State of Sorrow (Sorrow #1)(5)
When he remained silent, Sorrow turned back to the steward. “Please. Go on. What do you need to say about the Decorum Ward in the West Marches?”
The steward swallowed. “It’s not a complaint,” he said hurriedly, eyes flicking to Meeren Vine before returning to meet Sorrow’s. “Just, there have been a few … instances of disruption over recent weeks, and the Decorum Ward say they’re already stretched too thin for what they earn. We’ve told them there is no more money, but it was made clear that wasn’t acceptable to the Ward.” He said the last in a rush of words, the syllables running together as he forced them out. “That’s why I’m here,” he said. “To ask for more funds. For them.”
He looked again over her shoulder at where Vine still stood, before dropping his gaze to the floor. Sorrow hated having her back to the captain, hated having him in the palace at all. He should be outside, with the other animals, she thought. But she kept her expression neutral as she asked, “What kind of ‘instances of disruption’?”
“Attacks against them,” the steward mumbled.
“Them? You mean the Decorum Ward?” Sorrow wondered for a moment if she’d misunderstood him. “The Decorum Ward are being attacked?”
He confirmed it with a single nod. “It’s graffiti … mostly… And a brick was thrown through the Ward’s headquarters, with a note attached, calling them … well, nothing pleasant.”
“I’m happy to be explicit if he won’t, Miss Ventaxis.” Behind her Vine leant down, bringing his mouth level with Sorrow’s ear. His sharp breath stirred the hairs that had escaped from Sorrow’s braid, and she fought to suppress a shudder.
She spoke through gritted teeth as her nails bit into her palms. “That won’t be necessary, Captain Vine.”
There was much in Rhannon she disliked, but nothing came close to the mixture of fear and hatred her father’s Decorum Ward wrought in her. None more violently than their captain.
Only the most thuggish, vicious men and women – those who’d actually mourned the end of the war – had signed up to the newly minted Decorum Ward, following the death of Sorrow’s mother, with Vine climbing the ranks fastest of all. Sorrow was too young to remember, but her grandmother had told her how the Ward lined up proudly to receive their work tools: badges showing iron fists over crude hearts, and thick leather batons they wore proudly at their waists, unless they were smacking them menacingly against their own hands, or using them on the people.
Since then they’d prowled the various districts of Rhannon, spying, policing, taxing, and – whenever they decided it was appropriate – doling out punishments. It was their job to make sure no one in Rhannon ever forgot the deaths of Mael and Cerena. That no one behaved as though their every moment wasn’t soaked by the loss of the first lady and the Ventaxis heir. That everyone kept their heads bowed, and their mouths shut.
It was no surprise now that the people were rebelling against them. There were only so many times you could kick a dog before it would bite.
And apparently some of the Rhannish people were finally baring their teeth. Sorrow found she liked the thought of it. Good for them.
“It’s not just the West Marches,” Vine said, and Sorrow turned her head towards him. Happier he had her attention, he sauntered back to the doorway, folding his arms as he leant against the frame, blocking the exit. “There have been incidents in Prekara, and the North Marches too. Graffiti. They call themselves ‘the Sons of Rhannon’, these vigilantes. There’s animal shit –” Sorrow winced at the outraged gasps of some of the others there “– being smeared on the doors of the Wards’ homes. Stones thrown when our backs are turned. All them. We’ve tried appealing to the district senators, but they’ve done nothing. Say there’s nothing they can do. That’s why I’m here.”
“Does Lord Day know about this?” she asked.
“I’ve sent him word.”
“Then I expect he’s dealing with it.”
Meeren Vine’s expression darkened. “That’s not good enough, Miss Ventaxis. We’re trying to do our job, the job your father told us to do. Collecting his taxes. Keeping his order. We’ve not had a pay rise in five years and now we’re dealing with insubordination and attacks. Surely that counts as an attack against him? What does he have to say about all of this? I want to hear it from him.”
“You can talk to me.” Sorrow tried to inject some steel into her voice.
“I want the organ grinder, not the monkey.”
“Remember to whom you speak,” Sorrow snapped, not needing to pretend at steel any more, as she turned fully to face him. “I’m the daughter of the chancellor. I’ll be the chancellor one day. Don’t forget it.” She paused, taking a deep breath, forcing herself to sound calm as she said, “Now, if you don’t mind, these men and women are waiting to speak to me. Feel free to join them if you have anything else you want to say. In your turn.”
His jaw was rigid with outrage, his midnight eyes boring into hers. Sorrow was too aware of the baton hanging from his belt, the size of his large hands, the corded veins that mapped his muscular arms. It felt as though an age passed, before finally he gave an obsequious nod and drew back.
Sorrow kept her shoulders straight, and her chin high, as she deliberately turned away from him to address the room.