Page 16 of A Trade of Blood

“How did the others…” I asked.

“Suicide,” said Trikao grimly. “For two of them, at least. Lyimo drowned himself. Sagma, hanging. The third perished in an accident—young Gevma fell from his horse, got dragged. A horrible thing.”

Princeps Seriv cleared his throat. “Suicide is no uncommon thing here, Signum,” he said quietly. “Those who work the flensing halls and butcher the livestock are afflicted in ways few could stand.”

“But to have it fall upon my line so fiercely,” said Trikao, “is a thing so terrible it denies words.”

I sniffed at my vial, engraving this. “You have my condolences, sir,” I said. “I believe Burilis Burav did mention something of this…”

“I’m not surprised. Many love to wag their tongues about the curse of the Armentas—especially our enemies.”

A curse, I noted. How bleak.

“Is there any explanation for this conduct?” I asked. “Something the medikkers could determine?”

“As in, is there some cleft in our brains full of poison?” said Trikao. “No. My sister has paid no end of medikkers and Apoths and posigers to come and treat her and her children and her family for all manner of disorders. None have found a thing. Nor did Castus show any sign of madness before last night—or, none that I could see.”

“And what is this gossip you so dislike, sir?”

His eyes grew stony beneath his brow. “That we are being punished by the fates. Perhaps even by the Daljen ancestors themselves—for pride, or some hidden sin. But these, I tell you, are lies and madness. The words of cowards and fools.”

I paused, surprised. The Daljen were an ancestor pantheon that was worshipped by the very rich among the Tala folk. My own family, being nigh destitute, had not observed those customs. I’d not heard mention of the name in some time, so it was something of a shock to hear it now.

Another consequence, I reminded myself, of being back on the Plains of Tala, the lands of my birth. But now I dwelt in a far wealthier portion than any I’d ever known.

“Is there anyone else we can consult about Castus’s behavior?” I asked.

Trikao hesitated. “Though I saw him often, I was not intimate with Castus. My son and his betrothed were close with him, however. I can send for them to come to the city, now that there’s no danger. They may know something that can spare him from the noose—if anything can, that is.”

I thanked him, asked him to do so, and entered the jail with Princeps Seriv.

—

“We’ve young Castusin the common cells,” said Seriv as we entered the passages of the jail. “He’s not said a word yet, though he was a chatty thing before. Perhaps he’s had some affliction of the brain that’s driven him to do this, and it affects him still.”

I glanced sidelong at Seriv as I followed him deeper into the cells.He even had the walk of a drover, loping along with a bowlegged stride. “May I ask a very foolish question, Princeps?”

“That’s the only kind I’ve answered this shit day, sir. Ask away.”

“Why do the Buravs and Armentas hate each other? I know of many gentryclans that bicker over land, but few that draw blades over it.”

He stopped in the hallway and sighed. Then he pushed back his hat and ruffled his (surprisingly tremendous) mane of white hair. “That question isn’t foolish, but it is…tricky. I’ll try to keep my answer succinct.” He pulled a long wooden pipe from his pocket and chewed its end for a moment. “I suppose it’s like everything else—it comes down to grafts, and alterations. And who got them, and when.”

I motioned for him to continue.

“These are farmlands, sir.” He gestured with his pipe end, as if drawing a map about us. “Some of the most valuable soil in all the Empire. Our purpose here is the cultivation of leaf, stem, and flesh. So the Apoths, whose domain is entirely that, have a heavy hand in these lands. The Armentas were the first to benefit. About a century ago, the Apoths developed all kinds of grafts, treatments, and suffusions for the altering of flesh. Most of it was ways to make soldiers larger and stronger to man the sea walls—but what can be done to a man can be done to a cow even more so, and cheaper, for a cow’s suffering is of no worth. The Armentas used these treatments to create entirely new bloodlines of urhosi cattle. Huge things, massive creatures, with better meat than other herds. They developed the best ways to do this, became very trusted across the Empire—and very rich. So much so they bought up almost all the lands of the other families of the canton.”

My eyes fluttered and I recalled a line that Burilis Burav had said—They nearly extinguished my family’s holdings mere decades ago.

“Including the Buravs?” I asked.

“Indeed,” said Seriv. “The Armentas bought them out until the Burav lands were a speck on the map. Looked like someone had spilled a bit of soup in the corner. But then, about twenty-five years ago, the Apoths came out withanotherset of miracles—these for thegrowings and harvesting of plants. Specifically, the beans for cow feed. And the Buravs saw an opportunity and moved.”

“The Buravs could not compete with the Armentas on the growing of cows—but they could do so in growing their feed.”

“That is the spill of it, sir. They made heaps and heaps of money, nearly overnight. The Buravs have bought back almost all their lands. We now have a stalemate, for neither can truly attack the other’s trade. One dominates the animal—the other, its feed. They need each other, and hate each other, sir. They are wealthy beyond measure, but each can think only on what the other possesses.” He sighed and returned the pipe to his mouth. “For a long while the feud was mostly bickerings and resentment. In the past five years, it has gotten much worse. There’ve been skirmishes. Injuries. The occasional casualty. And then the Armentas began to decline, which has made things quite black.”

We continued until we came to a small rotunda, with several short passageways of cell doors stretching out about me. The air was foul here, reeking of sweat and waste: a familiar odor to me, as I had visited many jails and prisons.