The Right Side of History (Schooled In Magic Book 22)

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “That is something we intend to sort out as quickly as possible,” Althorn said. “It isn’t easy to balance all of the competing voices.”

  “Indeed,” Emily said, curtly. “And how do you intend to organize the government?”

  “Once the Crown Prince stands down, we’ll arrange for elections to parliament,” Althorn said. “It was always a tool for the king, as the whole system was rigged thoroughly, but it will do for a starting point. In the past, there were places with vast populations that only had a handful of people on the electoral rolls. Now, every male adult will have a vote, allowing them to elect a provisional government. The council will then start the process of handing power over to the new government.”

  He shrugged. “Ideally, the members of the current council will be elected to parliament,” he said. “But we acknowledge it may not happen.”

  Emily nodded, concealing her doubts as best as she could. Dater was not going to accept the proffered terms. It was unlikely, in the extreme, that they could even be amended to the point he might agree to go along with them. He might dissemble long enough for the council to run afoul of its own internal contradictions or... no, Dater wasn’t the type of person to play nice while he prepared a big stick. He was much more likely to give up all hope of regaining power through diplomacy and declare war. She silently waged the war in her mind, trying to determine who’d have the edge. Dater was a skilled commander, and he’d have much of the aristocracy under his banner, but the rebels would have the infantry. And Dater would be trying to storm a series of cities.

  “The Crown Prince will not accept these terms,” she said, flatly. “And they leave a great many issues undecided.”

  Althorn met her eyes. “We were told that we had to put up with the king, because he was all that stood between us and the necromancers,” he said. “Why should we put up with a king now? Why should we risk him having power over us again? Why should we trust him to keep his word when we surrender ourselves into his hands? Why?”

  Emily had no answer. She knew from grim experience that the aristocracy could be courtly and even chivalrous to its fellows, but horrifyingly brutal to rebellious commoners. The laws of war did not apply to rebels, with or without a cause. Althorn wasn’t wrong to fear the worst. There was no point in accepting terms if one couldn’t rely on one’s opponent to keep them.

  She looked back at him, feeling a twinge of... something. “Why did you become a Leveller?”

  Althorn lifted his eyebrows. “You ask that now?”

  “Yes,” Emily said. “Why?”

  “A couple of years ago, the government was trying to raise money to invest in the New Learning and fight the next war,” Althorn said. “Their solution was a series of government bonds, which would be handed out to subscribers and redeemed later on. The king and his family didn’t just purchase the bonds for themselves, they encouraged everyone from the aristocracy all the way down to the commoners to purchase them, too. They made so many promises that it never dawned on anyone, until it was too late, that they were creating a Vesperian Bubble.”

  Emily grimaced. “Shit.”

  “Quite.” Althorn made a face. “People made fortunes at first, including my family. My father had spent most of his life trying to keep himself afloat... now, we had enough money to secure our house and even start thinking about the future. My older brother was going to inherit the family business, my sisters were going to get good dowries... I was already flirting with radical politics, I will admit, but I was starting to think things might get better without violence. And then...”

  “And then the bubble burst,” Emily guessed.

  “Yes.” Althorn ground his teeth. “The money vanished like... dew in the morning. My father had invested again, you see, and all that money simply evaporated. He hadn’t been completely stupid, you see. He’d made sure we owned our home and business. He didn’t put that at risk. We might have survived if... if it hadn’t been for what happened next. The king, keen to escape blame for the disaster, blamed it all on commoners. He’d encouraged us all to invest, but... anyone who earned enough money to raise their station, such as my father, was heavily fined. The aristocracy refused to accept we could make fortunes.”

  He scowled at the floor. “The fines were so high that my family lost everything. My father was arrested on trumped-up charges and died in jail. My brother stood up to the guards and was beaten to death. My mother died on the streets. My sisters... they were lucky, I suppose. They managed to hide their shame and find employment elsewhere. And I, who only survived because I hadn’t been there when the guards arrived, swore revenge. Why should I trust a monarch who invites his subjects to make money, then punishes them for it?”

  “That monarch is dead,” Emily pointed out.

  Her stomach twisted in guilt. She hadn’t created the first Vesperian Bubble - she hadn’t even heard of it until the bubble had been on the verge of bursting - but it wouldn’t have happened without her innovations. And that bubble had been quite bad enough. The City Fathers of Beneficence hadn’t had the power to claw back money from investors who’d seen disaster looming and gotten out while they could. But a king... she could believe he’d certainly try to get the money back. No wonder the country had been on the brink of revolution. The king would have been wiser to accept the mistake and refrain from doing it again.

  “Yes,” Althorn said. She dragged her attention back to him. “But his sons are still alive.”

  “Go speak to them, Emily. Go tell them that they can have some of their former prestige, if they accept the new order of things. Or they can go into exile. They stole enough money from the treasury to fund a lifestyle most people couldn’t even begin to imagine. They can go into exile and leave their poor, abused people alone.”

  His voice hardened. “Or they can fight to put the chains back on,” he added. “And we will fight too, for our freedom. And if they do, there will be no mercy. We will fight to the last.”

  Emily believed him, every word. “I’ll tell him,” she said. “However, I must ask for one thing first.”

  “And that would be?”

  “I want to see Queen Francoise,” Emily said. “The Crown Prince will wish to know her state.”

  “Indeed.” Althorn studied her for a long moment. “We placed her on trial...”

  “Do you really believe she’s guilty of all that,” Emily asked waspishly, “or did you just reach for the worst accusations you could imagine and declare her guilty without bothering with a proper trial?”

  “Goodwoman Francoise is a product of the system,” Althorn said. “She’s guilty by default.”

  Emily took a moment to compose her response. The idea of collective - or inherited - guilt had never sat well with her. It made it impossible to put the past in the past, where it belonged. The descendants of both rebels and royalists would still be fighting it out, two hundred years in the future, if the matter wasn’t laid to rest now.

  “She’s also someone you can trade,” she said, finally. Moralistic arguments were unlikely to get her anywhere. “And, if you want to use her for leverage, you’ll have to convince Dater she’s alive.”

  “Very well,” Althorn said. He stood. “And then you can go.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “WE DIDN’T KNOW THERE WERE CELLS under the palace,” Althorn commented, as he led Emily down a long flight of stairs. “Under the castle, yes. Here... no. We didn’t.”

  Emily frowned. The air was growing steadily colder. She could feel wards - old ones - resting in the air, pervading the stonework. It would be impossible to scry the dungeon cells from a distance, she thought; it might be impossible to so much as tell the dungeons were there. She wasn’t too surprised - King Randor had maintained several secret prisons, including one he’d kept her in for a few, short days - but it was disquieting. Who knew how many secrets remained buried under the city, just waiting to be found?

  She cleared her throat. “Were there any prisoners?”


  “No.” Althorn sounded as if he didn’t quite believe himself. “The cells were searched, when we secured the palace. The guards had long since fled. We assumed there was no one in the cells, but really... we don’t know for sure. The king had a habit of disappearing his political rivals. It’s possible the prisoners were executed and cremated just prior to the revolution.”

  Emily nodded, slowly, as they reached a heavy iron door. Althorn knocked twice, waited five seconds and then knocked again. The door creaked ominously as it opened, revealing two guards wearing dark outfits, topped with the little cloth caps. Althorn spoke briefly to them, then led the way into the dungeon complex itself. The air felt thick and heavy despite the cold. Emily tasted the scent of helplessness and fear on her tongue. The stench was sharp and thoroughly unpleasant.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask,” she said, as they passed a glowing lantern. The light flickered randomly, as if the lantern was permanently on the verge of burning itself out. “Why do you all wear cloth caps?”

  If Althorn was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it. “The caps are a symbol of the working class,” he said. “Everyone is meant to wear a cap, just so they can doff it to their betters. There are - there were - strict limits on who could wear what. Now... we adopted the cap as a symbol, rather than dismiss it entirely. We are all laborers now.”

  He stopped in front of a heavy iron door. “The royal whore is in here,” he said. “Knock when you want to come out.”

  Emily glanced at him, suddenly wondering if she was walking into a trap. The cells were heavily warded. She thought she could break out, given time, but... she shook her head and watched as he opened the door. The rebels weren’t likely to kill her, not as long as they needed her. Even so, Crown Prince Dater was unlikely to accept the rebel terms. It was far more likely he’d risk everything in a desperate bid to reclaim the capital city. She sighed inwardly as she peered into the semi-darkness, then stepped into the cell.

  The door banged closed as soon as she was inside. The shadows pulsed like a living thing, refusing to reveal their secrets. The sole source of light was a single lantern, dangling from a metal chain. Emily gritted her teeth, then cast a night-vision spell. The cell loomed towards her, then receded. A lone figure was sitting on a bench, looking up at her. The figure - the queen - was so still that Emily thought, for a single worried moment, that the queen was dead.

  She inched forward, glancing from side to side. She’d been in worse places, but not by much. There was no bed, save for a pile of straw; there was no bathroom, just a single chamber pot positioned in the far corner. King Randor had kept his political prisoners in much better conditions, Emily reflected, but he’d assumed he might need them again eventually. The cell he’d put Emily in had been worse. It would be no comfort, she reflected, to tell that to the queen. The odds were good she’d never been locked up until the rebellion had turned her world upside down.

  Queen Francoise cleared her throat. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I’m here to check on you,” Emily said. She’d never met the new queen. She thought it might be better not to give her name. “How are you?”

  The queen laughed. It was a broken sound. “Terrible.”

  Emily shuddered. Queen Francoise had probably been pretty, once upon a time. Now... her hair was a mess, her face scarred and pitted, and she wore a dress that looked as though it had belonged to a scullery maid. She didn’t seem to have any broken bones, Emily noted, but she held herself in a manner that suggested constant aches and pains. The rebels might have brutalized her or... she shook her head. The rebels had an interest in keeping the queen alive and relatively unharmed, at least for the moment. They probably wouldn’t mind if Emily did a little healing before she left the cell.

  “They said my husband is dead,” Queen Francoise said. “Is that true?”

  “I...” Emily hesitated, unsure if she should tell the truth. The queen was in a fragile state and yet... she didn’t want to lie. “Yes. It was quick.”

  Queen Francoise let out a long gasping sigh. “He shouldn’t have listened to that bastard,” she said. “I knew he couldn’t be trusted. Always babbling on about this and that, trying to marry his daughter to the princes... he simply couldn’t be trusted. I knew it.”

  Emily frowned. “Who couldn’t be trusted?”

  “Triune,” the queen said. “My husband made him an advisor and... he was never satisfied.”

  “Triune,” Emily repeated. The man who’d owned the house the rebels had taken, then given to her? “What happened?”

  Queen Francoise shook her head. “It happened so quickly,” she said. “I couldn’t believe it.”

  “I know,” Emily said. “What happened?”

  “There was a riot,” Queen Francoise said. “The Royal Guard was sent to quell it. The traitors turned on us instead. The streets turned on us. We had to run through the tunnel to the castle as the walls were breached, then... I told him to take command. I told him to take command. I told him...”

  That probably wouldn’t have worked, Emily thought, grimly. She felt a twinge of pity for the queen. She didn’t deserve the charges thrown at her by the rebels. They should have been safe, as long as they stayed in the castle.

  “The Royal Sorcerers were killed,” Queen Francoise continued. “Poisoned, by a maid. Can you believe it? A maid killed them all! Triune had her executed, but it was too late. The walls were going to fall. I told him...”

  She let out a high-pitched giggle. “Triune had a plan. We’d take the coaches and flee to the countryside. The Crown Prince was out there, somewhere. We’d get out and return in glory, bathing the rebels in the light of our radiance. The people loved us. They would come out for us when we returned. We got into the coaches and drove away and...”

  Emily leaned forward. “And?”

  “We drove right into a trap,” the queen said. “Triune betrayed us. He must have done. The rebels were waiting. They came for us. They hit us, beat us, defiled my ladies-in-waiting, put me in this cell... Triune betrayed us. He must have done.”

  “Perhaps,” Emily said. She’d wondered how the rebels had taken out the king’s magicians before storming the castle. If they’d had someone on the inside, someone above suspicion, they could easily have poisoned the magicians before they could tighten the wards. And yet... she frowned. There was something about the whole story that didn’t quite make sense. “Do you think he betrayed you?”

  “My husband was never a strong man,” the queen insisted. “He was always listening to his advisors, instead of ruling with a rod of iron. He... would listen to you and agree with you, then change his mind as soon as the next person caught his ear. Triune could have talked him into anything. He convinced the king to run, to come out from behind the walls and straight into a trap. And where is he?”

  “Good question,” Emily agreed. The rebels had told her that Triune had fled the city. But it was equally possible he’d simply been murdered to conceal the truth. “I don’t know.”

  Her mind raced. It was hard to believe a king’s advisor would be openly disloyal. He’d have been for the high jump if he’d been caught before it was too late. No, worse than the high jump. There hadn’t been anyone who would speak for Triune, if he were sentenced to a long and lingering death. Triune would have had to gamble on a rebel victory, then assume... she frowned. Had someone been pulling his strings? Or was he a shameless opportunist?

  Or he could simply have gambled on getting the king out before the walls fell, she told herself, severely. Castles had once been practically invulnerable. Gunpowder weapons had turned them into death traps. He might have been loyal all along.

  The queen caught her hand. “Help me, please.”

  Emily cast a pair of healing spells, wishing she could do more. The rebels wouldn’t let her take the queen out, not without a fight. She didn’t think they had any first-rank sorcerers in their forces, but she knew she could be wrong. And if she did... it would completel
y destroy any chance of convincing the royalists and the rebels to come to terms. And... she sighed, inwardly. The queen had been a fairly typical aristocrat. She might not be guilty of all the horrific charges thrown at her, but she’d abused her servants and generally treated everyone below her like crap. And...

  “I have to speak to the Crown Prince,” she said, slowly. “Do you want me to take him and Hedrick a message?”

  “Tell him to come quickly,” Queen Francoise said. “His father needs him.”

  His father is dead, Emily thought. The queen’s grasp on reality was slipping. Emily understood all too well. Her world had turned upside down. She was stuck in a prison cell, trapped at the mercy of people she despised. The rebels had no reason to love her. The queen was the living embodiment of everything they hated. And there’s nothing else I can do for her.

  “We’ll put the rebels down and rule like we should,” the queen said. “And none will ever dare raise their hand to us again.”

  Emily stood, brushing down her dress. She was tempted to point out that the aristocracy had brought the rebellion on themselves, but... she knew the queen wouldn’t listen. Even Alassa had trouble remembering she only ruled by the people’s consent. The Levellers had helped put her on the throne and... Emily turned away. There was nothing else she could do for the queen, nothing at all. And yet, it hurt to leave her behind.

  She rapped on the door, which opened. Althorn stood outside, his face an expressionless mask. He closed the door again as soon as she was outside, then turned away. Emily followed him back up the stairs, her mind churning with thoughts and feelings she didn’t know how to put into words. The rebels were abusing the queen and yet... she sighed, inwardly. She knew she shouldn’t really blame them, except she did.

  “You don’t have to keep her in such filth,” she said, softly. “There are nicer places to put her.”

  Althorn stopped and turned to look at her. “Have you seen the cells in the Final Prison?”