Excerpt: The Silver Dreaming

The Silver Dreaming

Chapter Four -- Oversight

As he trod heavily across the crushed-shell courtyard and into the brick passageway, Khever took a deep, steadying breath of salt-tanged air. Coming out from beneath the lintel of the carven doorway, he lifted his head and again filled his lungs, deliberately relaxing before pursuing the unpleasant task of reprimanding his overseer. Despite his simmering anger, the scene before him, as always, calmed his nerves and lifted his spirits.

The front courtyard of the villa faced southeast, with a wide, white drive of crushed shell bounding the front terrace. The drive curved to his right all the way to the orchard wall, where it met the log road that edged the buna fields. To his left, the curve traveled around to the fork at the southeast corner of the rose-brick garden wall. There it divided, half following the wall back to the stableyard and outbuildings, the other fork paralleling the coast road through terraces of espaliered vines on the left and his grazing and garden fields on the right.

From where he stood in the centre of the terrace, he could see the swirling clouds of his own honeybees busy over the wildflower lawn and rose-beds which filled the space between the drive and the Royal Road at the base of the hill, fifty yards below him. But it was the vista beyond the stone wall that lifted his heart and steadied his mind. Dropping off sharply beyond the wall and stretching as far as he could see, until they melted into the lavender-blue haze of distance, were acre upon acre of grape vines in every shade of green, vines which would in the fruiting season be studded with glowing jewels of fruit, ruby, amethyst, jade. The low walls and narrow paths of chalky stone meandered across the panoply of fields like Merrian brocade on velvet, a tapestry of which he never tired. Even at this season, when the old, woody vines were only newly beginning to bud with tender green leaves, he could gaze at his fields and feel himself to be prosperous and secure in his own. A deep surge of combined pride and contentment filled his broad chest every time he gazed at the fields, his own as far as his gaze could reach, and nourished by his own labor, knowledge and perseverance.

Above him the sky was a blue as transparent as water, streaked with darting gulls and the thin veiling of high clouds which signaled rain within a day or two. The fresh breeze from the inland sea had the tang of salt and new grass, and he could hear the cries of the gulls above the low rumble of waves, punctuated with the calling back and forth of workers in the vineyards, coupled with the occasional sharp whistle of the overseer.

As he heard and recognized that last particular sound, he shook himself out of his reverie, and once again focused his mind on the task at hand. He fumbled in his pouch for his own silver whistle, and brought it to his lips, sounding his own particular trill, the pattern of notes which could penetrate as far as ten fields away, and which immediately told his employees, "This is the Master calling, and I need to speak to you, NOW." He followed that with Gorach's signal, three short bursts followed by four long ones and a final short. And he waited.

In but a moment's time, he heard the same pattern play back to him, three shorts, four longs, a short. Gorach was signaling, "I have heard you, Master. I will be right there." That message was followed by a descending scale of notes, which Khever counted, one, two, three, four. His overseer was four fields away--that meant he would arrive in the estate office in less than an hour. Khever just had time to freshen himself before the meeting, which would be immediately followed by luncheon. He didn't want to take the time to go back to the house, and he was enjoying the solitude of his own thoughts. He decided to cleanse himself with a quick swim in the cove behind the villa, where Tasith usually went to think. That might steady his mind before he had to have that difficult conversation with Gorach.

But plans change. Just as he was turning to head down the path to the cove, he heard the jangling of harness and the creak of wheels as someone urged a mule-cart up the steep path between the road and the drive. The voice exhorting the mule was not one he knew, but he turned with a huge smile of pleasure as another voice, one he did know, bellowed his name in stentorian tones. His own voice rolled a booming welcome down the slope of the drive as he hurried forward.

"Delar!! By the Nine, you're welcome, man! How are you here so soon? We didn't look for you until tomorrow's suppertime!"

The slender, raven-haired man in the laden wagon unfolded himself and leaped gracefully over the wagon-wheel onto the road, towering nearly a foot over Khevar as he returned the shoulder-pounding male embrace.

"Nor did I expect to be here so timely, but Sion brings luck, they say. The day before yesterday, in the bazaar at Asta, I made the acquaintance of a healer of the Elvar, set up there selling potions. We fell into conversation as I was browsing, and by the time I had made my purchases, we were chatting like old cronies. He--or she? It's a nuisance never to be sure--anyroad, the Excellency wished to study our healing methods at the Center, and had impeccable credentials. I issued an invitation, expecting to see the Excellency in a month or two…and god's ears, if she, or he, didn't show up that evening right after supper. So, there I was, two days before my locum was expected, with someone into whose hands I had not a moment's hesitation entrusting my current patients---by the Nine, every struggling physician should be so lucky as to have an Elvar healer dropped on the doorstep, as it were. Isanna is there to make introductions when my apprentice arrives, and so there I was with two days in hand, and I loaded the world in a wagon, as the saying goes, and---well, I'm here!"

Both men had made the three-fingered sign of respect for the MoonMother when Delar had spoken Her name, but now they clasped hands warmly, still shoulder-pounding, and grinned at one another like a pair of naughty schoolboys.

"World in a wagon, indeed! Where you think you'll find room to stow all that mess in a journey-trap is a riddle for the Winds, no doubt! But come in, come in, man! No sense standing here flapping like gaffers! Dolia was going to be bringing some wine to the terrace, and I--well, I'll be with you shortly. We can swim, eh? And mayhap I can win back some of the money you've skunked me out of, in a friendly game or two of caret, hey?" Khever gave up trying to reach high enough to throw an arm over his foster-brother's shoulders, and simply grasped him by the hand and the corner of his traveling-cloak, virtually dragging him up the sloping path he himself had just descended. At a word from Delar, called over his shoulder, the wagoner urged the russet mule forward towards the rear drive. Khever spared a glance for the gear and the beast, and hastened to reassure his guest on the provisions in place for both.

"Myrinn is back there, I know, arranging things for luncheon and all. She'll be seeing to your unloading. Don't fret about your things. They're safe with my folk."

Delar didn't seem at all concerned, rendering the reassurances unnecessary.

"I know, I know, no trouble at all. No one fortunate enough to have a chatelaine of the Merfolk need ever worry their own head, or that of a guest either, about such arrangements. It's not as if I have never had Myrinn see to my needs before. She is no doubt worth her weight in gold when it comes to such things. But--but what's this 'shortly' business, brother? I didn't come all this way to sit cooling my heels for the master of the house like a customer. You'll come sit down with me and have a pot like a good host, if I have my say about it. After all--how could you dare leave me alone to entice your lovely wife," he went on with a rakish grin. "You KNOW how fatal is my charm!"

Khever's answering laugh had a rueful echo.

"Yes, worth their weight in gold, the Merfolk are, and ask it in salary, too! If Myrinn weren't saving me three times what I pay her on the housekeeping costs, I'd be bankrupt in a month! But that jest about enticement--not funny, Delar, especially when it's laid on the other edge of the bed, as it were. Enticement is exactly what will keep me from sharing that pot with you for a small moment. I'm on my way to speak a small word or three to Gorach on that very subject. This time, it's worth his job if he can't hear me!"

Delar's green eyes gleamed wickedly, as he gave a knowing nod.

"Aaah, the irresistible Kala works her wiles again? Are you sure you are not even a bit tempted, younger brother? I know I am not immune to the aether, when she sees me, if Inanna is not about. White silken hair and deep golden eyes have been the downfall of many before you." His chuckle was sympathetic, recognizing behind his playful words that his brother was dealing with a recurrent, and seemingly insoluble, problem.

Khever answered with a mirthless chuckle of his own, shaking his head in heavy denial.

"Oh, yes, I know--those Borandian women ALL seem to have a bit of trouble remaining dressed in polite company, and I know most simply expect the wee bit of hanky-panky and simply look the other way. I suppose I might even be interested, had I not the most delightful woman in all of Gaoth awaiting me in my marriage-bed. And, Delar, as you know, I heartily dislike cheap goods, of any kind. Be sure if I were to fall, it would never be such an any-man's-maid as Kala that I would expect to have catch me!" He had tried to match his brother's playful tone, with ill success. And when he continued, there was not even a fleeting vestige of humor in his words, tone, or look, but angry affront.

"The situation may have, all this time coming, been something of a joke. But it has ceased to be amusing. Now, her overtures have become blatant enough to attract the attention of my daughter!"

The laughter died abruptly from Delar's eyes, and his voice flattened.

"In Meravia, a woman who played the slut before a virgin maiden would die the death." The bleak tone jerked Khevar's head around to peer anxiously beneath his brows at Delar's face, suddenly immobile. Then he recalled Sotha, his foster-brother's first wife, and when he spoke again his voice was deliberately calm.

"Well, I'm not expecting quite that drastic a response from Gorach. Who would feed my laborers if he killed the woman? But I do recall that the tribe in Borandia from which he comes has the custom of chastisement of errant women, and I have no doubt Gorach wishes to appear the master in his own house. I believe I will recommend that he follow his tribal custom, and warm the lady's nether parts for her…preferably in the courtyard, with witnesses. If he can--er, make an impression--perhaps the woman will take the lesson and cease waving those same parts in my direction. I'll have Gorach be certain to let his wife know that her punishment is at my direct orders. I would do anything within reason to keep the woman from backing me against the wall again--it's like being drowned in rancid honey!"

At the mental image conjured up by Khevar's words, Delar's tense expression relaxed, as his foster-brother had hoped. The two shared a small smile, as his host's calm good sense pulled away the memory of what had happened to Sotha.

"If that doesn't work, perhaps you might remind him of how scarce are such positions as he holds, especially in this region where every man's holdings are measured in thousands of acres. There aren't that many vintners in this area, and most of them have had their staff for decades. Where could Gorach secure a position as overseer of over five thousand acres, were you forced by his wife's behaviour to let him go?"

Khever led his brother down the inner corridor to the terrace, speaking over his shoulder.

"That's a moot point, baratan, because Gorach isn't going to be looking for a job any time soon. I need him right here. And he'll learn to control his wife, or I'll show him how that is done! Come in, Delar, and welcome. I smell talach roasting, and it is worth breaking out a bottle of the best wine, to have you here. Come and greet Dolia."

As Delar followed Khevar down the passage between the reception room and the stillroom, he could not help but wrinkle his nose at the sour whiff of fermenting grapes wafting into the hall from the latter. Catching at his brother's sleeve as they passed through a tiled arch into the brick courtyard, he repeated a well-worn observation in response to Khevar's last remark.

"I couldn't smell a whole school of talach if you were roasting them whole right on the floor of this passageway. I don't know how you stand that smell, Khevar--just like rotten fruit, and right inside the house, too!"

As always, Khevar grinned at his brother's feigned discomfort. "It is rotten fruit, elder brother; it's my good rotten grapes working! And that stink has a name, Delar--it's the smell of money to a vintner, lots and lots of lovely smelly money!" He spoke more seriously as they crossed the courtyard to the staircase. "I will say, though, it's not usually this strong so early in the spring. We'd scarcely even notice it if we had the rainy weather we're usually having about now."

Delar looked puzzled at his brother's apparent dissatisfaction with the weather.

"I don't know why you sound so cross about it. Everyone I've talked to is delighted that the icy, drizzly muck we mistakenly call spring showers seems to be over for this year. It'll certainly make spring travel easier, since we have a journey to take, and there'll be far less summer fever." He waved his arm, as they reached the head of the staircase that led down to the terrace, with split-pine flowerboxes edging the courtyard, and a lovely long view beyond of glistening shell-stone, deep turquoise water, and sparkling sunshine.

"Just look at that vista, old man--it's absolutely gorgeous!! What's wrong with good weather?"

Passing one of the flowerboxes, Khever irritably yanked a scarlet bellflower, just opening, from its stem and waved it under his brother's surprised nose as they began to descend to the terrace.

"This is what's wrong!!! Bellflowers bloom at midsummer, by all the Nine and their maidenheads! Midsummer!! Here we are, barely past the Feast of Newlight, and I've got bellflowers, all over the gods-cursed place! The misbegotten soil is already warm a good six inches down!!" His tone leveled off as he moved from ranting to explaining.

"It’s unnatural, that's what it is-- but worse, it's dangerous! For the new vines, that is. Here it is the beginning of planting season, and the weather's warm enough to kill my seedlings right in the ground." He reached the bench on the terrace and lowered himself to sit, lowering his voice from its irritated volume and waving a hand to summon a maid. He turned to Delar with a heavy sigh, as the maid came forward, and spoke to her absently while looking at his brother.

"Mead, Anit, if you please, and summon your mistress to me. No, Delar, it's not good weather if it’s sunny and warm in the planting season. Vines need it cool at first, you understand, so that they can establish a root system. These vines I'm planting now won't bear fruit for several years, but they should be strong and vigorous by late summer. If it doesn't stop being so unseasonably warm, I'll lose more than half the new growth before the Lovefire Fest." He waved a massive hand at the orchards and herb garden lying below them. "This much sun early won't let buds develop, nor herbgrowth neither. We're all likely to pay for the fine weather later, with high prices, or maybe hungry bellies! And-- what's to prevent frost out of season, if the weather is already awry? Two more weeks of all this lush growth, and a single frost or ice storm could bankrupt me overnight!"

Delar absently accepted a goblet of mead from the unobtrusive servant, and looked quizzically at his brother, who had subsided into scowling at his own goblet. His tone was respectful.

"You're really worried, then? It never occurred to me--we've all just been glad to see Winter end early, and less winter fever. Is the situation truly serious?"

Before he responded, Khever took a moment to turn to the hovering maid, thanking her briefly and waving her away. He looked full into his brother's face when he responded, and his eyes were troubled.

"For a farmer, the weather's always serious. And I don't know how worried I am--it’s too soon to tell. But I do know that the price of bunic goes up every year, because it costs more to produce it, and there's far less of it produced in a year where there's bad weather, of course. The Priests of Aileron complain more each and every harvest season about the price--and of course, that's even worse for me, because they're only paying the clergy rate, which doesn't even begin to cover my costs. I have the only acreage on the whole subcontinent which produces more than one or two barrels of it every harvest, and the need to charge a higher price is making me very, very nervous. If the silver wine becomes scarce enough, if my holdings are the only ones which have any volume of production--I'm really afraid the Church may seize my property outright! The Priests claim that all the land belongs to the God, anyway--I'm nothing but a steward to them, not a landowner."

He sipped the mead reflectively before speaking again. He had been long wishing for someone to whom he might voice these thoughts and fears of his. He hadn't dared speak them to Dolia, fearing her fragility. But he knew his brother's strength, not to mention his keen intelligence. Delar was the perfect confidant, and these things needed to be said. He resumed,

"We have, for many years now, had a marvelous life here--and that is because I have dug our prosperity out of the Earth with my own two hands! You know, Delar, none better, that I wasn't always a rich man!" His eyes swept the vista before him, and Delar could not help but notice the shadow of fear gleaming through the pride and satisfaction.

"I feel threatened every time I see the priests ride by with their greedy eyes on my vines. All it would take is one year where I couldn't meet my contract with the Church--the one the High Priest is sorry he signed--all I would need is for the harvest to fall short, for the number of bottles of silver wine not to meet the contract, and the whoreson could declare all my holdings forfeit to the Church, since the God would be seen to have withdrawn his favour. I could lose every inch of this place, all of it, on the word of one man!" He gulped down the remainder of the mead in his glass, and reached for the jug. His hand was shaking.

"I spoke wrongly, Delar. I do, indeed, know how worried I am. Very, very worried indeed."

Delar shook his head in stunned disbelief, refilling his own glass.

"Surely not, brother! Is there no law, no council of Elders? The other vintners of Mera would rise in revolt at such arrogance! The priests could never get away with it--the God Aileron Himself would reject such an injustice!"

Khever's lip rose in a cynical sneer. He drained his goblet to the dregs before responding.

"The very power of the God Aileron Himself IS in arrogance, Elder Brother!" At this bold statement, he did glance around with a furtive look, as if fearful of spies even in his own demesne. His voice was pitched lower, but still laced with contempt, when he continued.

"When ever have you seen the Priestesses of Sion MoonMother, or of Fion the Lady of the Vines, or even the Priestesses of the Nine, with all their power, presume to interfere with what a man may do with his own? But those--those Wind Priests--the Holy Farts, I call them--all puffed up and inflated with importance like flatulence--they think they own the Earth, because 'the wind blows everywhere'!" His voice was scarcely a whisper as he continued. "I'm not the only one who thinks change is overdue. There are some stones too strong to be shifted by the wind!"

Delar's eyes grew wide with frank shock, and he gulped a restorative mouthful of mead even as he made hasty "hush"ing motions with his free hand. "Such talk is blasphemy, Khevar, and punishable by death. Be very very careful."

Khevar snorted. "The God Himself will protect me, if he is so all-knowing and all-powerful. He knows I honor him in my heart, it is just his purse-proud priests I can't stomach! Besides---I have to think about these things. I have five thousand acres, brother--I am the largest vintner in all of Meravia. Those 'other vintners' you spoke of--they look to me to see how to save themselves. If I go down, we all go down!"