story - part 16 - tiers - 1204 words

Tumaire's lessons today are on taxes. His teacher, an ancient man with sparse hair and thick whiskers, rambles on about the importance of money in keeping a kingdom running. The prince nods faintly in agreement, staring off into space and drifting away into his imagination, as usual.

The rambling turns to a rant on peasants and their unwillingness to pay their share. Peasants are simple, he says, they do not understand the importance of contributing to the costs of the country. They are greedy and lazy, and must be forced to give up a percentage of their crops or wares. They are incapable of understanding why. A good King must know how to convince them.

This is not the first time this teacher has gone off on a long rant about the stupidity of the people. He himself is a noble, albeit a low one, who has never done a day of hard labor in his life. He has not lived in a drafty cabin in the woods, he has not needed to wear shoes scraped together from worn out old shirts, he has never lived for months on nothing but potatoes.

This is his way of making his own place in the world more stable and secure. He may be from a freshly noble family, and he may not have much money, may have to work to survive - but at least he is not a peasant. He is still one of the privileged few.

"They're too stupid to realize - " He is taking a wicked pleasure in cutting down people who are worse off than he is, perhaps he believes it proves his own worth. He has been surrounded by nobles for too long, people who look down their noses at him in disdain.

"That is not true." I have never spoken out in here before, I have always left the teacher to do his job. I know that I would not want him interrupting me in the midst of a potion with advice or snide comments. Now, however, I am sick of this, I cannot stand the idea of having a king this ignorant, this prejudiced. I think I have finally started to resign myself to the idea of Tumaire in charge.

"Peasants do not get the same education as you do, but that does not mean they are not as intelligent as yourself." Biting my tongue against some nasty a comment on how little this means. It probably would give the man a heart attack. Though, he and Tumaire already look shocked, turning stares in my direction.

"They are not the problem, you nobles are. Do you even know how taxes work? There are tiers, layers. The king asks the highest level of nobles to collect enough money to maintain the kingdom, and that is fine." Dragging myself up to stand and cross to the expensive piece of slate the man writes upon. I snatch the chalk from nearly limp fingers and begin a careful diagram.

"These higher level nobles either need or want some supplies and currency of their own, to maintain their plots of land and their fat families, so they ask those beneath them to collect more taxes, they bring the percentage up."

The king perches atop my diagram, lines beneath him forking down into the names of half a dozen old noble families, the wealthiest and the most powerful. Each of these splits down into a scattering of lesser noble names, those with new money, those who must pay dues, who only have small towns in their control.

"Again, these lesser families take the sums that the nobles above them request and tag their own fees on. Again, many of these requests are reasonable and fair, but on occasion there are abuses. Payment for parties, for rich food and high entertainment, things that affect only them. They do not think, but pass their numbers down for the magistrates to collect."

I only have met a hand full of tax collectors, in my time, but I fill in what names I know beneath those of the lower nobles. By now, there are fifty names or more on the slate, each of them taking a dip into the pocket of the names beneath them. It is a vicious chain, it makes my voice take on an edge of anger and frustration, despite my best efforts.

"The magistrates need to eat as well, and they assume that no one will know or care what they do, so long as they hand over enough money. They add more to the amount of taxes they are supposed to collect, and pocket the extra."

I finally turn from my mess of names, my many-branched tree, to frown at the pair of them. The teacher has gone near-white with shock and anger. Tumaire is watching me with wide and clear eyes. I think this is the closest attention he has ever paid in class. I would be please with myself, except there is a touch of awe or hero-worship in his face, something I have caught before and which makes me uncomfortable.

"So the poor peasants end up charged at least twice what the King expects. They hand over the majority of their crops with legitimate complaints, and are left with just enough to survive. On top of this, they have to fight for their festivals and their rare free time. They are not stupid, they are abused." Pitching my chalk down into the sideboard, leaving it for future use. I swipe dust off my hands and blink out at them mildly, waiting for them to recover their sense and their voices.

"Any questions?" Unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice as I lock eyes with the floundering old man. He has shifted more toward fury, now, instead of surprise - but he still does not know how to react, he did not prepare for this.

Tumaire's hand creeps slowly up, a faint smile coming to his lips. He is strangely excited, he has never actually been interested in class before today. And he has never heard me speak out like this before, I am usually careful of what I say.

"Raven? Will you teach me all the time?" Words that make the teacher pale further and lose whatever he had been pulling together, preparing to confront me with.

Abruptly, it seems like a good idea to get out of here, and fast. I shrug my cloak more comfortably into places and nod toward the door. I have blown my cover, I have shown that I am not some simpleton, and now I fear that people will begin to pay attention to me. I can no longer slip past their attention.

"You will have to ask your father, my Prince." Slipping across the room to help him out of his chair. There are ten or fifteen minutes left in his lesson, but I doubt the teacher will have much left to say.

"You look a bit pale, allow me to take you back to your rooms for a break." And quickly I usher him out of the room, leaving the poor old man floundering. I will certainly hear of this again.