by Sonia Lyris
“You must know that only the queen can approve marriages.”
“Of course, of course,” the eparch said brightly. “We only want you to meet them, to see how happy they are—smile, Eoinae!”—The young woman obediently gave Innel a beaming, if somewhat forced, smile. “And thus, what fine children she would bear to better serve the crown.”
“Fine children,” Tok said, nodding firmly. “Well-suited for the Cohort.”
Innel looked his confusion at Tok. “The Cohort has been closed for years, Tokerae. What do you mean—” He fell suddenly silent, feeling foolish.
He meant the next Cohort, of course. The one that would be formed for the next heir. The heir Cern had yet to conceive.
With the myriad of issues he had been juggling, this had not even come into his mind. It would be poor form to say so, though. He could see why it would be on the minds of the Houses, who were used to thinking ahead. Having come into the Cohort from the outside, at the king’s command, it had not occurred to him that there must be maneuvering ahead of time. Far ahead of time.
“Ah,” Innel said, feeling oddly self-conscious at finding the outcome of his bedroom activities so openly discussed in this room of near-strangers. “It has been a busy time.”
“So many distractions for you both, I’m sure,” the eparch said, her smile constant. “But the Anandynar line must stay”—pure, Innel was sure she was thinking, noting the very brief pause in her words—“strong. It is good to have choices. One can be so very surprised to find which one ends up being the most robust.”
Meaning him, of course. The mutt. Robust.
He examined her for signs of mockery, saw only the wide smile. Still, for an unsettling moment Innel felt as he had so early on in the Cohort: out of place, swimming in a dark, open ocean.
This was a world away from that time. Now he was Royal Consort. Lord Commander.
Or was it folly to assume that marriage to the queen made him acceptable among the Houses?
We do what others cannot, say what aristos dare not. We’ll win this.
And win it they had. Or he had, in any case. He looked around the room, forcing himself to focus on the politics before him.
“You’ll like this, Innel,” said Tok as a servant presented a small tray of thimble-sized glasses, like miniature goblets. “Adept-wine.”
“Imported from the adept-hermits of Arapur-Selsane,” said the Eparch’s husband, Etallan’s Minister of Chimes, a House-specific title that meant more than the words implied. A short man, matching his Eparch, with a deep, resonant voice. Innel had always wondered how two such short people had produced the overly tall Tokerae.
Adept-wine. Implying that the substance was somehow magic-infused. Ironic that this implication made the wine distinctive and sought after. A touch of magic made a thing exotic. As long as it had originated far, far away.
“I am told,” the Minister of Chimes continued, “it is aged a century and a day, bottled at their yearly fertility festival.”
Or perhaps the implication was that adept blood was shed to make it.
With that thought, Innel examined his glass. The liquid was a grayish shade of purple. He took a sip, attempting to refrain from emptying the tiny glass all at once, but there was so little of it that he failed.
It had an unexceptional, mild taste. He waited for any additional effect, noticed nothing.
“What extraordinary times we find ourselves in,” the eparch said. “So much change. So many opportunities.”
Innel’s mind flashed across all the things aside from Cohort positions for the not-yet-conceived heir that she might mean. “If too many things change at once, Eparch,” he said, “no one knows which way is up.”
She laughed at this, and it seemed to him altogether too sincere. “Well put, Lord Commander, and exactly my thought as well. We had certain understandings with the old king, as I’m sure you know. We hope to have certain understandings with you and the queen as well.”
To Innel’s frustration, Restarn had never been specific about his arrangements to do with the Houses. Of course, the eparch could be wholly inventing this.
“The Charter Court comes barreling toward us, mere years away,” she continued. “At every Court there is chaos, as warrants, charters, and contracts upon which we have depended for years are tossed into the air to perhaps fall in a new pattern, perhaps not. So much time and disarray. What a waste.” She made a tsking sound, shaking her head sadly. Around the table other heads wagged slowly, echoing her.
“There is no getting around the Charter Court,” Innel said, forcing a show of amusement at this dangerous idea.
“I do not dispute this,” she said. “But perhaps some small change is possible? Rather than every sixteen years . . .” She paused, as if thinking the matter through. “Perhaps every twenty? Even every quarter of a century?”
Etallan had done quite well at the last Charter Court, taking on a number of new high-value Lesser Houses, including Bell and Eschelatine. No surprise they would like to put off the next one.
But a longer time between Courts was impossible. Innel could easily imagine the outcry should he even suggest the idea. Especially if he suggested it. The Houses, Greater and Lesser, would howl in outrage. He doubted even the old king, with his influence among the Houses, could have altered the timing of the Charter Court.
While it was quite true that no one was ever happy with the Charter Court, it was just as true that they would fight to the death to keep it as it was.
“I rather doubt—” Innel began slowly.
“Of course not,” she said, laughing, as if it had been a joke. “But perhaps, then, a rotating Court, with two of the Eight Houses every four years? To achieve some sort of—continuity of contracts? Less change and more stability—everyone would profit from that, surely.”
An insanity of renegotiation every four years instead of every sixteen?
And who would go first into this rotating charter, like a fish tossed into the blades of a water wheel? He doubted Etallan intended to volunteer.
“He can’t do that, Mother,” Tok said in a tone of tolerant forbearance that seemed a bit showy to Innel. “The other Houses would mutiny.”
“Surely it’s worth consideration, though?” This from the Minister of Chimes.
Innel held up his hands in a gesture of half surrender. “I will mention it to Her Majesty.” To amuse her, at least, he didn’t say.
“So kind,” smiled the Minister of Chimes, nodding pleasantly.
“What about the weapons contracts?” Tok asked with a guileless look Innel didn’t believe for a moment.
Another impossibility, and Tok would know it. No House had been given military weapons contracts in centuries; those contracts were spread around to the Trades, outside direct lines of Charters, because weapons in the hands of the Houses were not something the Anandynars ever wanted to see.
“No,” the eparch said, giving a dismissive shake of her head. “We already have the great honor to supply the smithies with their ingots, and the great honor to take back the rejects for remelt. Conception and death—we can hardly ask for the honor of birth as well. So much honor would embarrass us.”
A poorly suppressed smirk from Tok, who shared his amusement with Innel with a raised eyebrow.
Unless, of course, that too was for show, intended to give Innel the impression that he was in on the joke.
This was all testing, Innel was starting to realize, to see what he might say. To gauge his reactions. Thus far he had not actually been asked for anything that he could hope to provide. That, he was confident, would soon come.
In the silence that followed, everyone seemed to pause, as if to take a breath before coming back to the fight in earnest.
“Perhaps this, then,” the Minister of Chimes said in a less flowery tone. “Our first forge, outside the city, along the Sennant.”
“Oh, that.” The eparch waved it away. “Hardly worth troubling the Lord Commander about.”
The eparch continued from her husband’s start. “Complaints from next door. About the noise. Odd, since we’ve been there—laboring to provide the empire’s steel, as is our patriotic duty and considerable honor—almost three centuries now.” She shrugged eloquently. “We understand that our great bellows and waterwheel hammers, all in service to the queen, might disturb their grand plays and elegant dances. Clearly something must be done.” The eparch’s smile dimmed a little. “Lord Commander, we beg your help on this matter. Perhaps you could move them somewhere else, sufficiently far enough away that we don’t trouble them with our hard work?”
Next door, if Innel were not mistaken, was one of Helata’s inn houses, for use of its rivermen and barge workers. A mansion in its own right.
Helata and Etallan had been at odds for some time, nursing a long-standing feud whose source seemed buried in history. But Helata, with its monopoly on ships and water trade, was also a House to avoid antagonizing.
“Naturally we would be happy to pay for the land,” added Tok. “We could use a bit more room for the smithy anyway.”
“Naturally,” Innel responded dryly, knowing that the cost of the land was a trifle for Etallan.
Helata would be incensed at any such move, and when Helata was angry, ship-building contracts suffered. The monarchy had to stay out of this fight.
“I will mention it to Her Majesty,” he said. Maybe he could put off a decision until Cern’s rule was stronger.
“So grateful,” said the Minister of Chimes. “Also we understand that the queen’s forces have been spread a little thin in Gotar. We had thought, perhaps, that we might be allowed buy the warrant to collect taxes in that district on Her Majesty’s behalf.”
Now there was an interesting offer.
“Yes,” the eparch continued. “When the mining towns misbehave it slows our production and makes us seem at fault. This is an affront to our pride in our work, and our honor as a House. You seem to have Sinetel well in hand, ser. Let us take our House forces and help you with Gotar.”
The downside to this was that Etallan’s in-house force could, and doubtless would, collect more than the given tax rate, and possibly some other things along the way. A hardship for whatever towns stood in their way. A hardship for the rebels of the mining town as well. It was, in some places, difficult to tell the difference.
But if Etallan had the warrant, that was an effort the crown would not have to finance or oversee.
Innel nodded slowly. Helata would have a hard time objecting to Etallan’s smithy expansion when Etallan was showing such service to the new queen. The action might even inspire other Houses to be similarly useful.
“I will mention it to Her Majesty.”
Indeed, he would advocate for it. Etallan would get their tax warrant.
“Excellent!” The eparch clapped her hands and gestured to the servant. “More of the adept-wine!”
If Helata and the other Houses offered similar support, perhaps these rebellions could be taken care of more quickly and with less cost to the crown than Innel had anticipated. Surely House Kincel would care as much about the rebellions along the quarry lands, Nital about the woodlands. Innel could customize tax warrants for all of them. A heartening thought.
He looked around the table at their smiling faces. He smiled back, then attempted to adjust his chair slightly closer to the table. It did not move at all easily, this chair made of metal.
Not obsession, he realized suddenly, of the sometimes-impractical metal, ceramic, and glass that composed every piece of furniture, walls, floors, and ceilings surrounding him. Rather, a demonstration of the range of their holdings. Of the extent of their power.
Good that he was finding ways to keep Etallan happy.
Another thimbleful of adept-wine was put in front of him, and, oddly, it tasted better than the first.
To Innel’s surprise, the seneschal had immediately agreed with him that it was time to move the queen into the old king’s suite. The old king, on the other hand, had complained bitterly. As had Cern.
Innel decided not to point out this similarity.
“Can’t we simply brick the rooms up?” Cern asked, her tone almost a childlike whine.
“You are the monarch,” he told her gently, taking her hand, not quite understanding the pain in her eyes. “You must occupy the monarch’s residence. You understand, surely, my lady?”
She nodded reluctantly.
And so, during the move, Innel made sure the entire set of rooms was scrubbed thoroughly and repainted, the furniture all replaced either with Cern’s existing set or with completely new items. Nothing would be as it had been before. Further, he had the large cages installed in one of the rooms for her birds.
He now stood in the completed suite, ignoring the two large gray and red birds making rude sounds at him from the cages, bobbing up and down to get his attention. Out the large windows were the rooftops of the Great Houses, their displays intended to be seen from exactly this vantage point.
Hence the combination of House and crown colors. Loyal subjects, the roofs seemed to say. Loyal, but keenly aware of their own power.
On Etallan’s rooftop was a metal fountain, water sculpted in orange brass and black iron, the arcs falling and curling into a large pool of red and black glass, all cleverly arranged to seem fluid and in motion. Atop House Nital was a live, thick grove of amardide trees, bright green leaves sharp against the twisted red trunks, the surrounding brick walls a checked pattern of red and black—though perhaps a bit closer in tone to Nital’s own brown and ash. Helata showed off a perfect replica of a sailing ship, complete with billowing blue sails, tilted sideways as if in a heavy wind, atop a red and black sea.
You had only to look at the roofs of the Houses to understand how each understood its place in the empire. If you knew what to look for, it was an excellent study.
When Innel was once again in his office, an aide knocked to announce a visitor.
“Colonel Tierda, Lord Commander. Reporting from Sinetel.”
Tierda tracked in winter mud on her boots, the stink of horse clinging to her cloak and uniform. She had been a tenday in the saddle and smelled it.
Lason had once kicked out a messenger filthy from the road, insisting he be clean before reporting. That small delay had ended up costing the crown a lucrative trade opportunity with the Perripin state of Dulu. When Innel had taken over, he had made it clear that anyone with news should report to him immediately, and exactly as dirty as the road had made them. Tierda had taken note.
She bowed briefly. “Lord Commander.”
Again, this strange shift in power, making it a curious meeting; she had been one of the Cohort’s tutors years ago, particularly knowledgeable about the history of the mining villages to the north. Until recently she had outranked him. “Good to have you back. Your report, Colonel?”
“The governor of Sinetel has vanished,” she said. “In his place is a trio of siblings who claim authority over Sinetel’s mines and the rails to the river. We sent a scout to negotiate their overdue taxes. They sent back this.”
She put an object on the table, something wrapped in white cloth stained brown with dried blood. The item was larger than a finger but smaller than a hand.
“The scout was male, I gather,” he said.
“The rest of his body came back a few days later. Eyes burned out. Missing toes, fingers, ears.”
Innel considered. Methods of torture were part of a land’s culture, like food, shoes, and harvest festivals. Burning eyes was a practice of the high plains tribes, intended to convey that prying eyes were unwelcome. Removing toes and fingers was a practice of the mountain people and had to do with the importance of being able to walk and climb.
So the tribes—conquered in the expansion wars, but never very compliant—were involved in the rebellion in Sinetel. Probably supplying them with
support, possibly even weapons. Sinetel had gone a long way to find illegal trading partners.
“What did the scout know, that he might have told them?”
“Nothing, Lord Commander.”
Innel wondered at her certainty. “You brought the body back?”
A puzzled frown. “No, Lord Commander. Should I have?”
There was information that could only be discovered by examining the remains. Lason would have criticized her for this, though he was himself always missing such details. But Lason was gone now, and no one knew where. He would turn up; it was not like an Anandynar to be silent for long.
As for the mining town, perhaps they thought that this was a good time to attempt some form of independence.
They were wrong.
“Take another four companies back with you, Colonel.” More than enough to quiet the notion of rebellion. “When you have order reestablished, hang those who resisted. From the rest I want death-oaths of loyalty. Anyone who lacks appropriate enthusiasm for their words should have their toes broken.”
“Toes?”
“Yes. And not with hammers or swords. Rocks between the toes, cinched with rope. You know the method?”
She nodded slowly.
“You don’t understand.”
“No, Lord Commander.”
“They can work with broken toes. Eventually and with pain, but they can work. It is the long-term reminders that work best, Colonel. Go and take back our lands.”
Once Cern had been crowned, Innel had found even Restarn’s most loyal retainers surprisingly easy to buy off and quite willing to accept new assignments. Innel had been most concerned about the loyalty of Restarn’s mages, but he need not have been; they had long since left the city.
So, according to Innel’s network, Restarn was now completely cut off. All he had was what Innel allowed him to keep. And what was still in his head, much of which was nowhere else.
“Be careful,” he told the doctor in what was barely a whisper. “Keep him alive.”
“Yes, ser.”
“No mistakes.”