“Yes, that would be so . . . given a fair price, of course. But then I have to fill my hold for the return voyage or lose half the profit; I am not going to sail home with nothing but ballast and banker’s drafts.”
Feldman nodded. “And I am also in a position to provide a fair percentage of your return cargo. In bulk, immediately, saving you more valuable time.”
“You are?” Mendoza said. “I am primarily interested in metal and metal goods. Esmeraldas prospers under our wise and benevolent King Hernán—”
Another of those little bows to the portrait.
“—Demand for tools is high, and we are not so well-provided with ruins to mine as you are here in el norte. And His Majesty is concerned to increase our capacity to build naval catapults. We do not care to be dependent on foreign sources for things so essential to national defense.”
“Just so,” Feldman said, adding to himself: and so essential to keeping His Majesty’s fundament on his Throne. “Corvallis is closer to Eugene . . . a source of salvage goods . . . than Portland is to Seattle, and Corvallis is a major market, a distribution center, and a center of manufactures. I could arrange several hundred tons of copper and PVC pipe, for example; steel springs; machine tools and hydraulic cocking mechanisms from Donaldson Foundry and Machine, who I deal with myself; and wines and brandies of very good quality, comparable to the ones you get from the south—judge us not by the swill here—and goods exotic in your home, such as apple-brandy.”
“This would take . . .”
“Impossible to be certain; perhaps a couple of weeks. With a letter of introduction and funds immediately ready for you to draw on from my firm’s line at First National, you ought to be able to conclude the rest of your cargo quickly. The sellers will want you back, you see, on other voyages.”
Mendoza’s brows went up. “You are in a position to move this much by yourself, Señor Capitan? The cargo is of course not all mine, though this ship is. I represent a consortium of both merchants and landowners. And—just between ourselves—several officials close to His Majesty, themselves wealthy and powerful men.”
“Oh, not quite by myself; Feldman and Sons is a considerable firm, but not so considerable as that. I doubt if any single merchant house in Corvallis is, or anywhere else in Montival.”
“Nor could any single family in Esmeraldas. You would put together a consortium, then?” Mendoza asked politely; he knew Feldman was wealthy, but could have no idea what his relations with his peers were.
“I have contacts with other houses in Corvallis—Chong and Company, Antonelli Merchant Ventures, several others—which would enable me, or rather my brother Abraham who handles our branch in Corvallis City itself, to place the whole of it much more promptly than one, who . . . forgive me . . . however able, does not have the contacts we do.”
“You can tie up so much capital on a chance encounter?” Mendoza said, both impressed and a little skeptical.
“Not in cash . . . but First National will be willing to accept the cargo itself as collateral for a short-term loan of working capital while it is on our hands; they know us, you see. In that way we can pay you immediately and in full without risking liquidity problems.”
Whereas you would have to put up much more in cash, went unspoken.
“Which means, if the price is agreeable of course, I would be willing to take the entire load and have my brothers make our own terms with the others. At my own risk, and of course risk means profit; with a modest discount for purchasing it in bulk.”
“Ah.” Mendoza’s expression grew cautious.
He might or might not have heard of Feldman and Sons, but he had seen the Tarshish Queen, which was worth more than his ship by itself and probably as much as the ship and its cargo, or nearly. He’d been particularly impressed by its armament; his own catapults were serviceable, but fewer and older. The ship and its condition argued for a well-financed, well-run firm. And one with good political connections as well; governments did not allow what amounted to private warships to those they did not trust.
On its face Feldman had just made him a very good offer, making his forced stop here a stroke of fortune rather than a costly misfortune. Connections and trust were the framework of business, and he was being given an entry into the Corvallan world that would make him a profit now on this voyage and possibly much more later if he ventured north again.
It wouldn’t be free, of course, but it would be less than he’d expected to lose as the inherent disadvantage of being a foreigner who didn’t know the local ins and outs.
“And this agreeable price and modest discount?” he said skeptically.
Feldman named figures; Mendoza laughed with a theatrical scorn worthy of a demented raccoon, and they settled down to a dicker. The Esmeraldan turned out to have a very fair idea of market conditions in central Montival . . . as of about eighteen months ago. Information traveled slowly, and knowledge was power. When they had finally finished to their own satisfaction, Mendoza poured the rum neat into small glasses rather than in tiny dollops into the cocoa, and added slices of cut lime.
“I think we are now both sure that we have swindled each other down to the shoes on each other’s feet,” he said happily. “A fair bargain, then.”
“The best sort,” Feldman said sincerely as they shook.
Then: “And now, Don Antonio, I am willing to concede a quarter of a percentage point on the net, if you are interested in another little venture . . . for which there would be a cash reimbursement, drawn on First National, equivalent to the cost of your delay here with a little for your own trouble. Understand, if you wish to simply take the deal we have made, I will raise no objection.”
He reached into the attaché case on the table and drew out several crackling parchments. “These, you will see, are sight drafts on First National. Good as gold anywhere in Montival . . . well, anywhere they can read . . . and as you mentioned readily negotiable in your own kingdom.”
“They are indeed.”
Mendoza touched the commercial paper, keeping a poker face but unable to prevent his fingers from lingering a little. Feldman had judged his man well; the Esmeraldan skipper was more than intelligent enough to realize that a side-venture paid in cash did not have to be shared with the backers who’d financed nine-tenths of his cargo. It wouldn’t be all that much compared to the total profit of the voyage . . . but it would be quite a considerable share of his personal profit when the voyage was put to bed, and with a good deal on the cargo nobody would be looking too closely.
“This other venture?”
“It has to do with the difficulties the locals mentioned to you. They could not pay you for your risk. My principals can . . . and without risk, there’s no profit, eh? If either of us were men frightened of risk, we would stay home and be content with squeezing out a miserable pittance from safe trades, no?”
Mendoza sat silent for a while, sipping at his rum; once his eyes went up to the ceiling, usually a sign a man was doing mathematics in his head. Then he looked at the sight drafts again. Once Feldman had signed them they were cash, exchangeable for bullion or local currency over a large chunk of the Pacific basin. His home city’s banking system wasn’t as sophisticated as that of Corvallis, but it was well up to that concept. And much easier to carry . . . or to hide . . . than gold.
“Purely for the sake of my curiosity,” Mendoza began, “what precisely would be involved?”
• • •
The Theatricum Botanicum had been a combination of open-air theater and garden before the Change; since then it had been used by the Topangans to hold the general meetings by which their loose government functioned, or didn’t. Mostly it seemed to concern itself with defending the Canyon in their perennial struggle with the folk of Chatsworth, with a sideline in preventing internal disputes from becoming violent, as much by directing the force of public opinion as anything mor
e formal. In a small close-knit community this sort of arrangement could work quite well.
The amphitheater was a natural one improved by the hand of man, a two-thirds circle of steeply sloped wooden benches leading down to a stage. Pepper trees and olives with narrow gray-green leaves grew around it, overshadowing the borders and giving a fair amount of shade, helped by the fact that the sun was heading towards the Santa Monica Mountains. If they’d had good lighting, or even mediocre, she’d have tried to get the meeting called for after dark, but local technology didn’t run to incandescent mantles or limelight.
As it was Órlaith kept an eye cocked at the sun, and listened to the chatter and burble of the crowd as it gathered. Her own seat was in the front row center, easily accessible to the short staircase leading to the stage. The air smelled spicy and dusty and hot, and as the seats filled of wool and sweat and the maryjane cigarettes and pipes of which the locals seemed extremely fond.
The Topangans were alerted to sessions by messenger or semaphore signals, and apparently any adult could attend, speak and vote. Órlaith found it fairly familiar. The same system of sitting around talking and then voting by show of hands or dropping wooden counters in a bucket was how Mackenzies ran things at the level of each Dun, though they also had the Óenach Mòr, the Great Assembly of delegates, to steer the Clan as a whole under the guidance of the Chief, the Mackenzie, Herself Herself.
The four hundred or so gathered—with another hundred waiting nearby and seeing to horses, carts, bicycles and children—were probably a fair chunk of Topanga’s adults and they crowded the place. They didn’t take a census here either, but she estimated the population of the canyon at no more than two thousand and probably less. That meant the system had the merit that if the assembly decided to fight, it would be the voters themselves and their immediate families who’d be walking towards edged metal in the hands of angry strangers.
She was a little surprised there were that many Topangans; she hadn’t seen a patch of grain on the steep and rocky way up to this halfway point much larger than what the old world would have called a front lawn, and there wasn’t enough grass here to support big herds either. A good deal of the rough land was covered in Himalayan blackberry, which at least produced edible fruit, stands of tall strong-scented fennel, which could be eaten . . . and many waist-high thickets of Teraccina splurge and Russian knotweed, which were actively poisonous. She’d also seen hemlock and climbing mats of waxy-leaved and highly toxic Cape Ivy.
The Topangans fished, and they planted olives anywhere they’d grow, which was many places since once they were established olives would usually yield something even in places you wouldn’t think would support a cactus. They planted slightly less hardy trees and bushes like pistachios and figs and grapevines and peaches wherever there was a patch of soil and a possibility of steering some runoff to it. They carved out gardens, often terracing them, and built up the soil with their own wastes and animal dung and ashes and clippings. They raised chickens and turkeys that could live mostly on the insects and wild seeds, and ate the rabbits and deer that tried to eat their vegetables and any birds they could catch and any edible wild plants they could find or encourage. And they pastured sheep and goats wherever they could, and a few horses and cattle and the odd pig.
They were a laid-back folk; in fact they gloried in how laid-back they were, probably to make an inescapable austerity seem like a choice. But they worked hard and got . . . just barely enough, and that only most of the time.
When we bring the High Kingdom’s peace hereabouts, I think a good many of them will just leave, she thought. Finding better land nearby, or working their way north on ships and such. Having this many people in so hard a stretch of country is an accident of history. The ones who feel the strongest link to the place and its ways will stay and have an easier time of it.
Some of her own party were here; in civil dress, not armored and not overly armed . . . though swords were in evidence. A lot of the locals carried shortswords or big knives as a matter of course, though they stacked things like bows and spears, helms and shields outside. Reiko and her two commanders and a pair of samurai stood out in their colorful kimonos and hakama.
When there were enough present the senior Brain—Jared Tillman, currently—looked at his watch, nodded, and stood.
“All right, let’s get going,” he said.
The crowd all stood, and a song began—irregularly at first, and then louder as more joined in, ending with a rousing chorus:
My Canyon, ’tis of thee
Sweet land of the hippie
Of thee I sing!
She recognized the tune; people in the United States of Boise still used it, though with different words. She even knew what hippies had been, vaguely; Grandmother Juniper and her Singing Moon coven had apparently been called that sometimes before the Change, though the word had dropped out of use afterwards in most places.
Her grandmother had laughed about that and said: Well, we won, didn’t we?
When people had seated themselves again, he went on:
“Well, let’s get this show on the road.”
Which seemed to be a ritual phrase, as much as anything was here. The Brains were considerably older than the crowd on average—she thought the youngest was in her forties—but wore the same plain shapeless clothes and sandals and moccasins, or in one case bare feet; a few of the spectators were wearing nothing beyond a loincloth and a headband, perfectly comfortable in this climate. The Brains sat on pre-Change folding chairs, with seats of worn nylon, and a couple of them clutched papers.
Jared stood and peered at the crowd, apparently not needing his pink eyeglasses. “You all know the Lancers are getting ready to take another slap at us.”
Someone shouted: “You were the one who wanted to mess with things out in the Valley, Jared!”
“Shut up, Lou,” Kwame Curtis said. “I was against that too, but we’ve got to deal with Mark Delgado now—and he’s got better weapons. It’s water under the bridge now, you can’t say sorry about that, let’s pretend it didn’t happen. We’ve as well as numbers on us this time.”
Jared nodded: “And Mark’s a meaner son of a bitch than his brother Bruce ever was, and his crowd got rougher while they put the Valley back under Chatsworth. If they break through, I don’t think they’ll leave anyone except the ones they want for chain gangs and whorehouses. He doesn’t just want to beat us, he doesn’t just want to boss us, he wants us gone. And most of his important guys want revenge for the Battle of the Avalanche; half his Lancers lost their fathers there, or brothers or uncles or whatever.”
There was a building murmur of dismay.
“We’ve stopped them at the Glenview Wall before,” someone shouted, and got a chorus of growls and cheers.
Kwame waited it out and then said flatly: “We can’t hold the wall against what they’re going to throw at us. Without outside help, we’re . . . fucked. Just . . . fucked.”
Órlaith could feel his sincerity; most others here seemed to be accepting it too. Eyes swiveled towards her, but she remained quiet until the Brains called for a vote on letting her address them. It was nearly unanimous; she heard someone say:
“Can’t hurt to listen.”
She walked up the staircase and turned, thanking the instructors who’d drilled her in public speaking; she was a little nervous, but she’d spent a fair amount of time on stages. She knew the kilt and lèine, plumed bonnet and plaid she wore were exotic to their eyes, but she hoped not threatening the way a suit of armor would be. And there was a reason for her to wear the Sword.
“Friends,” she said. “I am Crown Princess Órlaith Arminger Mackenzie, eldest child and heir to High King Artos of Montival and High Queen Mathilda. Four years ago, my parents sent aid to you when you faced hunger and many of your homes were burned. House Artos counts it their duty to help all the folk of Montival.”
&nb
sp; That got another murmur, a thoughtful one. The High King had sent shiploads of food, along with cloth and medicines and tools, and his representatives had simply handed it over, wished them well and departed. Few really appreciated being the recipients of charity, but human beings were capable of gratitude, especially if there was grace in the giving. That went doubly for promised help when they were feeling desperate.
“Now I and my followers . . . and our allies from Japan . . . are here and ready to help you once more; this time with sword and counsel, if you will have aid of us.”
To be sure, we didn’t come here to help you, and by “counsel” we mean “do what we say.” In fact I was only vaguely aware of your existence before I took up the Sword. We’re on a mission of our own and here against my mother’s will. Still, it’s all close enough to true for government work . . . when you are the government, or part of it. And it’s partly because of me that they’re in this fix.
There was more talking among the attendees. One shouted:
“Hey, Kwame! Can these people do us any good? I mean, yeah, they’ve got, like, nifty stuff. Really cool shit. Everyone groks that. But there aren’t very many of them.”
The War Brain stood. “We’re a hell of a lot better off with them than without them,” he said. “With ’em we’ve got a chance. As far as I can see, without them we’re . . . fucked. And I’ve been doing this shit since before the Change, remember.”
Órlaith waited for silence and went on. “But Montival is a kingdom of laws, governed by the Great Charter. I cannot simply make war as pleases me, even though I am convinced your cause is the better, and there is no time to consult the High Queen.”
Who would almost certainly help the Topangans if asked, but who would also haul Órlaith and John back north by one ear each. Nor could any help arrive in time to do much good, from the way things looked.
“Under the Great Charter, I can act to keep the High Queen’s peace by defending a signatory realm from attack with whatever force I have with me. If the Participatory Democracy of Topanga signs the Charter, I can act. If not, not.”
The Desert and the Blade Page 49