“There’s more to it than just the bridge,” Rainfall said. “The whole Hypatian Order is breaking up. Of course, Starfall, the poet-philosopher, tells us all things must pass, even the mountains and oceans, in time. But I love the Hypatian Civilization: the laws I once upheld, the high and low priestdoms, the ceremonies and the titles that brought out the best in us and held the worst at bay.
“Take the thane. Hammar keeps the Hypatian Law, but twists its intent so that he can live in the manner of a Varvar Despot or an Overking of the Ghioz Golden Circle. Half the people of this land are indentured to him, thanks to civil debts—slaves in all but title, myself included.”
Wistala was pretty sure a badger had made a home at the hilltop somewhere. And there were birds’ nests to raid in the cliff side—
“Can’t you petition elsewhere about him?” she asked, realizing Rainfall was waiting for a question or comment.
“That’s been tried.”
“You can’t be the only dissatisfied one. Go burn his house down.”
“I’m no firebrand. A new, worse thane would rise from the ashes, perhaps one who wouldn’t even make a pretense of adhering to Hypatian Justice. Besides, my Lada is in that very hall.”
“Your granddaughter?”
“Yes. He took her as a ward when she was a child. I’ve been in default on my taxes for some years, you understand, and that gives the thane certain powers. He was able to seize her as thanedroit, thanks to his corruption of the high judge and high priest. Thanedroit! Again, a polite name for a terrible usurpation. She’s a hostage to my debts. If I die or quit the estate she inherits, and as she’s untitled and of questionable parentage besides, Mossbell would revert to Hypatia—meaning Hammar would get Mossbell.”
Wistala’s head hurt from trying to see through the hedge of words, but she could see the pain in Rainfall’s eyes.
“You should have quit it while the troll still lived,” Wistala said. “Let the thane inherit troll-blighted lands.”
“Oh, he would have rid himself of the troll quick enough if—” Rainfall stopped, looked anew at Wistala. “You don’t think—Oh, the infamy! Black infamy!”
Rainfall was silent and bitter all the ride back to Mossbell. She stretched out in the back of the wain. Jessup kept looking at Wistala in a sidelong manner.
Wistala, more to break Rainfall from his mood than because the human annoyed her, asked her host to inquire after the purpose of Jessup’s stares.
After some words, Rainfall handed the horse reins to Jessup and turned around. “He didn’t know it bothered you. He said you’re beautiful, and he was trying to memorize your proportions.”
“Beautiful?” She was her same thick-bodied self, with nothing like Jizara’s elegant neck and tail.
“Interested in aesthetics now?” Rainfall asked.
“Has he been in your awful bramble-wines?”
“I agree. I told him he should wait some years, when you have wings. Then he’d behold one of the most perfect creatures in creation. The running horse, the flying frigate bird, the peacock, the fabled Tigers of Ghioz—none of them compare to a dragon with wings held high.”
A messenger waited under the somber figures of the silent fountain turnaround of Mossbell, a down-cheeked boy with a sweated mount. At Rainfall’s order, Jessup kept the wain at a discreet distance so as not to alarm the horse.
Rainfall jumped lightly down from his seat and welcomed the messenger. After inspecting the seal, he read the contents. He stared at the boy, then hurried into the house, where he remained for only a few moments before he returned the paper to the messenger, resealed, along with a silver coin.
Wistala suspected some sort of crisis; Rainfall had very little coin in his hall, unless he kept a secret noseproofed supply.
Rainfall invited Jessup to stay for dinner, but the timberman had to get back to his family and his brother’s widow and children.
As soon as they sat alone, waiting for his bread to cook and drop off the clay-sided oven as a joint sputtered inside, she asked about the message.
“Another of the thane’s humiliations, under a masquerade of civility,” Rainfall said. “He summons me, ta-hum ta-hally to his hall, so that I might fully tell the story of the death of the troll and claim my reward. Of course, it’ll go toward back taxes. The accounting will be announced to all present.”
Wistala turned the handle of the spit, rotating the joint. The turn brought a fresh fall of juices into the gravy pan and mouthwatering smells. “Refuse him.”
“I cannot. There’ll be many a jape about elves not being able to keep two pennies proximate.”
“Let them talk. No one ever lost an eye to a joke.”
“I’ll have to beg some part of the reward that should rightfully go to my crew. Imagine: pleading so that the widows and orphans might see some monies, and the men be rewarded for their courage, when the thane should be bowing to each and opening his purse wide to the survivors!”
“I thought being rid of the troll would solve your problems.”