Chapter 59 59: a strange protest

------------------------------ If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. ------------------------------- Erntzeit 16th ,2488 IC There was a sizable group of men and women shouting in protest outside the castle gates, clearly convinced I was inside, since I wasn't in my usual place: beside the aid station of the Cult of Shallya. I only had two men-at-arms with me, so I decided to wait for one of them to go inside the castle and bring reinforcements. Once more soldiers began to emerge, I finally made my appearance, riding through the crowd who barely noticed me as I passed on horseback. Amid all the noise, only one thing truly caught my attention: a sign with words painted on it—poorly written, but familiar. It was a phrase that made the reason for the protest perfectly clear: "REIKLADN FOR THE REIKLADSERS," and the spelling mistake clearly marked the peasant origin of its author. The crowd slowly grew as more peasants arrived from the fields after finishing their harvest day. Some didn't even go home first; they joined the protest directly. Once I was surrounded by my men, I approached to a safe distance and stopped. I remained completely silent, wearing a harsh, stern expression like a statue on horseback. My mere presence seemed to take effect: the shouting died down, the complaints turned to murmurs, and then to complete silence. I looked at them one by one, as if memorizing their faces. "Only one of you will speak," I finally said, raising my voice so that all could hear. "And by blessed Sigmar, you'd better explain clearly why this is happening!" I didn't mention the maximum penalty for rebellion, though it was at the tip of my tongue. It wasn't the time. There was a moment of hesitation, people looking at one another, until a man stepped forward. His hair was graying, and his hands were rough from years of fieldwork. "Because... because our customs are dying, my lord," he said in a trembling tone. "Large groups of outsiders are arriving in our lands. And you... you do nothing. On the contrary, you support them. You allow them to tarnish the name of our god Sigmar, bringing with them lesser gods like Ulric or Taal. It's clear where your favor lies. Look at their homes, my lord... and look at ours. I built mine with my own hands, with effort and suffering. And they, these outsiders, arrive and are given homes that would befit the notables of the village. On top of that, they get tax exemptions..." he finally shouted, full of anger. The murmurs became a chorus. Many began to nod and shout in agreement, supporting every word of the man. "Outsiders?... Outsiders?" I calmly repeated, looking down at him. "Have you forgotten that our divine lord Deus Sigmar forged this Empire by uniting all tribes? Every one of those you call 'outsiders' is a son of the Empire. A man of Sigmar." I watched them sternly. "But I understand your point of view, my loyal subjects," I added, in a more measured tone. "As a Sigmarite, I shall fulfill my duty to protect all the inhabitants of the Empire... and I shall also fulfill my duty to listen to my people." I paused briefly, letting my words settle. "You have until sunset to choose a group of delegates and send them to my office. Let them bring all your complaints, all your doubts, all your grievances. With the blessing of Deus Sigmar, I hope we'll find a solution... for every action has its cause, and every decision demands listening. Let your delegates speak their truth before I deliver justice, for justice without understanding is nothing but blind punishment." With that, I turned my horse as my men cleared the path firmly. The crowd didn't disperse, but it did retreat, tension still hanging in the air. I ascended to the castle fuming inwardly at the stupidity of the protest. As much as I would've liked to shout at them and issue threats right then and there, that wasn't the way to end a revolt. This was the moment to divide them... and conquer them one by one. Only an idiot—or someone with exceptional charisma—would try to calm a mob when they're inciting each other like frightened animals. I am neither. So I remained, ordering that those who wished to speak come to me one by one. Everything was to be handled privately. Once the leaders were calmed, the protest would die quickly: I'd regain control, fulfill part of what was promised... and things would return to normal. As I waited patiently, the first peasant entered. He was visibly tense, surrounded by guards, and most importantly—alone. "Greetings, my good subject. Tell me, why do I have the honor of your presence in my castle?" I asked in a calm and friendly tone. "Uh... my lord..." he muttered, almost hyperventilating. "Calm yourself, good man. You have my word there will be no reprisals for your participation," I said gently, as I poured a wooden cup of wine—the same kind my father used to drink. "Here, drink. Steady your nerves," I added with a smile that seemed sincere, though it was nothing but part of the performance. The man accepted the cup and drank, savoring every sip as if it were the best thing he'd tasted in weeks. "Better?" I asked courteously. "Yes, my lord... forgive the intrusion," he answered, bowing his head. "It is never a burden to listen to my subjects. Never forget that." I gestured with my hand. "Please, tell me what my people request." "Well... my lord... there is discomfort over the number of soldiers arriving from other provinces... and well, they don't seem very trustworthy. They're very quiet, distant... unlike our own men," the peasant said, visibly uncomfortable. "That may be hard to accept, but they have bled for us. Don't forget that. Thanks to them, the forests are safe, the roads are guarded, and the mountains pacified. Have they not already proven their loyalty?" I replied calmly. "Uh... I know... but there are so many... if one day they chose to betray you, my lord..." the man said, leaving the sentence hanging. "That will never happen. Not while I draw breath." I paused, interlacing my fingers. "But I understand the concern. You would feel more at ease if next year I hired two hundred more guards... preferably from Reikland, correct?" "Yes, my lord," said the man, now with a more genuine smile. "Is there anything else I should know?" "No, my lord. That was the main concern among the neighbors near the market," he replied. "I understand... tell me something. What led you to make such a risky decision? If my father still ruled, you'd all have lost your heads by now," I said seriously. That question made him tense up immediately. "Well... uh... someone at the tavern said this would never happen with... with..." "With who?" I pressed. "With the von Kesselheims," he finally replied. "I see..." I murmured, pouring him another cup of wine. "If you have nothing else to say, you may leave," I added as I filled his cup. The man nodded, drank quickly, and left—visibly happier than he deserved to be. "Idiot," I muttered under my breath just as I heard his last steps echoing down the hall. "So the von Kesselheims... subversive sons of bitches," I growled with contempt. "Taking advantage of public unrest over the migrants to try and reclaim their land... Five generations without ruling, and now that they see there's something to squeeze, they show up to snatch it from the mouth of the one who worked it. Parlor rats," I hissed through my teeth. Another delegate didn't take long to arrive, this one smiling. He'd probably spoken with the previous one. I treated him the same way: with respect and courtesy, presenting myself as a virtuous nobleman to send the message that I was approachable. "My lord, you cannot build a cathedral for the followers of Taal and Rhya... First and foremost, we are Sigmarites. We cannot allow our God and Lord to be considered lesser compared to minor deities," he said, with a mixture of indignation and concern. "You do know that the Cult of Taal would never ask for—much less accept—a stone cathedral, right? We're talking about the god of nature. Their temples are wooden chapels, made of mud, with roofs of branches and animal hides. Where did you get such nonsense?" I replied calmly, letting just a trace of contempt slip into my tone. "So... it was all a lie?" he asked, incredulous. "Of course. If I had large sums of money to support a cult, the first would be that of our Lord Deus Sigmar. How could anyone believe I'd do something like that?" I said, now more sternly, looking him directly in the eye. "I..." the man murmured, lowering his head. "I won't waste any more of your valuable time, my lord. Please forgive the trouble." "Before you go... where did you hear that lie?" I asked without changing my tone. "In the plaza, my lord. A man was saying you had agreed to build a cathedral for Taal... instead of allocating resources to the Cult of Sigmar," he replied, now visibly uncomfortable. I gestured for him to leave. That continued for a long while—hearing complaint after complaint from the townsfolk. They all revolved around the same topic: the migrants. Why were they exempt from taxes? Why were they given new, well-built houses, while lifelong residents still lived in crumbling shacks? Why did they get help, and not us? Once again, the same issue: a stupid rumor that got out of hand. The houses given to migrants weren't a gift. They came with a catch: they had to pay rent, and their tax exemption was gradually reduced. I also used the imperial decree as an excuse, claiming I had no authority to revoke their benefits... Which was a lie. I could declare the agreement void at any time and send them begging. But in matters like these, the appearance of integrity is worth more than the truth. And as if that weren't enough, the latest rumor said I had multiple lovers among the migrant women, and that's why I gave them everything so generously. "For fuck's sake... I'm twelve years old. Twelve. And even though I'm abnormally tall for my age, have my peasants completely lost their minds? How the hell do they believe something like that?" I muttered through clenched teeth as I poured myself a cup of vinegar water. Another group came to complain about jobs—especially the local craftsmen. With the arrival of the migrants came new artisans, which led to unexpected competition. Some spoke of oversupply; others said the customer base was splitting too fast. Several, indignantly, claimed they were competing against people who didn't pay taxes. Another stupid rumor. I had to explain that the tax exemption I'd granted only applied to harvests, not to commercial activity. Everyone selling in the market—whether from Reikland or Talabecland—paid the same tax on their products. Nothing could be fairer. I also pointed out that the population increase attracted more merchants, simply because the market was larger, more dynamic... more profitable. In other words: they were selling more because there were more people. Of course, explaining that to someone who thinks the world revolves around their carpentry stall isn't easy. Then came another issue. They wanted me to hire more Reiklanders in my private businesses. Many complained that migrants were working in my forges and foundries. I responded with all the calm I had left that all the positions were filled. That if there were unemployed Reiklanders, of course I'd prefer them... but there were no vacancies. And I wasn't going to fire someone just because of where they were born. The next round of complaints, finally, had merit. Otto, the architect, had been digging beneath the old quarter of the town to continue work on the sewer system. In doing so, he had damaged the foundations of several old houses, causing cracks and subsidence. The owners were furious—and rightly so. They wanted compensation or help repairing their homes before winter. I promised to give them an answer soon—either repairs or direct assistance. And I called Otto immediately. "Your digging is damaging my peasants' homes. Did you miscalculate?" I asked tensely. "My calculations are perfect," Otto said, crossing his arms with that know-it-all arrogance. "Then explain why I've got villagers complaining that their foundations are sinking or that their walls are cracking." "Because they built with crap materials," he replied, unfazed. "The wood they used is rotted. It should've been replaced years ago." I took a deep breath. A very deep one. I ran a hand over my face. "Winter is upon us and there are still migrants without shelter. Leave the damn sewer for now. We'll finish it next year, or extend it toward the new houses. For now, focus on repairing the damaged homes and making sure no one sleeps outside when the snow comes." "That'll extend the contract," he said, trying to choose his words carefully. "Yes, yes... yes. I'll pay you what's fair, bastard. Now get back to work." Otto nodded, satisfied he'd be getting paid for a while longer, and left without haste, as if nothing could bother him. I was left alone, in silence, staring out the window as the sky began to cloud over. "Why the hell does nothing ever go right?" I muttered, exhausted. ------------------------------ If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. -------------------------------