Forest For The Trees (Book 3)

by Damien Lake

  This afternoon, a great swatch of land teamed on the city’s edge. A rancher’s organization had driven their herds southward from the lush grazing beside the Stygan Gulf. An infinity of cows moved over the land toward the slaughtering pens to the city’s west. The green field transformed into a roiling sea of brown, white and black.

  Out of curiosity, Marik drifted through the etheric plane, sending his self winging over the teaming city to flit between the cattle. They were on the edge of his distance limits. He could feel the connection of his mind to his physical body as a cord that tightened with every additional inch he floated.

  The experience was surreal owing to the fact that sounds never pierced the veil between the mortal world and the etheric plane. He knew that around him raged a tumult to make a massive waterfall sound like a pleasant trickle, or an avalanche resemble the simple scraping of boots over street pavers. Marik maintained a slight hover above the moving bodies since a living aura passing through his incorporeal being always gave him a chill.

  Running alongside the vast herd were countless small dogs, no higher than his own calves. They nipped at any bovine’s heels that strayed away from their kitchen kettle destination. It amused him to see kicks from irate cows fly high over their tormentors’ heads. A larger dog, such as most of the ratters he had watched at Shaw’s, would have been in trouble if it attempted to keep a cow in line. Only the faster, agile and smaller dogs were effective at subduing the massive beasts.

  Surely there must be a valuable lesson in that.

  But, he reflected when he returned to his body, given a choice, I would rather be a bigger dog in the coming fight. Agility is not always enviable if other options were available.

  The council chamber’s doors had been opened while he took in the fresh air. It meant they were preparing for the next session, waiting for everyone to arrive who was due to report. Several people hastened to enter the room. He made his way back down the hall without any great haste. Or enthusiasm.

  From the last meeting, which had been his only time thus far before the royal councilors, he understood these people scurrying to enter were from a wide variety of walks. Most would be guild masters. With a war brewing, a hundred less obvious, if related, matters needed tending to. In his council meeting four days previous, several merchants had reported on numerous goods, on which were available and which materials were in short supply. Others had offered insights on where most of the hard coin in the kingdom was, or lack thereof, and what could be made available for war efforts, which proved to be little enough. Food was always a major concern. With that in mind, the heads of the Farmers and Ranchers Guilds had presented their piece. The Miners Guild leader had been adamant that the mines in operation around Galemar were producing as much iron ore as they possibly could without jeopardizing the workers’ safety. He had gone on to suggest purchasing ore in bulk from Gusturief or Rubia, which had set off a minor attack of apoplexy among the merchants.

  The meeting had possessed two definite halves. First, the civilians, each of whom displayed inflated self-importance. Once they’d had their say and departed, the non-civilians discussed the important issues. This came from Tybalt, updating Raymond on the state of the army and what his people had thus far worked out. Celerity, doing much the same with her areas of responsibility. Bronwen, keeping the council informed of any slight change in the political negotiations with Nolier. Thorald, sitting slumped in the corner like a forgotten tree stump. Rancill, representing the city’s magistrates, though why they had any interest in war matters was a mystery since he had kept silent the entire meeting. Delano, the head quartermaster for the Galemaran territories along the Hollister Bridge area, except they had some funny name for the position. Joletta, offering her herdmaster knowledge on all the crown-owned horses, riding or work animals, under her authority. Finally the seneschal, working his organizational magic to keep the entire process moving smoothly and efficiently.

  Marik flitted through the doorway and immediately made his way right along the back wall. Again he was reminded of Shaw’s blood sport arena, this time of the rats huddled in a ball against the slat-boards. Lurking in the rear was impossible in a circular room. Thorald managed to stay in corners despite the round walls, yet Marik had met with difficulty in remaining unobtrusive last time. He saw no reason why this meeting would be any different.

  The chairs on the far side that spread away from the semi-thrones would contain officials. Each of the remaining seats would go to whichever civilian bodies arrived first. Over thirty ‘concerned parties’, as the council named any civilian attending its sessions, had been left standing behind the chairs directly opposite the king today. It had risen by half over his first meeting.

  What would the council room look like once warfare broke out in earnest?

  Noise reverberated through the room. As large as the chamber was, it possessed an architecture that allowed sound to travel easily. No one needed to raise their voice much to be heard by their opposite on the far side of the ring-like table.

  Most disregarded that and chose to yell half the time anyway. Usually the ones with concerns that were devoid of importance to any save themselves.

  The officials entered through the hallway door. They quickly filled their personal seats. Without preamble, the seneschal ordered all to rise so Raymond and Ulecia could enter.

  Both shunned the elaborate raiment they wore when on public display. No trailing robes or yards worth of silver chain hampered them. Their clothing still must have reached a cost into golds, but it possessed no features that were unmatched by others throughout the room except for the coronets on their brows.

  The seneschal pounded his staff of office on the hardwood floor to seal his pronouncement. “This advisory council is now in session.” Outside, the two squires flanking the doors shut them. “Captain of the guard, pass out the lots.”

  Thorald performed his sole duty for the meeting. Well, Marik silently amended, sole if you don’t consider being the king’s chief bodyguard an active duty.

  With the lot box in hand, Thorald made his way along the curving table, allowing each civilian to pull a tile from within and surreptitiously evaluating them all for any hidden threats they might pose to his monarch. The box contained fifty numbered ceramic squares. If no one pulled the ‘number one’ tile, then the person with the lowest would present their information, concerns or demands first.

  This system did a fair job of eliminating any political insults that might have arisen by granting implied importance to one visiting noble or guild leader over another by deciding on an order. What it created in its wake was malcontented grumbling from wealthy merchants when they withdrew a tile numbered forty-two. After giving the seated concerned parties the first pull, Thorald made his way back along the arc, allowing those standing to draw their lots along the way.

  The seneschal wasted no time. “Has the first tile been selected?” He gestured at a woman sitting on the left side of the civilian’s crescent after she raised a hand in acknowledgement. “You may begin the session.”

  When the woman stood, the seneschal flipped over a five-minute sandglass sitting on the table beside King Raymond’s hand. If the speaker could not finish in that time, they would be cut off in mid-sentence. The council members would prolong the speaker’s time only in the event that they had any questions.

  “Vanora Lett,” she announced to introduce herself. She brushed back her wave of white hair over one shoulder. “I have come today to represent the painter’s chapter of the Artisan’s Guild. In order for us to maintain our productivity, we must continue to possess access to the wide range of pigments we need to craft our works. The closing of the trade routes over the eastern borders during the last war caused unprecedented shortages of indigo violet, carmine, shaded rose and nickel yellow paint bases. What little was kept in stores around the kingdom became so expensive that most chapter members were unable to afford the materials necessary to complete their commissions without resorti
ng to the practice of raising the promised price of the paintings. This resulted is general ill-will as well as a few isolated altercations involving the parties and local magistrates. With the prospect of new strife in the making, we must express our concerns over the matter of a second closing of the trade routes. Along with the pigments already mentioned, several other stock items imported from Nolier are in jeopardy, including…”

  She rattled off a memorized list that Marik suspected could easily consume the remaining minutes allotted to her. He kept a straight face with effort.

  If he were a council member, these open sessions with civilians would drive him mad. The craziest part was that every one of them categorically felt that a terrible injustice was underway. That their concerns must be of staggering magnitude over all else to the council.

  What do they expect? Do they think that after the endless concerns over a second war, finding out that a painter might not have enough yellow to paint a sun in the sky will make the king abruptly realize that the fighting will cause problems? Whoa there, boys, I guess we’d better get this troupe act together!

  He wanted to frown, wanted to shout at this woman, and all the rest, about what utter fools they were. Who cared about obscure paint shades, or slate roofing tiles, or spices that added a hint of flavor to meat, or copper thread, or cobblestones of a particular grayness, or certain differences in texture between local wool and elite Nolier sheep?

  When the council left the door open for ‘concerned parties’ to accompany what few civilians the members had specifically contacted, the local leaders took it as an invitation to complain about the world not being perfectly suited to their ideals. It had amazed him during the last meeting. This time he felt a dull annoyance.

  The only question in his mind was ‘what did she expect the council to do about it?’ Raymond would hardly call off offensive actions simply to suit Vanora’s wants. There was literally nothing he could do to appease her since the trade routes were already shutting down due to Nolier’s land theft. If he ceded the stolen land to keep from being drawn into a second war, Nolier still would not allow traders across the border anytime soon, and it would only imply that they could steal as much as they wanted with impunity.

  But everyone wanted the council to make happen what they wanted. They would rather complain and then blame than suffer the slightest hardship.

  Vanora continued droning for the entire five minutes. She seemed to be just getting started, building up a good froth while the sands dwindled. When the last grains slipped through the glass’ narrow neck, she abruptly concluded with the statement, “And so we inform the king’s council to demonstrate our concern,” as if the sandglass’s existence were of no concern at all to her.

  Either she had already answered any questions she raised in the councilors’ minds, or they wished to waste as little time as possible. The seneschal declared, “Thank you for providing the council with the information under your expertise. You may be contacted for further details later.”

  I bet, Marik snorted within the privacy of his thoughts.

  “Is the number two tile available?” No one rose. “Number three? You have the floor.” He flipped the sandglass back to its previous position.

  “Esteemed members of the council,” the older man intoned in a sonorous drawl. “I am Fulton Tully, the head of the Rancher’s Association for a partnership of eleven towns along the Tenpencia River’s southern waters. For several generations we have conducted a lucrative business with our counterparts on Nolier soil. By lucrative, I mean that families who would have been reduced to digging for roots in lean seasons have managed to keep bread on the table and lard in the pantry. The recent strained relations with our neighbors has cut off all mutual bartering and trade-sharing. It began with the first upsurge in conflict two years ago.”

  He also continued for his full time limit. This time at the end, Bronwen asked a question. “Have you made independent attempts to contact your friends in Nolier?”

  “We haven’t pushed the limits yet, madam councilor. We’ve tried several times to cross the bridge peacefully. Our side told us we were wasting our time, and they were right. Every time we reached the far end, the Noliers wouldn’t so much as crack the gates open. They felt that shouting through the doors was good enough for the likes of us.”

  Queen Ulecia spoke up. “Free and fair trade is, and will always be, the right of the Galemaran people. However, We cannot vouch for our neighbors.”

  Fulton, looking straight at the queen, suddenly remembered he still wore his simple cloth hat with the three-inch brim. Rather than snatch it off like a flustered country yokel, he lifted it from his head and pressed it to his chest in a move as deliberate as his voice. Marik gave the man credit, acknowledging a steady man whom others could rely upon.

  “That is a bitter truth, your majesty, one the association leaders have been trying to get across to the younger bulls. Several have been advocating crossing the river at one of the shallows. This has never been a matter of kingdoms or map lines, if the esteemed members will pardon me. It has been a matter of townships working with other townships in order to survive. Our Nolier friends are much of the same mind. The conflicts of armies are of little import to us, who live off the beaten path and can’t afford waste.”

  The queen lifted a sliver quill to make a note. On a smaller paper slip, she duplicated it, then motioned to one of the pages standing in boredom beside Thorald. “If it would please you, Fulton Tully,” she announced, handing the slip to the boy, “this young man will bring you to the quartermasters’ office. Supplies are tight across all of Galemar, as I am certain you know, but crown aide will be made available. Unfortunately, the larger problem persists, and if you may afford to wait a few days longer, someone will meet with you privately to discuss your situation.”

  “We would be obliged for any help, your majesty,” Fulton nodded respectfully. The page knocked on the doors and the squires outside let them out. After a moment the doors closed.

  That was rare enough, Marik mused. Of course, if they hadn’t been right on the border, I doubt they would have gotten much. If they get much in the first place.

  He waited through three candlemarks of inflated egos, angry demands and pompous imperiousness. Most speakers stayed to the end despite being free to leave once they had made their problems known. After the last tile found its way back into the lot box, the council dismissed the concerned parties so they could ‘evaluate confidential information.’

  The doors shut behind the last. Marik would have sighed in relief and lost his straight-backed posture if he were a councilor. None of them chose to do so. If anything, a heavier air of business enshrouded them. He remained in the back because he had no wish to attract attention sooner than he needed to. This was less effective since the shielding wall of civilians between him and the upper echelon had vacated.

  “What are the newest developments?” Raymond asked. He looked first to Bronwen.

  “Orburn’s trying to invoke a due diligence clause from three-twenty-nine A.U., if anyone can believe that,” Bronwen spat out. “He’s building a case that the values assigned to the terrain back when the Tenpencia River was officially decided upon as the border were inaccurate. Therefore Nolier has every right to reclaim the full value of the land that Galemar promised would be its due.”

  Raymond sighed. Tybalt looked sour while Rancill flicked a tiny paper ball across the room using his middle finger off his thumb’s pad.

  “That might be the biggest fairyland barge I’ve heard tell of. Ever.” Rancill declared. “Agreements regarding land division are final once both parties have signed. It doesn’t matter if the gods later decide one half is holy and the other a pestilent crater.”

  “What value measurements were used?” Raymond wanted to know. “I don’t recall.”

  “Nothing in the way Orburn wants to interpret it,” Bronwen answered. “The values were strictly based upon acreage. We surrendered the holdings we had claimed
on their side of the river, and they relinquished what they held on our side. The ‘value’ mentioned is solely in regards to arable land.”

  Rancill nodded in a dour manner that, as chief magistrate, he took pains to adhere to. “That is the standard by which such agreements are usually held, except for the Vyajjonese. Their laws severely restrict any disposition of land since they have perpetual space problems.”

  “The tillable soil we were to receive exceeded the amount they would gain by nearly a third,” she elucidated. “We paid them a settlement in gold and trade agreements.”

  “They could have claimed infractions of the trade agreements within the first thirty years,” Rancill added. “Not today. Too much time has passed, and the Galemaran crown has never agreed to any commitment longer than thirty years. It’s long been a practice in every kingdom, not merely our own, so as to exempt future rulers from having to pay for inadvertent mistakes by their predecessors. Or from political changes that make the previous agreements a heavier burden.”

  “It’s blatant stalling,” Tybalt growled. “Every day he can purchase means an additional day Nolier’s forces can secure their hold on the gold strike and dig out more ore.”

  “I agree,” Bronwen said. “Orburn can’t possibly hope to gain anything by this.”

  “I didn’t expect any new developments from their diplomat,” Raymond admitted.

  Queen Ulecia posed her thoughts. “A kingdom’s representative who pushes such an unsteady platform is one who is usually at the edge of a precarious precipice, grasping for any desperate purchase.” Bronwen nodded, her expression attentive. “This is the sort of bluster you only hear from such,” the queen continued, “and yet a note in it strikes me as unlikely. Lord Orburn has always been a clever spokesman for Nolier. Could he possibly have exhausted his diplomatic maneuverings so quickly?”