The Invasion of the Tearling

“That’s why I thought it best to deal with them quickly, Lady.”


When the nobles entered, Kelsea was struck first by their clothing, ostentatious as ever. Now, in summer, there were no hats or gloves, but they all displayed a new fashion that Kelsea had seen before: what appeared to be gold and silver, melted down and allowed to run in rivulets across the fabric so that shirts and dresses seemed to be dripping with precious metal. To Kelsea’s eye, the effect was merely sloppy, but clearly they thought otherwise. Carlin would have had much to say about this bunch; despite the fact that she had been a noble herself, she loathed conspicuous consumption. Kelsea was not surprised to see the tall, wasplike figure of Lady Andrews near the front of the group, cloaked in red silk. She looked, if possible, even more fleshless than before, but that might only have been the look in the woman’s eyes, a loathing for Kelsea that seemed to dwarf everything else in her face.

“Majesty.” The man in front, a tiny creature with an enormous beer belly, bowed before her.

“Lord Williams,” Mace murmured.

“Greetings, Lord Williams. What can I do for you?”

“We come with a common grievance, Majesty.” Lord Williams swept an arm toward the group behind him. “All of us hold property in the Almont.”

“Yes?”

“The evacuation is already incredibly destructive. Soldiers and refugees march across our lands, flattening the crops. Some of the refugees even loot in our fields. The soldiers do nothing.”

Kelsea bit down on her tongue, realizing that she should have foreseen this issue. These people, after all, had nothing to do but sit and count every last penny of profit.

“Do you have complaints of violence, Lord Williams? Armed thievery, harassment of your farmers?”

Lord Williams’s eyes widened. “No, Lady, of course not. But we lose money on the damaged and stolen crops, as well as lost work time.”

“I see.” Kelsea smiled, though it hurt her face. “What would you suggest?”

“Majesty, it’s not really my place–”

“Speak plainly.”

“Well, I …”

Another noble stepped forward, a taller man with a tightly clipped mustache. After a moment’s thought, Kelsea placed him: Lord Evans, who owned vast fields of corn north of the Dry Lands. “I have reports, Lady, that while your soldiers protect the refugees on their journey, they make no attempt to supervise them. You could order better enforcement.”

“I will do that. Anything else?”

“My farmers can’t work with an army of vagrants marching across their fields. Why not conduct the evacuation at night? That way, it won’t interrupt production.”

Something flared behind Kelsea’s ribs. “Lord Evans, I suppose you have a residence in New London?”

“Why, yes, Majesty. My family owns two.”

“So long before the Mort come, you will simply move your household and all your valuables into town.”

“For certain, Majesty.”

“How convenient for you. But these people are being transplanted from their homes with no such ease. Some of them have never left their villages before. Most will be on foot, and many are carrying infants and young children. Are you honestly suggesting that I force them to cross unfamiliar territory in the dark?”

“Of course–of course not, Your Majesty,” Evans replied, his mustache twitching in alarm. “I only meant–”

“I am suggesting it,” Lady Andrews announced, stepping forward. “Property rights have always been inviolate in the Tearling.”

“Be careful, Lady Andrews. No one is violating your property rights.”

“They cross our lands.”

“So did the shipment, once a month. It must have done a good bit of damage to your roadways. But you did not complain then.”

“I profited!”

“Precisely. So let’s talk about what’s really at stake here. Not right to property, but right to profit.”

“Profit is where we find it, Majesty.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No one is threatening Your Majesty!” Lord Williams cried. He looked around to the group behind him, and several of them nodded frantically. “Lady Andrews does not speak for all of us, Majesty. We simply wish to minimize the damage to our lands.”

Lady Andrews rounded on him. “If you had any balls at all, Williams, I would not have needed to attend this farce!”

“Keep it civil!” Mace barked. But the admonishment sounded automatic, and Kelsea suspected that Mace was enjoying himself.

“At some point, Majesty,” Lady Andrews continued, “the Mort will have to cross my lands. I can make it difficult for them, or I can stand aside.”

Kelsea stared at her. “Did you just tell me you mean to commit treason? Here, in front of thirty witnesses?”

“I have no such intention, Majesty. Not unless I am forced to it.”

“Forced to it,” Kelsea repeated, grimacing. “I know how you conduct yourself in wartime, Lady Andrews. You’ll probably greet General Genot himself with a glass of whisky and a free fuck.”