'Isn't it?' said Hirad. He wiped a sheen of rain from his face and flicked his hand to disperse it. 'Trouble is, Unknown, you're still a Protector in here.' He tapped his chest above his heart. 'And you can't shake it off. And the ridiculous thing is, he's done the same to your brothers as he's done to the Kaan. Let you fester and hope you'll go away.' Hirad made no attempt to move closer.
'How little you know, Hirad. I'm a father, that's what I am. And I won't see someone else's child tossed aside.' The Unknown turned away but swung back. 'You're my friend, Hirad. Probably the best I've ever had. You brought about my release from Protector thrall. But I won't see you threaten a man through his child. That's a bond you won't understand until you experience it.'
'Yet you pulled a sword on me,' said Hirad, his anger gone now, replaced by a feeling of loss. 'We're The Raven and what you did doesn't belong. It was wrong.'
'Listen to yourself,' said the big man. 'It was your actions too, Hirad. Yours too.'
'Think I'll make a camp somewhere else,' said Hirad, and he walked from The Raven's fire.
Chapter 16
Jasto, twelfth Earl of Arlen, was a proud man who had paid the price of overstretching his resources and who, as a result, was now under the firm, fair but unshakeable grip of Baron Blackthorne.
Even in Blackthorne's weakened days following the destruction of his town towards the end of the Wesmen wars, Arlen had perceived himself too weak to challenge the younger man with any certainty of success. But that had not made him a weak man, as some of his resident merchant lords had intimated. It had made him wise and, latterly, very wealthy once again.
He recalled his hard-pressed merchant and shipping families coming to him those six years ago and urging him to break free of the bonds Blackthorne had imposed. They were weary of being beneath the Baron's fist and he, they had said, would never get a better opportunity to demand and achieve his autonomy.
And he had seen their point. There had not been a mercenary to be hired anywhere in Balaia, and Blackthorne's own men were either dead or tired of fighting. However, to Arlen, an attack would have been like betrayal of a man who had sacrificed so much to keep Balaia free of Wesmen domination. So instead of sending men armed with sword and spear, he had equipped them with pick, shovel, saw and hammer. Instead of riding to demand freedom of movement and impose conditions of their own, they had offered help and comfort.
Arlen had recruited quarrymen and stone masons to replace or reshape what the Wesmen had destroyed, carpenters and joiners to work the wood; and he'd encouraged as many of his people as could be spared to be willing pairs of hands.
The Earl smiled as he thought it all through again, his greying, bushy moustache accentuating the movement of his top lip, his
leathery, ocean-toughened skin wrinkling on cheek and forehead. It had been help where help had been needed but Arlen had never been a purely altruistic man. Blackthorne had seen that. It was business.
Craftsmen do not come cheap. Wood, stone, iron and steel all have their prices and in such a sellers' market, those prices had been high. Food too, can always be managed to be expensive. And every one of Arlen's merchants, shippers and fisher-fleet owners had seen the profits. Blackthorne had not raised an eyebrow. Indeed he had laughed, shaken the Earl's hand and fetched a bottle of superb wine from the cellars the Wesmen had found but left intact. Even savages enjoyed fine wine.
Arlen remembered sitting in a marquee, supplied by his town, and clinking glasses with the wily Baron. His words at the time would forever remain simple vindication of Aden's decision.
Blackthorne had taken a long swallow, leaned back in his chair, shrugged and had said, 'It's what I would have done.'
And he'd still reduced the travel levies across his lands that had squeezed Aden's merchants so hard. As a mark of gratitude, he'd said.
Riding away from Blackthorne that day, Arlen had wondered how long the gratitude would last. Almost six years later, he was still expecting the letter of withdrawal. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. Blackthorne's honour was unquestionable.
It had left Arlen in peaceful charge of a burgeoning town, attracting trade from Calaius and Korina to his docks. More and more farmers were attracted to his fertile lands on the town's northern borders, knowing the price for their produce would not be driven down by traders passing on the burden of Blackthorne's safe passage levy.
But now something smelled bad in his town. It had blown in on the foul breeze of magic and had taken root to the south along the River Arl. First it had been Dordovans. A few mages and their escorts. Nothing out of the ordinary. But ten days ago, they'd been joined – joined – by forty of the Black Wing filth and since then, the Dordovan military and mage numbers had swelled until over three hundred and fifty camped downstream.
His innkeepers and whores hadn't complained. Neither had his
fresh food market stalls. There'd even been some profit for his fine cloth and silk men but the pilfering had been rather more unwelcome, however well it had been contained.
But there was only so much you could forgive in the name of trade and that line had been breached this morning.
Word had reached him of aggressive buying of supplies and attempted secondment of ocean-going vessels. It had been the Black Wings putting on the pressure and they weren't prepared to take no for an answer.
He didn't mind the movement of supplies. That was easily balanced. But ships? There was a carefully maintained balance between supply and demand for vessels capable of travelling the tricky distance to Calaius. It was a balance his shipping owners were anxious to keep to maintain their lavish lifestyles.
But at this juncture it wasn't the owners he was concerned about. The trade in salted meats, wine, armour and weapons was lucrative but reliant on regular transport, and the return of coffee, cloth and jewellery among others was equally critical. Arlen could ill afford to lose transport space for these valuable commodities for an unspecified length of time.
He had already sent guardsmen to break up a dispute over, a ship already chartered by a consortium of traders. Apparently, Black Wings had offered double the rates for troop passage to Ornouth of all places. When the shipping agent had refused, choosing to remain loyal to his regular paying customers, he had been threatened and one of his clerks beaten for attempting to intervene.
That had been yesterday.
This dawn had seen Arlen forced to drag his very tall frame from his bed at an unseemly hour, with the sun barely cresting the horizon. A deputation waited in the drawing room of the castle. They were a merchant, a farmer and a shipper. He pulled on a white silk shirt, plain deep-blue wool-weave trousers and a black three-quarter-length coat. His silver rings decorated three long bony fingers on each hand and the heavy gold chain, passed on to each successive Earl, was placed reverently around his neck.
He drained his tea, dragged on white stockings and simple black, double-buckled ankle boots and loped from his bedroom, his long, easy strides eating up corridor and stair as he marched to what could
prove to be a difficult meeting. At the entrance to the room, a servant brushed the back of his coat to remove dust and the odd stray hair fallen from his fast balding head before opening the door.
'Gentlemen, good morning,' he said as he strode in. A murmured greeting met him from the three men, two seated and one standing near the fireplace. All were dressed well, though the farmer, a sour middle-aged man named Alpar, was garbed in working clothes having already no doubt been at work for two or three hours. Those seated began to rise until Arlen held up a hand.