The story was much the same elsewhere. The village beyond the castle was populated by a mix of humans, dwarves, and half-fae. Their houses were small and sturdy, but Jareth could see that there had once been many more houses which had fallen to ruin. Chickens ran freely about the village, and a few goats and sheep gathered in the meadows beyond, all typical of village life. Things in Etaron were more organized, with pastures fenced by hedges to contain the livestock, but Umardelin's free-roaming system was still in use in many kingdoms. The state of technology in the fae realms lagged behind the world Above, as kingdoms only updated what was necessary.
"I see no oxen," Iswyniel murmured. "And the castle stable is empty, so there are no horses. What are they using to draw the plows?" Jareth nodded thoughtfully.
Once they convinced the villagers that they meant no harm and were not here to levy any new taxes, they learned that King Thydus had confiscated the horses years ago, and none had been brought in since. What happened to them, no one knew. As for oxen, those had been eaten last winter. "Th' food run out," one man told them, nervously shifting his feet. "We knowed it would hurt us come spring, but 'twas eat 'em or starve. Th' night trolls he'ped us w' plowin', thank the gods. We had to eat th' oxen, yer worships – we cain't all stomach rat."
"Nor should you have to," Jareth said, his blood boiling in fury. The grain spoilage was bad, but this? People were on the brink of starving. If that guild was running the kingdom, why hadn't they done something? Surely gardeners knew how to grow sufficient food for their people.
"Who is the reeve here?" Iswyniel asked, using the same placid mask as before.
"No reeve's been elected for five years runnin'," one of the half-fae told them.
"Then who is in charge?" Jareth asked. He knew, of course, that they were officially leaderless, having read the court records. But he expected some kind of informal arrangement.
"That'd be me," a harsh voice croaked, as an old woman stomped up to them, leaning heavily on her cane. Jareth could not tell, at first glance, whether she was fae or human or just a tallish dwarf; she had a face like a withered apple, and eyes sharp as flints.
"Well met, milady," Jareth said, sketching her a slight bow which the other villagers reflexively returned, while the woman just glowered and planted her cane. Not returning his bow was a dangerous move; it was a deliberate snub of his authority. Jareth's first instinct would have been to snake his magic around her and force her into submission…
… but he was not as great a fool as he had been last week. And he remembered well his parents' warnings, dealing with angry peasants. 'A man who has nothing to lose will fight like a thousand devils, for he no longer fears what might happen to him,' Thiel had chided, when Jareth argued some over-merciful ruling.
The bald fact was, the peasants outnumbered him even in this depleted realm, and most of them could bear iron weapons. Hells, Thydus had been slain by goblins. This was no time to insist on proper respect from one old woman, and lose whatever goodwill he had among the rest.
Meanwhile, she was speaking, and it was as well he'd already realized he could not afford to harm her. "Not your lady, you pretentious young fop, and not well-met, either. The last swanky fae bastard that High King sent here is the reason we're in this mess now. The lot of you can go bugger yourselves, for all I care." She thrust her chin out, and slammed the cane down like a staff again, daring him to move her. "Go on, kill me for it. If you don't, the next winter will."
"Ma, don't," one of the men protested – but he didn't quite move to stand between her and the two high fae, which told Jareth all he needed to know. They truly expected him to kill for an insult, and again he damned Thydus. Etaron's people were deeply respectful, but they did not live in such fear! "She don't mean nothin' by it, your worships."
The old woman curled her lip, but before she could respond, Iswyniel stepped in. And Jareth was aware that his grandmother now looked and sounded older than she had even moments ago, deliberately mirroring the eldest villager. "I'm quite certain she means every word, and with reason," Iswyniel said smoothly. "What have the fae done for your village in living memory? Either permit or directly cause the desperate straits the king and I have seen at every turn since our arrival."
"What I heard, all he's seen is the bottom of a wineglass," the old woman said sharply.
"I did indeed require rest after my journey here," Jareth said, taking Iswyniel's cue. "In one day, however, I have seen shocking neglect and mismanagement. You should never have been reduced to eating your plow-beasts. No king worthy of the name would permit such to happen to his people."
The old woman bared her teeth – all three of them – in a vicious grin. "Easy to forget what it's like to go hungry, up there in the castle with casks of ale and roast meat on your table every day."
"I have lived on stew and porridge since arriving," Jareth told her. "And having seen the state of the granary, I'm feeling rather ill about the porridge, honestly."
They all seemed taken aback, and Iswyniel cut him a warning glance. But the man who'd called this woman his mother spoke up, worriedly. "The granary? We're supposed to have three years worth of grain…"
"And you did, before the mold got to it," Iswyniel replied. "If so much grain was available, why was it not used to fatten livestock for the winter?"
"The Guild said we needed it for emergencies," a younger woman said. "And seed, for next year's crop."
"Your seed stock is rotten, too, unless it is kept somewhere else," Jareth said. "No, the situation is quite dire. I intend to do all I can to remedy it."
At that, the old woman laughed. "How? Make it rain soup? There aren't even enough deer left in the forest to poach!"
"Ma!" the man said, horrified.
Iswyniel looked at Jareth then. "I happen to know the kingdoms of Astolwyr and Etaron have surplus grain," she said. "Astolwyr's lambs are ready to be driven to new pastures, and Etaron has horses and cattle waiting for the fairs. Your treasury holds enough to buy all that your lands need."
Jareth swallowed. All of those coins and jewels, he'd already begun thinking of them as his … but he could not let these people starve. They had trusted in their king, and those that were left could not envision escape. It was up to him to save them. The situation wasn't his fault, but it was now his responsibility.
Besides, he could probably negotiate a hefty discount from his parents' and grandparents' kingdoms.
"We will need an inventory," he began. "How many plows needing draft animals, how many hides of fields yet to be sown, how many mattocks and other tools for the fieldwork. What stores exist here, how many beasts, how many craftsmen – all that, and everything else of import. And even once we bring the supplies in, it will be hard work and long days. We can perhaps get in a harvest before the weather turns, if we make haste."
He turned to the old woman then, who looked stunned. "Since you, old mother, have the courage to speak the truth even when it might damn you, I will enlist you as reeve until the solstice. Let the village elect its own reeve then. For now, I require honesty more than respect. What is your name?"
"Jytha," she said, sounding shocked. "And you, your majesty, I…"
"Thank me when your belly is full and so is the granary," Jareth replied. "Many fine promises are made by kings. Let all of you see that Jareth of Etaron is as good as his word, then bend your head to me."
"Aye, your majesty," the villagers said in unison. They all leapt to action, only one young girl staying behind to lead Jareth and Iswyniel to the village mill. That, and the smithy, they wanted to inspect themselves. The girl was some sort of fae race Jareth had never yet seen, long-faced and long-eared, but her dark eyes held a gentleness that made her pretty nonetheless. She skipped ahead of them, as galvanized by the new air of purpose as the rest of her village.
Iswyniel murmured, "That was neatly done."
He spread his hands helplessly. "What else could we do? Strike her down, and run from pitchforks in the next moment? I took offense, but dared not show it. And you were the one who commented on the treasury. Thank you for spending my money."
She flicked him in the ear, quicker than even his swift eyes could follow. "Don't be an ass. You didn't earn that, someone here did. Spend it where it's needed. The wealth of a kingdom is its magic, boy, and Umardelin is richer than most."
"Not that I can use it yet," Jareth grumbled.
"Hush. It's your first day acting like a proper king. Ye gods, for someone whose conquests were legendary enough to rise to my ears, it's as if you know nothing of courtship. No one, man or woman or kingdom, is won in a day." Iswyniel shook her head at him.
"Actually, quite a few of them were won in an hour," Jareth replied, not without pride.
She turned to look at him. "Tch. I don't mean bedding some pretty stranger, you swaggering fool. Even now, I could twitch my skirts and find company for the night, were I so inclined and not wed to your grandfather. Surely you've courted, seeking more than a night's pleasure?"
This was not a conversation he wanted to be having with his grandmother. "Of course. But there is little difference, when it all ends the same. Passion fades, and you both move on."
She cradled her forehead in her hands, sighing. "This is what I feared for your mother. You are so used to everyone loving your pretty face – and your shiny crown – you have no idea what it means to love truly, mind and heart in partnership. Even your father the Thief-King knew better. Gods, you are so young. No wonder you were cursed as you were."
Jareth could only shrug, not wanting to debate it with her. And not wanting to discuss his father's unfortunate nickname, either; the ballads made it all too clear. Deruthiel had only thought he'd kidnapped Astolwyr's princess to plead his case and pledge his troth. An owl cannot be so easily held against her will.
Iswyniel continued, "Making her reeve was wise. It shows your mercy, and your cunning. Bitter old women always know everyone's business." Jareth did not remark on that, looking straight ahead and keeping a listening expression on his face. "You should not have taken offense to her, in any case," she continued. "She is but one woman, and while despair crushes some, it sharpens others. Be gracious with your people. You are a king, and they have not known a true royal for too many years. Mind your princely temper, or you'll be no better than Thydus."
"Who was Thydus, anyway?" Jareth asked, and softened the question by adding, "You know everything there is to know about the high courts."
"A greater idiot than you could ever be, even if you tried," Iswyniel shot back. "He was a younger son of one of the noble families – those trees don't precisely branch, you know, so I cannot remember which one it was. His official crime was treason, attempting to foment rebellion against his elder brother the crown prince. I think his actual offense was lack of discretion; it's not as if kingdoms don't frequently change hands by nefarious means. The case went to the High King, and his ruling was that if Thydus wanted a kingdom so badly, he could take Umardelin. I seem to recall that his desire to rule was not entirely selfish, but he took this place for a millstone around his neck rather than an opportunity."
Jareth couldn't help curling his lip. Thydus had left Umardelin even more of a burden than it had been before, and now he had to sort it out, or suffer Thydus' fate. And 'eaten alive by goblins' was not what he wanted on his epitaph. "Speaking of millstones," he muttered, and nodded ahead.
There was a river here, and a mill built across it, its huge wheel creaking slowly around. The building looked frighteningly ramshackle, and emitted ominous mechanical groaning noises. Jareth slowed his pace, staring at it, but their guide walked on oblivious, and he and Iswyniel followed. "Who is the miller?" she asked as they approached the door.
"He run off," the girl told them. "Orin does most of it, now."
"And where is Orin?" Jareth asked, since the mill was obviously in operation, but no one had come out at the sound of their voices.
"At the village. He's the baker, too." The girl headed inside, and Jareth stepped in, only to freeze, his hair standing up. Beside him, Iswyniel hissed.
They had known there would be iron in the mill, bolts and nails and fittings, but not this much. The fae girl moved carefully around a series of chains hanging from the ceiling, and Jareth followed, his skin crawling. "It appears Umardelin is rich in iron," he murmured to Iswyniel.
She nodded, and asked the girl, "Who built these works?"
The girl had stepped around rotting floorboards to lead them up to the great wheel, and a contraption that rattled and clanked alarmingly. "Goblins," she said easily. "They're good with stuff like this. They built this for us, to store the power, see? The wheel turns, and it winds this chain around that shaft, and when it's all wound up the gear clicks over to the next shaft. We can store power for when the river is slow, or use it to run one grinder while the other runs off the water-wheel."
"Remarkable," Iswyniel said, and Jareth agreed. He had seen many intricate clockworks, but powering a mill like this was more advanced than he'd expected of Umardelin so far, which appeared to be a century or so behind Etaron and two centuries or more behind the world Above. And that the goblins had built it – they were universally despised, the lowest of low fae, dirty and smelly and uncouth. This meant they had more cunning than most high fae realized.
And they were immune to iron, so much so that they used it freely. "Is there an iron mine somewhere in this realm?" he wondered aloud.
"No, the dwarfs trade for it," the girl said. "Not our dwarfs, the hairy ones from the mountains. They always have metals and gems. I see them at the market all the time."
"And what do the dwarves buy from Umardelin?" Iswyniel asked lightly. Jareth nodded to her slightly; the girl was young enough that she might not realize she was giving away someone's secrets.
"Dunno," the girl replied with a shrug. "Herbs sometimes, I think. And some white grainy stuff, but it's not salt or flour. Stickier than that."
"Thank you," Iswyniel said. "The king and I both appreciate the help you've given us, and your honesty."
She only shrugged. "Are you gonna stay? King Thydus didn't stay. He wasn't nice, either."
Jareth and Iswyniel shared a quick look. That statement indicated that while she was old enough to remember Thydus, she'd been young enough – or innocent enough, due to her character or to a simple mind – not to have been told of his death. "I intend to stay," Jareth told her. "And I shall endeavor to be nice, as much as possible. A king cannot always be as kind as he would wish to be. Some things must be done, for the good of all the kingdom, and those things are not always pleasant."
She gave them a pouty look, and Iswyniel told her, "You may go. Here, a penny for your trouble." The sorceress flipped her the coin, and the girl grinned at them both before scampering off. "Well, Jareth, let us conclude our tour. Oh, and note: what herbs are the dwarves buying? And what else?" The quill and scroll leapt out of her sleeve to write that down as well, while Jareth sighed.
"The smithy," he said. "I do believe we saw it on the way in. I wonder if the smith is a goblin?"
"Let us go and see," Iswyniel replied.