The Sword of Wisimir

Chapter 1: Impulses (Part 2)

"How much was in the bag?"

"Approximately two thousand crowns, my lady, the entire levy from Ardal."

Urin bit his lip and held his breath as he delivered the news to Lady Governor Ellian Tarn, mistress of Wisimir, in her official chambers. Fresh from an odious state function and still dressed in long ermine robes, her face was a thundercloud and her rage would not disappoint.

"Find my money, Urin," she hissed, "or, I'll gut you myself, with a spoon."

Somehow Urin kept his voice level. "We are trying, my lady."

"Try harder!" Tarn's voice echoed in the panelled room, her poise and manners forgotten. "Stop everything. Impound the ships, check anyone leaving the city. I don't care who they are, no one leaves without being searched."

Urin felt like a trawler on stormy seas. "If we do that—"

"We do that Urin, I don't care who we piss off."

Urin realised he had no option but to agree. "We will need extra manpower to enforce this. The Watch will not be enough."

"Then empty the King's garrison," Ellian's eyes were like chips of ice. "Make the soldiers earn their keep."

"His Majesty will want to know—"

"If we do not find the money, His Majesty will want to know why he has not received his tithe, now get out."

Urin bowed and backed away, closing the double doors of the chamber behind him. Once outside, he snapped his fingers and an aide appeared.

"Send a runner to General Wisell, and ask him to meet me in my office tomorrow morning."

"Yes sir."

Urin took out a handkerchief and mopped the cold sweat from his brow. Previous governors of House Tarn had disembowelled bringers of bad news as they delivered it. By those standards, he'd got off lightly. Thirty years as an official aide had been negotiated by not taking risks, but today had been an exception.

He took a moment to compose himself, smoothing back his grey hair and rubbing his eyes before walking briskly to his own office. The Governor's residence in Wisimir housed several bureaucratic fiefdoms. He walked through the hall of record - a mass of shelved scrolls - and the hall of clerks – a great room of desks where official quills scratched away to add yet more documents to the previous room – before reaching the safety of his office.

Once inside, Urin collapsed into his chair. He found something reassuring about the oak desk and the familiarity of routine. Today had been trying and wasn't over yet.

He heard a soft knock.

Instinctively, the composed façade clicked back into place. "Come!"

The door opened and a twisted figure crept around it. Long grey hair and a parchment white face peered at him from across the room. It was Magister Leel. For the first time that day, Urin felt a prickle of real fear.

"Well?"

"It went as well as can be expected," Urin said.

"She believed you then?"

"Yes."

"Good." The man stepped into the office and shut the door. He wore long black robes and he hobbled towards Urin's desk, leaning heavily on a short black cane. "All that's left is my share."

Urin pushed a small box on the desk forward. "Five hundred crowns, as promised," he said.

"I'm afraid that isn't enough." The parchment face was much closer now; dead grey eyes promising clinical, emotionless punishment. "I require a hundred more."