“But . . . I guess I don’t believe in it. We seek ways to use one another all too much. It seems deplorable that the strong should dominate the weak. Why should I study that which I deplore?”

“Because it’s necessary,” Iome said. “Someone must enforce the laws, protect the people.”

“Perhaps,” Gaborn said. “But Hearthmaster Ibirmarle always found it deplorable, too. He taught that not only is it wrong for the strong to bully the weak, but that it is just as vile for the wise to rob the stupid, or the patient to take advantage of another’s impatience.

“These are all just ways that we harness other men to our plows. Why should I treat men as tools—or worse, as mere obstacles to my enjoyment?” Gaborn fell silent a moment, and his glance strayed northward, to Castle Sylvarresta, where Borenson had slain the Dedicates last night. Iome could see how Gaborn regretted it, how he perhaps even thought it a personal failure that he had been so naive.

He said, “Once, ages ago, an old shepherd, who was the highman of his town, sent word to my grandfather, asking him to buy his wool. The shepherd’s town had long had a contract with a certain merchant from Ammendau, who carried their wool to market, but the merchant died unexpectedly. So the highman sent to the King, asking him to purchase the wool for his troops at a bargain price.

“But the highman did not know that rain in the west hills had caused a blight of wool rot on the sheep there. In all likelihood, the highman’s wool would fetch triple its price, if the townsmen could get it to market.

“My grandfather, on seeing the situation, could have leapt at the chance to buy the wool cheap. If he’d listened to the merchants who schooled in the Room of Gold, he’d have done so. For they think it a virtue to buy cheap and sell high.

“Instead, Grandfather sent to the hearthmaster at the Room of Feet and arranged for a caravan to transport the wool at a fair price, cheaper than the villagers had paid before.

“He then sent to the highman and told him all that he had done. He begged the highman to sell his wool to the poor at its normal price, so that they would not go cold through the winter.”

Iome listened to the tale somewhat in awe, for she’d often thought Orden’s line to be hard, cold men. Perhaps it was only Gaborn’s father. Perhaps he’d grown cold, after his own father’s bad end.

“I see,” Iome said. “So your grandfather won the love of the poor.”