Free Palace of Stone by Shannon Hale Page B

nearly as short as Miri and with a fuzzy brown beard. “He keeps enlarging the royal guard—and claiming more tribute to afford them.”
    “He can take whatever he wants?” said Miri.
    “He’s the king,” the merchant said.
    “Why, he’s nothing more than a bandit,” she said.
    “They’re bandits and robbers, the lot of them,” the merchant agreed.
    “The king already claims a portion of all grain and meat brought into Asland,” said Timon. “If he takes oil too, the oil merchants will raise the price of what’s left over. The rich can afford to pay more for oil, much as they’ll resent it. It’s the shoeless who can barely afford bread as it is. I doubt the king even cares that his greed causes starvation.”
    “If anyone stole something on Mount Eskel—even the head of our village council—my pa and his friends would tell him to give it back or else.”
    “The king has his own army,” said Timon.
    “Well, it’s time someone told him to stop being a bandit.”
    Timon’s eyes lightened. “You’re right, Miri. It’s time.”
    He ripped the paper off the nearest jar and crumpled it into a ball.
    Miri held her breath. She had not meant he should get himself arrested. What of Sisela’s husband? Instinctively, she tried to quarry-speak. Stop. A common warning, but there was no linder underfoot to carry her message, and anyway his lowlander ears would not hear it.
    Timon ripped off another paper. “No,” he said.
    Two soldiers stood with the official, their silver breastplates and tall stiff hats marking them as members of the royal guard. One had noticed Timon. Frowning, he approached. Miri covered her mouth with her hands.
    Timon grabbed at all the tribute notices he could reach, saying “No! No!”
    Both soldiers were nearly upon Timon. One was drawing his sword.
    Then the short, bearded merchant said, “No.”
    Another joined. Another. The soldier hesitated.
    “No!” Timon said again, and with that, the general despondency flashed into anger. The merchants moved closer to Timon and began to chant “No, no,” as they ripped the notices. The soldiers took a step back.
    To Miri, never had any word seemed so powerful. And dangerous too. What would happen if she joined in? Would the official recognize her from the palace?
    “No,” Miri breathed, not moving her lips.
    The chant was nearly a song, a “Shoeless March” kind of thrumming music that got inside her head, slid down into her muscles, and made her want to do something.
    “No,” Miri whispered, thinking of two gold coins in a shawl and five goats that lifted their heads at the sound of her voice. “No,” she said, imagining how the tributes would impoverish her entire village. “No!” she said, because never had she felt so powerful. She was not one person; she was a crowd. She belonged to the mass of bodies and voices, strong in number, united in purpose. Two soldiers were insignificant compared to thirty merchants, and the scholars and sailors now lending their voices too. Who could stop such a force? And what outcome would not be worth joining in?
    “No!” Miri shouted. “No!”
    The official and his soldiers were backing away. The crowd closed in, tossing papers and shouting. The official ran as if afraid for his life, the soldiers on his heels.
    The mob’s shouts turned joyous, and still they called out, pumping their fists and chanting that powerful word. Miri did not want the moment to end. She felt tall and strong, as if she and this mob could move together like a giant, striking down any obstacles, remaking the whole world.
    As soon as the official disappeared around a corner, the chanting broke into cheers, and merchants and sailors and scholars alike thumped one another on backs and shook hands. Timon pulled Miri into his arms, spinning around. The world seemed so large, and yet Miri felt so much a part of it.
    Trade resumed, with merchants buying the oil and loading it onto their carts to sell across the kingdom.