Interlude 2
Baron Bolster
The Baron sat on the edge of a bed, twirling a small metal cap, as his son sat on a chair, hunched over, trying to get the hang of the interesting new creation of Amos’s. He called it a Yo-Yo; although the design was simple, it was a work of creativity that he imagined would be a novelty even in the capital.
As Will began to once again wind the string on the Yo-Yo, he looked up at his father. "Father, why do you keep looking at that? It is just a metal cap."
The Baron’s voice became firm. "It is the fact that this is just a metal cap that fascinates me. Simple yet so useful, and yet it appeared in a place so remote I hadn't known of its existence until I received the count's letter."
He picked up a thin sliver of metal lying beside him and held it up for his son to see. He gave it a slight bend, and it sprang back to its original shape. "Add to that the fact that he is using iron needles of such quality that they bend rather than snap, even though they are thinner than any needle I have ever seen. This 'thimble,' as he calls it, and the thin needle have to be what is helping him cloth all his people."
"How so?"
To clothe all his people in it, the cloth must be cheap, and these items are able to hold it all together so that it doesn't come apart."
"So he makes cheap cloth, sews it together with these tools, and that makes it good enough for the peasants?" Will asked.
"I do not see how it could be any other way."
Will's eyes went wide. "I am sorry, Father. I didn't realize—"
Baron Bolster held up his hand. "I wouldn't expect you to. We live in a barony almost as remote as this one. I may even be wrong, as it is not often I visit other places. If we got a hold of some of his clothing, we could bring it to Father, and he could tell us what it is really worth."
Will stood up and placed his hand on the dresser, tilting the small circular mirror on its swivel. "And what about this? Boxes that slide out so you don’t have to bend over. Who would even need four drawers worth of clothing?"
"That is all the proof you need," the Baron replied. "The cloth is made cheaply and most likely wears thin after a few washings. You need a hoard of it just to keep up appearances."
"But these dressers aren't for his peasants, Father. They are for nobles. What noble would want a room full of flimsy rags?"
"Did you notice his own tunic? It is unique. It has more cuts and stitching than any fabric I have seen. It gives him a distinct silhouette, but think of the waste—so much fabric trimmed away and discarded just to make a sleeve fit tight. Lower-quality fabric is the only way he could justify such expenditure. It shows he values his creativity over his sensibility."
Will's brows scrunched. "Is he right to do so? Wouldn't the others in the capital make fun of him for such foolishness?"
"Is it foolish? To me, it is not sensible. I strive for practicality. But there are many in my father's court who would pay dearly to show off something impractical and unique. If he can make them believe that 'fitted' is the new mark of a noble, he won't be a fool—he'll be the man holding everyone else's purse strings. Time will tell."
"Will he even want the Melk, then? It is not cheap, and it is one trade good that we thought would catch his eye. If Grandfather is right, it is the only thing that we could possibly trade for his artwork." Will said worriedly.
Baron Bolster shook his head at his son's naivety. He had been like that once. "Do not compare the two. Just because he specializes in cheap cloth doesn't mean he will not recognize the value of expensive cushions."
Baron Bolster had been in the town for only a few hours and had decided he was very pleased with the education his son was getting.
"What do you think of the cards?" he probed.
This caused the young man's eyes to light up. They had received their temporary "ID Cards." They were about the size of his hand, and their creation fascinated Will.
After lunch, Amos had a man bring over a box. In it was a stack of cards stamped with blue-green ink. The word ‘Temporary’ followed by name, origin, date of birth, date of arrival, purpose for visit, and a few other things were listed along one side. A man with one of the new pens that had replaced quills this year filled out their information on the card. Then he rubbed his finger in some ink and pressed it onto the card, leaving his fingerprint. There was a spot for Will to do the same.
The count had explained that each person‘s fingerprint is unique. If a guard suspects someone of having a card that does not belong to them, they could send them to a specialist whose job is to check it against their fingerprint.
After the card was created and both fingerprints, the one issuing the card and the one receiving the card, were placed on it, a coating of clear resin was added. This was left on for an hour to dry, and then they received their Visitor ID.
"Father, the cards are incredible, but I don't understand the need for them," Will said.
The baron glanced at the table where his card was. "I cannot say that I understand it all myself. But the real question is not about the card but what it tells us about the count. He values order. He wants to make sure his citizens are all accounted for. Remember when the headman asked if armbands were needed. Lord Amos laughed and said, 'Their scarf of office should be enough.' I am thinking the arm band would be a visible identifier that we are not residents. This tells me he values keeping a tight monitoring system on his people. Who is coming and who is going.
"Let's also look at the cards themselves. The cards are made of the same paper material that his books are made of. We know that books sell for gold rather than silver. If the paper is as costly as parchment, that means each of those cards is worth at least a few silver pennies. If everyone who comes here receives one, and every citizen as well, then he is either obsessed with his accounting process or paper is actually made much cheaper than we first thought."
"Do you think he is charging too much for his books just because people do not know what it actually costs him to make paper?" Will said, leaning forward.
"No, he is charging what people are willing to pay. The cost of all the scribes needed to write these books and to put them together. The example he showed us was impressive enough that I have no doubt of its worth. I just believe the value does not come from the paper."
"Which means that he is making something as good as parchment but only costs copper pennies!"
"Exactly. Now, back to what these represent. If each citizen has a card and you saw that even the count himself has one, it makes it easy to identify, no matter where they are. The number system on the card tells him exactly which barony and village they are from, as well as their birth and when they received their card, in case they were not born here. The other line shows their current residency. Along with the other information on the card and the fact that he has another building to keep copies of individuals' information, he has simplified the tax process.
"And not just the taxes, Will," the Baron added, tapping the card against his palm. "Think of the levy. Think of the law. If a man commits a deed of blood in a distant village and flees, he cannot simply take a new name and hide among other people. Not if a magistrate can demand to see his card and check to see if he is accused of any crimes. Amos isn't just counting his people; he is branding them without the need for a hot iron."
Will sat back, the Yo-Yo dangling forgotten from his fingers. "It sounds... cold. Like people are just tallies on a slate."
"It is the strength of the shepherd," Bolster replied, his voice low. "A spear can only reach as far as a man’s arm. A ledger reaches into every hut. If he knows exactly how many mouths eat his grain and how many hands can grip a spear, he can win a battle before his men even march. It is a quiet kind of power."
The Baron stood up, smoothing his travel-worn tunic. The light was beginning to shift, casting long shadows across the wooden floor.
"But look at the cost, Father," Will gestured around the room. "The resin, the ink, the scribes. Why go through such labor for a few villages?"
"That is what we must discover," the Baron said. "Either he is a man so fearful he must count every grain in his silo, or he is preparing for a harvest ten times this size. You do not dig a wide channel for a trickling spring, Will. You dig it because you expect a flood."
He picked up the metal thimble again, tucking it into a small leather pouch at his belt.
"Wash the ink from your hands. The sun is dipping, and we are expected for supper shortly. I want you to watch the men at his table tonight. Don't just listen to the count; watch the men who serve him. See if they move with the confusion of a crowded market or the steady, silent rhythm of a courtly dance."
Will stood, moving toward the ceramic basin in the corner. "And if they are like the count?"
The Baron checked the fastening of his cloak, his expression turning sharp. "Then we make sure our Barony is part of the of what I suspect will be a shift in power. If he is as efficient as these cards suggest, dinner will not just be for eating—it will be his next test."
Jess, Leader of the Karr
The interior of the stone house in Karr was thick with the scent of dried herbs and the lingering humidity of the lake. Jess sat in a heavy, high-backed chair—a piece of furniture that looked far too regal for a simple village elder. Outside, the rhythmic thrum of spears striking each other and boots thumping the earth echoed from the training grounds where the Karr youth practiced with a fire in their eyes that no Falmoren could truly understand.
Kith stood by the narrow, cloth-covered window, his fingers restlessly tracing the steel-tipped spear leaning against the wall.
"It appears the Descended’s plan is working," Jess said, his voice a low, barely carrying over the wind. "His story of the Shades of Karr has scared away the baron's people and given us the flexibility we needed." He gestured to the letter on the table, bearing the Bicman seal.
"But what about the restriction he has placed on us?" Kith grumbled, turning from the window, his face illuminated by a single, flickering oil lamp. "He requested that you no longer take the necessary steps to protect him."
"How so?" Jess asked, his eyes unblinking.
"Are you losing your mind in your old age?" Kith’s voice rose, tight with frustration. "He knows we are the ones who have been helping catch those who would do him harm—the spies from everywhere in the kingdom. And yet he has asked that we do nothing."
"We can still report things to the guards," Jess countered calmly.
"Who must work within the laws!" Kith slammed a fist onto the table, rattling the clay tea mugs. "His laws say the guards cannot arrest people on suspicion, only on 'hard evidence'. And although we have it, it isn't something they can use in his court without revealing our eyes in every shadow. The law of the Descended is a shield for his enemies!"
Jess leaned forward, the flickering shadows of the oil lamp stretching across his face. "Which is why the Descended was wise enough to give us a loophole in his request. He claims that the 'Shades of Karr' killed the baron's men."
"I am sorry," Kith said, his anger faltering into confusion. "I do not understand."
"Do you not find it odd?" Jess reached out, tapping the paper Amos had written on. "On the same day he sent the request to us to watch for any unauthorized activity, showing he knows it is us who are his hand in the dark, he spread the story about the shades. Why would he tell us to watch for what is unlawful, when enforcement already exists—unless he intended us to see and do what others must not? There is a request hidden in the two messages."
Jess stood up, his joints popping in the silence. He walked to a corner of the room where a card lay on a small table. Holding it up in the dim light.
"The secret decree of the Decended is that the Shades of Karr are the only ones who may work outside the law," Jess whispered, his eyes glowing with religious zeal. "For they are dead and do not obey mortal laws. They are the ghosts the Descended has summoned to haunt his enemies."
He turned back to Kith, his gaze piercing. "And so you must die, Kith. You and those you select will become the Shades. We will remove your names from the County's records. Slowly, one by one, your names will be placed in the records of the dead in the Census Hall. You will be given a place to live deep within the old ruins, where the first slaughter of our people took place. I will be your only contact outside of your families, who will go into the silence with you."
Kith stared at the elder, then, slowly, a grim smile spread across his face. He understood. Amos wasn't just a lord; he was a god who spoke in parables, and they were his holy executioners.
"As the Rabiss say, we will be his Hand of Wrath, " Kith said, his voice now as cold as the sea.
"The Descended gave us new life once," Jess concluded, looking toward the ceiling as if the gods could hear him. "Now, for his sake, you must return to the grave."
Kith looked at the card in Jess's hand and understood the full implications of what his leader was requesting. Pulling out his own card, he turned to the oil lamp and held it over the small flame.
As the acrid smoke of the resin wafted up into the air, he whispered. "For the Descended."
Author Note: I think the burning of the card was great. Especially since the previous POV show it's good side. Before the bureaucratic system is even truly off the ground, it is being corrupted.
Baron Weston Yarbeth
The steward bowed his head as he finished his report, his fingers trembling slightly—not from fear, but from the hum of barely contained excitement. He held a piece of the new paper Amos had introduced to the region, its surface marked with the distinct EJ watermark.
"It is as I said, my lord. This land is blessed, not cursed, as those in the South suggested. The new plow the Count has acquired from the king churns the heavy clay deep—results unlike anything we see in the soil of the south." He gestured with a dip pen toward the window. "Fields that used these plows last year produced yields equal to the finest river-lands in Kimton, and those were only the test plots. This year, with more fields converted, the commoners expect nearly double the harvest."
He hesitated, the weight of his next words heavy in the air. "My lord… I advise you to do all you can to secure these lands permanently for the House of Yarbeth. With the soil here and the amount of tillable acreage, this territory may one day be more valuable to your house than the mountain passes themselves, even with all their gems and spices."
Baron Weston Yarbeth’s eyes gleamed, a flicker of hunger igniting behind them. The steward’s words settled over him like a mantle of destiny. In an era where a man's power was measured by the number of soldiers he could field, a grain bowl was worth more than a treasury of gold.
He stood slowly, his hands curling behind his back. To the north, the Bicman fields lay under the light of the setting sun, rippling like a golden sea.
"Forget my father and brother. Let them keep the ancestral lands of Yarbeth with their thin soil and their mines," he murmured, his voice thick with cold resolve. "I want this land. All of it."
A smile touched the corner of his mouth—thin, sharp, and full of predatory ambition.
"I will become the Count of North Cove… and this shall be the most prosperous land in all of Falmoren." He turned back toward the steward. "We will be the granary of the army. The prize every noble envies. Kimton prides itself on its luxury trades, but a man who controls the bread controls the realm. I will see to it that even the Duke grows dependent on the food from my fields."
The steward lowered his gaze, recognizing the shift in his master's demeanor. "How do we accomplish this? Assassinating him would place suspicion squarely upon us and the king favors him?"
Weston waved the concern aside with a lazy, dismissive flick of his fingers. "We must make the Count out to be a traitor. A man who hoards revolutionary secrets from his betters. Success breeds enmity, and the court is already whispering about his rapid rise. The king’s favor is a fickle thing."
He turned back to the window, the fire of ambition burning hotter than the setting sun.
"For now," he continued, "we must begin moving the people. I want five thousand folk from Yarbeth and the surrounding villages to move north within the next six months."
"Five thousand?" the steward gasped, his mind racing through the logistics of a five-day march on foot through the coming winter rains. "My lord, it would be a minimum of a five-day journey from your other lands to here, even with the incredible roads, and the Count has already placed guards at the Nore River bridge."
"Then we move them in waves," Weston snapped, his eyes narrowing. "They will break more ground before next year’s planting. If the fields are full of Yarbeth men, then the land is mine in truth, no matter what scarf the boy wears."
"Will we be able to feed that many on the march?" the steward asked, his voice shaking.
"If the fields produce as you say, it will not be a problem," Weston replied coldly. "And if the stores run thin, place them on half rations for the winter. Or even a third. The weak will die, and those who survive will be put to work the next year. They will endure the hunger."