I.

Siegfried, steward of Pettau, wakes before dawn. His mouth parts for the rattle of breath that expels him from a meandering and shapeless dream. The crack in the shutters, closed to keep in the warmth from the first hearth of autumn, casts a sliver of pale blue light onto the floor, fuzzy, penumbral. He rubs his eyes and sighs, his chest heavy with the weight of the day.

Conjuring its precedents, he sees an armada of draft horses and large carts before him bursting with wheat. As they pass, Siegfried watches from his vantage point and counts the sheaves with his eyes. By memory alone he works. The tools he uses to double check the numbers, tally sticks and wax tablets, are mere formalities to smooth the process of tithing, physical reassurances of the process’ legitimacy.

Thus, in the last week of September, Siegfried makes off with one-third of everything whose origins lie in soil. Only when those who owe the lord refuse to pay does Siegfried have to rise so early on days like these.