Fallen Eagle

1st Week of September, 1460

Loose pebbles sprayed beneath the clopping hooves of the swaying horse, skipping down the narrow track in little bursts of dust. Every step jarred through Michalis’s saddle and struck some newly discovered tender place along his legs, hips, or backside. By morning, he suspected he would barely be able to walk. That was assuming he survived the journey without disgracing himself first.

Despite his noble upbringing, Michalis had never excelled at any of the military arts expected of boys born into families like his. His eldest brother had taken naturally to horses, weapons, and the loud confidence of the training yard. Michalis had learned to ride only to the barest degree of self-sufficiency, enough that he could remain in the saddle and avoid embarrassing his father more than he apparently already did.

The horse gave a soft, wet snort beneath him, as if mocking him.

Michalis stiffened and tightened his hands around the reins, which only made the animal toss its head in irritation. The motion stirred the nausea already settling in the pit of his stomach. He could feel each uneasy churn as clearly as though something small and unpleasant had begun crawling around inside him.

“Nearly there,” one of the two guardsmen assigned to protect him grunted, a thin soldier that had a reedy voice and a long, narrow face browned by years beneath the sun, but no less harmless for it.

His eyes moved constantly over the foothills cradling the shallow dip they rode through, pausing on every outcrop and patch of brush large enough to hide a man.

The bandit threat had supposedly been dealt with, but Michalis found little comfort in the word supposedly, and his guards shared that thought, too, apparently. Michalis had seen enough back in Suyren to know it left lasting marks on everyone.

“You got your pretty speech all memorized, boyo?” Komon turned in his saddle and gave him a gap-toothed grin, part mocking and part assessing. A thick scar ran down the right side of his face, pulling the corner of his mouth into a permanent sneer even when he seemed to be in a pleasant mood. It contorted now, following the curves of his face as if adding even more pleasure to the smile.

“Uh-ah, hmmhmm,” Michalis stammered with all the elegance expected of an official representative of Suyren.

“Hmmhmm? What the fuck is that?” Komon’s scar twisted as he hacked out a laugh. “Speak proper Greek and none of that mumbling, or no one’ll understand you.”

Michalis nodded quickly and swallowed against his dry throat. He tried to sit straighter, recalling the posture his tutors had drilled into him, though the effort only made the saddle rub against another bruised patch of flesh. He wondered whether the villagers would notice how poorly he rode. Probably. People always seemed to notice the things he most wanted hidden.

As they reached the end of the small valley, their destination appeared beyond the rise.

A village of a few dozen huts clung to a gentle slope ahead. Their walls were made from timber and pale daub, many of them sagging beneath roofs of reed or weathered planks. Thin trails of smoke rose from several chimneys. From a distance it looked quiet, almost harmless.

Michalis pulled on the reins sharply.

The horse stopped with a resentful jerk, forcing him forward against the saddle before he caught himself. His hands had grown slick with sweat, the leather reins sliding unpleasantly against his palms.

This was his first proper task as an official clerk of the Lords of Suyren. A real position, one he had never believed he would hold. Something he could reach toward and call his own, provided he did not ruin it completely.

The roiling in his stomach worsened.

They had promoted him too soon. That had to be it. Someone had mistaken his ability to copy ledgers without spilling ink for actual competence. He would forget the speech, misuse some title, or say something foolish. Then word would return to Suyren. To Lord Theodorus. To his father.

Perhaps it would be better to turn back now, while-

“Best get moving, boy,” the thin soldier said conversationally. “Komon can get impatient.”

He pointed with his chin toward Michalis’s right.

Komon was winding back one thick arm, stretching it behind his head with all his power in it.

Michalis only had enough time to clench his thighs against the saddle in a desperate twitch of strength.

Komon’s palm cracked against the horse’s backside, and the beast loosed a high-pitched neigh. It surged forward, hooves scattering stone as it broke into a frantic sprint down the slope. Michalis folded over the horse’s neck and clutched at the reins with both hands, every lesson he had ever received fleeing his mind at once.

Then the village rushed toward him in a blur of pale walls, brown fields, and startled faces.

He held on with all the strength in him; at least he had enough presence of mind not to try and shout, which might result in him biting off his tongue.

…

“If you get the kid killed, we’ll be in trouble, Komon,” Panos said flatly.

He watched Michalis pitch sideways in the saddle as the horse charged down the slope, the boy clutching at its neck with all the dignity of a sack thrown across a mule.

“He looks like the type to freeze up like a bullfrog,” Komon sneered. “We gotta give him a little push now and then. And I know you won’t do it.”

Panos did not bother arguing. It was a fair enough assessment. He preferred to let men find their own pace and follow matters toward whatever natural conclusion awaited them. If the boy needed frightening half to death before he could make a decision, Komon was better suited to the task.

“Come on,” Panos said instead, nudging his mare forward. “We have to at least pretend we’re guarding him.”

Komon laughed beneath his breath, and the two men started down the path.

…

By the time Michalis entered the village proper, he had managed to smooth his ruffled mop of hair into something approaching presentable. He had done so blindly with one hand while holding the reins in the other, which meant it was probably still crooked. He resisted the urge to touch it again. Fussing would only make the villagers stare more.

Mikros Elos showed fewer signs of ruin than he had expected. Many of the huts had been patched with fresh timber, their walls newly smeared with pale daub where old sections had cracked or burned, several roofs rebuilt with reed bundles. Only the blackened posts beside one collapsed dwelling, and the empty stretches between certain houses hinted at the attack that had struck the village a month before.

It seemed strange that this small, wounded place had been chosen as the first village to be surveyed under Lord Theodorus’s plan to charter the north.

Komon rode a little ahead and raised the small standard they had brought from Suyren, a square of heavy cloth fixed beneath the head of a short spear-like staff. The Principality’s double-headed eagle had been stitched across it in dark thread, the fabric stirring weakly whenever the wind reached between the houses.

“We come on behalf of the Lords of Suyren, Lord Theodorus of House Sideris and Lord Zeno of House Makris,” the scarred veteran called, voice raking across the quiet village with force. “We request a meeting with Pantelis, headman of Mikros Elos!”

After a few long breaths, the door of what had to be the stout new village granary opened. Villagers began trickling out from within, first in cautious pairs and then in small family groups, having hidden themselves inside until the banner and names confirmed who had arrived.

The attack had left its mark after all. And the village was not taking any chances anymore.

“In here,” called a stout man standing in the granary doorway.

White streaked the sides of his short hair, though his face and shoulders remained broad and hard. He gave neither bow nor greeting before turning back inside.

Michalis looked toward his bodyguards, hoping one of them might offer some indication of what he was meant to do. Panos merely waited. Komon rolled his eyes so thoroughly that Michalis felt foolish for having hesitated.

He dismounted slowly and ungracefully, then followed the headman.

Inside, the granary’s raised floor was crowded with ordered stores, though the number of sacks was dwindling. Marks had been scratched into boards and wooden tags beside each grouping, recording what had been received and what had already been distributed.

Michalis recognized the shipment immediately. He had counted much of it himself in Suyren, checking every sack and measure until the figures blurred together. He had tried to wrest every handful he could into the relief packages without leaving another village short.

The Crown’s shipment had been sizeable, but the number of northern settlements under Suyren’s care made generosity difficult. Each village received only a modest allotment, and every distribution had to be accounted for with painful exactness.

In truth, the grain was a loan without interest, to be repaid gradually over several years once the villages had recovered. That might bring future returns, but it did nothing to ease Suyren’s present position. The northern fortress only possessed enough grain to reach the end of harvest if nothing went wrong, far short of the stores expected of a stronghold meant to endure a month-long siege.

That made Michalis’s task in Mikros Elos all the more important, which was precisely the sort of thought he wished had not occurred to him.

Pantelis sat in a chair at the end of a long slab of wood serving as a table, surrounded by the controlled mayhem around him. He made no attempt to introduce himself.

“So,” the old man said, studying Michalis with open suspicion, “what are you here for?”

A willowy, stooped priest stood near one of the storage racks, finishing the last of the labels tied to baskets of dried beans and onions. His thin fingers moved carefully across the scrap of parchment, shaping each letter with slow concentration. The sight made Michalis raise his brows.

He had known that local clergy had been pressed into service as unofficial scribes and administrators for their communities’ charters. Still, the Lords of Suyren had been careful not to demand too much of them. Recording births, deaths, and agreements was one thing. Maintaining stores and checking inventories was another.

It appeared this priest had volunteered to go further than required.

“Eyes here,” Pantelis said.

Michalis turned back quickly, embarrassed to have been caught staring.

The headman motioned toward another chair beside the long slab of wood. This corner of the granary seemed to serve as the village’s administrative and clerical centre all at once, with tallies scratched into boards, and charcoal sticks stored in a cracked clay cup. It was crude, certainly, but still a vast improvement over whatever had existed before the charter, which Michalis suspected had been nothing at all.

“I assume you’re here for the assessment,” Pantelis said.

“Ah, yes.” Michalis hurried forward and nearly caught his foot on the leg of the chair. He steadied himself before anyone could remark on it, placed his writing case on the table as if nothing had happened.

“I have been sent under the authority of the rightful Lords of Northern Theodoro,” he began, forcing his voice into the formal tone he had practised throughout the journey. “I have been granted the power to investigate the village and its surrounding lands, examine all official records, and compare those records against the testimony of witnesses and the findings of the survey.”

He finished without stumbling, which was a small miracle, though Pantelis looked no more impressed than he had before.

“Well, that’s all fine,” the headman said, “except we don’t have any written records, so you can skip that part.”

Michalis stared at him, the next portion of his memorized announcement fleeing his thoughts.

“No written dues or obligations?” he asked.

Pantelis shook his head.

“Then how did you know what you were meant to pay?” Michalis could scarcely understand how any administration, however poor, functioned without even a rough account of what was owed.

Pantelis barked out a laugh, amused by his disbelief.

“Simple enough. Men came who looked at the sacks of grain, decided what they thought they could take, and made off with it.”

Michalis glanced down at the parchment before him, trying to wrestle some control back into the conversation. There was no proper place on the form for arbitrary seizure.

“Well,” he said, trying to recover his footing, “I will need to know how many families live here.”

“A few dozen.” Pantelis gave the answer with the air of a man hoping it would end the matter.

“Uh, yes. Very well.” Michalis lowered his quill and obediently began writing the words.

A hand settled on his shoulder. It belonged to Panos.

“A proper number, old man,” the guard said, eyeing Michalis flatly.

Pantelis folded his arms. “What do I look like, a ledger?”

“We ain’t leaving without a proper answer, are we, Master Scribe?” Komon asked.

He laid the title on thick enough to make Michalis’s face grow hot. He had accepted the first useless answer placed before him like an imbecile.

“What do you expect me to do?” Pantelis demanded, irritation creeping into his voice. “Question every woman and child in Mikros Elos?”

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Komon smiled, displaying a crooked line of yellow teeth. Pantelis, meanwhile, frowned. The headman was beginning to understand that the assessment would be a far greater nuisance than he had agreed to endure.

Michalis looked from the headman to the unfinished line on his parchment. His first instinct was to apologize, accept an estimate, and promise that they would cause as little disruption as possible. That would be easier. It would also leave the survey nearly worthless.

He tightened his fingers around the quill.

“We will remain for as long as the work requires,” Michalis said.

His voice came out steadier than he expected.

It was time to begin.

…

“And this stretch here’s about the edge of what I’d call mine ta work.”

Herodes raised one hand and pointed with a finger bent permanently at the middle joint. An ox had caught him beneath the plough rope years ago and nearly torn it from its place as he told it. Now Michalis tried to follow its crooked aim across a scatter of stones half-swallowed by grass.

The stones might once have formed a boundary wall. To Michalis, they looked like rubble.

“Past the fallen pine is Klímis’s land,” Herodes continued.

Michalis saw a fallen trunk lying dark against the pale grass. “Don’t you have any other markings? Boundary stones, perhaps?”

He tried to copy the directions onto his parchment, though the sketch beside his notes had already become a confusion of uncertain lines. “A fallen pine is not exactly permanent.”

“That pine’s been there as long as I can remember,” Herodes said, affronted.

“Broken just like this? How long have you worked this land?”

“At least forty damn years, thank you very much.” The man folded his arms as if that settled every question. Michalis fought not to let out a long-suffering sigh. He was not sure he succeeded as Herodes asked. "What? Ya don't believe me? Ya callin' me a liar?"

The trunk was dark brown and soft with rot. Michalis doubted this aged ‘boundary marker’ would survive another winter.

Whatever hopes he had of producing a neat report on Mikros Elos’s holdings had disappeared before midday. Measurements scarcely existed beyond paces, remembered furrows, and whatever a man could point to. Boundaries shifted with floods, fallen trees, and stones dragged aside for other uses. Some seemed to exist only because neighbours had repeated the same claim for long enough.

Only one thing remained constant through it all. Every farmer insisted his land was thin and nearly barren, arguing that it was worthless and should, thus, cost less in terms of taxes and value.

“Oy, you damned trickster!” a voice shouted from beyond the fallen pine. “What lies are you spilling now?”

A second farmer strode toward them, so similar to the first that Michalis needed a moment. He had the same brow and blunt nose, though he looked younger. And he did not look happy.

“I presume this is Klímis?” Michalis asked, already tired of what was about to happen.

“Aye,” Herodes muttered darkly.

“What’s my idiot brother been telling you, master?” Klímis demanded, apparently lacking brotherly affection of any kind. Michalis knew what that felt like. “Hopefully that his land ends here and nowhere else.”

He pointed toward the outermost rock, which granted him the greater share.

“It ends at the pine, you bloody fool,” his brother snapped. “Come over to steal my wheat again, and I’ll beat your arse raw.”

“Where did you pull that from? Your own backside?” Klímis crowded close until their foreheads nearly touched. “The old wall ran beside this stone.” He struck his finger out.

“No, it ran by that one, you liar!” Herodes pointed in almost the opposite direction.

“Isn’t that right?” they demanded together, turning on Michalis with wide eyes and flushed faces.

He stepped back, shrinking in on himself with his hands held up.

“I-I think the surviving line of stones runs roughly here,” Michalis said. He pointed between the two claims, though closer to the line Klímis had indicated. Even as he spoke, he wondered whether he had chosen it because it seemed correct or because Klímis looked more likely to shout.

“What?” Herodes said, closing the distance. “I’m telling you our father built the wall here.”

“Stand the fuck down,” Komon growled, one hand dropping to his weapon. “Take another step and you’ll be skewered.”

Panos moved beside Michalis without a word. His presence should have been reassuring, but Michalis only felt ashamed that two armed men were required to make his judgement sound official.

The farmer stopped. Anger drained from his face, leaving something desperate beneath it.

“Please, master,” he said, trying a different approach. “My land is thin enough already, and I’ve children to feed. We won’t meet the quota if you take more from us.”

“You heard him clearly,” Klímis spat, turning from Michalis to his brother. “He’s making up claims because he’s got too many mouths to feed. The bastard’s a liar through and through.”

Herodes’s fist caught Klímis across the mouth. “And you took the largest field when you weren’t even the eldest!” Herodes bellowed.

Klímis staggered over the stones, spat blood into the grass, and threw himself back at his brother.

They crashed together on the dark ground, clawing at tunics and swinging with the clumsy fury of men who had saved old grievances for years. Klímis drove a shoulder into his brother’s chest, and both went down among the stones.

Michalis stood frozen, his quill caught uselessly between his fingers.

Komon seized Klímis by the collar and hauled him away. Panos caught the elder brother around the chest, took an elbow to the ribs, and twisted his arm behind him.

The brothers kept shouting across the gap. Dragging past disputes and old insults up to the surface.

It struck Michalis then that, in Suyren, he was little more than a nervous clerk. Here, his report would become law. A line scratched by his hand could decide which brother owned the wheat, which household met its dues, and which children went hungry.

And that measure of power terrified him.

…

Three days had passed since they entered Mikros Elos.

Michalis had questioned every family, searched smoky homes, counted patched tools, walked the fields, and become the centre of more than one heated argument and violent fight.

Now he stood before Pantelis again, the headman seated across the granary table.

“So, you got what you came for?” He asked. He did not sound happy at all.

Michalis had learned enough of the old man to know the question was not simple.

“No,” The answer seemed to surprise Pantelis, though he didn’t show it much. “That would take weeks of investigation and a dozen ghosts returning to tell us where they placed every stone. Even then, I think I would only have half the truth.”

The assignment Michalis had imagined had not accounted for old feuds, shared oxen, forgotten agreements, or boundaries remembered differently by everyone involved.

“Good,” Pantelis said, seemingly satisfied. “That, at least, is honest. So now you understand how foolish this endeavour is. You cannot reduce land and men to tidy figures, then tax them as though every field were the same.”

“No,” Michalis said, making Pantelis’s eyebrows rise. “I think it is more important now than ever to do so.”

Speaking so bluntly still frightened him, but three days of being challenged had taught him to ignore it now and then.

“How so?” Pantelis asked, more curious than angry.

“Because memory and hearsay allowed matters to become this confused,” Michalis said. “The first record will be imperfect. But the next can be better, and the one after that better still.”

He gestured toward Father Ezequias, who sat beneath a small window, copying Michalis’s findings into a master ledger. From then on, births, deaths, transfers, repairs, livestock, and changes to the fields would be entered there according to the format Lord Theodorus had outlined.

“It is quite an undertaking,” Ezequias said, lifting his quill. “You are asking us to write the lives of my flock onto common parchment. Such a record will always be a simplification.”

“Perhaps,” Michalis admitted. “But it may still help the Lords make better decisions. It may help you as well.”

He pointed toward the list of village tools.

“You might remember how many ploughs you have now, and which need mending today. But might not know how many you’ve had to fix last year because the wooden fittings cracked from too long working wet soil. If the same parts fail every season, the ledger may show that draining the fields would cost less than replacing them again and again.”

Pantelis studied him, but this time it was without the dismissive look he had worn since the first day.

“I only hope these records aid the plight of the faithful,” Father Ezequias said, closing the ledger, “and are never turned against them.”

“So what happens now?” Pantelis asked, crossing his arms.

“I will take my report back to Suyren,” Michalis said. He gathered the loose sheets, aligning their edges before sliding them into his satchel. “I will present it to my Lords, along with the difficulties your village faces.”

“And what do you know of our difficulties now?” Pantelis asked, amused, though not enough for Michalis to decide whether he was being mocked. His fingers paused on the buckle.

“I know the village shares seven oxen because two are lame from overwork,” he said quietly. “I know that half the fields are disputed because men keep shifting boundary stones because they fear they will not have enough to meet their dues.”

Michalis huffed out an exasperated sigh.

“I have tried to explain that the assessment will be based on the quality and wealth of the land, but most people do not believe me. I have walked the fields. I have seen the soil you rely upon. Your land is not rich, and is currently charred to a crisp.”

The men around Michalis regarded him with unexpected thoughtfulness, as though his quiet assessment had unsettled some earlier judgment they had made of him. Even Komon seemed taken aback, though the veteran quickly covered it by folding his arms.

“And it will remain poor,” Pantelis rumbled out. “We cannot afford more oxen or the ploughs needed for them, and without those oxen and ploughs, we cannot work enough land to earn the money to buy them.”

It was a simple trap. Poverty denied the village the tools that might ease it, while the lack of those tools ensured the poverty continued. Before the charter, there had been little anyone in Mikros Elos could do besides endure it.

Now, however, the Lords had given them another means.

“You could take out a loan,” Michalis said. “The village could borrow collectively and spread the burden between the households that use the animals. The additional oxen would let you work more ground, and the larger harvest could repay the debt over time.”

He expected Pantelis to reject the suggestion.

Instead, Pantelis and Father Ezequias exchanged a long glance. Pantelis eventually gave in to the priest’s pressure with a weary sigh. “Fine. I will return to Suyren with you to make such a thing happen.”

“You will?” Michalis asked, eyebrows climbing.

So far Pantelis had softly resisted this entire ordeal. Michalis had assumed the old headman would regard borrowing from the Italians as another method of taking the village from him.

“Lord Theodorus explained the arrangement when he was here,” Pantelis said. “We have been discussing it ever since. We mean to ask for enough to purchase the oxen and ploughs we need, and for a plot of land besides. Land the village can call its own.”

Michalis stared at him. That was no cautious loan. It was a substantial obligation for a village still counting grain sack by sack. Yet Pantelis did not speak like a man chasing some desperate fancy.

Michalis understood the promise of the small-loan scheme. On parchment, it could help chartered villages acquire productive property without waiting years to gather the coin. He had not expected a suspicious rural headman to grasp its possibilities so quickly.

Was that why Lord Theodorus had chosen Mikros Elos for the first survey?

He had known Pantelis was one such man, and that if Mikros Elos took the plunge and succeeded, it might persuade all the other villages to follow.

…

Michalis’s heart struck against his ribs nearly as hard as the knuckles that struck the study door.

“Yes?” came a muffled voice from within.

“The scribe is here to meet with you, my Lord,” announced the enormous guardsman beside him.

The man was built like a section of fortress wall and carried a weapon Michalis could only think of as a spear married to a sword. Michalis had no idea how anyone swung such a thing without cutting down everyone nearby.

The guardsman kept his eyes on him throughout the exchange.

Michalis swallowed. He had endured far too many stressful situations since becoming a scribe in Suyren.

“Ah, send him in.”

The door opened, and Michalis stepped into a den of paper and ink.

Reports covered much of the chamber, though every stack appeared to have a purpose. The room smelled of parchment, sealing wax, and the faint smoke of the lamp burning beside the central desk.

Lord Theodorus sat in the middle of it all.

He could not have been much older than Michalis, yet the similarity in their ages only made the distance between them feel greater. The young lord sat with the composed authority of someone who expected to be listened to and was. When his pale silver eyes settled on Michalis, they seemed to take in every nervous movement.

“Theophylact showed me your report on Mikros Elos,” Lord Theodorus said.

He nudged the neat stack of pages Michalis had delivered after revising the figures and rereading every conclusion frantically. Seeing it on the lord’s desk, the report appeared thin and inadequate.

Michalis’s stomach tightened. Had he been summoned because he had missed something obvious?

“You may sit,” the lord said, and Michalis remembered that he was capable of moving.

“Ah, of course, my Lord.” He attempted a bow, nearly struck the edge of the desk with his satchel, and lowered himself into the padded chair opposite Lord Theodorus. Its soft stuffing felt like the most uncomfortable seat Michalis had ever sat upon.

“I was intrigued by one passage in your report,” the Lord said. He drew the stack closer and turned several pages, reciting from them. “‘Regarding the present shortage of draught animals and agricultural implements, it may prove more beneficial for the Crown to advance the resources themselves rather than issue coin through the existing lending arrangement.’”

Theodorus looked up from the page, eyes settling on Michalis.

“What did you mean by this?”

Michalis’s carefully prepared thoughts abandoned him. And he felt like a fool trying to argue that the sky was brown.

“I mean…” Michalis began, then stopped when his voice caught. “I meant that some villages may possess more young oxen than they require in a given year. Animals they might otherwise butcher, sell cheaply, or surrender part of as payment. We could accept those animals in place of a portion of the grain or coin owed by the village, then lend them directly to Mikros Elos. The village would repay the value over time, with a small amount added to cover the cost of transporting and administering the arrangement.”

Lord Theodorus’s expression gave nothing away. Michalis forced himself to continue anyhow

“If Mikros Elos borrowed coin through the Bank of Saint George,” Michalis went on, “they would pay the Italians interest merely to purchase animals the Crown might already be able to obtain through its existing obligations. Suyren would gain little from the transaction beyond the village’s eventual tax revenue. There is also value lost each time the exchange passes through another set of hands. The Crown would accept grain or coin, the bank would lend coin, the village would purchase the ox, and several men would take their share along the way.”

The silence after he finished seemed long enough for Michalis to hear the faint scratch of a clerk’s quill somewhere beyond the wall.

“So,” Lord Theodorus said, “you propose cutting out the intermediary and having the Crown act as a lender itself.”

There was something pointed in the phrasing. Michalis could hear how dangerous the idea sounded when stated so plainly.

“Essentially,” Michalis admitted, and the word came out small.

Lord Theodorus leaned back and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.

“Theophylact was right about you, Michalis.”

Michalis braced himself.

“You are leagues ahead of the other scribes.”

For a moment, Michalis was certain he had misunderstood him, then warmth rushed through his chest. No tutor, brother, or relative had ever spoken of him that way.

“I had intended to introduce a similar arrangement eventually,” Theodorus continued. “The Bank of Saint George is a crutch. A necessary one for now, but still a crutch. Do you understand why we need them?”

Michalis suspected the answer, though he did not trust himself enough to speak without invitation. When the lord continued, he felt equal parts relief and disappointment.

“Their reputation, recordkeeping, and ability to enforce agreements are things an impoverished administration cannot easily reproduce,” Theodorus said. “Suyren has little coin, few trained scribes, and no established system for following and enforcing debt across even our small territory.”

He rested one hand on Michalis’s report.

“What you suggest would not yet be lending in the fullest sense. It would be a controlled reallocation of resources. We would obtain what is abundant in one place at a lower valuation, send it where it is scarce, and charge enough to maintain the people and records required to keep the arrangement functioning.”

Lord Theodorus rose and crossed toward the shelves lining the study wall.

“It is clever,” he said. “But we are not yet prepared to expand such a system widely.”

Michalis felt his brief spark of pride begin to shrink.

“Aside from you, most of our new scribes remain too inexperienced and their loyalties are also tied closely to their families, villages, and former patrons. Give a man authority to value an obligation, and he may decide that his cousin’s ox is worth twice as much as another man’s.”

He turned back toward Michalis.

“Tell me this. If you were forced to choose between your family and the Principality, between your kin and the work you have been given here, which would you choose?”

Michalis’s mouth went dry.

He had never considered the question, yet his answer came with clarity.

“The Principality,” Michalis said.

Theodorus studied him more closely. “Why?”

The question was not casual.

“Because my family never gave me the chance to do anything,” The words escaped Michalis more bitterly than he intended. He lowered his eyes toward his hands. “Nothing that belonged to me, I mean. I was always someone’s younger son or disappointing brother. Even when I succeeded, it was only at something I should already have known.” He swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “Here, I have work that matters. Something I can say I'm not bad at.”

Michalis immediately regretted saying so much. The lord had asked for loyalty, not a confession about the small humiliations of his childhood.

When he finally risked looking up, Theodorus’s expression had changed only slightly.

“Then prove it,” the lord said.

Michalis straightened.

“I am placing you in charge of arranging the obligations concerning Mikros Elos. You will identify villages whose grain payments may reasonably be substituted with animals or implements, establish a fair valuation for what is collected, and draft the terms under which those resources will be advanced to Mikros Elos.”

Theodorus returned to the desk and placed one finger against the report.

“You will also recommend the interest to be charged. It must be enough to support the arrangement without placing the village under a burden it cannot meet. I will review the proceedings, but you will carry out the work yourself.”

Michalis stared at him.

This was not another exercise in copying figures or arranging papers for a senior clerk to approve. The decision would affect several villages, their obligations, and the animals upon which their harvests depended. It was more authority than any ordinary scribe should have received so soon.

More than that, it was trust.

Someone had looked at his work and decided there was something within it worth relying upon.

“I will not let you down, my Lord,” Michalis said.

He rose too quickly and caught his knee against the underside of the desk. Pain shot along his leg, but he managed to hide most of the wince behind a bow.

“See that you do not,” Theodorus replied, already reaching for the next report.

Michalis took it as his dismissal and withdrew from the study.

The enormous guardsman remained beside the door, one hand resting near the shaft of his broad-bladed weapon. Michalis passed him without meeting his eyes and continued down the corridor, clutching his satchel close against his side.

Only when the study door closed behind him did the full weight of the assignment settle over him.

He could fail spectacularly, then Lord Theodorus would discover that Theophylact had been mistaken, and Michalis would return to the quiet irrelevance he understood.

Yet under his usual fear, something unfamiliar had begun to take root.

This was a chance to create something that had not existed before. To shape a system that endured beyond a single harvest and reached more than a single village.

Michalis walked on through the keep with his heart still beating too quickly, frightened by the responsibility and almost ashamed of how fiercely he wanted it. He had spent most of his life believing that usefulness belonged to stronger, surer men.

Perhaps this could become something of his own.