Chapter Twenty-Six #2
Orval flashed a smile. “Cats. But she is a good mouser. So I will send the bird off, and tell them a messenger is coming with more details.” He paused. “And maybe the messenger could bring a few things back with him?”
“Paper and ink?” Jerrold asked.
Orval shook his head with a smile. “No, no, as much as I want it. Amari’s people have a traditional gift of a bracelet to the Hearth Mother after the birth of a child. I need a copper bracelet, engraved, hopefully.”
“We have people here who used to work in copper,” Jerrold said. “I can ask about, see if any are interested in taking it back up.”
Orval lit up. “That would be wonderful. Then I could get paper—” he broke off with an embarrassed look. “You think me a fool, I am sure.”
“No,” Jerrold said slowly. “I don’t. It is well, that you honor her traditions.”
Orval looked at the door and a twinge of concern crossed his face.
“Wethe knows her trade,” Jerrold said. “She’s brought many into the world. And your wife has borne before. I am sure all will be well.” But his own mouth was dry. He knew full well the risk to women in childbirth.
“True,” Orval said. “I just worry.” He seemed to shake himself. “So are there any other, more recent maps?”
“Not that I know of,” Jerrold said. “I didn’t even know these existed.” He frowned. “I will ask the quarrymasters when I meet with them.” He couldn’t help himself; he grimaced.
“Problem?” Orval asked.
“You’ve never heard ‘quarrelsome as a quarrymaster’?” Jerrold said. “The coal-master despises the marble-master and the granite-master, and there’s no love lost between any of them.
Put them all in a room and they wouldn’t agree on the sun setting even as they watched. Every argument adds to the next until they are so tangled in the cords they can’t unbind themselves. “
“Then they turn to you,” Orval stated. “To resolve the issues?”
“Aye, as mayor of Waerington, as was my father. Traditionally, since we stand at the crossroads of all the trade routes.” Jerrold rubbed his face. “There are days I’d throw them all in a pit and let them just fight it out.”
Orval looked at him. “Why not blame me?”
“What?” Jerrold asked, looking at this slim clerk of a man in astonishment.
“Isn’t that part of the Lord High Baron’s duties?
To make decisions?” Orval shrugged. “Tell them that they are to make their case to me. I will listen and take it under advisement. You can make the decision, and I can take the blame. And when the royal forces show, the quarrymasters’ unhappiness with me will be clear. ”
“If they show,” Jerrold said slowly.
“When,” Orval corrected him. “I am not fooling myself into thinking they will leave us alone.” He glanced at the map.
“Delaying them as best we can and dangling what they want in front of them is the wisest course. The more entrenched we are in their minds as loyal and valuable, the better off we are.” Orval shrugged.
“I have started drafts of the letters to Edenrich. Give me a day or two, and then you can read them, and I can do the final draft.”
Jerrold rose. “I have someone in mind, someone who has been to Edenrich before. I will talk to him.”
“Good,” Orval gestured for Jerrold to go first and the man opened the door to a kitchen empty of all but Rosalind, who was feeding the fire.
“The Baroness and Wethe are out scouting for that the herb garden.” She gave Orval an impish look. “I think they stole your students to aid them.”
“Oh no,” Orval said. “They are not getting out of my lessons that easily. Until later, Jerrold.” He limped out the kitchen door, calling for Amari.
Rosalind brushed off her tunic. “Let me walk you out,” she said, an odd courtesy, but probably one of her royal ways.
The afternoon sun slanted through an empty courtyard, although they could hear voices from the thick brush beyond. Rosalind led him to where his horse was tied within reach of a bit of browse. She stopped then and gave him a direct look. “A word, if you would.”
“Aye?” Jerrold said, suddenly wary.
“You need to address them by their titles,” Rosalind said. “And make sure others do the same.”
Jerrold stiffened. “Why?” he demanded. “Because they are so much better than us, their blood pure and—”
“No.” Rosalind didn’t look away, didn’t drop her eyes. “Because it is dangerous, to all of us.”
“I don’t see how—” Jerrold started, but she raised her hand to stop his words.
“It’s all well and good for staff and children to use a nickname,” she glanced in the direction of the voices.
“But if you treat them casually in front of the wrong people, it could get us all killed.” She lifted her chin.
“Those who would harm us? They need to believe that Orval and Amari are the acknowledged Lord High Baron and Baroness of the Black Hills, in complete control of their lands and people. All it takes is one slip to give the bastards reasons to doubt the truth of the matter.”
Jerrold opened his mouth to argue, but closed it. She did have a point.
“Besides,” she continued, and now she did drop her eyes and picked at a bit of lint on her tunic. “I happen to think they are owed that respect.”
“Because of the Blood?” Jerrold growled.
“Yes,” Rosalind said. “But also because of who they are and what they do.” She sighed. “Think on it, at least.” She turned as if to go.
“Did you have a nickname for Queen Kara?” Jerrold lashed out, oddly angry at being challenged.
Rosalind jerked back, eyes wide and pained and hurt. Other than a slight gasp, she went silent, twisting her hands, grief clear in every line of her body.
“Sorry,” Jerrold said gruffly, feeling an idiot, and gathering up the reins of his mount. He swung up, wanting nothing more than to leave this place.
“Comfit,” Rosalind spoke, her voice brittle. “She loved those damned sweets. Never in public, always behind closed doors. Comfit.”
“I’m sorry,” Jerrold repeated.
“I served the Airions. The Wyverns took everything from me,” Rosalind said.
“They took my Queen, my position, my place. Years of service to the royal family, years of preserving their history, and they tossed me out like so much offal in a midden.” She lifted her eyes to him then, and he could see the rage.
“The Airions took from us as well.” Jerrold pointed out. “Maybe not those two, but those of their Blood.”
“Both sides,” Rosalind nodded. “But as we stand here, we have survived. And I would continue to live and thrive, if only to spite them.”
“Aye to that,” Jerrold said. “I will think on what you have said, Rosalind of Edenrich.”
Her answering smile was wry. “My thanks, Jerrold of the Black Hills.” Rosalind stepped back and Jerrold urged his horse out the gate and off down the road.
He’d much to think on as he rode. She wasn’t wrong. It would be for the best if they all started to use the titles, mouthfuls that they were. Not as a surrender, but as a protection.
Jerrold nodded to himself. He’d talk to Rasfel about serving as a messenger, as soon as he was done with the quarrymasters. He sighed, he’d best be about it. They’d be expecting him.
But as his horse trotted along, the sense of dread he’d felt, anticipating their arguments, was gone. He’d already decided what do, hadn’t he? A sense of anticipation took hold. The look on their faces when he’d tell them to take their dispute to the Lord High Baron!
It almost made him crack a smile.
His humor fled as he thought things through. This cripple, this man, he was nothing like any of them had expected. His ideas seemed impossibly naive.
His mother had hope, and he blessed her for it, but how could this work?
Sending messages about marble, talking of the problems of restoring the quarry system, the roads, the skills needed to select and cut the block and then transport it?
Even if Rosalind was right about the Lord and Lady, did they really have any hope in maintaining this Lord High Baron in his title?