“You could be taking part in rehearsals,” Emily said, dryly. Frieda would have been feeling alone - and abandoned. She should have been able to make friends with some of the younger girls in the castle, but they had very little in common. The aristocrats would see her as a jumped-up mountain girl and the servants would see her as an aristocrat. “Being in the library isn’t that bad.”
“I ran out of interesting books very quickly,” Frieda said. “That creep Nightingale had the nerve to suggest I should memorize some family trees. Why would anyone want to memorize a family tree?”
“So they can be snobby,” Emily said, after a moment. “A person who can claim a descent from someone important can look down their noses at everyone else.”
Frieda smiled. “I’d like to see them do that to the king.”
“They wouldn’t dare,” Emily said. She shrugged. “You do need to know who your relatives are, so you don’t accidentally marry them, but other than that...it’s pointless snobbery.”
It had been nearly four years since she’d first visited Alexis, scant months after she’d started to release her innovations into the world. Even then, there had been changes; now, the city looked very different. English letters were everywhere; shopkeepers had fixed lists of their stocks to the walls, while innkeepers’ signs regretfully admitted that they had no room in their inns. The cobblestones were cleaner than she remembered, too; the city council must have taken her warnings about the dangers of unsanitary environments to heart and started clearing up the filth. A red-rimmed poster affixed to a wall, as they turned the corner and walked past a set of middle-class houses, warned that anyone caught emptying their chamber pots into the street would be put in the stocks and publicly flogged. She wondered, briefly, just what the locals were meant to do when so few houses had running water, then decided she didn’t want to know.
They could gather the manure and use it for gunpowder, she thought. She made a mental note to check in with Paren about gunpowder and firearms production in Zangaria, then dismissed it. Or even just dump it somewhere it can be collected later.
She pushed the thought aside as they wandered through the streets. The entire city still seemed to be celebrating - she couldn’t help noticing that prices seemed to have doubled or tripled for outsiders - but there was something about their attitude that worried her. A sense - perhaps - that they’d had enough of the wedding already. She frowned inwardly and did her best to answer Frieda’s questions as they walked down to the docks, passing the massive sailing ship she’d seen on her first visit to Alexis. It didn’t look as though the designer had finished putting the final touches on his masterpiece.
Frieda wrinkled her nose as they paused beside a stall and bought fish sandwiches. “Do people really live here?”
“They do,” Emily said. The smell was bad, but she’d smelled worse. “Use a filtering spell if the smell is bothering you.”
“It isn’t just that,” Frieda said. She waved a hand towards the distant horizon. “This water...this water is so big.”
Emily blinked in surprise, then nodded. Frieda had grown up in the mountains before going to Mountaintop and Whitehall. She’d never seen oceans before. She might have heard about the vast bodies of water that covered a good two-thirds of the planet’s surface, but she wouldn’t really comprehend that they were real. Emily wasn’t even sure if Frieda could swim.
“It’s dangerous, too,” she said. “Can you swim?”
“Not well,” Frieda said. “Can you?”
“Reasonably well,” Emily said. She’d had to learn on Earth, an experience she would have preferred to forget. Sergeant Miles had made her swim as part of Martial Magic, but he’d been a great deal more competent than her first teacher. “I’ll make sure you get lessons once we go back to Whitehall.”
Frieda shuddered. “Do I have to?”
“Yes,” Emily said. “What would you do if you fell into the water?”
“Sink as my clothes get waterlogged,” Frieda said. “What would you do?”
Emily shrugged. Frieda had a point. “Swim as best as I could,” she said. Swimming in trousers was hard enough; swimming in a dress would be damn near impossible. She’d have to banish the dress before the weight dragged her under the water. “And get out of the water as soon as possible.”
They finished their sandwiches, left the crumbs on the dockside for the seagulls and headed back into the city. A small parade marched through the center of town, headed by a set of magicians who performed small spells for the benefit of the crowd. Emily wasn’t impressed - she knew the magicians wouldn’t be too powerful or they’d be doing something more lucrative - and did her best to ignore them. A handful of young men pushed past her, handing out sheets of paper; she took one automatically and glanced at it.
“Shit,” she breathed.
She’d seen some of the seditious pamphlets last year, back when Randor had discussed the issue with his senior aristocrats. This one was clearly new - it smelled of ink - and talked about the Royal Wedding. She read it quickly, realizing that the writer was linked to whoever had produced the first set of leaflets. He - or she - discussed just how much money was being wasted on Alassa’s marriage, breaking it down into figures the average person could understand. Taxes had been doubled, effectively, to pay for everything.
“Trouble coming,” Frieda said.
Emily glanced up. A handful of guardsmen were making their way through the street, snatching every leaflet they saw. She cursed under her breath, grabbed Frieda’s hand and pulled her into an alleyway. A dozen other people had the same idea; she did her best to ignore them as she hurried down the pathway and onto the next road. There didn’t seem to be any guards in sight, thankfully.
“Hey,” a quiet voice said.
They spun around to see a young man, his face half-hidden behind a glamor. It was a neat piece of work, Emily admitted privately. If she hadn’t had a great deal of experience with illusion spells, she probably wouldn’t have been able to see it at all. She tested him as covertly as she could and felt no reaction, suggesting he wasn’t a magician himself. But he could just be very good at masking.
“Make sure you don’t get caught with those,” he warned. “The Royal Guard has been in a state since we started distributing them.”
Frieda leaned forward. “We?”
“We,” the young man said. “And if you want to hear more about us, why don’t you come and hear one of us speak?”
He paused, looking at Emily. “I’m Char,” he said. Emily would have bet good money it was a false name. “And you?”
Emily cursed inwardly. She hadn’t anticipated needing to assume a false identity at the drop of a hat. “Millie,” she said, finally. Emily was an uncommon name - and most people would think of her if they heard the name - but there were thousands of girls called Millie. As long as Frieda kept her mouth closed, there shouldn’t be any problems. “And this is Frieda, my sister.”
“Pleased to meet you both,” Char said. He took Emily’s hand and kissed it, then did the same for Frieda. “And if you will come with me...?”
Emily tapped her lips as he turned away, warning Frieda to remain silent. Char chatted happily about nothing of importance as they made their way through a maze of side-streets, leaving her to wonder just what was going on. Had they been identified? Were they walking into a trap? Or had they shown a willingness to be recruited by keeping the leaflets? She studied Char’s back carefully, contemplating his glamor. If he wasn’t a real magician, there had to be one lurking around somewhere...
I beat Master Grey, she reminded herself, sternly. It was almost certain that whoever was helping the rebels - or whoever they actually were - wasn’t a combat sorcerer. I can deal with whoever is waiting for us.
Char stopped outside a door, beat out a pattern on the wood and waited. Emily sensed a faint ward shimmering to life, moments before the door opened. Inside, there was a large chamber; she silently counted thirty men and women sitting on the
floor as they entered. A privacy ward hung in the air, distorting their faces. Emily frowned as Char pointed her to a spot on the floor, silently analyzing the ward. Unlike most wards, it wouldn’t stop them from talking, but it would make it impossible for them to see each other’s faces. If any of them happened to get caught, she thought, they couldn’t betray the others. The stink of fear hung in the air.
“I shall not keep you long,” a new voice said. A man stood at the front of the room, his face hidden behind yet another glamor. “You are here because you got one of our leaflets and didn’t throw it away. You are here because, deep inside, you are already wondering why things are the way they are. It is that question the aristos most fear.”
He paused, dramatically. “Why are they in charge?
“I have thought about it, often,” he added. “What makes the aristos better than us commoners? Are they better people? No! Are they natural rulers? No! Ask anyone who lives in a city-state, where the rulers are chosen in any number of different ways, and he will tell you that birth alone does not make for a good ruler. And he would be right! Let us not forget that Alexis I was a capable ruler, Alexis II forged our country...and Bryon the Weak almost surrendered control to the aristos! We have seen it happen, time and time again, in every walk of life. Or do I tell a lie?
“You will all have seen family-run businesses where the grandfather is a tough and capable businessman, the father is a competent businessman...and the son is a weakling unable to stand up for himself, let alone grow the business. If such can happen in the business world, why can it not happen in the aristocracy?”
Emily mentally saluted whoever had written the speech. Somehow, he’d taken one example, one that would be understandable to everyone, and pointed out that the law also applied to the kingdom. The king might be...well, the king, but he was effectively in charge of a family business. And if he wasn’t up to the task, the business would fail.
“So tell me,” the man said. “Why should we let them rule us?”
A low murmur ran through the room, but no one tried to answer.
“Why should we pay vast sums of money or goods in taxes,” the man asked, “when we are not allowed a say in how they are spent? Why should we be...encouraged...to contribute to the wedding costs when we will see none of its benefits? Why should we be punished merely for asking these questions?
“There are some good aristos out there. But how many others are total bastards? How many do you know who steal from us, or take our women, or cut us down in the streets merely because we’re there? Why should they rule us while we grovel in the dirt? What makes them so powerful?”
“They have soldiers,” someone said, barely loudly enough to be heard.
“Yes, they do,” the speaker acknowledged. “And they have many magicians on their side - that cannot be denied. But...we are stronger than we know. They have worked hard to keep us weak, to keep our heads bowed, to make us believe that we cannot stand up for ourselves and say no. And they have failed, because we are asking the questions they tried so hard to keep us from even considering!
“There is nothing that makes the aristos better than us. There is nothing that gives them a right to rule. And there is nothing stopping us from standing up for our rights!”
Emily kept her expression blank with an effort. She’d thought Swanhaven was bad, but this was worse. Maybe there was no heavy repression, at least not yet...but it hardly mattered. Any steps Randor took to curb the talk would only lend it credence. The entire city would need to be destroyed if Randor wanted to root the seditious talk out, root and branch. And the hell of it was that she didn’t disagree with anything he said.
But Alassa is going to marry Jade, she thought. Wouldn’t that bring fresh blood into the aristocracy? And Imaiqah and I weren’t aristocrats before Randor ennobled us...
She caught herself, angrily. That was hardly the most important problem, not now. The rebels were in Alexis, protected by at least one powerful sorcerer. She’d stumbled across a serious threat to the king and his heir...
...And she still didn’t disagree with anything they’d said!
The speaker cocked his head, suddenly. “There’s a set of guardsmen making their way here,” he said. “Follow my friend--” he jabbed a hand at a man standing at the back “--through the tunnels, then scatter into the streets. Make sure you leave the leaflets here. Hurry.”
Emily ignored the instruction, shoving her leaflet into her pocket as she exchanged glances with Frieda - God alone knew what Randor would say if they were caught among the seditionists - and hurried out, following the others. There was no sign of any guards, she noted, as they flocked into the streets and dispersed. She picked her way through the smaller streets until they reached a main road and started to walk back to the castle.
“Emily,” Frieda said. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Emily said.
She felt the leaflet in her pocket and winced. As a baroness, it was her duty to take it to the king...but she couldn’t help feeling sympathetic towards the rebels. She understood exactly how they felt. Maybe she could talk Randor into offering political reform...she bit her lip, tiredly. There was no way Randor could offer any more than he already had without provoking a second rebellion from the aristocracy. And that rebellion might be better planned.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do anything,” Frieda said. Her eyes darkened. “Or maybe we should help them.”
“It will be bloody, whatever happens,” Emily said. She’d read about peasant uprisings on Earth. They tended to end badly; the aristocrats made whatever promises they had to make, then broke them as soon as it was safe. “Thousands of people will die.”
She stared down at her hands, feeling utterly unsure. “And Alassa is my friend,” she added, bitterly. She sympathized with the rebels, yet siding with them would pit her against one of her first friends. Was the rebellion the cause of the demon’s vision? “I can’t abandon her.”
“Then you need to talk to the king,” Frieda said. “I don’t see any other choice.”
Chapter Seventeen
“THE LORD AND LADY OF SWANHAVEN have arrived,” Nightingale said, when they returned to the castle. “His Majesty would like you to join him in the great hall.”
Emily groaned - Lord Hans and Lady Regina were the last aristocrats she wanted to see right now - but nodded reluctantly. There would be no hope of speaking privately to the king until after the ceremony, perhaps after dinner too. She briefly considered trying to urge Nightingale to ask the king to see her sooner, but she knew it would merely spark off another set of rumors. Gritting her teeth, she nodded to Frieda - tapping her lips to remind the younger girl to remain quiet - cast a glamor over her clothes so she appeared to be dressed formally and followed Nightingale to the great hall. A line of supplicants bowed to her as she passed, with the guards opening the doors to allow her to enter. Inside, Lord Hans and Lady Regina knelt in front of King Randor and Alassa, speaking so quietly that Emily could barely make out the words. It looked very much as though they were groveling for attention.
Nightingale motioned for her to follow him around the back of the crowd to where the barons and their wives waited. Emily kept her face as impassive as possible as several of them glanced at her, their faces so tightly controlled that she was sure they hated her with every fibre of their beings. The leaflet in her pocket was a droll reminder of why they hated her. She’d introduced the innovations that had allowed ideas to spread through the kingdom faster than any countermeasures the aristocracy might have taken.
She shook her head as Lord Hans and Lady Regina kept talking. She’d never met a baron who put the good of the kingdom before his own personal interest, let alone one who wasn’t keenly interested in exploiting everyone beneath him. Her predecessor had had his way with so many girls over the years that he’d sired a small army of bastards, all of whom had no legitimate right to anything, including his name. It was a wonder to her that he’d found the time
to take part in a plot to overthrow the king, let alone rule his barony. But then, she’d found out that the hands-off approach led to more tax revenue in the long run.
And the rebels have a point, she admitted, silently. Why should they pay taxes if they have no say in how the taxes are spent?
It was her fault, she admitted silently. She’d given every ambitious man the tools he needed to put his discontent into words and spread it across the entire kingdom. Worse, perhaps, she’d broken the stranglehold of some of the most powerful guilds, including the ones that served the king and his power structure. The new fortunes made by traders had unsettled the kingdom, while the flocks of peasants leaving the lands had created a lower class ripe for revolution. Whoever had been writing the leaflets could have taken his lessons right out of Earth’s history.
But such rebellions always end badly, she reminded herself. The French Revolution turned into dictatorship, the Russian Revolution was worse...only the Revolutionary War succeeded and that was because an alternate power structure was already in the former colonies.
She looked up, seeking Imaiqah’s father. He stood at the other side of the hall, wearing long dark robes worth more than everything he’d owned a mere four years ago. His reward for helping the king had been ennoblement, but it had come at the price of leaving the Assembly. He was no longer in a position to oppose the king - or even mildly disagree with him - unless he wanted to go back to being a commoner. Randor had neatly co-opted him into becoming a new servant. And who knew what he thought of that?
And the Assembly is toothless anyway, she thought, sourly. Randor didn’t let it keep any independent power for long.
She sighed and dragged her attention back to Lady Regina. “It is a very great honor to be invited to the wedding of our king’s most beautiful child,” she was saying, addressing Alassa. “I have brought great gifts for you.”
Emily frowned. A gift? A public gift? She cursed under her breath as she realized what Lady Regina had done. She’d not only flaunted her wealth in front of the entire court, trying to convince them that she was staggeringly wealthy even though she wasn’t the baroness, she’d scored a social coup. Everyone would now have to offer their presents publicly, knowing their rivals would comment on cheap or inappropriate gifts. And Emily herself? There was no way she could offer her gift in public. Everyone would want to know what she’d written in that notebook.
Wedding Hells (Schooled in Magic Book 8) Page 17