vein to be mined, but Krystoff died and Wylfred now thinks to take the holy vows, and suddenly, with Koenyg wedded, five available princes are only two. It's just me and Myklas left, and I fear the competition will be fierce.”
“It's the creeping feudalisation of Lenayin,” said Kessligh.
Jaryd frowned. “The what?”
“Before King Soros,” said Kessligh, “there were no lords and titles, just chieftains, clans and regional allegiances that split into warfare as often as they came together. But Soros didn't only bring the gods from the lowlands, he also brought nobility, land titles and all the rest. He thought he was bringing civilisation to the barbarians. Lowlands civilisation. Now, the lords see that their powers do not match those of their lowlands cousins and they push for more. In the name of civilisation, of course.”
“It'll never work,” Sasha said firmly. “Lord Aynsfar of Neysh tried it just a few years ago, brought a hundred hire-swords from the lowlands and declared himself ruler of his ‘ancestral lands’. But Goeren-yai came from near and far, killed his hire-swords and took his head. No man or woman of Lenayin will be anyone's serf—it might be the lowlands way, but not here.”
“You're talking of the murder of Lord Aynsfar!” Jaryd realised, suddenly aghast. “How can you…how can you approve of that barbarity? They tied him down and took his limbs one joint at a time until…”
“I heard it was a swift blow to the neck,” Sasha interrupted, turning to walk backward on the undulating grass, facing him. “I also heard that he was warned repeatedly, but gave only threats in return. Do the lowlands ways appeal to you, Jaryd? Would you like to inherit lands for your family? Allow minor lords to levy the royal tax instead of the king?”
Jaryd gave a protesting smile, but Damon's eyes were now on him as well, and curious. “I…I hadn't given it that much thought…but, I mean, what's the harm? Lowlands customs work very well and…”
“In the lowlands they work well,” said Damon.
“No harm?” Sasha added, incredulously. “Would you like to be ruled by a succession of lords, ladies and knights even before we get to Baen-Tar royalty? It was a great enough feat to get ordinary Lenays to swear allegiance to one king in Baen-Tar, you'd add all these other fools on top of that and expect them to accept it?”
“But…” Jaryd was flustered now. Sasha doubted he'd ever been challenged to justify his own privilege before in his life. “But the noble families already have authority over their regions…”
“Horse shit,” said Sasha. “The nobles derive their authority from the king and from each other, and that's only if they pray to the lowlands gods and have loads and loads of money to begin with. No one ever asked the rural folk, Jaryd. In their eyes, the nobility is just another strange little clan, all interbred and foreign, and nothing to do with their daily lives.
“They pay taxes to the king because he's the king, and the small tax to the provincial lords because they're the king's men, and because it occasionally does some good with roads and irrigation channels and bridges and the like. The rest of them are just dogs around the dinner table as far as the villagers are concerned, whining for scraps.”
“But a noble lord offers protection to his people with his forces!” Jaryd protested.
“In the Bacosh, they use armies paid for by the peasants’ coin to murder and terrorise them,” Sasha said firmly, still walking backward. “In the Bacosh, the ordinary folk have neither the weapons nor the skills to fight back. Lenayin is vastly different. They don't need your protection, Jaryd, and they certainly don't want it, and they'll fight you tooth and nail if you try to impose it upon them.”
She nearly spoiled her speech by tripping on uneven ground, stumbling to recover her balance. “Just…please,” she added, skipping sideways, “as a favour to me, look about you on this ride. Talk to your low-ranked men. Insist they be honest with you. It's not only sad that you should misunderstand your own people, it's dangerous.”
They crossed the wooden bridge once more, the Hadryn camp laid before them, a flickering line of campfires and shadowy activity.
“My Lords,” said one of the Royal Guards as they approached the main line of tents, drawing their attention forward. Rising from the light of a large campfire were a small cluster of well-dressed Hadryn men, buckles and clasps gleaming in the firelight. They strode