“Yet you were trailhungry when you came; it would be unfair of me to bind you by that—”
“Are you bound?” asked Gird boldly. Marrakai nodded. “I am. Both by custom and by my own honor. I knew what I did when I ate of your bread, and gave you mine; therefore am I bound. While you are here, in my domain, you are my guest; neither I nor mine will harm you, nor let harm come to you.”
Gird nodded. “And I thought of what it meant, Kevre, when I put my food with yours, and when I saw you take it, leaving me only yours to eat. I said nothing and ate: that binds me, by the law the gnomes taught me, and by the custom of my people.” He grinned at Marrakai. “Of honor I cannot speak, since I was taught that we peasants had none, but I can see right and do it.”
“Which is honor enough for anyone,” said Mesha quickly. His father gave him a sharp glance, but nodded.
“Mesha’s right. So here we are, you my guest and I your host, both of us brought here by an interest in gnomish law. What law have the gnomes taught you? Is that your message?”
Gird tried to put his scattered thoughts in order. “Sir—Kevre—the gnomes taught me their law, and something of past times, and how the old customs of our people were like and unlike the High Lord’s law.”
Marrakai frowned. “Do they call Esea and the High Lord one thing and the same?”
“I’m—not sure. What they said was that the High Lord had been for the Aareans in the form of Esea. But they themselves consider the High Lord the source of justice. The judge.”
“Yes. That I knew. The High Lord’s Law, as they say. You know of the Rule of Aare?”
Gird nodded. “A priest of Esea taught me, but he was outcast, for claiming that the Rule of Aare meant differently than the king’s law said.”
“You met Arranha?” Marrakai shook his head. “Gird, I am well rebuked: I had not thought any peasant leader, no matter how worthy, would be familiar with Arranha’s heresies and gnomish law. Are you sure you are not a scholar, rather than a fighter?”
Gird felt himself redden. “I did not choose fighting; I would farm if I could. But—”
“But you could not. My pardon, Gird; it is no time for jesting. But Arranha! I have not met him myself, although I have heard from his horrified colleagues all about his views. I think myself he’s right. The oldest documents in my archives are from Old Aare, and from these it is clear that the interpretation of the Rule has changed, over the generations. I have tried to convince our king to return to the intent of the Rule.”
“Would he?”
“Felis? No. None of them see it as I do, although some agree that great wrongs are being done in its name. Some would abandon the Rule entirely, seeing no hope of reform, and some are, unfortunately, profiting so well that they see no reason to change.”
“Some like wrong itself,” muttered Mesha. “The Verrakai—”
“I name no man’s motives,” said Marrakai firmly. “You know what I think, but that’s not at issue here. There are bad men in any realm, and in every family.”
“Not like that,” said Mesha. Gird looked at him and wondered if he spoke as freely to his father in his own hall. “Taris is merely foolish.”
“Judge all by the same rule,” said Marrakai. “If you would name Verrakai wicked, for gambling with lives, then consider Taris’s loss of those steadings—were there not men and women farming them, who came under another’s power? How is that different? We have been fortunate to have so few, but we are not gods, to be perfect.”
“You punished Taris; Duke Verrakai gave his son jewels when he—”
“Enough!” Gird noticed that Mesha was instantly silent, but clearly unconvinced. Marrakai turned to Gird. “My nephew, whose father was killed years ago, gambled away some of his father’s lands—which to me is dishonor, for the care he owed those who lived there. Lands are not like ring or sword. As for the Verrakai—have you heard of them?”
Gird shook his head. “Only that Verrakai is one of the dukes of Tsaia, a great lord of the east.”
“A great lord, if wealth counts for all. I would not speak of him, Gird, without need. Our families share no great love, and I cannot be fair.”
Gird looked from one face to the other, and said nothing. After a moment, Marrakai sighed, and went on.
“That’s beside our purpose. The kapristi may have told you that long ago my father’s father’s father resisted our king’s attempt to invade their princedom across Marrakai lands. When they routed that invasion, and made a pact of peace with the Tsaian throne—as they did with the king of Finaarenis for the same reason—the kapristi noted our action on their behalf. They counted themselves in debt to Marrakai. My great-grandsire argued that what he had done was right—that he had laid upon them no debt—but they argued in return that by our law he had not been obligated, and so it went, until they agreed on a settlement. From that day on, we have dealt evenly with kapristi. As you know, they accept no gifts and give none, but with those they consider upright, they deal willingly and fairly.”
“That is so,” said Gird.
“Of course I knew of the unrest in Finaarenis; there is unrest in Tsaia, for the same reasons. And I had heard of you: after Norwalk Sheepfolds, everyone heard of you.” Marrakai paused to drink more sib, and offered Gird another mugful. Gird took it, nodded, and Marrakai went on. “A peasant turned off his land turns outlaw: that’s nothing new. That peasant joins a rebellious mob, burns hayricks, ambushes traders: that’s nothing new. But a peasant training other peasants to march, to use their daily tools as weapons, to fight trained soldiers—not only training them so, but leading them: that was new. And not at all to most men’s liking. Most lords, at least. And then you disappeared entirely, after saving Sier Segrahlin’s life. Dead, most thought, or frightened into flight.”
He had to ask, though he was sure he knew the answer, and the question itself could anger Marrakai. “Is it because you fear this for yourself? You would give me help, and for what—to let your domain abide?”
Marrakai was not angry, but his son was. He shook his head, at both Gird and his son. “What I fear is long war, with all the lands laid waste and no justice gained. They have not begun to fight back, Gird, not with the worst magic. You will see far worse than you’ve seen: poisoned wells, fields ruined for long years, unless you find someone with magic to restore them. You did not win quickly; they know, now, what they face. Yet you must fight. I understand that—it had gone too far, and your lords have no intent to mend matters. Am I afraid? Of course. I have children too; I have lands I love, people that depend on me. Worse, I have an oath I swore to our king, when he took the crown. I cannot take my own soldiers into this, except to defend my own lands, without his permission, which he will not give.”
“Why obey a wicked king?”
Marrakai sighed. “Felis is not wicked, merely weak. He has wicked advisors, some of them—if he had only had the sense to marry his rose, as he called her, instead of that sister of Verrakai’s—but that’s not wickedness. Gird, I pledged my loyalty to him, to the king of Tsaia both as king, and as the man Felis Hornath Mikel Dovre Mahieran Mahierai. If I go to war against his will, then I have broken my word, and if my word was ill-given, foolishly given, it is still binding on me. It would not be on everyone; some can free themselves with less trouble. I cannot. I cannot do it and be who and what I am, the self I respect. I have argued with him, pled with him, stormed at him, and finally left court—with his entire consent, because he was tired of hearing me. But that one thing I cannot do.”