“They have a point, Your Majesty,” she said, tapping the leaflet. “And you need to realize that they have a point.”
Randor gave her a long look that chilled her to the bone. “They are rebels against legitimate authority.”
“They haven’t actually rebelled yet,” Emily said.
“They are spreading lies about the throne,” Randor said. “That in itself is a crime.”
“They’re not lies,” Emily said, quietly. “That’s the point.”
Alassa coughed. “How are they not lies?”
Emily cursed mentally. If Alassa hadn’t been her friend, if she hadn’t been lumbered with Cockatrice, she could have just left the country and watched Randor and his daughter try to cope with the chaos from a safe distance. But she owed it to Alassa to try...and besides, the chaos was partly her fault. The innovations she’d introduced had upset the balance of power and shattered it beyond repair.
“They’re asking why so much money needs to be spent on your wedding,” she said. “Why does so much money have to be spent?”
“You would deny your friend a big wedding?” Randor asked. “The one chance in her life for a green wedding?”
Emily winced. In hindsight, that might not have been the most diplomatic thing to say.
“They are asking why so much money has to be extracted from the peasants and spent on a ceremony that benefits none of them,” she said, ignoring the question. She didn’t think it had a right answer. “And it is a reasonable question.”
“My wedding will put an end to the threat of civil war,” Alassa said, icily. Emily could sense magic flickering and flaring around her as she lost her grip on her temper. “And they should realize that it is for their benefit.”
“They don’t,” Emily said. “You may succeed in preventing the barons from uniting against a single over-mighty subject, but you won’t succeed in convincing the commoners that something isn’t rotten in the state of Zangaria.”
Alassa’s eyes flashed. “And what is rotten?”
“Each year, the farmers give up half of their production to their local landlords,” Emily said, feeling her own anger flare. “Why? What gives those landlords the right to take the crops the farmers have worked hard to grow? Every year, innkeepers, merchants and everyone else who earns money has to surrender half of their income to the taxman. Why? What gives the taxman the right to collect the money? For each marriage, a fee has to be paid; for each death, another fee has to be paid; for each child, a fee has to be paid...why?
“Picture yourself a farmer. You work hard and you produce crops. Every year, you still have to give up half your produce to someone who spends half his time harassing you when he isn’t hunting in the fields or chasing your daughter. Right now, those farmers are asking what they get in return. And the answer many of them are coming up with is nothing. Because they don’t know where the money goes, or if it’s being used wisely.”
She looked down at her hands. “I saw the production tables for Cockatrice,” she said. “They date back over the last hundred years. Crop production was falling steadily until I rewrote the laws; since then, crop production has actually risen sharply. The farmers are producing more because they know they get to keep more.”
“They couldn’t use it to feed themselves,” Randor said.
“No,” Emily agreed. “They sell the crops and make money, which they can then invest elsewhere if they please.”
Randor leaned forward. “And then what?”
Alassa spoke before Emily could answer. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours,” Emily said. Angry, bitter frustration welled up inside her. “You’re my friends.”
“You’re a baroness,” Randor reminded her. “And you are steadily undermining your own power base.”
“I don’t want that sort of power,” Emily said. She could barely run her own life, let alone the lives of hundreds of others. “And even if I did, it would be a disaster when I tried to wield it. Hundreds of thousands of lives would be ruined.”
She met his eyes and tried to hold them. “I don’t know how long you have until there is an explosion,” she warned. She couldn’t help feeling like Cassandra, aware of the future and yet doomed to helplessly watch as it came to pass. “But you need to do something to accommodate them.”
Randor laughed, harshly. “Anything I do to accommodate them will lead to an uprising among the aristocracy,” he pointed out, coldly. “Even you might have second thoughts when you lose a considerable amount of your revenue.”
“I would not,” Emily said, flatly. “My revenue has gone up even as my taxes have gone down.”
Alassa sighed. “The other barons would hate the thought of giving up control,” she pointed out, softly. “They would hate the prospect of surrendering authority even if it did bring them more money.”
Of course, Emily thought. And I would probably feel the same way, if I’d been born into the aristocracy.
She looked at Randor. “If you don’t accommodate them, you will eventually have an uprising from the commoners. And if that happens, your kingdom will never be the same.”
“And if I did make accommodations, without being overthrown by the aristocracy,” Randor asked, “what would they want next?”
He put one hand on his sword. “My grandfather was always fond of a quiet life, I’ve been told,” he said. “He would concede anything he was asked, if the person who asked him was forceful enough or just nagged him relentlessly until he gave in. By the time he died and my father took the throne, his power base had been so badly reduced he had to fight a war to regain control. He even killed a number of barons for trying to diminish the rights of the king!
“I will not, I cannot, go the same way. I will keep my kingdom strong and hand it over to my daughter undiminished. And you, as one of my nobles, have a duty to assist me.”
You never asked me if I wanted to be a baroness, Emily thought, rebelliously. She understood his point - if he made a minor concession, there would be demands for more concessions - but she doubted there was anything he could do to keep the rebels from exploding into an uprising. And I don’t know how far I’m prepared to go to help you.
“I’ve given you the best advice I can, Your Majesty,” she said. “Make accommodations now, from a position of strength, and you may avoid a sudden shift in the balance of power.”
Randor stroked his beard, thoughtfully. “And how would you advise crushing the rebels?”
“They’re spreading ideas, Your Majesty,” Emily said. She stamped her foot in bitter exasperation. How often had she told the king the same thing? “You cannot kill an idea. It’s too late to burn your own capital city to the ground just to keep the ideas from spreading.”
She took a breath. “You have to undercut the ideas, Your Majesty,” she added. “And you cannot do that without either discrediting them or making it clear that you are embracing a slow process of gradual change. And you cannot discredit them because anyone with half a brain will realize they’re based on truth. Why should the nobleman claim half the peasant’s crops?”
Alassa gave her a long look. “And where do you stand?”
“They have a point,” Emily said. “You need to undermine them by actually making change.”
“Which will spark off another uprising,” Randor said. He shook his head. “We’ll double security, bring in additional regiments and strengthen our grip on the city. The Black Daggers will have to hunt down the rebels and their pet sorcerers...”
Alassa smirked. “Emily could go undercover. She’s done that before...”
“She has too much to do for the wedding,” Randor snapped. “And besides, her ability to pretend to be a commoner is limited.”
And you may not trust me, Emily added, silently. Randor hadn’t survived so long by trusting any of his barons. Even so, his sister-in-law had come close to dethroning him as part of the coup plot. You know I think the rebels have a point.
Alassa bowed her head. “As
you wish, father.”
“I will leave the matter in your hands, Your Majesty,” Emily said. “And I strongly recommend that you make some form of accommodation. There is already one looming threat hanging over the wedding. I don’t know if the demon was playing with me or not, but we have to be careful.”
Randor gave her a sharp look. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” he said. His voice was low and angry. “You may leave.”
Emily exchanged glances with Alassa - such a dismissal was unusually rude - and then rose, curtseyed and headed out the door. Lady Barb stood outside, looking grim; Emily felt her heart skip a beat before she reminded herself that Lord Hans wouldn’t dare try anything to Frieda in the middle of a crowded dance floor.
“I need to talk to you afterwards,” Emily said. She didn’t know who else she could approach for advice. “Can we meet in my rooms?”
“I’ll be up as soon as I can,” Lady Barb said. “But that may be a while.”
Emily nodded and walked to the dance hall. Frieda was dancing with a junior nobleman Emily didn’t recognize, while Lord Hans was nowhere to be seen. She looked happy; Emily glanced at Imaiqah, who gave her a reassuring smile and a shrug. Slightly reassured, Emily headed back to her rooms and opened one of Bryon’s reports from Cockatrice. The flood of economic migrants into the barony was, if anything, growing stronger, despite the best efforts of her neighbors. Thankfully, her settlers weren’t rallying in protest yet.
Yet, she thought.
It was nearly an hour before Lady Barb knocked on the door. “Emily,” she said, as she entered. “You wanted to see me?”
“I need advice,” Emily admitted. “On two things, actually.”
She outlined the discussion with Randor - Lady Barb pointed out curtly that the final decision rested with the king, whatever Emily happened to think of it - and then her quest for a new wedding present. Lady Barb heard her out, then started to laugh.
“You didn’t think you might have to bring something everyone could see and admire?”
“No,” Emily admitted, crossly. “I haven’t been to any other weddings.”
“You attended Markus and Melissa’s, I believe,” Lady Barb pointed out.
Emily flushed. “It was a very small gathering,” she said. “I didn’t have to worry about bringing something that would be shown off in front of thousands of people.”
“That could be a problem,” Lady Barb agreed. “You could give her gold, of course, but that would be seen as unimaginative. Anything else...you really should have started to plan this months ago.”
“I was a little busy,” Emily said. Besides, the notebook had seemed an excellent idea, something Alassa would understand even if no one else did. “Master Grey tried to kill me, I had to rest for a month, and then I had to prepare for my exams.”
“Alassa will understand,” Lady Barb said.
“No one else will understand,” Emily muttered.
Lady Barb considered it. “Remind me of something,” she said, sardonically. “What happened to Master Grey’s worldly possessions?”
“Mistress Danielle wanted me to see them, but I was ill,” Emily recited. Lady Barb had asked her the same question when she’d been taken back to Whitehall. “There weren’t any other claimants, so she said his apartment could be sealed up for a year.”
“Your...father must have pulled a few strings,” Lady Barb noted. She gave Emily a sharp look. “You never went to see them?”
Emily shook her head. “I never had the time.”
“Then I’ll take you tomorrow,” Lady Barb said. “There might be something you can give to Alassa. If not...we can go take a look through the White City for something suitable for a princess and a magician.”
“It sounds like a plan,” Emily said. She frowned, thoughtfully. “Is it really that easy to get into his rooms?”
“Your right to his property is unquestioned,” Lady Barb said. “Master Grey had an apartment in the White City - most Mediators do. He would have paid the rent up to a year in advance, which is why there wasn’t much squawking when you delayed going there. The landlord was probably relieved he didn’t have to go looking for another tenant at once.”
Emily frowned. “He wouldn’t get to keep the money?”
“Probably not,” Lady Barb said. She shrugged. “Master Grey’s heirs - assuming he had any - might not be able to afford the rates. They’d be more likely to demand a refund instead of moving in themselves. And besides, dismantling the protective wards would be costly. He’d need a full-fledged wardcrafter to do the job.”
She nodded to the bed. “Get some sleep,” she urged. “Tomorrow morning, we can contact Mistress Danielle and make the arrangements.”
“I will,” Emily said. “And thank you.”
“Just watch your back,” Lady Barb warned. She met Emily’s eyes. “You may have to decide, sooner than you think, just which side you’re actually on.”
Chapter Nineteen
“WE TOOK MOST OF THE PROTECTIVE wards down, after his death,” Mistress Danielle said, as they stood outside a simple wooden door. “The remainder were keyed to you and me; no one else was permitted access. I’m afraid you can’t claim the apartment itself, Lady Emily, but everything else in the suite is yours.”
She paused. “There’s also a list of dangerous items that were removed and placed into storage,” she added, passing Emily a roll of parchment. “If you happen to want them, submit a request to the office.”
Emily nodded, took the parchment for later contemplation and watched as Mistress Danielle pushed her hand against the door. A pair of nasty wards snapped and crackled around her before they realized who she was and faded back into the ether. Emily walked forward and peered inside as the door opened. He’d lived in the apartment, when he hadn’t been on duty or training apprentices, for over twenty years, yet there was very little sign of his personality. She couldn’t help thinking he’d lived a Spartan existence.
“I’ll be waiting outside,” Mistress Danielle said. “I believe you should explore the apartment alone.”
“Be careful what you touch,” Lady Barb warned. “Shout if you need help.”
Emily swallowed as Mistress Danielle pulled the door closed, leaving her alone. She hastily cast a revealing spell, looking for sources of magic, and frowned as several places lit up. The windowsills, in particular, were glowing with light. She walked carefully over to the window and peered down at the runes carved into the framework. Two of them she recognized as being tuned to keep out the wind and rain; the others she didn’t recognize, but they looked nasty. Anyone who tried to climb up four floors to get into the apartment would have a short and uncomfortable life. She checked to make sure they weren’t spilling into the room, then turned and opened the door to the bedroom. A large chest sat against the wall, beside a feather-stuffed mattress that lacked both a cover and a quilt. Had he slept without a duvet? Or had he merely packed it away when he’d left his apartment for the final time?
She sat down in front of the chest and inspected it, carefully. Master Grey himself had taught her a great deal about traps and tricks. The revealing spell only showed a locking charm holding the chest closed, but there might be other surprises inside that wouldn’t be activated until the chest was opened. Gritting her teeth, she unpicked the locking spell and used a focused charm to open the lid from what she devoutly hoped was a safe distance. A handful of spells snapped and snarled into the air, then faded away into nothingness. She checked and rechecked twice before slipping closer to peer into the chest. He could easily have designed the spells to lure her into a false sense of security.
Nothing, she thought, as she ran through the final checks. No trace of magic at all.
Nervously, she peered into the chest and frowned. There was a selection of parchments - one was a certificate from Mountaintop, another was a formal disposition from his own tutor that Master Grey met the formal qualifications to become a Mediator - which she pulled out and placed o
n the bed. Nothing seemed particularly interesting until she reached the folder at the bottom, which included a whole series of reports on Emily herself. Master Grey and Fulvia, it seemed, had not only acquired her school records, but reports from several pupils who’d been bribed or threatened into keeping an eye on her. Emily read through the reports quickly, rolling her eyes at some of the more absurd comments, and placed them aside for later contemplation. The only oddity was that Melissa didn’t seem to have been asked to write a report.
Melissa might have left the family by then, she thought, numbly. Or she disliked me so much, Fulvia might not have expected her to remain objective.
She flicked back through the papers, but drew a blank. There were no dates on the reports, let alone a note identifying the writer. Fulvia could have asked anyone to spy on her, but there were so many mistakes that it was easy to tell she hadn’t asked any of Emily’s close friends. One report even insisted that Emily had killed the Mimic personally; another claimed that she’d been dating a boy called Garratt. It took her a long moment to remember that Garratt had been paired with her a few times in Martial Magic, back in Second Year.
And he would have been in Sixth Year at the time, she thought. We weren’t ever in any sort of relationship.
Her own thoughts answered her. Jade asked me to marry him the moment he graduated, she recalled. The writer might have confused Jade with Garratt.
She pushed the thought aside and peered into the bottom of the chest. It looked empty, but a moment’s inspection told her there might be a false bottom. She poked around carefully with her magic, feeling for traps; nothing materialized until she actually touched the hidden lock directly. A surge of magic rocketed out of the chest; she hurled herself backwards, silently grateful she’d woven so many protections into her personal wards. A mundane - or even a junior magician - who poked into the chest would have been reduced to ashes.
Wedding Hells (Schooled in Magic Book 8) Page 19