‘I should probably tell yer Grace that he didn’t take it none too
well,, Malon continued. ‘He kept screamin’ that he was th’ Duke o’
Asturia, an’ that we couldn’t do this t’ him – but as it turned out,
we could. If y’d like t’ see ‘im fer yerself, I could draw y’ a map,
me Lady. Unless somebody’s happened across’im an’cut him down,
he’s probably still decoratin’ that tree down there, don’t Y’ know.,
Halbren laughed even harder.
*CHAPTER24
I’ve never really approved of informal justice, since there’s a huge
potential for mistakes implicit in the business, and it’s very hard to
un-hang somebody if you start having second thoughts. This case
was an exception, however, since I saw several immediate
advantages in Malon’s rough and ready approach to the sometimes
complex business of criminal justice. For one thing, it would lift the
spirits of the Wacite refugees crowding the southern reaches of my
domain, and by extension would also cheer up the native
inhabitants. More importantly, however, the event was likely to distract
the Asturians. As long as Garteon had been around, Asturia had
concentrated on the annexation of my domain to the exclusion of
all else. Now, at least part of their attention would be diverted by
the fascinating business of choosing the departed duke’s successor.
I looked at my grinning seneschal. ‘All right, Malon,’ I said to
him, ‘I don’t entirely approve, but what’s done is done, so let’s take
advantage of it. I want everybody in the entire duchy to hear about
Your little adventure. Feel free to boast, my friend. Then I want you
to draw a map of the approximate location of Duke Carteon’s
remains and give it to General Halbren here.’
Did your Grace want me to retrieve the carcass?’ Halbren asked.
NO, General, we’ll let the Asturians do that. Give the map to the
talkiest priest of Chaldan you can find. Tell him what happened
and then ask him to deliver the map to Vo Astur. I want everybody
in Asturia to hear the happy news, and no Arend will ever try to
make a priest keep his mouth shut about anything.’
General Halbren stifled his laughter and bowed his
acknowledgment.
‘I wouldn’t be after expectin’ much work t’ git done around here
fer a couple o’ weeks, yer Grace,’ Malon cautioned. ‘Th’ celebration’s
likely t’ go on an’ on an’ be very noisy, don’t y’ know.’
‘That’s all right, Malon,’ I shrugged. ‘The harvest’s over now
anyway, and the people can catch up on their work later.’ Then I
laughed. ‘Oh, Malon,’ I said, ‘what am I going to do with you? Please
don’t run off like that again.’
‘I’ll try t’ remember that, yer Grace,’ he promised. ‘Now, if y’ll
excuse me, I’d better git t’ drawin’.’ He looked at General Halbren.
‘Me map ain’t goin’ t’ be too exact, General,’ he apologized. ‘I won’t
be able t’ give y’ th’ tree’s first name, don’t y’ know.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, Malon,’ Halbren forgave him, ‘The Asturians
are woodsmen, so they enjoy wandering around among the trees
looking for things.’
‘I’m after thinkin’ that Duke Garteon might not o’ bin th’ most
popular man in all Asturia,’ Malon mused. ‘If he irritated his own
people as much as he irritated us, our little celebration on this side
o’ th’ river might just spread, don’t y’ know.’
‘All right, gentlemen,’ I told them, ‘quit gloating and get back to
work. I’ve got to go back to mother’s cottage before my father starts
dismantling the Sendarian Mountains searching for me.’
The celebration of Duke Garteon’s endanglement lasted for about
six weeks, I’m told. Laughter and good cheer ran from Muros all
the way down the River Camaar to its mouth, and the rest of the
duchy took it up from there. I’m almost sure that Malon had been
right and that there were some subdued celebrations in Asturia as
well.
Duke Carteon had no heir, and so his death put an end to the
domination of Asturia by the Oriman family. The inevitable
squabbles among assorted Asturian nobles about possession of the
throne in Vo Astur so completely occupied their minds that
hostilities more or less came to an end along my southern frontier. There
was no overt peace-treaty, of course, but there never is in Arendia.
Arends can draw up a declaration of war that’s an absolute jewel
of elegance, but the wording of a peace-treaty somehow escapes
them.
Father and the twins were still watching me, so I began to renovate
mother’s cottage that winter, largely to persuade them that I was
taking my supposed career as a hermitess very seriously. I
rethatched the roof, replaced the doors and broken windows, and
re-mortared several tiers of stone blocks along the tops of the walls.
I’m sure that Durnik wouldn’t have approved of the means I used
to accomplish those renovations, but after I’d hit myself on the
thumb with a hammer a couple of times, I neatly stacked all my
tools in a corner and did it the other way.
in the spring I put in a vegetable garden. Radishes and beans
aren’t as pretty as roses, but they taste better, and if you can grow
roses, you can certainly grow vegetables. Father evidently took my
work at the cottage to mean that I’d shaken off any suicidal impulses,
because he began to relax his surveillance.
As things settled down in my duchy, I heard less and less
frequently from Malon. Now that the crisis had passed, he and General
Halbren no longer needed much supervision. They knew what
needed to be done, so they had no real reason to pester me.
Though I appeared to be tending to my vegetable garden that
following summer, I was actually doing a great deal of thinking.
The steps I’d taken to make my duchy efficient and humane were
producing an effect I hadn’t fully anticipated when I’d put them in
place. A feudal system requires more or less constant supervision.
My emancipation of the serfs and the establishment of a coherent
legal system had prepared the way for self-government. I was rather
ruefully obliged to admit that what I’d really done was quite neatly
put myself out of a job. The people of my duchy didn’t actually
need me any more. I hoped that they still had some affection
for me, but by and large, they could take care of themselves. To
put it succinctly, my children had all grown up, packed, and left
home.
To further facilitate the maturing of my people, I gave Malon
some instructions concerning the management of my own estates,
and I knew that those practices would spread to the estates of my
vassals. I told him that we were going to let the practice of day-labor
with a set wage-scale fall into disuse and replace it with the renting
Out of farmsteads. This was the next logical step toward
independence and responsibility. My rents were not exorbitant, nor were
they a fixed amount. They were a percentage of the income derived
from the crops instead. As time went on, we’d gradually decrease
that percentage until it was no more than a token. I wasn’t actually
giving them the land, but it came fairly close to that. The token
rent encouraged industriousness, and the entire procedure helped
to induce that sterling virtue into the fundamental character of the
Sendars.
It may come as a surprise to dear old Faldor that his family’s been
paying me rent for the use of his farm for generations now.
In time, of course, Malon and Halbren grew old and passed on. I
went to my manor house for Malon’s funeral, and then I had a long
talk with his son, a surprisingly well-educated man who, for reasons
I could never understand, had chosen to use only his surname,
Killaneson. Even though I didn’t understand his decision, it gave
me a rather warm feeling of continuity. Killaneson rarely broke into
the Wacite brogue except when he was excited, but spoke instead
in polite language which has come to be quite standard in my former
domain.
‘Do you understand what I’m trying to do, Killaneson?’ I asked
him when I’d finished explaining the system of rents.
‘It looks to me as if your Grace is trying very hard to evade her
responsibilities,’ he replied with a faint smile.
‘You might put it that way, my friend, but I’m actually doing this
out of fondness for these people. I want to gently herd them in the
direction of independence. Grownups don’t really need to have
mother tell them when it’s time to change their clothes. Oh, one
other thing, too. Why don’t we let that “Erat” business fall into
disuse. This land was called “Sendaria” even before anybody lived
here. Let’s go back to that name. The designation of the people here
as “Eratians” has always set my teeth on edge, for some reason.