Harvald had income both from his fatherâs estates and his clerkship at the High Kingâs Court, and so had the most money of any of them; he was also a stickler for his fair share, though Stjepan never seemed to begrudge him that. Stjepan had his income from the High Kingâs Court as a cartographer, so heâd be all right. But she didnât have any regular means.
The temple bells in the city finally started ringing, announcing the coming of the sun and Divine King, and the call to morning prayers. âIslik, King of Heaven. Hail, King of Heaven!â shouted out some of the men up ahead of them as they greeted the sun and dropped to their knees to pray, and the line began to stir. Pilgrims , she thought. Or at least devout men; but by their dress theyâre not locals . Therapoli Magni was not merely the capital of the Middle Kingdoms, and the seat of the High King; it was a jewel of the ancient world, founded during the Golden Age by King Culainn of the Danians exactly four hundred years before the ascension of Islik to the throne of the King of Heaven, and now over eighteen hundred years old. Its most infamous king, Myrad the Mad, had actually imprisoned Islik in his fabled dungeons for a time, while Islik was in exile from his earthly throne, and it was there that Islik had met the other three Kings in Exile. That made the city a holy site, sacred to all that worshipped the Divine King, and devout pilgrims flocked to the city from all the lands around the Mera Argenta to pray in its great temple; though if they looked to visit the dungeons where Islik had been held they would be disappointed, as they had been buried and sealed below the city centuries ago.
Stjepan and Harvald sat on their horses and said nothing, and neither did she. They were all wrapped in an extra layer over their travel clothes to ward off the spring morning chill, Stjepan with a rough wool blanket drawn about him and an oiled leather hat with broad brims that curled up on the sides, Harvald with a brown hooded cloak, and her with an old sleeveless fur-lined half-coat. A right band of ragamuffins, we are , she thought.
A small sally port opened off to one side of the gate barbican and one of the Watch wardens appeared. He wore the colors of the High King, a gold wyvern embroidered on a red surcoat, and he started walking up the lines. âTwo lines. Two lines!â he called out. âWares on the left, simple travelers on the right. Two lines, two lines. Anyone headed to market or with something to sell, on the left!â They were already in the right line, having done this before. Their long weapons were already wrapped and stored with their saddlebags, even Harvaldâs; he might have been from a noble family, but he wasnât knighted, and so didnât have the privilege of carrying a sword openly within the city. The gates finally opened and the lines began to move forward.
Theirs was the faster line, as the guards were largely just counting heads and collecting the three-penny entry tolls. Theyâd pay an extra penny for their horses, and an extra penny for their swords and bows. She hadnât thought the three-penny toll worth bothering withâmany other towns and cities would charge six pennies for entryâuntil sheâd brought it up with Stjepan once when theyâd been waiting in line.
âWell, three pennies might not seem like much to you or to most of us, though thereâs plenty for whom thatâs a hardship, but you have to look at the big picture when it comes to a city the size of Therapoli and how it generates tolls and taxes for the High King,â Stjepan had said. âAt least a few thousand people come into the city on a slow day from the surrounding countryside and from across the Middle Kingdoms and the Known World, or reenter having left. Each one of them pays three pennies, or more if they have a horse or are carrying a formal weapon of some kind, even if they
The temple bells in the city finally started ringing, announcing the coming of the sun and Divine King, and the call to morning prayers. âIslik, King of Heaven. Hail, King of Heaven!â shouted out some of the men up ahead of them as they greeted the sun and dropped to their knees to pray, and the line began to stir. Pilgrims , she thought. Or at least devout men; but by their dress theyâre not locals . Therapoli Magni was not merely the capital of the Middle Kingdoms, and the seat of the High King; it was a jewel of the ancient world, founded during the Golden Age by King Culainn of the Danians exactly four hundred years before the ascension of Islik to the throne of the King of Heaven, and now over eighteen hundred years old. Its most infamous king, Myrad the Mad, had actually imprisoned Islik in his fabled dungeons for a time, while Islik was in exile from his earthly throne, and it was there that Islik had met the other three Kings in Exile. That made the city a holy site, sacred to all that worshipped the Divine King, and devout pilgrims flocked to the city from all the lands around the Mera Argenta to pray in its great temple; though if they looked to visit the dungeons where Islik had been held they would be disappointed, as they had been buried and sealed below the city centuries ago.
Stjepan and Harvald sat on their horses and said nothing, and neither did she. They were all wrapped in an extra layer over their travel clothes to ward off the spring morning chill, Stjepan with a rough wool blanket drawn about him and an oiled leather hat with broad brims that curled up on the sides, Harvald with a brown hooded cloak, and her with an old sleeveless fur-lined half-coat. A right band of ragamuffins, we are , she thought.
A small sally port opened off to one side of the gate barbican and one of the Watch wardens appeared. He wore the colors of the High King, a gold wyvern embroidered on a red surcoat, and he started walking up the lines. âTwo lines. Two lines!â he called out. âWares on the left, simple travelers on the right. Two lines, two lines. Anyone headed to market or with something to sell, on the left!â They were already in the right line, having done this before. Their long weapons were already wrapped and stored with their saddlebags, even Harvaldâs; he might have been from a noble family, but he wasnât knighted, and so didnât have the privilege of carrying a sword openly within the city. The gates finally opened and the lines began to move forward.
Theirs was the faster line, as the guards were largely just counting heads and collecting the three-penny entry tolls. Theyâd pay an extra penny for their horses, and an extra penny for their swords and bows. She hadnât thought the three-penny toll worth bothering withâmany other towns and cities would charge six pennies for entryâuntil sheâd brought it up with Stjepan once when theyâd been waiting in line.
âWell, three pennies might not seem like much to you or to most of us, though thereâs plenty for whom thatâs a hardship, but you have to look at the big picture when it comes to a city the size of Therapoli and how it generates tolls and taxes for the High King,â Stjepan had said. âAt least a few thousand people come into the city on a slow day from the surrounding countryside and from across the Middle Kingdoms and the Known World, or reenter having left. Each one of them pays three pennies, or more if they have a horse or are carrying a formal weapon of some kind, even if they
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