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Ram Noonsword, King of Anset, died on the last day of spring. He was not an old man; he'd come to his throne as a young child, and though many hopeful fathers had sent their daughters to court, he died unwed. His heir and younger sister, Vayn derNoon, took the throne amidst a flurry of political murmurings. She was young, she was a woman, she was unwed and unpromised. But she used none of this as an excuse not to do right by her brother. In mourning red, her first edicts as queen were to organize his burial rites, not sparing a single detail in haste or thrift.
So it was that Noonsword was buried in full ceremony in the tomb of their forefathers, in the chamber that had been carved for him before his birth. The crypt was exactly as large as his father's, his grandfather's, his greatest grandfather's. Thirty-three cubits by thirty-three by thirty-three, the stome room was intended to hold everything a king had over owned, buried with him. It encouraged, supposedly, a king to live sparsely, since he would pass on no dynasty of wealth, only power to his hiers. But Noonsword had had a softness for beautiful things, and so his tomb would be filled to the vaulted ceiling with many, many fine works of art. Golden statues and fine glass dishes, silver armor and the most delicate of pottery. Tapestries and carpets and clothes made of silks from distant lands. And even so, even with the custom, the royal castle in Arrowbend was left lavishly appointed by the work of many of the land's most skilled artisans and luckiest merchants.
The day of the funeral, Cerwyn Lupe was in Arrowbend, in that very castle, feeling decidedly unlucky. The parade was a loud roar on the street outside. Horns and drums competed with singers and beasts for primacy. The crowd was a single vibrant voice. But she was not among the throng. She was in an antechamber, close and dimly lit by a single high window, sitting across a desk from a harried clerk who was clearly only impatient to be finished.
"It isn't done," the clerk was saying. "Her Highness cannot be held to account for her brother's personal debts." He flicked a fly from his sheaf of records; the numbers under his inkstained fingers were many men's fortunes.
"Then who can be?" Cerwyn demanded, doing her very best to keep her voice civil. She had already been called hysterical and grasping by one other of the officials she'd had to see to get this far. "Dignity, I am owed twelve thousand kedecs."
The clerk lifted a page covered in much higher sums, his face unimpressed behind his thin beard. "What did you ssay you sold to His Majesty?"
Under the edge of the desk, Cerwyn's fingers clenched on the skirt of her coat. She was sweltering in it, and the lamp that hung in a glass globe above the clerk's desk was only half the cause. "One dozen Kerish vases, tuned in sequence and glazed in red gilt. Four rings set with singing stones, two blue, two white. Two live peafowl, one cock, one hen. And one hundred cubits of spider-chain, unbroken, from Malkey." It was the fourth time she had recited the list, and it was hard to keep her anxiety-born strain below the surface. When the clerk gave her a narrow, skeptical look, she wanted to black his eyes.
"I will look into it," he said cooly, formulaicly. "But these are very busy times. A loyal citizen would consider writing off the debt..." He paused, with a pointed sigh directed down at his thick, thick books of figures that expressed every bit of doubt in her honesty. So small a purchase would be hard to find amongst all of that, and no doubt a dozen merchants had turned up in the last few days, all claiming fictitious debts from the recently deceeased and not yet interred. "-as a gift to your new queen."
"No, no." Cerwyn spread her hands on the desk's surface, if only to keem them from snatching at those records. She had to be in there. "You don't understand. I invested /all I had/ to fill those requests from His Majesty. I have three daughters. We live in Eton's Ford, to the North. We won't be able to heat our home through the winter, let alone eat, if I don't get paid."
She kept her voice level, she thought, but still the clerk paused, gripping his ledger protectively. "It is only spring - well, the first of summer," he said after a moment, expression thawing just slightly. "I am sure you can scrape something together over the summer. We will look into the matter, in its turn." Thaw or not, he only tilted his head meaningly towards the wall and its bristling full pigeonholes; potentially years worth of work. "And contact you when we have made a decision."
Cerwyn wasn't given a choice about leaving, then, ushered with civility but no sympathy back to the corridor and left there as the clerk called out the next plaintiff's name. Cerwyn gave the man a sympathetic look as they traded places, and got back only a confused stare, half-accusing. "Good luck," she said in a hopeless tone to his back, and turned to find her way back to the street. The corridor of the Offices of Royal Management debauched onto a narrow alleyway, scrupulously clean today. The entire city was polished for the funeral. Cerwyn wondered cynically how many streets have been scrubbed by the gold she had donated so unknowingly to the Crown.
The sound of the Procession was dwindling away to the East, towards the bridge over the Arrow. She had missed seeing the royal casket borne past. And she was glad. But a street fair had sprung up in its wake, and its sounds scratched at her ears like angry chickens, all clamor and grating hilarity. She took the long way around it, walking to the gate where she had left her horse and doing her best to avoid the jugglers and drink sellers. They all seemed to be celebrating her family's ruin.
She's left her horse at the King's Elbow, an inn just outside of the walls of the city. It was a walk of more than an hour, time she spent lost in uncomfortable thought. She had a household to support, and no husband. Her home in Eton's Ford and three daughters. It was only the four of them - their father had died years ago, during a particularly harsh winter that had taken half the town. But four mouths were expensive to fill, four bodies expensive to clothe. There was no timber on their land. Heat had to be bought as well.
At the Inn, she gritted her teeth as she dropped a bronze coin into the hand of the hostler, let him bring out her horse, Felt. He was a magnificent animal, the first horse she'd bought for herself after Rawn's passing. They had been together for years. But he was a fifth mouth, and while the two ponies at home served double-duty hauling around the farm, he was only for riding. With his parentage, he could bring them over a hundred kedecs. She let herself into the stall, running her hand up under Felt's heavy black mane, leaning against the strong warmth of his arched neck.
"What am I supposed to do?" she asked the horse, her voice rough with fear. "I have nothing left. I can't sell our home, our things... They're all my girls have left of their father. Oh... Rawn," she whispered, leaning her forehead against Felt's shoulder. "What can I do for our daughters?"
--------
((<i>The original draft of this segment can be read <a href="http://paste.plurk.com/show/L8a38KmvJT1et8WBHWzb/
">here</a>. Sorry for its formatting.</i>))
So it was that Noonsword was buried in full ceremony in the tomb of their forefathers, in the chamber that had been carved for him before his birth. The crypt was exactly as large as his father's, his grandfather's, his greatest grandfather's. Thirty-three cubits by thirty-three by thirty-three, the stome room was intended to hold everything a king had over owned, buried with him. It encouraged, supposedly, a king to live sparsely, since he would pass on no dynasty of wealth, only power to his hiers. But Noonsword had had a softness for beautiful things, and so his tomb would be filled to the vaulted ceiling with many, many fine works of art. Golden statues and fine glass dishes, silver armor and the most delicate of pottery. Tapestries and carpets and clothes made of silks from distant lands. And even so, even with the custom, the royal castle in Arrowbend was left lavishly appointed by the work of many of the land's most skilled artisans and luckiest merchants.
The day of the funeral, Cerwyn Lupe was in Arrowbend, in that very castle, feeling decidedly unlucky. The parade was a loud roar on the street outside. Horns and drums competed with singers and beasts for primacy. The crowd was a single vibrant voice. But she was not among the throng. She was in an antechamber, close and dimly lit by a single high window, sitting across a desk from a harried clerk who was clearly only impatient to be finished.
"It isn't done," the clerk was saying. "Her Highness cannot be held to account for her brother's personal debts." He flicked a fly from his sheaf of records; the numbers under his inkstained fingers were many men's fortunes.
"Then who can be?" Cerwyn demanded, doing her very best to keep her voice civil. She had already been called hysterical and grasping by one other of the officials she'd had to see to get this far. "Dignity, I am owed twelve thousand kedecs."
The clerk lifted a page covered in much higher sums, his face unimpressed behind his thin beard. "What did you ssay you sold to His Majesty?"
Under the edge of the desk, Cerwyn's fingers clenched on the skirt of her coat. She was sweltering in it, and the lamp that hung in a glass globe above the clerk's desk was only half the cause. "One dozen Kerish vases, tuned in sequence and glazed in red gilt. Four rings set with singing stones, two blue, two white. Two live peafowl, one cock, one hen. And one hundred cubits of spider-chain, unbroken, from Malkey." It was the fourth time she had recited the list, and it was hard to keep her anxiety-born strain below the surface. When the clerk gave her a narrow, skeptical look, she wanted to black his eyes.
"I will look into it," he said cooly, formulaicly. "But these are very busy times. A loyal citizen would consider writing off the debt..." He paused, with a pointed sigh directed down at his thick, thick books of figures that expressed every bit of doubt in her honesty. So small a purchase would be hard to find amongst all of that, and no doubt a dozen merchants had turned up in the last few days, all claiming fictitious debts from the recently deceeased and not yet interred. "-as a gift to your new queen."
"No, no." Cerwyn spread her hands on the desk's surface, if only to keem them from snatching at those records. She had to be in there. "You don't understand. I invested /all I had/ to fill those requests from His Majesty. I have three daughters. We live in Eton's Ford, to the North. We won't be able to heat our home through the winter, let alone eat, if I don't get paid."
She kept her voice level, she thought, but still the clerk paused, gripping his ledger protectively. "It is only spring - well, the first of summer," he said after a moment, expression thawing just slightly. "I am sure you can scrape something together over the summer. We will look into the matter, in its turn." Thaw or not, he only tilted his head meaningly towards the wall and its bristling full pigeonholes; potentially years worth of work. "And contact you when we have made a decision."
Cerwyn wasn't given a choice about leaving, then, ushered with civility but no sympathy back to the corridor and left there as the clerk called out the next plaintiff's name. Cerwyn gave the man a sympathetic look as they traded places, and got back only a confused stare, half-accusing. "Good luck," she said in a hopeless tone to his back, and turned to find her way back to the street. The corridor of the Offices of Royal Management debauched onto a narrow alleyway, scrupulously clean today. The entire city was polished for the funeral. Cerwyn wondered cynically how many streets have been scrubbed by the gold she had donated so unknowingly to the Crown.
The sound of the Procession was dwindling away to the East, towards the bridge over the Arrow. She had missed seeing the royal casket borne past. And she was glad. But a street fair had sprung up in its wake, and its sounds scratched at her ears like angry chickens, all clamor and grating hilarity. She took the long way around it, walking to the gate where she had left her horse and doing her best to avoid the jugglers and drink sellers. They all seemed to be celebrating her family's ruin.
She's left her horse at the King's Elbow, an inn just outside of the walls of the city. It was a walk of more than an hour, time she spent lost in uncomfortable thought. She had a household to support, and no husband. Her home in Eton's Ford and three daughters. It was only the four of them - their father had died years ago, during a particularly harsh winter that had taken half the town. But four mouths were expensive to fill, four bodies expensive to clothe. There was no timber on their land. Heat had to be bought as well.
At the Inn, she gritted her teeth as she dropped a bronze coin into the hand of the hostler, let him bring out her horse, Felt. He was a magnificent animal, the first horse she'd bought for herself after Rawn's passing. They had been together for years. But he was a fifth mouth, and while the two ponies at home served double-duty hauling around the farm, he was only for riding. With his parentage, he could bring them over a hundred kedecs. She let herself into the stall, running her hand up under Felt's heavy black mane, leaning against the strong warmth of his arched neck.
"What am I supposed to do?" she asked the horse, her voice rough with fear. "I have nothing left. I can't sell our home, our things... They're all my girls have left of their father. Oh... Rawn," she whispered, leaning her forehead against Felt's shoulder. "What can I do for our daughters?"
--------
((<i>The original draft of this segment can be read <a href="http://paste.plurk.com/show/L8a38KmvJT1et8WBHWzb/
">here</a>. Sorry for its formatting.</i>))
