The Timeline of Tauber - Dominion - 687

The hammer came down three times, each one driving the nail deeper into the mortar. It was strange for such a simple action to command such attention, yet Horace could feel every eye in his tavern upon him as he set down the tool and reached for the heavily-embossed frame of the portrait he had commissioned. Stood as he was atop a stool, Horace almost fell initially as he tried to hoist the unexpected weight. Usually such a faux pas, even if it was merely a near miss, would have initiated jeers and heckles from the patrons. Their absence was louder to Horace than any insult would have been.

He could feel a nervous sweat begin to trickle down his back as he set his feet and lifted the frame at the second time of trying. It took both hands and many more attempts than he would have liked to get the rope that spanned the rear to snag on the nail. Then he released it cautiously, ready to make a grab for it should it not have been as secure as he had imagined. It held and Horace carefully stepped down to regard his handiwork.

He inclined his head towards a man at a nearby table whilst not taking his eyes from the portrait. “What do you think, Bill? Does that look level to you?”

Bill sucked air through his teeth thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Horace,” he said eventually. “It could do with a little adjustment.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Horace, who thought even his wife wouldn’t have had much objection with how straight he had managed to get it. “How so?”

“It could do with moving twenty yards or so to the left.”

Horace was about to suggest that this would place it far beyond the tavern’s limits before the ripple of laughter from about the room suggested that this was precisely the point Bill had been making.

“Come on, Bill,” said Horace, turning to face the man. He was one of the older patrons, with balding hair and a heavy-set beard, all nearly gone to white. He was widely regarded as the wisest of the old boys and his opinion meant a lot. Unfortunately, that could be both a blessing and a curse. “I was being serious.”

“So was I,” said Bill. “That picture has no place in here.”

Horace regarded the portrait. It depicted a lean man in regal attire. Long hair flowed about his features, which themselves were pointed and angular. Even within the scope of artistic licence, the painter had been able to do little to disguise the malevolent glee in the subject’s eyes or the menace in his wide, thin-lipped smile.

“It’s King Chernitt,” Horace protested. “He’s our king.”

Bill shook his head. “Not my king.”

There were mutters of assent from about the room.

Horace frowned, trying to get his head around the illogical sentiments. “He’s King of Tauber,” he said. “We’re in Tauber. So he is our king.”

“But who put him there?” said Alf, another of the old boys from Bill’s table.

“The laws of succession?” said Horace. Surely everyone knew how kings came to be. “His father died-”

“Aye,” Bill said, interrupting him, “on the same night he killed his brother.”

Horace’s eyes went wide with shock. “You can’t say that!”

“Can’t I?” Bill glanced about the room. “Anyone going to stop me? Anyone fancy fetching the guards to haul me away for telling the truth?” There were a few heads shaking from other tables. Bill’s eyes returned to Horace. “Are you?”

Horace waved his arms in front of him. “Of course not! It’s not like that! I just don’t know why we need all this treasonous talk! He’s the king; it’s not like we’re going to do anything about that! Right?”

Bill nodded to a neighbouring table, where a thick-set man nursed a tankard in two sizeable hands. “Tell him, Smith.”

Smith ran the village smithy. He also had the largest collection of books of anyone Horace knew - at least five - and was widely regarded as a general voice of knowledge as a result.

“We speak the truth so we don’t forget what it is,” Smith explained. “You’ve already renamed your tavern The King’s Head. Now you’re hanging a portrait of him and trying to silence dissenting voices. How long before you start singing the king’s praises in spite of everything?”

“Now there’s no need to be like that!” said Horace.

“There’s every need,” said Bill. “We’ve done nothing but suffer since he came to power. And you want us to pretend like everything’s fine?”

“He’s the king,” said Horace, feeling like the others were missing this hugely important point.

“Kings are supposed to serve their subjects,” said Smith in a calm voice, as if he was quoting from memory.

Horace’s brow furrowed. “It sounds like you’ve got that the wrong way round.”

“He’s not,” said Alf, shaking his head. “Old Vartec was never like this.”

“King Vartec started the war that his son finished,” said Horace.

“Oh, he was hard on his enemies,” said Bill, “but show me a successful ruler who wasn’t. Chernitt’s against anyone who isn’t a noble!”

“There’s something strange going on there, too,” said Alf. “We’ve all heard the rumours.”

“Well, you can’t put too much stock in tittle-tattle,” said Horace.

“No smoke without fire, I say,” said Bill.

There were further murmurs of assent from about the room.

“Unholy magics.”

“Witchcraft.”

“Sorcery.”

“Deals with devils!”

“He should never have stayed in Moonreach,” said Alf. “Who knows what forbidden powers lingered when he kicked the fae out?”

“There’s definitely something unnatural going on,” said Bill. “What was so bad about Stormguard anyway?”

“I heard,” said Joe, one of the youngest of the old boys and only recently promoted to Bill’s table, “that he wanted a fresh start. A clear separation from the old.”

“Which is why he’s started calling his kingdom the Dominion,” said Alf.

“Dominion means supreme authority,” said Smith, “absolute ownership and mastery.”

“Peace and unity, he promised,” said Bill, a sneer in his voice.

“And we can have it,” said Horace, “but not if we’re brewing rebellions over our ale.”

“And what are we unified in?” said Bill. “Starvation? Only if you’re poor. I don’t think me and the nobles have anything in common.”

A whinny from outside gripped Harold’s attention and the conversation faded into his background as he strained his ears. They picked up the odd sound and his imagination filled in the rest. The stomp of restless hooves as horses stilled from the ride. A jingle and thud as their riders dismounted. The deep undertones of voices conversing.

“Soldiers,” said Horace in an urgent hiss. “Quiet.”

The conversation lulled moments before the tavern door swung open, letting in the cold night air. In its wake, two armoured men strode through, taking up position either side of the door and surveying the occupants with glowering menace. Between them, the third of their number strode. He had more in common with the portrait of King Chernitt than he did with his companions. A ruffled shirt spilled forth from a fitted jacket. Jodhpurs were tucked into shiny, knee-high riding boots. A cavalry mace hung from his hip.

Horace looked from the newcomers to his patrons and back. Hostility was evident on both sides and he couldn’t afford for anything to spill over into violence. His natural self-interest in his own physical wellbeing was overwhelmed by the thought of the cost any damages would incur and he scuttled into the neutral space between the two parties, already cringing in abject abasement.

“Good evening, sir,” he said, in two minds about whether a bow was in order or not and ending up in an awkward crouch. “What brings you to my humble tavern?”

The man’s lips pulled back in a sneer. “The Right Honourable Viscount de Faulte,” he said, in a voice dripping with superiority. “Acceptable addresses are Viscount or My Lord. Sir does not come close.”

“Apologies, My Lord,” said Horace, pretending not to hear the tut of contempt that came from the direction of Bill’s table.

This time he did bow, though he was fairly certain that how he pictured the movement in his mind was not how he executed it. He was also very conscious of the judgemental eyes of his patrons and found his every decision torn between the expectations of his clientele and the Viscount who stood before him.

“As for what brings me here,” the Viscount continued, “there is the small matter of taxes.”

The noble examined his nails as Horace floundered for words. “Taxes?” he said eventually. “But I’m all paid up. I’m not due until next month.”

“And yet here I am,” said de Faulte. “Are you denying me?”

There was no threat in the Viscount’s voice that Horace could detect, yet he was smart enough to realise there would be consequences if he refused.

“I’m not denying you,” said Horace, raising his hands in placation, “I just don’t have it. You see, I bought this,” and here he gestured to the portrait of the King that had been the focus of so much recent contention.

“It is not my concern what you spend your coin on,” said de Faulte, waving a dismissive hand. “All that matters is that you have enough remaining to pay what is demanded of you.”

Horace’s mouth opened and closed. His mind raced, trying to put his response into words that would not invoke the Viscount’s ire. “But, My Lord,” he said at last, “the King mandated-”

“And you obeyed,” said de Faults, “as is only right of a loyal subject. I note you also changed the name of your…establishment. Did you think your sycophancy would grant you a reprieve from what was owed?”

The fancy words tumbled around Horace’s churning brain, gradually making sense. He couldn’t believe what was happening. It was all so unfair.

The hopelessness of his situation was overwhelming. He wasn’t one overly given to emotion but he could feel the beginnings of a tremble as nervous terror began to take hold. He desperately hoped he could hold back the tears that were pricking his eyes.

“But I’ve already paid,” he said at last in a small voice, feeling as if the Viscount had not really registered the pertinent point at the first utterance.

“How dare you!”

Horace turned at the outburst. Joe was alighting his stool, shrugging off the hands that tried to restrain him. Bill was shaking his head and Horace could make out the words, “don’t do it,” uttered silently enough not to carry. Alf had his eyes covered. Joe acknowledged neither of them.

“Now, Joe,” said Horace, intercepting the advancing man. “Don’t do anything rash, now.”

It was the last thing he had expected from any of the old boys. They’d become old by having more sense than this. But then Joe was new to the group and probably felt as if he had something to prove. Damn bravado!

“What was rash, Viscount,” said Joe, lacing the title with obvious sarcasm, “was you coming here today. Look around you. You come here with two armed men to intimidate us, yet we are not children, defenceless and easy to cow. We work the fields and build and maintain things and we’re harder for it. If Horace has paid his taxes then he’s paid his taxes. And he’ll pay again next month because he’s a good man. For now, I suggest you leave us be.”

Viscount de Faulte said nothing for some time and Horace could feel the tension building. The man stood calmly across from the shaking Joe. There was no anger in his noble features. No indication that he had taken umbrage at Joe’s words. No indication he had even heard them, for that matter. He simply stared at Joe, cooly assessing him.

The tension increased until it was a physical thing in the air, unseen but definitely felt. Horace sensed the edges of it reaching out towards Joe and seizing him. The man’s trembles increased and the nature of them shifted from nervous anticipation to abject fear. His jaw went slack. His eyes grew wide. Shoulders slumped. All the while, de Faulte seemed to stand taller, stronger, as if whatever leaked out of Joe flowed into him.

Joe screamed. It started as a terrified wail and evolved into anger. Feet thumped into the floorboards as he ran at the Viscount, fists raised, ready to strike out against his oppressor. But something was wrong. Horace had seen Joe fight. He knew he was no slouch when it came to fisticuffs. Yet his footfalls were as stable as a drunkard’s and his fist, when he drew it back, took a strange angle in its trajectory. It was as if, somehow, everything Joe knew about fighting had been eroded by an unseen sea, rendering him a novice in combat.

The landlord was unsurprised when the Viscount easily sidestepped the wayward strike but couldn’t help but wince as he whipped the cavalry mace off his belt and around in a vicious arc that impacted with the side of Joe’s knee. The man went down in a screaming heap and the Viscount replaced his weapon with indifference to the rest of the room, as if secure in the knowledge they would do nothing to aid their downed associate. He was right. The other patrons looked on with a mixture of sympathy and painful empathy but none rose to do a thing about it.

“Take him outside,” Viscount de Faulte commanded, and one of his men rushed to do his bidding, hoisting the whimpering Joe under an arm and carrying him from the tavern.

The Viscount cast his gaze about the room. He remained perfectly calm despite the sickening violence he had perpetrated, as if the act had been as normal for him as going for a stroll.

“Does he speak for all of you?” he demanded. “Are there others who wish to voice their displeasure?” No one spoke up. “Excellent. Then there is the small matter of taxes.”

“M-my Lord,” said Horace, “I-I r-r-really w-wasn’t joking w-w-when-”

“I’ll contribute.”

Horace whirled about at the interruption, eyes searching frantically for who had spoken. They widened when they rested upon Bill, still seated but holding his coin pouch aloft.

“It isn’t much,” Bill continued, “but I’m sure if we all chip in…”

One by one others followed his lead, though not without a grumble or two. Slowly Horace made his way about the room, muttering thanks for anything people could spare. When eventually he returned to the bar, he placed the offering upon the countertop for the Viscount’s appraisal.

“About half,” said de Faulte.

“My Lord,” said Horace, “I really have no more-”

“The portrait will suffice in lieu of the remainder.” The Viscount gestured at his remaining guard.

“My Lord! The King’s decree-“

“Will be followed, I am sure. I care not how you fulfil it.”

Horace watched in mounting despondency as the Viscount collected the coin from the barter and the soldier lifted down the portrait and carried it to his master, paying no heed to the glowering patrons about him. It was amazing, Horace thought, that not long ago they had hated the presence of the thing and now they were furious about its removal.

“This is nice work,” the Viscount said, after a cursory glance over the painting. “This will suffice. For now.”

And, without another word, he and his remaining soldier strode from the tavern, leaving behind them a room filled with dread at the thought of worse things yet to come.