Stormcallers: Chapter 15
But Teschemar, Cloud Commander, was a good Herathian, and so he could not set his plans in motion before he recieved a blessing from his superior. Not the Emperor, no, but the High Varus of the Herathian Empire, Highest Commander and Ruler of the Herathian Military, Keeper of the Gate, and Minister of the five Commanders: Luvanar Testunava.
There were few in the whole of the Herathian Empire who were allowed to see the Varus. Even fewer were allowed to speak with him. There were only five who could knock on his door.
As Teschemar approached the Varus’s chamber, the guards along the passageway saluted his passing with their hands placed over their hearts, like this. Teschemar saw how their muscles tightened, and their weapons shone in the dusk light. The guards were strong, and through their submission to Teschemar they made him stronger. This was part of the Law.
The Varus’s door servant bowed low at Teschemar’s approach, and allowed him entrance. Such a room it was! High vaulted ceilings, rich vessels of oil and wine, thick bowls of fruit and sugared breads, and servants dressed finer than any noble met Teschemar’s eyes. Men and woman of every age stood along the wall, waiting to be given purpose by their master’s command. Teschemar’s cloak, cap, and sword of mark were taken; wine and fruit offered. None of the slaves dared raise their gaze from the floor. This too was part of the Law.
When he had drunk and eaten his fill, a young slave stood before him and said “His Highest Varus will see you in his room.” This was not part of the Law.
Down the ornamented hallway through engraved doors and well-lit antechambers, Teschemar walked to meet his only superior in the empire. The High Varus, Luvanar Testunava, was seated on a chair of gold and wood, crafted through both the care of an ancient craftsman and the ages of use. His long gray hair was held in the hands of two servants on either side of him who braided and beaded his hair with consummate care.
“Honored High Varus,” Teschemar lowered himself to a single knee, bowing his head low while placing his hand flat over his heart. “You give me great honor to grant me audience.”
The old man laughed and waved his wrinkled hands. “Stop, stop. I have lived far too long to bother with all that nonsense. Please rise and seat yourself in comfort.”
This too was not part of the Law. Teschemar stood and said; “It would not be proper to sit in your presence, High Varus.”
Luvanar’s eyes twinkled in delight. “And yet if you look over to your left, you see an entire row of servants seated on their heels, heads bowed, waiting for me to utter a single word. Are they behaving improperly?”
Of course they were not, for it was the Law that those who serve bow to their masters. The High Varus knew this, and so did Teschemar, but Luvanar had long been an inscrutable master. He smiled oddly when there was no cause and frowned in concern when things seemed well. He had always struck Teschemar as a man on the edge of madness, who saw things that no one else did.
When no answer was forthcoming, the Varus continued; “Come then, Cloud Commander, tell me why you wished to speak to me in my bed-chamber?”
Teschemar could not stop his bilious response. “I wanted to speak with you in the main hall, High Varus. It is not proper that we speak in your bed-chamber.”
Varus Luvanar did not laugh but simply sighed before clasping his hands at his lap. “Proper.”
Teschemar did not understand what the Varus was trying to say, so he waited for the Varus to stand from his chair and walk to the tall chest of drawers on the far wall. “You are upset about something, Teschemar, I can tell.”
The words stung Teschemar’s heart and he drew himself up taller. “I am a tool of the High Varus. I do not doubt nor bend in my duties.”
Luvanar laughed at this, and said: “Oh, keep still young Saqur. I am not insulting you, merely noting that you have never requested to speak with me without something pecking at your mind. A problem, perhaps, whose solution remains just out of grasp. A conflict within you that you cannot overcome without help. How can I help you, Teschemar?”
But it was not help that Teschemar wished, it was permission. This was the way of Luvanar, using words that did not mean what he said, forcing others to play word-games to find his meanings. Teschemar grit his teeth before answering: “I come to request permission for the redeployment of the Herathian armada to the cloud-sea.”
The Varus made no sign of surprise, though surprised he must have been. “My, my. The whole armada? Such a large undertaking. And so unnecessary, to my old eyes. Perhaps you know something I do not?”
“The Erwind Trade Conglomerate has made a request to unify our forces. They possess great economic power and a navy worthy of the name. Combined with our forces, we could patrol the major trade-lanes during all the five seasons. The Law of Herathia could spread to the cloud-sea itself. Piracy and smuggling could end and travel between the islands become stable.”
“Piracy?” asked the Varus, and Teschemar’s finger drew to the scar around his neck. Luvanar cocked an ancient eyebrow at his Commander. “And is Erosea willing to bow to this law?”
Teschemar sneered. “Erosea has nothing to do with it. The Erwind Trade Conglomerate operates not by the will of an Erosean king, but by their own will. They are merchant mercenaries, serving only their own desire for coin. They have no nation, no flag, no heritage.”
The Varus studied a vial of perfumed water before plucking the stopper and sniffing gently. “I have heard this as well. I suppose the code of mercenaries is not limited to the battle-field, but perhaps I am too old. And their will was to purchase you?”
Teschemar’s stomach clenched as a torrent of fire burned in his heart. Fury rose in his throat and he choked it down with a face of disgust. “I am a soldier of Herathia. I am Cloud Commander of the Herathian Military. I have not been purchased!”
The Varus shrugged, like this, before brushing the perfumed water against his neck, like this. “No? Perhaps not, though there are many ways to buy someone other than with coin. No matter. Forgive the lazy words of an old man. You have not spoken with the other commanders, of course.”
Teschemar had not, for it was the Law that the Commanders served the Varus. It was by his command that they acted. It is the Varus’s will that they followed. But Luvanar was not a Varus like those of old. Instead, he turned to Teschemar and opened his hand, like this. “You are the Cloud Commander. The war vessels of Herathia are at your command, as are the transports and cargo vessels. Beyond the edge of Norrholt is your domain, as the roads are to the Steward, and the court-houses to the Commander of Pikes. If it is my will that you follow, then know that it is my will to let you rule your domain as you see fit.”
Teschemar could hold back his voice no longer. He spoke out to his master in words born of fear and disgust. “That is not in accordance with the Law. You are my Varus. I serve you, and you are my Lord.”
“In the end,” Luvanar said, “we are all Lords of our own domain, and we all serve something greater. I have lived to see Norrholt united. The conquest of a thousand generations has been completed. There are no more people to fight, to conquer, to control.”
Teschemar’s tongue was dry in his mouth, his chest ached. “But High Varus, the Kingdom of Cast still stands. The Pirates of Madrain sail the cloud-sea with impunity. The twisted words of Orghasa and the greedy hands of Erosea befoul the Law.”
The Varus clapped his hands and spread his arms like a withered bird of prey. Servants lifted themselves off of their heels and swooped towards him, divesting him of his great robe and shining vestments. In seconds, the High Varus was gone, and in his place was an old and naked man.
Teschemar averted his gaze, ashamed for himself and his Varus. Luvanar, however, showed no sign of shame, but spoke with clear and distinct pride. “Teschemar, I am tired. For years we have fought for an Empire, and at long last we have achieved it. There is nothing more to be done save to bend our spears into plows, our shields into carts. We have reached the end of our story. The flag flies over servant and master alike. Now is the time for a new Law to be written, one of a United Norrholt, free of the demands of our ancestors. The Law is dead, long live the Law.”
Teschemar gaped at the Varus’s blaspheme. Free from the ancestors of Herathia? Would he so cavalierly suggest the slaughter of so many memories, to state all their lives having been lived in vein? But Teschemar had not heard the wisdom in the Varus’s words, for it was indeed the ancestors of Herathia that had set the Empire on its path.
The old man lay on his bed while the servants busied themselves about his person, adjusting sheets and fragrant flowers. His long hair which hung down to his stomach was carefully arranged about his head in a beautiful halo.
“High Varus,” Teschemar pressed forward, “I must have an answer, a blessing.”
The old man opened his eyes. “You already have many blessings, Teschemar, though I think them burdens. Swim ever onward upstream, Cloud Commander. Swim onward.”
Was this blessing enough for Teschemar? It must have been, for he spoke with the Steward of the Roads and requested an increase in the people’s taxes.
This confused the Steward of the Roads greatly, for he had already increased the taxes of Herathia twofold; a necessity, so he thought, to maintain order and discipline among the Empire.
So curious was the Steward that he set his legion of spies to watch Teschemar and his servants, to see what tricks his fellow Commander was plotting; for this was the Steward’s way, to be suspicious of all who did not behave as he suspected they should.
But while his spies did their work, he also did as his fellow Commander requested, so the Imperial taxes were increased once more.
Taxes. The word was foreign to Ysalla as well as the rest of the village of Jarhaan. They understood preparation, as when the local seer augured a harsh winter, the town magistrate would stand in the middle of town and collect all the townsfolk could spare. They would place it in the storage houses and grain silos for safe-keeping, and dole out food- and wood-rations as required to keep everyone warm and well fed.
Too did they understand sacrifice; when harsh fortune covered their farms and families, fat animals and warm breads were burned at the family shrines. In return for a change of fortune, they knew they had to pay a price.
The older villagers grumbled that there was no fortune in being Herathian, no more than being Wendshan, but most knew it must have been a great privilege, else why must they offer a monthly tithe?
The new magistrate was adamant; the price they paid of grain and meat was meager compared to what they gained by being a part of the great Herathian Empire. A few hungry nights was nothing compared to the peace and prosperity came from living under the Red Saqur.
So it was that every month, the villagers gathered at the Magistrate’s townhouse carrying baskets of vegetables and reams of cloth. Offerings of coin and food were piled at the feet of the Tax-collector, and the villager’s name was written on the list of those who had paid.
When her turn came, Ysalla stepped forward carrying the basket of red roots that were the taxes for the Friar’s farm. They were firm and strong, a good harvest considering the poor weather they had endured the past month.
The young man looked up and his mouth opened wide in surprise, for the tax-collector knew Ysalla and the Friar well and had not expected to see them. “The Aloni family has already paid their taxes,” he said, pointing to their name in his ledger. “You need give no more.”
At hearing this, Ysalla smiled at the young man and called him by name, for she had known him since they were children. His name was Doshan, and he blushed at hearing his name pass her lips. “This is not from my family, Doshan,” she said, setting the roots before him. “These are the taxes from the Friar’s farm.”
“As a Friar of the Fellowship, he need pay no taxes,” Doshan said, his blush deepening to a red as rich as the roots in the basket. “The Fellowship of the Light serves us all as the Emperor does. Besides, this basket is too much for a single farm to pay.”
But Friar Henrik had told Ysalla to not let the tax-collector brush her aside. He knew, in his wisdom, that if he was seen to escape the taxes of Wendsha then the Wendshan people would no longer see the Fellowship as a part of Wendsha, but as something above it, as cold and distant as the Empire itself.
“Is it too much?” Ysalla nudged the basket with her foot, setting the roots rustling. “then I suppose the food will go to waste, then, sitting here in the damp, on the ground.”
Doshan did not know what to say to this and so turned to his fellow soldiers, looking for some sign of what to do next. Each of them struggled to reconcile their orders with the calm and sturdy gaze of the woman in front of them. Then, with his face burning bright as a torch, Doshan stooped to pick up the basket.
No sooner had his hand touched the wicker than a harsh shout echoed across the town square. “What are you doing!”
Quick as a shot, Doshan dropped the basket and stood to attention, his armor clattering in the still air. A Herathian man in thick fur and silken finery stepped towards them. In one hand he gripped a small spear, an ornate and ceremonial version of the weapons the soldiers carried in earnest.
“Yanar,” Doshan stammered his superior’s rank. “We are —”
“I have ten Tumans under my command, Tuman Doshan,” the Yanar stepped closer, crossing his arms. “Why is it that of them all, only you continue to disrespect the orders of our glorious Steward of Roads?”
Doshan swallowed, “I meant no disrespect, Yanar. I thought only that—”
“The place of the Tuman is not to think,” his Yanar snapped, “but to lead your Band. Should you fail in your duty, your Band may fail. Should your band fail, my Wing may fail. If my Wing fails, then my Wailish’s Talon may fail. If his Talon fails, then our Norman must explain to the Steward of Roads why his Advance of ten-thousand soldiers were unable to fulfill the orders given to him by the High Varus himself.”
And this was the strength of the Herathian Military. It was not duty nor love which drew Doshan’s chest higher, but fear. Like a toy on a string, Doshan’s limbs jerked to the side, snapping and pointing at his two fellow soldiers. In moments, the basket of roots sat on the ground once more in front of Ysalla.
“You have no taxes to pay,” Doshan spoke loud and clear to the assembled people. “Who is next?”
Slowly, an old woman, bent double with years and care, stepped forward with empty arms. There was not a person assembled who did not recognize Mother Basugi, a Seer of Copal Naon, who spoke with the ancestors and wrote charms on thin paper to ward of evil and bring good fortune.
“I had no harvest,” the old woman said, her voice clear though her eyes were downcast. “My youngest grandchild, Jivan, was ill, and his father’s arms were taken by the storms. We could not plow our field.”
The Yanar had no mercy, however, for as Doshan feared the Yanar, so did the Yanar fear his Wailish. “Have you no animals to slaughter?” he spat at Mother Basugi. “A tax must be offered, and a tax must be taken. Are you a part of the great Herathian Empire, or are you an outsider? A parasite? One who feeds off the efforts of others but gives nothing in return?”
Now, there were no one in Jarhaan who would dare speak to an old Seer in such words, but the Yanar was Herathian born and did not respect the ways of Wendsha. Ysalla could see among the gathered people the unease, the fear, and the scorn that had begun to grow.
To stop the trouble brewing, she picked up her basket and offered it to Mother Basugi. “The Fellowship has heard of your pains, and in an act of grace, I would like to give this food to you.”
How furious the Yanar was! How bitter his mouth and what fire lit his eyes! Had Mother Basugi seen the look on his face, she would have dropped the basket then and there and run back to her small shrine to pray. But she was wise, and knew it seldom benefit a poor old woman to look into the face of a soldier, so her eyes remained downcast as she rested the offered basket in front of Doshan.
Poor Doshan, he knew that no matter what he did, he would risk the wrath of his Yanar. Instead he waited, watching the furious soldier as a vicious smile slid across his face. “Fortunate for you, old crone. I see today you need not sacrifice anything of your own, as these other people must, for the honor of being a true Herathian.”
When Ysalla told Friar Henrik what had transpired, his smile faded, and he clasped his hands in fear, like this. “I worry,” he said, “for what may become of our humble village. Already the cracks grow beneath our feet. I worry we may not be able to keep the land together.”