Ouch, Emily thought.
Alassa leaned forward, her face darkening. “It seems to me,” she said coolly, “that you are offering me nothing more than what my father had, ten years ago. An overmighty nobility, a kingdom constantly on the edge of civil war... not, in short, anything satisfactory. I see no reason to accept an offer that guarantees another civil war a decade or so in the future.”
“Your Highness, separately the king may best us both,” the messenger said. “But together we would be invincible.”
He paused. “And we would hand Duke Traduceus over to you as well. You would be responsible for taking care of him.”
“Indeed,” Alassa said, icily.
She leaned back in her throne, her eyes hard. Emily felt a flicker of sympathy. It was the same offer Viscount Hansel had made, but on a far greater scale. The messenger was quite right. Separately, Alassa and the Noblest might be beaten; together, they would have the power to crush the king. But the price was too high. Alassa could not recognize the barons’ rights and prerogatives without scrapping the Great Charter. And even if she evaded an uprising over that, she’d eventually have to fight the barons again anyway.
“So,” Alassa said, addressing the court. “Any comments?”
Viscount Hansel stepped forward. “Your Highness, there are many advantages to the alliance. Their assistance will be invaluable in defeating the king before he turns on us. It would also ensure that Your Highness took the throne without any dispute over the succession.”
And it would also make it harder for Alassa to deny you your ancient rights and prerogatives, Emily thought, sourly. No wonder you jumped on the bandwagon when the music started to play.
“But the Noblest lost a battle,” Bradford said, coolly. “Can they guarantee that they will rebuild their forces before the king smashes them flat?”
“We lost a battle,” the messenger said. “But Lord Harkness was able to withdraw his forces before the king could close the trap. We are currently regrouping to resume the offensive.”
“I would not assume that you could retake the offensive,” Sir William said. He was a keen strategist. “The king knows the importance of continuing the offensive into enemy territory.”
Alassa looked at Emily. “Lady Emily, what do you think?”
I wish I knew the right answer, Emily thought, dryly. Alassa and Jade might have had time to discuss how they’d handle an emissary from the Noblest, but they hadn’t shared their thoughts with her. And the right answer, in this case, is the one you want me to say in front of your court.
She took a breath. “There are advantages to the offer,” she conceded. There was no point in trying to deny it. “But there are also disadvantages. The rights and prerogatives of the barons would clash, badly, with the Great Charter. You would be betraying one group of your supporters, your loyal supporters, in hopes of wooing aristocrats who have no intention of letting you take the throne without paying a steep price.”
“Commoners cannot offer the support and legitimacy offered by my mistress,” the messenger said, quickly.
“The barons have had their day,” Emily told him. “Either the king grinds them into the dirt or their own people overthrow them. Their time is up.”
“Perhaps,” Alassa said.
She invited more people to comment and listened, carefully, as they argued for or against the alliance. It was interesting, if unsurprising, to note that the majority of the aristocrats were in favor of the alliance, even though they stood to gain almost nothing. The commoners were more divided. Some favored the alliance, on the grounds it would end the war before the entire country was devastated; some were adamantly opposed, calling it a betrayal of everything they’d pledged themselves to defend. Emily tended to side with the latter. There was little to be gained – and much to be lost – by making a deal with the Noblest. They simply didn’t have much to offer.
Alassa held up her hand for silence. “I have considered your offer,” she said, “and I have heard the arguments for or against the alliance. And I have decided to reject your offer of an alliance. You cannot, or you will not, offer me anything that makes accepting the alliance worthwhile. I see no reason to side with you when I, or my child, will sit on the throne in good time.”
She paused, dramatically. “I am prepared to talk with barons and other aristocrats who are prepared to submit themselves to me, but I will not give them unbridled power. That didn’t end well for my great-grandfather. Go back to your mistress, tell her what I have said and inform her that if she wishes to retain anything, she must pay homage to me.”
The messenger paled. “Your Highness...”
“There is no room for debate,” Alassa said. “Go back to your mistress and tell her what I have said.”
She nodded to the guards, who helped the messenger out of the chamber. Emily felt a stab of sympathy, even though she’d disliked the messenger on sight. Baroness Harkness would not be pleased when she heard his message. She’d risked a great deal by making contact, although – unlike Viscount Hansel – she was already a known rebel. The king could hardly get angrier with her. Emily wondered, absently, what would happen if Baroness Harkness fell into Randor’s hands. Would she be reduced to chattel, once again? Or would the king overcome his reluctance to execute women and have her beheaded? He’d come far too close to cutting off Emily’s head.
Alassa spoke into the silence, directing the court to discuss other matters. The chatter ran back and forth, covering hundreds of different subjects. Emily did her best to pretend to pay attention as bureaucrats recited production statistics and training officers discussed just how near their men were to going into combat. She’d known that anyone who wanted to run an estate had to keep a firm grasp on dozens of issues, but Alassa seemed to have it worse. She would need to learn to delegate sooner or later.
But that lets people like Nightingale set the agenda, Emily reminded herself. Alassa doesn’t want to wind up hostage to a man like him.
“Thank you all for coming,” Alassa said, eventually. “You are dismissed.”
She met Emily’s eyes as the crowds started to file out of the chamber. “Not you, Emily,” she said. “Will you join me in my suite?”
Emily nodded and followed Alassa through a side passage. No one followed them, not even Imaiqah. She guessed that Alassa had planned the meeting before the messenger had even turned up, although there was no way to be sure. The messenger might have been careful not to give any advance warning of his coming. It would have been harder to turn him away if he’d presented his credentials at the gates, rather than being stopped on the roads. Too many people would know he’d come.
“Have a seat,” Alassa said, visibly relaxing. “Iodine appears to be working out, I admit.”
“Good,” Emily said.
Alassa rang a bell. A maid entered, a moment later, carrying a tray of drinks and snacks. She placed it on the table, then withdrew as silently as she’d come. Alassa nodded to the tray, inviting Emily to help herself. Emily took a mug of Kava and sat back in a sinfully comfortable seat. Alassa shrugged off her outer dress, dropped it on the floor and sat down too, still modestly clad. There were nasty red marks on her shoulders where the straps had been too tight.
“I heard the offer twice, once in private session,” Alassa said, taking a mug herself. “Emily, did I do the right thing?”
Emily took a moment to consider her answer. She hadn’t lied when she’d pointed out that the alliance came at too high a price, for all the good it would do. Alassa would find the Noblest a millstone around her neck when the time came to organize the post-war kingdom. And yet, the alliance would have shortened the war. King Randor couldn’t fight on two fronts. He would have to either come to terms with his enemies or die in futile combat.
“I think so,” she said, finally. “An alliance with the Noblest would have destroyed your credibility amongst the Levellers. And the commoners.”
Alassa took a sip of her drink. “It feels so strang
e,” she mused. “Once, the support of the barons would have determined if I took the throne or not. Now... now I don’t need them.”
She shook her head. “But I understand them, Emily. I don’t understand the Levellers.”
“I know,” Emily said. “But you will.”
“Hah,” Alassa said.
Emily smiled. She understood the problem, but she had no idea how to solve it. Alassa had grown up in a world where birth, not ability, determined how far you went in life. Her royal birth had given her status – and protection – while her magic had allowed her to go to Whitehall, but her femininity had been a curse as much as a blessing. Alassa would have been married off the moment she reached her majority if she’d had a legitimate brother, almost certainly to a king or a prince. Even that was a mixed blessing. Commoner women did not marry princes in the real world. It simply wasn’t done.
“They want everyone to have the same opportunities,” she said, finally. “How many opportunities did your birth open to you?”
Alassa looked pensive. “And how many problems did it bring in its wake?”
“Too many,” Emily admitted. She jabbed her thumb towards the window. “And yet, I’m sure I can find a hundred women out there who’ll happily trade places without even trying.”
“Probably,” Alassa said.
She rested her hand on her belly, as if she could feel the baby kicking again. “What sort of world am I going to give to my child?”
“A different one,” Emily said, carefully. It would be better, for some. It would be worse, for others. But her history studies had told her that change always benefited some people more than others. “I think it will be a world of great promise and opportunity.”
“Ever the optimist,” Alassa said. She put her mug down on the table. “I thought I knew how to command, how to issue orders. But now... the lives of everyone in this castle, in this barony, depend upon me. If I issue the wrong orders, many of them will die.”
And many will die, even if you issue the right orders, Emily thought. She kept that thought to herself. Sergeant Miles had hammered it into her head, but Alassa didn’t need to hear it right now. There’s no such thing as a perfect choice.
Alassa said nothing for a long moment, then looked up. “I want you to visit the firearms factory tomorrow and check on production,” she said. “And then... and then you can set off to Eagle’s Rest.”
“And watch my back all the way,” Emily said.
“Don’t hesitate to turn Hansel into a slug and step on him if he causes trouble,” Alassa said, darkly. “We don’t need him that much. We may not need him at all.”
“We will see,” Emily said.
“Yes, we will,” Alassa said. Her face lightened, and a mischievous look appeared in her eyes, as if she’d decided not to dwell on matters that couldn’t be changed. “How are you and Cat getting along?”
Emily blushed. “Fine,” she said. “We’re having fun.”
“Glad to hear it,” Alassa said. The playful girl was replaced by the liege lady. “But it isn’t meant to be just fun.”
Chapter Eight
“WE ARE WORKING AS HARD AS we can,” Manager Rosen assured Emily, as he showed her around the factory. “But we simply don’t have enough skilled craftsmen to pick up the pace.”
Emily nodded. The factory was more of a workshop than a real factory. She’d done her best to introduce the concept of an assembly line, but she’d met resistance from craftsmen who preferred to make the entire device themselves than become cogs in a machine. That would probably change as designs became more standardized, but for the moment it was a major headache. It didn’t help that Alassa had put so many craftsmen to work that training newer craftsmen had slowed dramatically.
She stood by the door and looked down the room. A hundred tables, each one manned by a single craftsman; a hundred muskets in various stages of assembly. It was surprisingly quiet for such a large chamber, although the men and women were talking to each other in quiet voices. Emily had to smile when she spotted some of the women working on the guns. The first women to work in the factories had dressed as men – apparently, some had gone unnoticed for years – but now they worked openly. It would change the world. Young boys – and a teenager she was almost sure was a girl – moved from table to table, carrying messages and watching the craftsmen at work. They’d be craftsmen themselves in time.
“We’re churning out new weapons every day, My Lady,” Rosen said, as he led her into the giant workshop. “Once made, they’re tested... and then sent to the army. We’re trying to speed up the process, but there are limits.”
“I quite understand,” Emily assured him. There was no way she could snap her fingers and cause thousands of muskets to appear. Conjuring something from nothing – and making it stick – was very advanced magic indeed. “And Her Highness understands too.”
Rosen looked relieved. Emily understood. He was a craftsman himself – it was partly why he’d been promoted to management – but his superiors simply didn’t understand the realities of the job. They probably expected him to force his people to work harder, even though proud craftsmen wouldn’t stand for managerial bullying. A skilled craftsman could simply cross the bridge to Beneficence and be assured of a job. Besides, there were shortages of just about everything. The only thing that seemed to be in good supply was gunpowder.
“We forge the cannon and cannonballs through here,” Rosen said, leading her through a solid door and into a blacksmith’s forge. The heat was so intense, Emily felt sweat pouring down her back. The laborers wore nothing more than protective aprons and leathers, their exposed skin marred by burns and scars. “Again, once they’re ready, we test the cannons before shipping them to the army.”
Emily nodded, watching as a cannon slowly took shape in front of her. The workers didn’t look up, concentrating on their work. She understood that, too. A single mistake could result in a lethal accident, or one that left the worker crippled and unable to work. And that would be an utter disaster. A cripple had no future on the Nameless World and everyone knew it. Alassa wouldn’t be able to fix that in a hurry.
We should see what we can do about that, Emily thought. There were charitable foundations, run by some of the religious sects, but no social security network. Anyone who is injured here was injured while working for us.
She allowed Rosen to lead her through the vast chamber, listening to his chatter with half an ear. It wasn’t the first factory she’d seen in the last few years. Rosen made a point of telling her about some of his senior workers, who would be opening workshops of their own when the war was over, and about some of his ideas for steam engines. Emily doubted he’d be able to produce a workable steam-powered carriage, but she had no intention of stopping him from trying. Who knew where the idea would lead?
It will be years before they come up with internal combustion engines, she thought. She’d had no trouble outlining the concept behind a steam engine, but an internal combustion engine was a little harder. I’ll have to see what I can dredge out of my memory.
“The gunpowder is produced outside the city, in the marshes,” Rosen said, as they started to walk back to the workshop. “I can’t take you there.”
“No,” Emily agreed. Her lips quirked. It was funny how no one wanted a gunpowder mill near them. But an explosion would be utterly disastrous. Putting the mill in the damp marshes made perfect sense. The city’s population would see the flash, and hear the thunder, if something went badly wrong, but they wouldn’t be harmed. “I trust that production is at acceptable levels?”
“Yes, My Lady,” Rosen said. “We should have more than enough gunpowder for our requirements.”
Emily hoped he was right. One thing she’d learnt during the war was that supplies were always consumed faster than predicted. Sergeant Miles had taught her to estimate what she’d need, then double it. Once the war started in earnest, once the cannonballs started flying, she had a suspicion that their supplies of gunpowd
er would drop rapidly. Jade had made it clear that they had to assume the war would last for years. It would be embarrassing if they ran out of gunpowder – and cannonballs – in the middle of a fight.
But we can recover cannonballs, she reminded herself. And it isn’t as if they are hard to cast.
A handful of craftsmen waited for her as she stepped back into the main workshop. Emily pasted a smile on her face, silently cursing Alassa for forcing her to meet and greet the workers. She didn’t like meeting strangers, particularly when she was badly outnumbered. The hero worship in their eyes bothered her more than she cared to admit. She might have changed their world, she might have given them a chance to make something of their lives, but she hadn’t done everything. They’d picked up the ball she’d thrown and run with it.
“My Lady,” Rosen said. “Allow me to introduce...”
He rattled off a list of names as the craftsmen bowed – or, in one case, curtseyed. Emily could barely remember them, even though Alassa and Jade had told her it was important to remember names and faces. People liked it when their superiors remembered them, although Emily had her doubts. If she messed up, somehow, she wouldn’t have wanted her boss to remember.
“Thank you for your service,” she said, when the introductions were finally over. “On behalf of Her Highness, let me say that we truly appreciate your work. We would not be able to fight and win the war without you.”
Her words sounded hollow in her own eyes, but the craftsmen looked appreciative. They were practical men, she supposed. They knew what she’d done, even if they found her appearance something of a disappointment. She might not be ten feet tall, with fire flashing from her eyes, but she had kicked off an industrial revolution single-handedly. The craftsmen owed her and they knew it.
She glanced from face to face. The craftsmen looked calm and confident, holding themselves with the ease of men who knew they were good at their work. She appreciated that in them and she suspected their apprentices appreciated it too. The craftsmen would be good teachers, simply because they knew what they were doing. It was a far cry from the teachers she’d had to endure back on Earth. They had often been more ignorant than their students.
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