When he had bought his first debt, Anglhan had realised that in order to make money it was necessary to spend some, and he had taken that philosophy with him through life. Back then it had been half-a-dozen debtors and two handcarts, his caravan growing in size each year until he had enough money for the landship. That had been an extravagance; he could have just as easily been a caravan captain and moved as much cargo. But the pleasure had been in the ownership of such a vessel, of knowing that he was in charge and answerable to nobody.
He had left the landship in the mountains. He wondered if it was being looked after or mouldering into ruin, or had been pulled apart and used for firewood. He felt no pangs of guilt about abandoning the landship to its fate; he had a far greater domain to control.
And the spending had worked, as he had known it would. Everything from Salphoria had to come past Magilnada; between Ullsaard's legions and the hill tribes in the general's pocket, that meant everything stopped at Magilnada. Anglhan had been building new storehouses as quickly as possible, and almost every room in the city was filled with guests or paying visitors. The shrine attendants were happy, the craftsmen were happy, the traders were happy, and that meant Anglhan was happy.
"Admiring your own little empire?" asked Noran as he joined Anglhan.
"Certainly," Anglhan replied. "It's important to enjoy the benefits of our labours."
Noran laughed but there was no mirth in his expression.
"Labours? What labours have you done to earn this?"
Anglhan turned a smile upon his companion.
"Only last night I had to endure a meal with three chieftains from the Vestil, who could talk about nothing except pig farming and fucking. And I'm not sure they realised there's a difference between the two."
"A terrible hardship, I am sure," said Noran, leaning against the balcony rail, eyes on Anglhan. "I have no idea why Ullsaard trusts you."
"You're a fine one to talk about hardships," said Anglhan, his mood spoilt by Noran's accusations. "I pulled myself up from the filth of my parents' village to make myself the man I am today. Who the fuck are you? An Askhan noble who has never known a day's hard work. You've been given everything you ever wanted; I had to take what I needed. Don't talk to me about what I've done to earn this."
"The price levied on me for this winter can never be repaid," said Noran. He glowered at Anglhan and left, the door slamming behind him.
Anglhan looked at the city again, at the crowds meandering through the streets and gathering around the wagons in the markets. He missed Furlthia and wondered if his old mate was still in the city somewhere, or if he had really left.
The lord of Magilnada sighed and wandered back into the hall, pushing aside his glum thoughts with a dream of golden pillars and serving boys.
II
Noran shoved his way through the crowds, ignoring the shouts of annoyance that followed as he plunged through the streets towards the house he shared with Anriit and Ullsaard's family. He knew why he was in such a foul mood; the deaths of Neerita and his son still hung over him; and when he thought about this whole ludicrous enterprise, their deaths seemed entirely pointless. Noran had said nothing, but Ullsaard's claim to become the next king of Askhor was clearly insane. He had no chance of taking on an empire and winning, no matter how clever he thought he was or how great his legions were.
As he cut down an alley between two low halls, Noran kicked out at a stray dog eating scraps from the gutter. The mongrel yelped and scurried away. Noran felt a sudden pang of guilt at his becoming so thoughtlessly cruel. His self-loathing ignited his simmering anger again and by the time he reached the modest house where he lived, he was in a mood to kill someone, or himself, or both.
The servants opened the doors as he approached and he strode inside, fists and jaw clenched. He knocked aside a tray carrying a cup of water, sending the servant reeling back, the cup smashing on the floor. He stomped up the stairs and flung open the door to his bedchamber, where Anriit sewing sat by the narrow window.
She looked so much like Neerita at first glance, but there was nothing save disdain in her expression. It was a harsh reflection of the face of his dead wife, full of malice and accusation. Anriit had never liked him, but every glance and word from her since Neerita's death was filled with hate.
"Get out," he snapped, pointing to the door.
"Get out yourself," Anriit replied.
Noran crossed the room, snatched the canvas and thread from his wife's hands and tossed it out of the window.
"Out!"
She refused to move until he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to her feet. She clawed at his face but he swatted away her arm and switched his grip to her hair, pulling her shrieking to the door. With a final thrust, he propelled her onto her knees on the landing. Anriit hissed at him over her shoulder as he slammed the door
Noran flung himself down on the bed.
Exhausted, he tried to rest. There had been few nights when he did not wake up in a sweat, plagued by dreams of his bloodstained wife, the ruin that had become of her and his son. He lay there with his eyes closed, trying to picture Neerita's welcoming eyes and full lips instead of Anriit's scowls; the two kept merging so that he saw the face of his dead wife twisted with anger.
He heard the slamming of the main doors and breathed with relief that Anriit had left. Noran lay for a while longer trying to relive happier memories, but his vision kept coming back to that bloody night in the camp.
There was a knock at the bedroom door a moment before it was opened a crack.
"It is me, Meliu. Can I come in?"
Noran sat up but said nothing. The door opened further and Ullsaard's youngest wife crept in, eyes wide with apprehension.
"I can leave if you wish," she said, her worried gaze fixed on Noran. Being angry at Meliu was worse than kicking a dog and Noran felt no desire to berate her for intruding.
"Come in," he said with a deep sigh and a wave. "I am sorry. I did not mean to frighten you."
Meliu closed the door behind her and slipped over to the chair where Anriit had been sitting. In the slanting light from the window her straw-blonde hair shone and Noran realised just how beautiful she was; except for the sorrow in her eyes, that was hard to bear.
"What is the matter?" Noran asked.
Meliu looked out of the window, the pale sun on her face.
"I am lonely," she said. "I miss Ullsaard, and Neerita."
"I miss her too," said Noran. "But there's no need to be lonely, I will keep you company."
Meliu's grateful smile reminded him so much of Neerita that Noran had to look away. He heard Meliu cross the floor and sit on the bed beside him. He looked at her.
"Nobody to gossip with? It must be hard."
Meliu playfully punched him on the arm.
"We did not gossip," she giggled. "It is important to know who is doing what with whom. I am sure Neerita helped you more than once with something about one of the other noble families."
"That she did," Noran said with a sigh. "Amongst all the bed-hopping there was usually something about whose farms were doing well, who was looking for a wife or husband, who had no heirs. That is the sort of thing you can make business plans around."
"I am very sorry she is not here," said Meliu, laying a hand on Noran's arm. "And so sorry about your son."
"Let's not talk about that," replied Noran, taking her hand in his.
"Luia says Ullsaard treats me like a whore, but I still miss him so much," Meliu said, her voice a whisper. "At least he likes me, which is more than he does Luia. There is nothing wrong in enjoying a bit of attention, is there?"