thought that as a prince he ought to live in a palace. Built initially by Rivkah and Magariz, the house was a roomy, elegant mansion-*that spread over the hill which rose on the northern borders of the town. When Zared was twenty-seven he had taken a wife, Isabeau, sister of Earl Herme of Avonsdale, and had added on a light and airy southern wing that together they'd planned to fill with the laughter of their children.
Zared's steps slowed at the first portrait that lined the gallery. Isabeau. Her dark red hair cascaded about her shoulders, her mouth curled in secret laughter, her bright eyes danced with love for him. The portrait had been painted eighteen months into their marriage. Two weeks after it had been finished Isabeau was dead, crushed beneath the body of her horse which had slipped and fallen during the excitement of the hunt.
She had been five months pregnant with their first child.
Zared had never forgiven himself for her death. He should never have given her that horse - but she was so skilled a horsewoman. She should never have been riding at that stage in her pregnancy - but she was so healthy, so vibrant. He should have forbidden her to follow the hounds and hawks - but she did so love the hunt.
He'd never ridden to the hunt again. The day after her death Zared had given away his hawks, and the hunting horses in his stable. His huntmaster had drifted away, seeking employment with lords to the south.
And Zared had promised himself never to love so deeply again, and never again to expose himself to such hurt.
He took a mouthful of wine and moved along to the next portrait. His father, Magariz. And next to his portrait, that of his mother, Rivkah.
They were, Zared supposed, the reason he had succumbed to love again. Magariz and Rivkah had lived life so completely in love, and so contented in that love, that Zared just could not imagine living himself without a soulmate to share his life with. For years after Isabeau's death he'd kept himself distant from women, keeping to his promise… and then he'd met Leagh.
Re-met her, actually, for Zared had known Leagh as a tiny girl in Belial's arms. But once he'd assumed the Princedom of the North, his responsibilities had kept Zared away from Carlon, and he didn't see Leagh again until she was twenty-one.
They'd met, not at Carlon, but at Sigholt. Wreathed in its magical blue mists, Sigholt was normally the province only of the enchanted SunSoar family, but the year Leagh turned twenty-one she'd travelled to Sigholt with Askam for a meeting of the Council of the Five First Families.
Askam and Zared, as the heads of the two leading families, had attended, along with FreeFall SunSoar, the Icarь Talon, Sa'Domai, the Ravensbund Chief, and Prince Yllgaine of Nor. Leagh had gone, partly at Caelum's invitation - a gift for her coming of age - and partly because she was close friends with Caelum's youngest sister, Zenith.
Zared had found himself alone with her late one night atop the Keep of Sigholt, both there for the night air. They'd spent the night talking, laughing, and - as they both discovered to their amazement - falling deeply in love.
Loving her was the easy part, Zared reflected. Being together, spending their lives together, seemed all but impossible. He'd come home from that Council so optimistically in love that he'd ordered the private apartments of his residence to be redecorated in the blue of Leagh's eyes.
Almost immediately he'd opened the diplomatic negotiations needed for such a high-ranking marriage, only to be confronted with a wall of distrust from Askam. Certainly the two had never liked each other, and they'd been economic rivals for years, but Zared had never thought that such matters would come between him and Leagh.
It was naive of him. Stupid of him.
Zared's fingers tightened about his wine glass, and he moved a little further down the gallery. He didn't want to be so close to his parents' portraits. Now the likenesses only reminded him that his parents had spent some thirty years apart, and Zared didn't want to think that he and Leagh might have to endure a similar separation.
Damn Askam! If he hadn't got himself into such dire debt, if he hadn't imposed such heavy taxes, then maybe the West would prosper as much as did Zared's North. And maybe Askam would not feel so threatened by a marriage between his sister and Zared.
Zared was not a proud man, but neither was he foolishly modest. He knew that if he had been Prince of the West, he would not have made such risky investments as had Askam, nor would he have made his subjects pay for his mistakes. If he was Prince of the West as well as of North, then virtually the entire human population of Tencendor would live lives of heady prosperity. If. If. Damned ifs!
Now Zared stood in front of portraits of Rivkah's brother, Priam, and her father, Karel. They had once ruled as kings of Achar, a vast realm that had stretched between the Andeis and Widowmaker seas and from the Icescarp Alps to the Sea of Tyrre.
But as Achar was no more, so too had the monarchy died. Acharite lands had been split up between Avar, Icarь and human, its territory incorporated into the larger Tencendor, its peoples divested of their king.
As he stared at the portraits of his uncle and grandfather, Zared remembered how well both had reigned. True, they had supported the Brotherhood of the Seneschal, an organisation that had brought only evil to all those who lived in the land, but in their own way Priam and Karel had ruled well and wisely. The monarchy had been brought into disrepute only when Zared's older half-brother, Borneheld, had murdered Priam and taken the throne.
There was no portrait of Borneheld. Zared's mouth quirked. Borneheld was a son and brother best forgotten.
He swallowed the last of his wine, still staring at the likenesses of Priam and Karel. What would it be like to govern (Zared's mind shied away from the word "reign") over such a large territory? What would he do with it? How would he improve it? How might he best help the West recover from the debts Askam had saddled it with?
Ah! These thoughts were treason!
Zared blinked, and started to turn away, but as he did so his eyes were caught by the golden circlet on Priam's brow, and he stopped, his thoughtful gaze lingering on the gleam of gold as the shadows of dusk gathered about him.
curse the Corolean Emperor to all the fire pits of the AfterLife," Askam seethed, and tore the parchment he held into tiny pieces. "Why does he hound my life so?"
Askam's four advisers, two minor noblemen, the Master of the Guilds of Carlon and the Chamberlain of Askam's household, stood diplomatically silent. One million, three hundred and eighty-five thousand gold pieces was the reason the Corolean Emperor so hounded Askam. To be precise, one million, three hundred and eighty-five gold pieces that Askam owed the Emperor.
Jannymire Goldman, the Master of the Guilds, dropped his gaze to his thick-fingered hands folded politely before him. He'd advised Askam not to take out such a massive loan with the Emperor, but Askam had needed the money badly, and the Emperor had been willing to lend.
Now he wanted it back.
And what if Askam could not pay (and Goldman knew Askam could not pay)? What then? What might the Emperor demand as recompense? Goldman shuddered to think. The Coroleans would not invade, never that, but they certainly might lay claim to some lands or, gods forbid, to Carlon itself.
Would that make StarSon Caelum finally take a more personal hand in the West's affairs? Caelum, although concerned about Askam's increasing debt, had thus far preferred to see if Askam could not solve his problems himself, but Goldman knew that Caelum would never stand by and allow the Coroleans to assume control of even the most barren of fields in Tencendor.
"Well, there's nothing for it," Askam said in a milder tone of voice, "but to pay the damned man."
Goldman raised his eyes in surprise, as did the other three advisers. Pay? How?
Askam took a very deep breath and sat back in his chair, staring at the four men ranged before his desk. All the gods in the universe knew he hated to do this but… not only would it solve most of his financial problems, it would also stop the flow of his people north.
And, perhaps, wipe the smirk off Zared's face.
"Gentlemen," Askam said softly, "I have no option. From fifth-day next week the taxes on goods moving up and down the Nordra, as goods moving along all inland roads in the West, will be raised to a third of the total value of the goods so moved."
Goldman could not believe he'd heard right. A third? A third tax on all goods moved would cripple most merchants and traders, but it would destroy any peasant bringing a meagre bag of grain to the market. And what of the man who thought to take a basket of eggs to his widowed mother in the next village? Would that also be taxed a third?
He opened his mouth to object, but Askam forestalled him.
"Gentlemen, I know this is an onerous burden for all western Tencendorians to bear, but it should last only a year, perhaps two."
A year or two would be enough to drive most to starvation, Goldman thought, on top of the taxes they already had to pay.
"And," Askam continued, "think of the rewards we will reap from those…" he hesitated slightly, "… others who move their goods through our territory. For years they have taken advantage of our roads and riverboats to move their goods to market, whether here in Carlon or further south to Coroleas. It is high time they paid for the maintenance of the roads and boats they use."
And by "others" Goldman and his three companions knew precisely whom Askam meant. Zared. Zared, who moved the wealth of his grain and gems and furs along the Nordra down to the markets that made him - and his people - prosperous.
"Sir Prince," Goldman said, "this is indeed a weighty tax. If I might advise against it, I -"
"I have made up my mind, Goldman," Askam said. "I called you here, as the Chamberlain Roscic and Barons Jessup and Berin, not to ask you for advice, but to inform you of the measures that must be taken."
Roscic exchanged a glance with Goldman, then spoke very carefully. "Sir Prince, perhaps it might be best if you talked this over with StarSon Cae -"
"I will inform Caelum of my decision, Roscic!"
The Chamberlain subsided. He had already said too much, considering that his very position relied on Askam's goodwill. Goldman, however, had no such qualms.
"These taxes are so grievous, Sir Prince, that perhaps they should be discussed with -"
"StarMan Axis SunSoar himself gave my father the right to tax the West as he willed, Master Goldman! I will inform StarSon Caelum, but I have every right to impose these taxes without his assent. Is that understood?" The four bowed their heads.
Askam looked at them a moment, then resumed. "There is one other thing. Over the past eighteen months, if not more, over two thousand men have moved their families north of the Azle."