Midwinter

He replaced the prayer beads and washed himself in the basin, staring at his reflection. This is the face of a tax collector, he thought. This is the face of one who gathers water to make extra money when the city stops. Frowning, Marar took his collection bag from the bed frame and went out to make his rounds.

He stopped at the door to his apartment and pulled himself over the walkway railing to the rigging that ran alongside his home. There, tied up among the similar ships belonging to the wealthier of his neighbors, was the flyer. It was small, room enough for only four or five, but it would come in handy if it came time to flee the city of Mab. The flyer was registered with the city and could be taken out without special permission. The monks at Sylvan had even rigged it to come at his command.

The Gift of Premonition did not feel like a gift today. It urged him to leap into the flyer now and abandon his post, flying as far as he could manage, then running into the desert to live among the wild people. He swore to himself, checking the craft's mooring, then climbed back onto the path.

A sunny day. Dust in the sandals, sweat along the hairline. Marar climbed the steps of the tenements on the city's fringe. The buildings dragged behind the city of Mab on old ropes that had frayed over centuries and were patched and repatched until the bindings became a patchwork of sisal and hemp fibers that stuck out at odd angles, fluttering in the breeze.

He rang the bell of an apartment at the top of a rickety stairwell, the wooden planks swinging nauseatingly on their rope supports. From the top of the stairs, the city's backside was plainly visible, leaving no doubt about this location's undesirability. Like a giant snail, the city left a stinking trail in its wake, a slime made of wastewater and refuse and dirt. The odor was so intense that it survived even at this height, hundreds of feet above the ground.

An elderly gnomish woman answered the bell, a permanent snarl etched on her face. Seeing Marar, she recoiled.

"You tell them!" she shouted. "You tell them I already paid my tax this month!"

Marar sighed. "Woman," he said. "You paid your imperial at the stall. I'm collecting for the city. We've been through this before."

"I shouldn't have to pay," she muttered, fishing in her pocketbook for the coins. "I'm old and the city gives me nothing but trouble."

"It's fourteen in copper," said Marar, consulting his list. "That's seven for this month and seven you owe from last month."

"Seven?" the woman said, clamping the pocketbook shut. "It used to be five!" Behind her, a pair of scrawny gnomish children wandered to the door and tugged at the woman's skirts. Marar felt a deep sadness for them, and his premonition headache throbbed.

"The city raised it four months ago. We've been over this."

"What's your take? I know you pocket the difference."

Marar smiled. "No, woman. I only profit from those who can afford to pay extra. I put no more burden on you than you can withstand."

She fished out fifteen coppers and handed them over. "You can keep the change," she said. "You're not as bad as the last man they had."

"Thank you," he said.

Marar finished his rounds in the tenement district and returned to the Assessor's Office for his break, his bag half full. The two legionnaires standing outside the office gave him pause; he stopped and closed his eyes for longer than a blink. They could not be there for him. No one knew. He'd been too careful. Even so, the premonitory headache refused to go away. It pounded behind his eyes, presaging terrible things.

One of the legionnaires cast a glance backward at the assessor, who nodded slowly in Marar's direction.

The legionnaire approached Marar, and for an instant his vision went gray, and the soldier spoke as if from a great distance.

"Marar Envacoro," he said. "You are under arrest for crimes against Her Imperial Majesty, Queen Mab."

Hy Pezho, seated at the right hand of the Queen, paid close attention to his fingernails while Prefect Laese'am rattled on about taxation. Pezho knew that his inattention to Laese'am would draw disfavor from among the Prefecture, but it was necessary to bolster his position with the Queen. Only one truly close could ignore a Prefect so openly without censure. Mab, for her part, appeared to be ignoring both of them.

A messenger entered the council chambers deep within the heart of the Royal Complex. He bowed to Mab and held his message toward her, his face to the floor.

Mab read the message and laid it on the table. She rose.

"Gentlemen, there is more pressing business to which We must attend. Let us proceed to Our observation deck that we may witness yet another sign of Our glory."