Welcome back to Silvanus and Empire, my ongoing, serialized fantasy novel exclusive to Steemit! In our last chapter, Caddoc made waves with the whole town after fixing up the old barn's roof, and Smith Dafydd paid the price. What's next? Read on and see!
Silvanus and Empire
Chapter Seven
image from wallpoper
In silence, Caddoc walked with Dafydd down the Cliffway. The river ran alongside them on the right, pacing them downstream; the water sparkled with the late afternoon sun. Caddoc squinted against the glare.
“So,” he said at last, “how long have you been wanting to learn to read and write?”
“Since I began payin’ taxes to ‘is ‘oliness,” Dafydd said. Caddoc grunted. “’e takes more’n’more every year, it seems! Or Old Oren collects more’n’more, at any rate. Not that I kin tell withou’ learnin’ me letters. You be knowin’ the law as well as I, Scr— Caddoc.”
“Yes, Master Smith, I know the law as well as you do, if not better; any citizen of the Empire has full access to all records, public and private. Imperial decrees, tax assessments, everything needs just be asked for and a Scribe is duty bound to present it to the petitioner.” He shook his head. “Which is why, of course, that it is forbidden for any citizen to learn to read and write unless he is in the employ of an Imperial Order, such as the Scribners.” Caddoc looked over at Dafydd. They both stopped in the middle of the road. “Do you know the penalty for breaking that such law? What do they take from you if found guilty, Master Smith?”
Dafydd met the young scribe’s gaze steadily. “Both yer eyes.”
“Yes, both your eyes, and the tongue of whomever taught you. My eyes and your tongue, Master Smith, nailed to a post outside the gates of Imperial City. Do you want that? How many plows can you forge without your sight, friend?”
“How many plows can I forge if Old Oren takes me last penny, aye and me hammer an’ tongs for good measure? Tell me that, young Caddoc.”
Caddoc sighed and took two steps down the road. He ran his hands through his hair for a moment, then turned around to face Dafydd again. “What if I can find out for sure if Scribe Oren is actually taking more than he should from you every season? That’s why you want to learn to read, is it not? To peruse the records, examine how much is being sent back off to Imperial City, and break Scribe Oren’s crown against your anvil if he’s been skimming the cream off the top for himself?”
Dafydd grinned at Caddoc. “Oh, I wouldn’t hurt him, boyo; I’d just rough ‘im up a bit. Now me wife, on th’other hand, she’d flay him alive an’ send ‘is bones doon to th’ baker t’make some bread.”
Caddoc laughed. “Well then it sounds as if we have ourselves an agreement, Master Smith.” He extended his hand and the short, burly man took it in both meaty paws.
“Aye, that we do, Caddoc,” he said. “But call me Dafydd.” He released the young man’s hand and straightened his apron. “Now, if ye’ll be excusin’ me, I’ve got t’start makin’ a chimney top, don’t I?” He grinned and went down the Cliffway towards his forge.
Caddoc watched him go, grinning despite himself. One battle at a time, he thought, before turning to trudge back in the direction of the Depository. Maybe there’s some hope for these blighted farmhands after all.
He had just passed a small house on the side of the road when something small and light bounced off the back of his head. Spinning around, he saw a stale crust of bread lying at his feet. Lyrinn was there as well, smirking at him, breadbasket in hand. It was then that he noticed the shingle hanging by the house’s door – it had two scones and a loaf of bread painted on it.
Feigning injury, he placed a hand on the back of his head. “Ach!” he cried, and fell to his knees. “Send for a priest, my lady, for I travel to the other side!”
She laughed and threw another crust at him. It hit Caddoc right between the eyes and he fell over backward noisily, playing dead. His medallion slipped out from inside his robe as he fell and skittered across his chest like a coin.
A shadow passed over him and he opened an eye; Lyrinn was standing there. “Are you to deliver the coup de grace, mistress, or will I know mercy this day?”
“Oh, get up, y’bloody fool,” she said, but with amusement. “Yer gettin’ yer pretty little robe all dirty.”
Harrumphing, Caddoc regained his feet and made a show of dusting off the coarse brown wool from which his clothes were woven. “Not entirely chivalric, ambushing me from behind,” he told her.
“’twas fair enough,” she said. “Yer so damned skinny it’s a wonder I hit ye at all.
“Scribe Oren leaves me little time for anything but fetching and carrying, I’m afraid. I’m sure he’ll have me teaching Malcolm to waltz tomorrow.” He gestured to the Cliffway beside him. “Care to walk with me? Plenty of road for the both of us, especially since I am, as you say, able to walk sideways through a slatted fence.”
Lyrinn gathered her basket and stepped out on to the road. “Yer goin’ t’get yerself shunned if y’keep talkin’ t’me in th’middle of th’road like this.” She strode off.
Caddoc plucked at the hem of his robe and set off to catch up. “They wouldn’t dare,” he said. “Not a member of His Holiness’ Imperial Order of Scribners.” He rolled his eyes. “I sometimes wonder how much better I would have been off if my parents had lived and I’d ended up a caravan guard like my father.”
“Yer father was a warrior?” Lyrinn looked askance at the young man at her side. She rubbed her shoulder absently. “Is that where he got that little bauble yer always wearin’? As payment fer scarin’ a few locals?”
Caddoc tucked the medallion back inside his shirt. It tended to unnerve him, how she seemed to stare at it so. “I’m not sure where he got it from, but yes, it was his. And no, I don’t think my father was one for such things. I don’t remember much of him, but what I do remember is an impression of gentleness… and sadness too, perhaps. My mother I remember little better.” They both walked along in silence for a handful of paces before Caddoc spoke again: “What of your own parents? And how did you come to live with Master Baker?”
“I remember even less than yerself,” she said softly. “I was found on th’side of the road, it was said, in th’arms of a dying man.”
“Your own father?”
She shook her head. “Not by his hair. ‘Twas dark, nearly black. And he had a beard. The men of the Wild People do not grow beards. Master Baker found him, and m’self – just a wee babe at the time – and took me home.”
“And you’ve been living with him and his family ever since?”
“Oh, aye,” she said, looking down to her basket and fussing with the contents, “if y’can call it that. Oh, no, I never wanted for food, or a warm bed, but when I came of age Master Baker took me aside an’ said, ‘Now, young lady, I’ve a-been supportin’ ye fer years, an’ it’s high time ye begin payin’ back me hospitality.’ So he put me to work for ‘im, and ever since I’ve been workin’ my debt off by deliverin’ and bakin’ bread fer him.”
They rounded the last turn of the road and the Depository hove into sight, smoke billowing from its new chimney. “Speakin’ of such,” Lyrinn went on, digging in her basket once more, “here is today’s delivery fer yer charming master.” She handed him two small loaves of nut-brown bread. “I hope they give him the runs.”
“I don’t,” Caddoc said, taking the bread from her. “I’m the one who’s got to clean the privy.” He smirked. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll go inside and get you what we owe for the loaves, along with the ones from the other day. I noticed Scribe Oren didn’t pay for those.”
“Oh, he never pays,” Lyrinn said wearily. “He never pays, no matter how much of a fuss I make of it. I’ve learned to just give up. Master Baker says he has no choice but to put th’cost on top of whatever else I owe him.” She sighed heavily. “Sometimes I think I’ll never be free of my debt. At least not so long as Scribe Oren never pays, and Mistress Morgaine never gives back me baskets, and all the other little things t’others do t’show how much they like me bein’ here.”
“Lyrinn, that’s not right. You can’t let them treat you in such a way. What have you ever done to deserve such treatment?”
She grabbed a handful of her hair and held it up to him. “I was born,” she said flatly.
Caddoc shook his head. “Have you ever… thought of crossing the river?”
Lyrinn looked over at it. The north bank was silent, as always; the markers in the water stood out darkly against the flowing current. “As a child,” she said, still gazing across the water, “I dreamt of my family crossing over, comin’ to rescue me from me pitiful life here, but rescue never came. And what would I say to them now, if they did? We don’t even speak th’same language. An’ no’wt of the Silvani have been seen in many a long year. Nay, the only life I’ll have is one over on this side. No handsome red-haired tribal prince is goin’ t’whisk me off this eve, or any other.” She looked over at Caddoc. “And neither will a half-starved boot-wearing city boy,” she said with a smirk. “Now go on home t’yer master before he catches us talkin’ and decides ta strip yer hide raw.”
Caddoc clutched one hand to his chest. “Ach! Again am I unmanned. Farewell for now, thou acid-tongued harridan; when next we meet it shall be I who shall emerge victorious.”
Lyrinn walked on. “Next time I’m throwin’ a rock.”
Caddoc laughed and started towards the Depository. As he walked through the open doorway, he called out. “Scribe Oren, I’ve returned! And I have today’s bread!”
“So I see.” Caddoc turned around to find Oren leaning against the inside wall of the Depository. To his left was a vertical stack of cubbyholes bursting with yellowed vellum scrolls; to his right, the open front door. He folded his arms and regarded Caddoc for a long, quiet moment.
“We have to talk, you and I.” He straightened up and walked deeper into the stacks. Caddoc followed.