Total pages in book: 222
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
The man in front of me was in his very early thirties at most. He didn’t look old enough to have a fifteen-year-old son and he didn’t look worn down by life either. He looked tempered by it. Heated to the breaking point by danger, quenched by experience, and hardened like a blade to a sharp, unbreakable edge.
I had about two seconds to decide what to do.
He had the sword. Nobody else would be here, in this teahouse, looking across the river at that house, and carrying that sword. The owner of this weapon wasn’t just a soldier, he was a blademaster, knighted at the age of seventeen for exceptional bravery and skill. I didn’t know if he was the best swordsman in the kingdom, but he was in the top five. The people capable of separating him from his sword could be counted on the fingers of one hand and none of them would be sitting on this terrace.
Don’t screw this up, don’t screw this up . . .
I walked over to his table and sat down across from him. He looked at me. His eyes, more green than gray, took my measure from under dark eyebrows. No apprehension, no surprise. Only calm, calculating intelligence and invincible will.
He’s real.
He wasn’t a character. He felt more real than anything or anyone in Kair Toren so far. I was looking into the eyes of a living, breathing man, who was infinitely dangerous, and I couldn’t look away, because that connection, that reality, was magnetic. It was the kind of moment when, after being trapped in a confusing nightmare, you realize that you are dreaming, and you have the power to wake up.
The server placed my teapot and my cup in front of me and departed with a soft smile.
I poured a cup of tea. The waters of the Virka flowed past us, on their way to join the Dokkon, the city’s main river, a quarter of a mile to the southeast. Across the river the estates of Anchor Drop hugged the water, some with docks, others without, all wrapped in sturdy walls and sitting on about an acre or so each.
The estate directly across from us abandoned the walls completely. Instead, the entire house was a wall, a large square built with Kair Toren’s trademark swirly stone, three floors high and about sixty feet deep, with a courtyard in the center. A single stubby tower rose at the left corner of it. The first floor had no windows. The second and third floors had a few, but all of them were guarded by thick bars or shutters. No points of access. The only obvious door lay on the opposite side of the estate, facing the street.
The place was a fortress. It took safety to the next level, even by Kair Toren’s standards.
“If human suffering had color, that house would be churning with black and red,” I said.
The man across from me said nothing.
“The estate to its left is owned by a respected physician. The estate to the right belongs to a minor noble family. They think their neighbor is a trader who has done well for himself. A good businessman, a bit reclusive, but pleasant. Nobody knows.”
He drank his tea. I sipped my brew. The black tea was aromatic and slightly floral, vanilla, lavender, and a hint of citrus. Any other time, I would have savored it.
He was giving no indication whether any of my words were landing.
“A thriving kingdom must always be at war,” I said. “That’s how it justifies and trains a professional army. These wars don’t have to be large. In fact, it’s better if they are not, and it’s best if they’re fought on foreign soil or at the frontier. The kind of conflict that doesn’t affect most of the kingdom and allows the citizens to ignore the fact that every day someone is dying on their behalf, for reasons most of the people involved do not understand or care about.”
No reaction.
“Of course, a professional army creates the problem of veterans. Highly skilled at warfare, great at surviving, and not always fit to reenter civilian life after all the blood and horrors they witness. A professional soldier with twenty years of experience is a living weapon that can be used against the state when hired by a rogue noble as a mercenary or incited to violence. The state must then find a way to anchor these veterans. They need an incentive to not become a destructive force.”
I poured another cup of tea. He hadn’t stabbed me yet. I took it as an encouraging sign.
“When a veteran reaches the eighteenth year of their twenty-year service, they are offered the Last Tour. It is a terrible tour of duty, in a place where the risks are high. If the veteran survives it, they are awarded a parcel of fertile land no less than one gere.”