Raoden stepped back from the hole. “Let’s just hope they realize that they’re not going to get anything more out of us, and decide to leave.”
“And if they don’t?” Galladon asked pointedly.
Raoden shrugged. “We can live forever without food or water, right?”
“Yes, but I’d rather not spend the rest of eternity on the top of this building.” Then, shooting a look at the new man, Galladon pulled Raoden to the side and demanded in a low voice, “Sule, what was the point of that? You could have just thrown them the food back in the courtyard. In fact, why ‘save’ him? For all we know, Shaor’s men might not have even hurt him.”
“We don’t know that. Besides, this way he thinks he owes me his life.”
Galladon snorted. “So now you have another follower—at the cheap price of the hatred of an entire third of Elantris’s criminal element.”
“And this is only the beginning,” Raoden said with a smile. However, despite the brave words, he wasn’t quite so certain of himself. He was still amazed at how much his toe hurt, and he had scraped his hands while pushing the bricks. While not as painful as the toe, the scrapes also continued to hurt, threatening to draw his attention away from his plans.
I have to keep moving, Raoden repeated to himself. Keep working. Don’t let the pain take control.
“I’m a jeweler,” the man explained. “Mareshe is my name.”
“A jeweler,” Raoden said with dissatisfaction, his arms folded as he regarded Mareshe. “That won’t be of much use. What else can you do?”
Mareshe looked at him indignantly, as if having forgotten that he had, just a few moments ago, been cowering in fear. “Jewelry making is an extremely useful skill, sir.”
“Not in Elantris, sule,” Galladon said, peeking through the hole to see if the thugs had decided to leave. Apparently they hadn’t, for he gave Raoden a withering look.
Pointedly ignoring the Dula, Raoden turned back to Mareshe. “What else can you do?”
“Anything.”
“That’s quite broad, friend,” Raoden said. “Could you be a bit more specific?”
Mareshe brought his hand up beside his head with a dramatic gesture. “I … am a craftsman. An artisan. I can make anything, for Domi himself has granted me the soul of an artist.”
Galladon snorted from his seat beside the stairwell.
“How about shoes?” Raoden asked.
“Shoes?” Mareshe replied with a slightly offended tone.
“Yes, shoes.”
“I suppose I could,” Mareshe said, “though such hardly demands the skill of a man who is a full artisan.”
“And a full id—” Galladon began before Raoden hushed him.
“Artisan Mareshe,” Raoden continued in his most diplomatic of tones. “Elantrians are cast into the city wearing only an Arelish burial shroud. A man who could make shoes would be very valuable indeed.”
“What kind of shoes?” Mareshe asked.
“Leather ones,” Raoden said. “It won’t be an easy calling, Mareshe. You see, Elantrians don’t have the luxury of trial and error—if the first pair of shoes do not fit, then they will cause blisters. Blisters that will never leave.”
“What do you mean, never leave?” Mareshe asked uncomfortably.
“We are Elantrians now, Mareshe,” Raoden explained. “Our wounds no longer heal.”
“No longer heal …?”
“Would you care for an example, artisan?” Galladon asked helpfully. “I can arrange one quite easily. Kolo?”
Mareshe’s face turned pale, and he looked back at Raoden. “He doesn’t seem to like me very much,” he said quietly.
“Nonsense,” Raoden said, putting his arm around Mareshe’s shoulder and turning him away from Galladon’s grinning face. “That’s how he shows affection.”
“If you say so, Master …”
Raoden paused. “Just call me Spirit,” he decided, using the translation of Aon Rao.
“Master Spirit.” Then Mareshe’s eyes narrowed. “You look familiar for some reason.”
“You’ve never seen me before in your life. Now, about those shoes …”
“They have to fit perfectly, without a bit of scraping or rubbing?” Mareshe asked.
“I know it sounds difficult. If it’s beyond your ability …”
“Nothing is beyond my ability,” Mareshe said. “I’ll do it, Master Spirit.”
“Excellent.”
“They’re not leaving,” Galladon said from behind them.
Raoden turned to regard the large Dula. “What does it matter? It’s not like we have anything pressing to do. It’s actually quite pleasant up here—you should just sit back and enjoy it.”
An ominous crash came from the clouds above them, and Raoden felt a wet drop splat against his head.
“Fantastic,” Galladon grumbled. “I’m enjoying myself already.”
CHAPTER 8
Sarene decided not to accept her uncle’s offer to stay with him. As tempting as it was to move in with his family, she was afraid of losing her foothold in the palace. The court was a lifeline of information, and the Arelish nobility were a fountain of gossip and intrigue. If she was going to do battle with Hrathen, she would need to stay up to date.
So it was that the day after her meeting with Kiin, Sarene procured herself an easel and paints, and set them up directly in the middle of Iadon’s throne room.
“What in the name of Domi are you doing, girl!” the king exclaimed as he entered the room that morning, a group of apprehensive attendants at his side.
Sarene looked up from her canvas with imitation surprise. “I’m painting, Father,” she said, helpfully holding up her brush—an action that sprayed droplets of red paint across the chancellor of defense’s face.
Iadon sighed. “I can see that you’re painting. I meant why are you doing it here?”
“Oh,” Sarene said innocently. “I’m painting your paintings, Father. I do like them so.”
“You’re painting my …?” Iadon asked with a dumbfounded expression. “But …”
Sarene turned her canvas with a proud smile, showing the king a painting that only remotely resembled a picture of some flowers.
“Oh for Domi’s sake!” Iadon bellowed. “Paint if you must, girl. Just don’t do it in the middle of my throne room!”
Sarene opened her eyes wide, blinked a few times, then pulled her easel and chair over to the side of the room near one of the pillars, sat down, and continued to paint.
Iadon groaned. “I meant … Bah, Domi curse it! You’re not worth the effort.” With that, the king turned and stalked over to his throne and ordered his secretary to announce the first item of business—a squabble between two minor nobles over some possessions.
Ashe hovered down next to Sarene’s canvas, speaking to her softly. “I thought he was going to expel you for good, my lady.”
Sarene shook her head, a self-congratulatory smile on her lips. “Iadon has a quick temper, and grows frustrated with ease. The more I convince him of my brainlessness, the fewer orders he’s going to give me. He knows I’ll just misunderstand him, and he’ll just end up aggravated.”
“I am beginning to wonder how one such as he obtained the throne in the first place,” Ashe noted.
“A good point,” Sarene admitted, tapping her cheek in thought. “Though, perhaps we aren’t giving him enough credit. He might not make a very good king, but he was apparently a very good businessman. To him, I’m an expended resource—he has his treaty. I’m just of no further concern.”
“I’m not convinced, my lady,” Ashe noted. “He seems too shortsighted to remain king for long.”
“Which is why he’s probably going to lose his throne,” Sarene said. “I suspect that is why the gyorn is here.”
“A good point, my lady,” Ashe noted in his deep voice. He floated in front of her painting for a moment, studying its irregular blotches and semistraight lines. “You’re getting better, my lady.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“No, really, Your Highness. When you started painting five years ago, I could never tell what it was you were trying to depict.”
“And this is a painting of …”
Ashe paused. “A bowl of fruit?” he asked hopefully.
Sarene sighed in frustration. She was usually good at everything she tried, but the secrets of painting completely eluded her. At first, she had been astounded at her lack of talent, and she had pressed on with a determination to prove herself. Artistic technique, however, had totally refused to bow beneath her royal will. She was a master of politics, an unquestionable leader, and could grasp even Jindoeese mathematics with ease. She was also a horrible painter. Not that she let it stop her—she was also undeniably stubborn.
“One of these days, Ashe, something will click, and I’ll figure out how to make the images in my head appear on canvas.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Sarene smiled. “Until then, let’s just pretend I was trained by someone from some Svordish school of extreme abstractionism.”
“Ah yes. The school of creative misdirection. Very good, my lady.”
Two men entered the throne room to present their case to the king. There was little to distinguish them; both wore fashionable vests over colorful frilled shirts and loose, wide-cuffed trousers. Much more interesting to Sarene was a third man, one who was brought into the room by a palace guard. He was a nondescript, light-haired man of Aonic blood dressed in a simple brown smock. It was obvious that he was horribly underfed, and there was a look of despairing hopelessness in his eyes that Sarene found haunting.
The dispute regarded the peasant. Apparently, he had escaped from one of the noblemen about three years ago, but had been captured by the second. Instead of returning the man, the second noble had kept him and put him to work. The argument wasn’t over the peasant himself, however, but his children. He had married about two years ago, and had fathered two children during his stay with the second noble. Both nobles claimed ownership of the babies.
“I thought slavery was illegal in Arelon,” Sarene said quietly.
“It is, my lady,” Ashe said with a confused voice. “I don’t understand.”
“They speak of figurative ownership, Cousin,” a voice said from in front of her. Sarene peeked around the side of her canvas with surprise. Lukel, Kiin’s oldest son, stood smiling beside her easel.
“Lukel! What are you doing here?”
“I’m one of the most successful merchants in the city, Cousin,” he explained, walking around the canvas to regard the painting with a raised eyebrow. “I have an open invitation to the court. I’m surprised you didn’t see me when you came in.”
“You were there?”
Lukel nodded. “I was near the back, reacquainting myself with some old contacts. I’ve been out of town for some time.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I was too interested in what you were doing,” he said with a smile. “I don’t think anyone has ever decided to requisition the middle of Iadon’s throne room to use as an art studio.”
Sarene felt herself blushing. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Beautifully—which is more than I can say for the painting.” He paused for a moment. “It’s a horse, right?”
Sarene scowled.
“A house?” he asked.
“It is not a bowl of fruit either, my lord,” Ashe said. “I already tried that.”
“Well, she said it was one of the paintings in this room,” Lukel said. “All we have to do is keep guessing until we find the right one.”
“Brilliant deduction, Master Lukel,” Ashe said.
“That’s enough, you two,” Sarene growled. “It’s the one across from us. The one I was facing while I painted.”
“That one?” Lukel asked. “But that’s a picture of flowers.”
“And?”
“What’s that dark spot in the middle of your painting?”
“Flowers,” Sarene said defensively.
“Oh.” Lukel looked once more at Sarene’s painting, then looked up at her model again. “Whatever you say, Cousin.”
“Maybe you could explain Iadon’s legal case before I turn violent, Cousin,” Sarene said with threatening sweetness.
“Right. What do you want to know?”
“Our studies tell us slavery is illegal in Arelon, but those men keep referring to the peasant as their possession.”
Lukel frowned, turning eyes on the two contesting nobles. “Slavery is illegal, but it probably won’t be for long. Ten years ago there weren’t any nobles or peasants in Arelon—just Elantrians and everyone else. Over the past decade, commoners have changed from families that owned their own land, to peasants beneath feudal lords, to indentured servants, to something more resembling ancient Fjordell serfs. It won’t be much longer before they’re nothing more than property.”
Sarene frowned. The mere fact that the king would hear a case such as this—that he would even consider taking a man’s children away from him to save some nobleman’s honor—was atrocious. Society was supposed to have progressed beyond that point. The peasant watched the proceedings with dull eyes, eyes that had systematically and deliberately had the light beaten out of them.
“This is worse than I had feared,” Sarene said.
Lukel nodded at her side. “The first thing Iadon did when he took the throne was eliminate individual landholding rights. Arelon had no army to speak of, but Iadon could afford to hire mercenaries, forcing the people into compliance. He declared that all land belonged to the Crown, and then he rewarded those merchants who had supported his ascension with titles and holdings. Only a few men, such as my father, had enough land and money that Iadon didn’t dare try to take their property.”
Sarene felt her disgust for her new father rise. Once Arelon had boasted the happiest, most advanced society in the world. Iadon had crushed that society, transforming it into a system not even Fjordell used anymore.
Sarene glanced at Iadon, then turned to Lukel. “Come,” she said, pulling her cousin to the side of the room, where they could speak a little more openly. They were close enough to keep an eye on Iadon, but far enough away from other groups of people that a quiet conversation wouldn’t be overheard.
“Ashe and I were discussing this earlier,” she said. “How did that man ever manage to get the throne?”
Lukel shrugged. “Iadon is … a complex man, Cousin. He’s remarkably shortsighted in some areas, but he can be extremely crafty when dealing with people—that’s part of what makes him a good merchant. He was head of the local merchants’ guild before the Reod—which probably made him the most powerful man in the area who wasn’t directly connected to the Elantrians.
“The merchants’ guild was an autonomous organization—and many of its members didn’t get along too well with the Elantrians. You see, Elantris provided free food for everyone in the area, something that made for a happy populace, but was terrible for the merchants.”
“Why didn’t they just import other things?” Sarene asked. “Something besides food?”
“The Elantrians could make almost anything, Cousin,” Lukel said. “And while they didn’t give it all away for free, they could provide many materials at far cheaper prices than the merchants could—especially if you consider shipping costs. Eventually, the merchants’ guild struck a deal with Elantris, getting the Elantrians to promise that they would only provide ‘basic’ items to the populace for free. That left the merchants’ guild to import the more expensive luxury items, catering to the more wealthy crowd in the area—which, ironically, tended to be other members of the merchants’ guild.”
“And then the Reod struck,” Sarene said, beginning to understand.
Lukel nodded. “Elantris fell, and the merchants’ guild—of which Iadon was chairman—was the largest, most powerful organization in the four Outer Cities. Its members were wealthy, and they were intimately fa
miliar with the other wealthy people in the area. The fact that the guild had a history of disagreement with Elantris only strengthened its reputation in the eyes of the people. Iadon was a natural fit for king. That doesn’t mean that he’s a particularly good monarch, though.”
Sarene nodded. Sitting on his throne, Iadon finally made his decision regarding the case. He declared with a loud voice that the runaway peasant did indeed belong to the first noble, but his children would remain with the second. “For,” Iadon pointed out, “the children have been fed all this time by their current master.”
The peasant didn’t cry out at the decision, he simply looked down at his feet, and Sarene felt a stab of sorrow. When the man looked up, however, there was something in his eyes—something beneath the enforced subservience. Hate. There was still enough spirit left in him for that ever-powerful emotion.
“This won’t go on much longer,” she said quietly. “The people won’t stand for it.”
“The working class lived for centuries under the Fjordell feudal system,” Lukel pointed out. “And they were treated worse than farm animals.”
“Yes, but they were raised to it,” Sarene said. “People in ancient Fjorden didn’t know better—to them, the feudal system was the only system. These people are different. Ten years really isn’t all that long—the Arelish peasantry can remember a time when the men they now call masters were simple shopkeepers and tradesmen. They know that there is a better life. More importantly, they know a government can collapse, making those who were once servants into masters. Iadon has put too much on them too quickly.”
Lukel smiled. “You sound like Prince Raoden.”
Sarene paused. “Did you know him well?”
“He was my best friend,” Lukel said with a sorrowful nod. “The greatest man I have ever known.”
“Tell me about him, Lukel,” she requested, her voice soft.