"I don’t know. What kind of laws do they have now?"
Tuok chuckled. "In Tingara? None really. It’s punishable by death to insult the Emperor or the Primate. Denigrating the Evermen on one of the holy days results in a public flogging. All business with the raja must be conducted in the market houses — it’s illegal to sell goods or services involving lore anywhere else in Seranthia. Possession of essence will see all your possessions taken and have you thrown out of the city. Distribution of essence will see you and your entire family executed. Other than that, no laws."
"What about murder?"
"If the person murdered had rich or powerful friends or family, one of the streetclans will see justice done. If not, nothing."
"The streetclans?"
"They act for the businesses that can’t afford their own guards. They provide a loose set of rules and protect those too small to protect themselves. They charge for the service, of course. The number of clans changes all the time but last I heard the Melin Tortho were dominant."
"At least there’s someone to keep order," Miro grumbled.
Tuok barked a laugh. "Sometimes the streetclans are worst of all. They’re a law unto themselves; the Emperor lets them be so long as they don’t interfere with areas like Fortune or the Imperial Quarter. They have terrible wars when one clan seeks expansion into another’s territory. The winner wins protection rights for all the businesses in the new area; the losing clan is broken up and absorbed by the other clans — the survivors at least."
Miro frowned for a minute.
"So why does the Emperor let the clans run things?"
"How would you do it?"
"Well, to start with I would make new laws to make crimes like murder illegal."
"And how would you enforce the laws?"
"With soldiers like you and me."
"And who would pay the soldiers?"
"The Emperor, of course."
"And where would the money come from?"
"From taxes."
"I see. And who would you tax?"
"People like the merchants who had those great houses in Fortune. Anyone wishing to do business in Seranthia must pay a tax."
"And what if the merchants decided they would simply do business outside Seranthia? Put up stalls outside the walls?"
"I wouldn’t let them."
"So you would make that against the law? And enforce this law also with your new soldiers?"
"I guess," said Miro.
"And if they left Tingara altogether? Would you go to war against the country that harbours the merchants who used to live so happily in your city?"
"Hmm. I see what you mean," Miro sighed.
"Don’t worry, Miro. To me, you’re making sense. But the people here have a great distrust in what they see as intervention from the Emperor — new taxes, more soldiers, trade laws."
"Even if the laws are protecting people? Stopping people from getting murdered, or swindled?"
"That’s right."
"It’s a strange place."
"That it is, young lord. That it is."
They rounded a corner, past a motley group of women who called out and tugged on the clothes of whoever passed by. One of them tried encircling Miro in her arms. Close up he could see she had a nasty rash on her neck. Another of the women itched incessantly.
"Get away!" Miro pushed the woman.
"You’re catching on," Tuok chuckled. "Don’t ever touch one of the street whores, not if you’ve spent the last five years at sea with only fish for company. No, there are far finer establishments where the company of a beautiful woman can be had, for the right price. Or even just a refreshing beverage after a hard day’s work."
Tuok stopped to sweep his arms grandly at the building in front of them. A hanging wooden sign proclaimed it the Gilded Remedy. An attempt at the fluted and intricate style of Seranthia’s classical architecture had been badly botched, with pockmarked columns and an upper level that leaned heavily on the building beside it. The second ‘e’ in ‘Remedy’ was missing.
Miro grinned. "A mug or two of cherl could definitely be in order."
"Cherl! We can do better than that."
Miro followed Tuok into the bar.
Miro could barely see through the smoke. The bar was terribly crowded, the combined body heat hitting him like a wall. The gentle murmur of conversation he’d heard from outside became a roaring din as he passed through the swinging door and the acrid stench of sweat and stale beer assaulted him.
Miro followed Tuok through the crowd and over to the bar, Miro looking appreciatively at the bartender, a young girl perhaps his age, with flowing brown hair curling past her shoulders. Her bodice was laced up tightly over her breasts and her pleated skirt showed the swelling rise of her hips, stopping well above her knees.
Tuok yelled something at her, Miro didn’t hear what, and in a moment Tuok turned to Miro, grinning and holding two tiny glasses.
Miro remembered one of the few pieces of advice Brandon had given him, "The smaller the glass, the stronger the drink."