The bells tolled long and loud for the first time for many who were waking, rubbing their tired eyes against the early morning’s first light with the privilege of living within the city limits. Silence spilled through the streets the way the people trudged up the hills to castle walls, their backs turned to the orange glow of dawn. A cool mist drifted around their ankles, hovering over residual midnight dew. The cows at distance lowed and the crows, hens, and cocks called to one another in stale chattered cluck and caw.
Zacion breathed in, filling his chest with the cool air and standing taller at his post by the gate. The man across from him rocked on his toes and unsteadily rolled back to his heels. Though Jace stared ahead attentively by the standard of anyone who didn’t know better, his eyes drooped and his jaw dangled slightly agape as he disassociated again. The long nights wore even the best down, and he’d taken too many shifts to cover a weighty bar tab he’d accrued. Never mind the gambling problem he’d formed on slow days behind the pub where the seediest sorts gathered to play cards, shells, cups, and spinners, placing bets for the sake of a few handfuls of Merits if they were lucky.
“Woodland stock, aren’t you?” a woman asked, stepping in front of the Zacion. He offered a gentle smile and a brief nod, his hand extending before he said anything to her. She huffed, digging through the drawn satchel at her side. Her eyes darted back to him, noting his height and build as she handed over her papers. “My son serves in the eastern post. Forest folk always stand out, you know—all legs and grace like a young, spry deer. Though,” she paused, squinting, “can’t say I’ve seen many with hair like yours.”
“They say I was born during the day,” Zac replied, accustomed to the thin compliment. “Kissed by the sun.”
The woman chuckled, dropping a fistful of copper Marks into his waiting palm. Before he could trap the coins and put them away, Jace groaned and stared at Zac with the sort of withering despair of a man burdened with the folly of a young, unread sibling. “Zac, Merit-only.” He motioned to the pinned sign on the wall by the iron gates. “Queen’s decree. Send her to the back till she can pay her fair way in.”
The woman bristled, her shawl scrunching with her shoulders and her face twisting with the fear every lower class had when anyone mentioned Merits. Zac sighed, setting the coins on the small stand in the guard shed not a half step behind him. “Marks are fine,” he said, attention shifting from the woman to the wad of Merits he pulled from his pocket. He unfolded two green squares and slid them into his drawer, then collected the coins and dropped them in his bag, tucked under the counter. “Go ahead in, ma’am,” he said, motioning toward the gate.
“Mark-soft as ever.” Jace shook his head as the woman passed between them. “If you keep trading down like that, you’ll end up counting coppers in the gutter, Zac.”
“Better than counting losses at the pub,” he said, a glint of judgment in his eye. “Maybe if you traded some of those quick Merit wins for Marks now and again, you’d have something left over instead of debts and bruises.”
Jace shifted, his hand rubbing the sorest part of his shoulder at the reminder of the dealer twisting him around when he came up short on dues again and Zac saving him from his own mistakes… again. His jaw tightened. “Yeah, well, at least I know my station. Guard’s uniform means Merit-class privileges. We’re not like them anymore.” He thumbed to the stream of incoming caravan. “You might not be able to shake the Mark-Tiller dust off your boots, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us want to keep wallowing in it. We’re making something of ourselves. Quit trying to spoil it.”
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Zac breathed out as another farmer came to him with the same apprehension as the woman before, offering a fat handful of coins. He’d done well for himself, Zac thought as he silently counted the gold and silver Marks. As he had the woman before, he took the Marks, traded the Merits, and signaled him ahead to Jace’s chagrin. The toll rarely carried such stingy policy, but when there was precedence, the queen’s anticipated arrival drawing in the masses, guards prudently searched crowds for those clutching Rose Mertis for the sake of convenience in collecting dues and thinning the herds sooner.
The trouble with guard duty was watching everyone who hid their Mark-heavy purses as though they were smuggling a golden chalice, suspicious of everyone around them, but equally eager to make their way in—if they could convince a guard to take their Marks—there were always more of them than Merit-class folk. Worse, Zac had a reputation for exchanging what he could, but it was never enough. Jace’s derisive snort became heavy sighs as the stack of Merits Zac had in his pocket dwindled to nearly nothing. His bag sagged under the weight of Marks and would be nearly too heavy to carry by day’s end.
“You’re making us look bad,” Jace said, collecting and counting a handful of Merits, greens from a family laden with children. They were lucky to have saved enough for all of them. Jace eyed the kids. Probably all of them. “Guard’s Marks spend like Merits, but people talk, you know.”
“Let them,” Zac said, watching the crowd as a handful of people pushed and shoved, squabbling over their place in line. He’d never bothered himself with public opinion. And why should he? They never once cared for him when he’d sat up late with his mother, counting Marks in the moonlight when they couldn’t even afford a proper candle. Merits, Merits, Merits. No one would take their Marks even if they were worth more than a few grimy Merits because it looked bad. It made them look lesser. “The way I see it, Merit’s just a word meant to keep people divided. At the end of the day, it all spends the same.”
“Once a Mark-monger, always a Mark-monger.”
“Have a good day,” Zac said as he collected the toll from a young family, ignoring Jace as best he could, “and keep an eye on your dog! Leash laws are in effect!”
The hound yipped as the wife tied it up, clutching the line with a forced smile. Jace huffed, laughed, and continued with his work. Zac’s head tipped back. The tall walls bore the banner of Verathral. The Heart and Sword. How many times had that very sword pierced the heart of her people, he wondered. When he looked back at Jace, he knew the answer. Too many, and entirely not enough. Jace was born into a certain sort of fortune Zac hadn’t been privileged to, and people like him had to fight their way to where they were, even if they suffered for it. The least he could do was exchange Marks and make the lives of those who were fighting to do better a little easier. Jace never saw it that way, though. He bothered too much with the gambling tables and cheap beers.
His attention turned to the wad of Merits in his hand. He’d saved up more than his fair share since the last event that had turned the tolls into an almost virulent checkpoint for those who barely had enough for themselves. He flipped through the squares, his lips tightening in contemplation as another family anxiously approached. There wasn’t much more he could do, and with so many knowing of his generosity, his line was saturated with commoners looking for a trade-up.
“We have only a few Merits,” the man said, timid as ever with a shaking hand to offer a few green notes and a small satchel tied tight and sagging under the weight of Marks, likely all coppers.
Zac pursed his lips, fingers tightening around his stack of Merits.
Continue to trade up Marks until there are no Merits left… GO TO CHAPTER 2
Follow Jace’s advice, and send these people aside until they find enough Merits… GO TO CHAPTER 3
