Rinnet of King's Helm (COMPLETED)

Chapter Twenty

"You're a noble, are you not?" Distya watched him trip over a clump of dry grass and catch himself on a bent sapling. "You spent time in the Guard."

"As if that garners respect around here," he grumbled. "And I spent as little time around those buffoons as possible."

"The Guard—?"

"No more questions," Tregan said, sitting down heavily on the nearest rock. He rifled through his pockets for a pouch of dried meat. "I haven't had time to wake up yet, much less think. I don't answer to you, anyway."

Distya stepped back and sat too, peering west and trying to ignore the way Tregan's glazed red eyes bored into the side of her head. So he wasn't a friend of the Guard, and Distya could bet that distaste extended both ways. Zeffiren had suggested Tregan did the bare minimum before resigning. Judging by his portly physique and unruly habits, she had to assume the healer was right.

"In the Guard," she said, "are you rewarded well for prisoners of war?"

Tregan's chewing came to a halt. "I thought I said no more questions," he said, his mouth still full.

"They must, otherwise you wouldn't have bothered bringing me to Goldsriff."

"There's no money involved, if that's what you're asking," he said. "I'm not employed under them anymore. It would be a favor."

"Would it get you favors in return? Recognition?" Distya continued. "In Tevar, status is granted by merit, not nobility. What do you give a noble who already has everything?"

"You think I have everything?" Tregan laughed once, a curt barking sound. "I inherited an orchard of ugly, poisonous trees from my father and a horde of ungrateful peasants the queen herself couldn't control. My status earned me two miserable years of forced enlistment in the Guard before I left without an ounce of respect for the work I did. I bet they would have booted me sooner if it wasn't required by the code of nobility."

"So bringing me to Villotta," Distya said, "it would have brought you the respect you have not been given all these years."

"You say it like it's trivial," Tregan said, spitting a tough bit of gristle into the blanket of sage behind him. "But it's everything to a low-ranking noble in Coretian society. Money and bloodlines determine everything. With my lot, I've always had to struggle to command the respect of my peers." He flashed a bitter sneer. "Not that it's mattered one whit."

Listening to Tregan talk, Distya could almost understand his sour attitude. Though Tregan seemed to have not tried to earn anything at all, it was still dismal to hear his description of the Coretian ranking system. There was no incentive to do anything—it was all birthright.

Distya readjusted herself, rotating slowly to loosen her stiff shoulder without reopening the scar. "How do the nobles work together? They must be locked in constant competition with no way to advance."

"Oh, there's a few ways," Tregan said. "Killing higher-ranking nobles, for starters. But it has to look like an accident—palsa poison is good for that, you know." He wiped away the sweat that had begun to bead on his forehead and aimed a glare toward the sun. "That's the most money I ever made off that blasted farm, but that kind of thing has pretty much stopped by now. I guess we have the current ruler to thank for that."

"Why?"

"The invasion of Hatawa. Once all the staking out and preparations for that began a decade or so back, we had an enemy to deal with. As much of an enemy as they were, anyway. And now we have a real enemy." He shot Distya a pointed look. "At least Hatawa was good for morale."

"I suppose the queen would want to keep the nobles from murdering each other."

"I don't know that she'd care so much if she wasn't the highest-ranking noble of all," Tregan said. "Got to protect that throne for herself and her future bloodline. Wouldn't want some rowdy lord palsa-poisoning your sewing needles and dying doing needlepoint."