Chương 316: The New Coat

On Sevenday morning I had to explain to my old neighbors at Skydown that I had declared rebellion against the crown and throne last night. They were really supportive. Not just because they like me and want to boost me for all my benefits to them, but also because they really hate the royals, and with cause. They have a good personal relationship with me from the past couple of years, but they have a terrible relationship with the monarchy at a greater remove, going back generations.

In this part of Meadowtam, despising the king and queen is practically a pastime. After all, my father has been in open, undeclared rebellion for years. There is a reason that nobody ever really doubted me when I accused the royals of collaborating with a necromancer to poison the lands and people of Meadowtam. There were people who doubted I had proof, but few who doubted they would stoop to such a level.

"Damn shame that the other dukes needed Mathew's daughter to drag them into doing the right thing," said a man grizzled before his time, a very outdoorsy type. He shook his head, disappointed at the sorry state of the world.

"Weren't for lack of cause," said someone sitting so close she was probably his wife.

"You 'member when them thrones and crowns passed them that wedding tax? Oughtta made everyone rise up then, too." I chuckled.

"Sorry, ma'am, that was before my time, I don't recall it at all I'm afraid. What happened next, after they started taxing weddings, did they wait five years and start taxing children born out of wedlock to capitalize on all the people who avoided weddings to avoid the tax?" She thought a second, and frowned, and pointed a sharp finger at me.

"They did nothing of the sort, and I am glad they di'n't have you putting wicked thoughts like that in their ears!"

"I promise I won't become a tyrant and won't spread ideas like that around," I said chuckling.

"What is this going to mean for our taxes then?" said one of the local dairymen, looking nervous. Some things he's been mentioning in recent weeks make me think that his business is barely holding on these days, revenues barely ahead of expenses. I also know that he hires Fwatta the local healer often to tend to his herd, he always treats the first sign of any illness or lameness.

"Well," I said, running a finger along the tabletop, "I can tell you that we're probably going to be skipping the spring and summer tax season entirely. As soon as we have gotten the return declaration, I will be working with my father and sending messages to all the counts of Meadowtam to evict all of the crown's troops and tax collectors." As usual I was sitting under the awning at the public-house, chatting with locals, listening to children playing in the sunlight.

The air was muggy with humidity, and the children had puddles to splash in; in the early hours of the morning a fire had broken out at the flour mill and local wizard had conjured a sudden shower to put it out. Wet flour can be dried out, burning flour can become explosive with little warning.

"Fine, great, love to hear that there won't be a levyman coming around with his hand out," the dairyman said.

"But it does me no good if the autumn brings the same man with three hands, telling me he needs to recoup two missed seasons." Around this table, farmers and thatchers and coopers all nodded. These were serious-minded folk, men and women who understood that a quick obvious fix always left the door open for an insidious long-term problem.

"Sounds simple enough doesn't it?" said a younger farmer. He had a small plot but hired out to help others with their work, saving up money to expand his lands.

"Just lower the taxes, right?" he shook his head, already acknowledging the painfully naive optimism of the simple statement.

"Kick out the taxman for a while, and then tell them not to raise the rates when they come back. Except, when has anyone been able to keep the taxes from rising? They don't have to say the reason they're doing it. They don't have to admit that it's greed, or punishment, or to keep us getting above our stations. They can call it 'civic improvements' or 'highway repairs', or tell us the wizards are charging more. There's always a lie that can cover up a tax hike." The dairyman snorted.

"And they will, too. The thought of tax money that they haven't taken would burn them alive. The Freckentops' greatest enemy is every coin that's in someone else's pocket." I had to fight not to snort at that- it wasn't that funny but sometimes these things catch you at just the right time.

"In principle," I said, "this is a very solvable problem. I know that everything is documented. The amount of paperwork generated by this kingdom is just immense. My father fills libraries just tallying the purchases and sales that our house makes, the disbursements and allotments. So, it should be easy, right? Just lock those numbers in. Tell me, if we could keep the royal taxes locked in so that they cannot demand more than the previous year, would that do the trick?"

We were still discussing this, raw numbers versus net, percentage versus flat totals, when we were called in to the church. The minister's wife dragged me back to the pub after the services to keep discussing this. We managed to accumulate quite a crowd, but thankfully it all stayed organized and level-headed. I can't say what is going to be best for all the people of Meadowtam, but talking to people is sure a good place to start.

I can't lie, it is jarring as hell to come from Skydown Crossing and the people at the pub, straight to Hearstcliff for an appointment at the Hall of Arts. Fortunately, getting ready this time is much easier than it was last night. On Sixthday I had sat for an extended session with Zyco and Lia as they worked magic on my face and made me look approachable, relatable and vulnerable. Like someone who should be protected. It's not a look that fits me easily. Today, we're working to my strengths.

Stepping out of my portal and into my dorm room, I had the place all to myself. From the out-of-order dresses and the smudged vanity table at Elica's side of the room, as well as the lock that was turned from the outside, I could tell that she and Rinnie had already taken care of all her preparations and gotten her sent off for the night. Regrettably for the next dozen weeks or so I will not be able to give her a ride to any of our weekend engagements, because starting now she's technically my enemy.

Brunbling is a Dominionist House, after all, and it looks bad for an earl of the Dominionists to stay cozy with the woman who did the actual declaration of rebellion. There was nothing they could do about us rooming together, but any visible exchange of favor between us would be discouraged for the duration. We had already discussed this, she and I would be taking measures to not cross our paths very much for the time being, and not to discuss anything of real impact when we do.

Her relatives and liege-keeper are definitely going to ask her to report on me, so it is best if she can just honestly say that I have not spoken to her and she had not seen anything. That means that I have to have all of my paperwork, scratch pages and documents cleared up and locked away before first bell. A newspaper was laid out on my bed, folded in half the way Elica always does.

The headline was about the declaration of rebellion, of course, with a breathless barrage of bold text heading up several related stories: the economic impact, the early results from the High Court's rulings, warnings to the readers, a rather dry piece that laid out the exact procedures this would create and the significance of them, as well as a front-page bottom-row piece about Nathan's clothing show and the audience reaction and about him screaming at me while I was melting down in front of everyone.

Newspapers have a varying degree of truthfulness. Not a single story about how the timeline, for a second, slipped off of its assigned track. And no stories about the cost in human lives. In days, armies would start moving. In a few weeks, the first clashes. And if things stayed on schedule, the papers would not even mention the ongoing clashes until summer, until it was headed for their doorstep. My hair unfurled from the comfortable bun that I'd kept it in all morning, fanning out through the air.

I gestured and my vanity desk emptied itself, glass bottles flying about and circling me in a loose orbit, bobbing on the breeze. I picked a perfume to spritz into my hair, and a glossy setting spray. A school of silver combs darted out of the floating cloud of cosmetics and began sorting my hair into a tight, precise fishscale braid that started high on the crown of my head and then proceeded in lacquered layers, almost creased so exact were the pleats.

Yesterday had emphasized the softness and fullness, today I had it molded so severely that I looked like a living weapon. I dusted out the powder from this morning's makeup session, and it all looked like bleached flour as it fell away. Even if this world had all-day makeup, I couldn't wear it anyway, anything fitted too close to my skin is affected by the void's influence that saturates my body. It's part of why I don't repeat outfits very often.

So I added kohl at my eyes, a tan lipstick just dark enough to show up, and some beige-colored dyes added to give me some contour and context. Then clothes slipped off of me and flew themselves to the laundry closet, and I reached for today's outfit. We'd chosen it well in advance. Shift then stockings then petticoat, double-checked and fastened on. I had pinned the tulle layers to compress it, so it gave a dropped-cone shape, a narrower flare than yesterday.

The skirt and bodice that went over them were both stark white, with the lines and seams all perfectly geometric shapes. Precision, perfection. The straight drop of pleats to the front and back and the spray of chevrons to the side had a subtle effect that mimicked the barding of an armored warhorse. I was wearing a gala ballgown that would put military men in mind of a cavalry knight mounted on a charger. And for their sake, they had better remember that I am orders of magnitude more dangerous.

After that, the coat. It was superficially similar to my brother's coat- red, knee-length, high-collared, slightly tucked at the waist, double-row of brass buttons with two more at the cuffs of the wrist. His was from a previous era, issued to a relative of ours (I think a great-uncle? Great-aunt? Or great-great?) during a border skirmish where they acquitted themselves with valor. It's an unpretentious garment, a cavalry cold-weather coat, split into tails to sit a horse, no medals or rank insignia.

The sort of coat an enlisted soldier wears, and gives to a beloved commander wounded in battle, and can never be found to return the coat. It's a wonderful story, just the kind of romance that Nathan calls to. But real battles rarely come to Meadowtam, fighting bandits is more police work than a battlefield.

The reason the coat is old is that nobody in our family has actually gone to battle in a uniform in generations, and most of the ones before that wore extremely pretentious uniforms for a general or admiral or grand marshal. In all our family's attics, there's only one item of clothing that indicates military service, humble origins, and aits own interesting story. And it is absolutely central to Nathan's look.

A lot of his public persona is built around the idea that he's wearing an heirloom cavalry uniform jacket, faded and worn but well-kept, a common soldier's coat with family remembrance attached. Mine is a sharper, deeper red, and clearly brand-new. The buttons and collar are not heirloom, they're the current issue, a uniform for this war and not a bygone border skirmish. The seams are tighter, the fabric is smoother, and it is tailored to me and this dress without the slight rumple and creases.

His is rustic, quaint, humble and heroic in that earthy, earnest, honest, homespun kind of way. Simple and sincere. Mine is sharp, sleek, slick and splendid. The humble hero, the vicious villainess. Because I don't have a coat like his, and nobody does. So I have to forge my look in opposition to him. And I've spent too much time as a high-profile socialite to try to capture his image anyway, it would look tacky and performative if I tried to take the modest and mild-mannered look for myself.

I had to commit myself to the halls of power just to catch up, to make up for all the clout and support that I lost when I went to prison. Nathan never had to defend this family, so he can cosplay the humble soldier's son to his heart's content. Then I stepped into a pair of cherry-red ankle boots, sharp-toed and high-heeled, with brass buttons up the sides.

A few items of jewelry- my silver combs arrayed like soldiers on parade through my hair, small earrings and two rings from my mother that have been fitted with red agate tones to complement the outfit, my seer's ring, my citrine-grapefruit necklace from Gedes, and one more detail. I pulled out a pane of glass and some scrap gold. I'm a ducal princess, scrap gold is a real thing. I laid the glass flat, and pulled out the Scryer's Gyre, the thick brass coin from Digger Jdim.

I set it atop the glass, and spoke the words, "When someone lies to my face with malice intended." Then I spun the disk, and it settled, spinning, stable. I carefully started molding the glass up around it, forming a sphere that enclosed it with a hair of space left on the sides, letting it spin freely inside its globe. Then the gold formed a loose cage around it, with small ball-bearings to let the globe rotate inside the cage.

A gold chain to connect the gold mesh globe to my breast pocket, much like a pocket watch. Stepping in front of the mirror, I saw myself. Stark and cold, severe and dangerous, but attractive in a forbidding way. In a better world I would prefer to show a different demeanor, but this is what is called for. This world punishes people that step out of their role, so I had to create a role that can do what I need to get done.

But more than anything, I saw someone who would not be threatened, hurt, or intimidated by her brother, ever again. We have to manage the perceptions: yesterday "Nathan" made me cry, and today I come back stronger than ever. There are not many ways that someone like me can play the part of the defiant underdog punching up against oppressors, but that is the narrative we have crafted. To win the war in front of us, we need to be stronger than our opponent.

But to shape the story about that war, we need to appear to be the plucky challengers. Well, at least my makeup is much more manageable today. It's a look that I'm practiced at applying to myself. I took one last check through the signet ring before I conjured my blackhart mask, opened the portal, and stepped through. The ring was still oriented to Nathan's dressing room, I want to make sure he's not setting up any new surprises.

I've gotten an advantage in the covert intelligence field and I'm going to make the most of it. I'm traveling alone today; if I arrived with Kimothy, Kurumi and Enefiat on both of these nights, I would be putting a target on their backs. Quarl, Rabert and Tiviti need to arrive with their own houses and play their parts. Belisa has absolutely earned a night off. The portal opened directly onto the stage and I stepped onto it.

I faced the opening towards the curtains so the rest of the room got a wash of reflected white light but without the eye-searing spotlight aimed straight at them. The ring had shown me that the way was clear. I shut the portal, paused where I was, and then turned in place, my skirts and coat swirling slightly as I moved. I activated the spotlight, and stared out at the assembled crowd.

"Good evening, to all the ladies and gentlemen of Hearstcliff," I said, and my voice rolled across the room.

"Welcome to the first day of the rest of your war." Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.