He penned a note thanking her for her letter and informing her that he expected to be able to move forward shortly. That timeline was vague enough that he wouldn't have to finalize the deal with her until he'd had the chance to do some public grousing about the safety of the roads and to take one last run at the duke.
This turned out blessedly simple. During Blays' travels for the goods, Dilliger had relocated from his chateau to the palace in Setteven. Blays sent the duke a request in the morning. By afternoon, Dilliger replied with an invitation to the palace for the next day. Blays considered informing the duke he couldn't make it on such short notice—the implication being he was close to a major deal, and the duke had better act fast—but he couldn't let Carraday dangle that long. He accepted the invitation.
He had been to the palace more than once, and as he dressed for the event, he felt no particular nerves. If anything, he was excited. It was always a pleasure to stroll the halls of the heart of Gask's power knowing that he would soon burn them down.
He hopped in his carriage and took off. As a foreigner in Setteven, he had been educated by multiple nobles looking to bring him up to speed and impress him with their knowledge of local history. So he knew the current palace wasn't the first. And that it hadn't always been this grand.
But as the carriage swung down the boulevard, you could sure believe it had been around since the dawn of time: built not by common laborers, but by the gods.
Tall, elegant homes lined the thoroughfare. After a quarter mile, this fed to a white stone gate. This was clearly a ceremonial feature, as beyond it lay a broad blue lake. The road continued across it on a causeway to the palace, which was abutted on its back side by stark white cliffs. Protected by the lake on one side and the cliffs on the other, it was all but impregnable.
But Blays thought it had been placed in this engineered landscape as much for its grandeur as for the defensive advantages. The bisected waters shimmered silver-blue. At the far end, they reflected the palace, which resembled a layer cake as seen by an approaching beetle: terraced, white, enormous, and simultaneously intimidating and intoxicating. Its round layers sported arched doorways and windows, and the terraces made for excellent viewing for visiting lords and ladies, who frequently took the sunshine on the upper floors.
The central tier stood twelve stories high. While it was a general rule of cities that in any tall building, the poor were forced to live at the top and deal with all the stairs, the palace was an exception. For one thing, a cunning, donkey-powered platform had been rigged up to lift visitors and residents from one floor to the next (the king had a private platform for himself). And for the second thing, those on the upper floors simply summoned everyone else up to see them.
As a result, the king lived in the narrowest, highest tier, with the following floors populated in rough correlation to the power, wealth, and status of their residents. Duke Dilliger was a handful of links removed from the throne and was occasionally very rich. That put him on the terrace just below the king's.
Blays' carriage wobbled across the strip of land connecting the palace to the city. It reached the rolling lawn that surrounded the palace and came to a stop in the red gravel outside the front steps. He left his driver and bodyguards, taking one footman to maintain appearances. At the top of the marble steps, they were greeted by two guards with crimson doublets and tall steel lances. One recognized Blays, nodded deeply, and allowed him through.
Inside, his steps were muted by the lush rugs that provided pathways across the airy marble entries. He and his footman crossed to the center of the palace, a wide, hollow pillar, and stepped onto a circular wooden platform. Blays informed a waiting servant of the desired floor. The servant tugged a thin rope. Somewhere below them, a bell jangled. Donkeys brayed. The platform shuddered, then began to climb.
It rotated slowly up a thick central pole cut like a screw, carrying them past intervals of blank walls and landings. A couple minutes later, it rocked to a stop. A female servant unhooked a red rope barring the doorway, then ushered them into an airy, circular room with doors spoking its outer walls. Blays informed the woman of their destination and she took them to one of the doors and announced them to the duke.
They were led inside a cool room floored with bamboo that must have been imported from the slopes of Gallador. One of the duke's servants spirited Blays' servant away and directed Blays outside to a flat marble deck that served as the roof of the lower floor and the terrace of this one.
The duke sat beside an iron railing overlooking the lake. "Greetings and such. You've just been on a trip, so I expect you'll want to tell me about it."
Blays smiled and moved to the railing. "You sound thrilled to hear it. Should we cut to the chase and let you hang yourself from boredom?"
"Why would I do that when I can order you hanged instead?"
"Then I shall endeavor to entertain. How's this? We were attacked by bandits. On the king's own road!"
Dilliger turned from the lake to eye him up and down. "You look like you came through it all right."
"Came damn close to fertilizing Willen Forest," Blays said. "Most of the blackguards escaped us. I've already placed a bounty on them. Mighty keen to learn who hired them."
The duke raised an eyebrow. "You think someone set them upon you? They're thieves. You were carrying thievables. I've never been much for math, but it's a straightforward equation."
"There's always room for coincidence in the House of Greed." Blays tapped the railing, which was hot with absorbed sunlight. "You're probably right, though. Why stretch to make it a conspiracy when everyday bandits would have attacked anyone with a wagon?" He furrowed his brow. "However, if it was a targeted attack, I doubt I'll be allowed to survive a second effort. Therefore, I'll continue my hunt for the odious toad behind the first—hypothetical though he might be."
All his life he'd been careless with words, slinging them around the way old men slung bread crumbs to the ducks at the edge of the lake. The hardest part of adopting the Pendelles persona had been learning to mind his tongue. Judging by the duke's reaction—frozen expression, one hand slipping from the rails—Blays had broken character. Spoken Words that Must Not Be Uttered.
Had he pushed too far? If so, how would Dilliger react? Blays supposed that depended on two things: the duke's perception of Pendelles, and the duke himself. It would help that Pendelles was on the naive side. Keen enough on business matters, but when it came to true intrigue, the kind worth killing over, Blays had presented his alter ego as hopelessly ignorant. He believed the duke would consider him completely incapable of exposing whoever was behind the attack. But there was a chance Dilliger was spooked enough to make a mistake.
"I assume," Dilliger said, "you came here to talk about more than your plans for revenge."
"Oh yes," Blays said, happy to move ahead. "I'm back, and so are the goods. Thought I'd drop in and see if your circumstances had changed."
"Unfortunately, no. But I appreciate the offer."
Blays bowed his head. "Anything for the man who introduced me to Run."
Dilliger turned toward the lake and laughed. Normally, protocol would insist they spend some formalized time together, sharing drinks, a meal, or gossip, but the duke was less concerned with protocol than most and knew Blays would prefer to get on with business elsewhere. Blays collected his footman and returned to the lift, which was ascending from below. It stopped on their floor a minute later.
An older man whose eyes couldn't decide if they were brown or green exited. He saw Blays and his face lit up. "Lord Pendelles? What brings you to the palace?"
Blays smiled at the man, a Galladese trader who'd become a minor lord in Setteven two decades ago, but who'd bitterly supported his former homeland during the war.
"First a team of horses, then my feet," Blays said. "Today, it's business. Tomorrow, I hope it's to lodge a complaint with the king regarding the infestation on his roads."
The merchant lifted his eyebrows. "In
festation? Are the giant ants back?"
"Bandits. Thieves." Blays leaned in theatrically. "And if they aren't exterminated, the tree of Gaskan trade will topple, devoured from the inside."
"My stars. I'll be doubling my sacrifice to Carvahal tonight."
Blays smiled slightly in case the man was joking. The palace servant cleared his throat. Blays stepped onto the lift, headed to the ground floor, called for his carriage, and headed back to his manor.
Taya was out. He tried to stay up until she returned, but found himself awakened by the click of the door. He wriggled from his stuffed chair and intercepted her in the hallway.
"The duke turned me down," he said.
She closed and latched the door. "Maybe you should have worn a sluttier dress."
"He didn't try to bargain. Didn't even try to stall me. I think he's out of the picture. Have you turned up any leads on the attackers?"
"Nothing yet. It takes time for information to percolate through a city. Like a bead of blood dropped in a glass of water."
"That's an unnecessarily gruesome image," Blays said. "If the duke's done, I'll write Carraday to schedule a meeting. Keep hunting for whoever hired the attackers, but it's time to move forward."
"Agreed," Taya said. "The bubble market for bossen is about to burst."
"How can you tell?"
"I'm from Gallador. We're born with a nose for these things."
Blays rolled his eyes but said nothing. He intended to spend the next couple days circulating in the salons bordering the Street of Kings. Relate the bandit story a few times, ask other merchants about their experience on the roads, perhaps make some noise about organizing petitions and proposals. If he were feeling really ambitious, he might discreetly hire some bandits of his own to start harassing the woods.
However, the issue of the roads presented him with a conundrum. Rather than being a waste of money and effort, spurring the king to clean up the roads might lead to increased commerce. And thus taxes. And thus Gaskan power. The exact opposite of Blays' goals.
It felt like he ran into this situation a lot. He thought he was pretty good at improvising short-term tactics—escapes, robberies, gambits of all types—but this skill rarely translated into a successful long-term strategy. That pissed him off, not least because it didn't make any sense. Say the goal was to cross the road. That crossing would involve a discrete number of individual steps. If you improvised each step as it came, sooner or later, you found yourself on the other side of the road.
That was how it should work. In practice, if you kept both eyes on what your feet were doing, and gave no care to what was coming down the road, you were liable to end up trampled halfway across it.
Even so, it would be fun to hire a gang of (threatening but ultimately nonviolent) highwaymen and wreak havoc on the Gaskan interior. He thought he would give it a shot.
He never got the chance. As he ate the next morning's breakfast, a knock sounded at the door. A man wearing a red doublet and a sword stood on the other side.
On seeing Blays, he stiffened his back. "Lord Pendelles?"
"That would be me," Blays said.
"The king wishes your presence."
"He does?" Blays said. Behind the messenger, a carriage waited in the street. "What, now?"
The man inclined his head. "That is his desire."
"I haven't even had my tea."
"Tea will be provided in your conveyance."
"Look," Blays said, mustering his best aristocratic hauteur. "I understand he's regent of all Gask. His time is worth more than the Pearl of Aldressar ground up and served atop the meat of the Tireless Pegasus. But I also know our great monarch is magnanimous, generous, and understanding. Surely he is kind enough to grant me ten minutes to prepare myself to be worthy of his presence."
The king's man took a small step back, regarded Blays, and inclined his head again. "Agreed. Take the time you deem necessary."
Blays attempted to wrest the exasperation from his face. "Thank you, good sir."
He closed the door, walked away from the entry, then sprinted upstairs. Taya sat in the library, bent over a desk overflowing with correspondence.
"Guess who's just been summoned to the king?" he said.
She glanced up. "Was it me? I've always wanted to meet a man of such high honor."
"His man's waiting outside. I should probably get dressed, shouldn't I?"
"What's the bastard want?"
"I don't know." Blays ticked his nails against the doorframe. "Maybe I went overboard besmirching his roads."
Taya straightened her papers. "Are you nervous?"
"I've been dreaming about killing him for years. Why would I be nervous?"
"Better hurry. Your most bitter enemy awaits you."
He grinned and jogged to his room. He'd established the character of Pendelles as a man who dressed cleanly but not fussily, but this was the king. He changed into a fresh doublet and swapped his boots for ones he only wore to parties and meetings of the highest order. He gave thought to trimming his beard, but there wasn't time. Anyway, a summons like this, with no advance notice, was highly unusual. Moddegan would know Pendelles wouldn't have time to kit himself out with the proper respect. Hell, the king would probably be pissed off to see Blays had wasted so much time smoothing every last hair and thread in place.
In the street, the king's man showed him to his carriage, a sleek vessel of buffed red lacquer. The horses clopped confidently down the streets, scattering pedestrians like mackerel before a shark. The servant sat across from Blays. Despite the rattling of the vehicle, he retrieved a tea tray from beneath the seat and poured Blays a steaming mug without spilling a drop.
"Tea while you travel," Blays said, halfway to himself; he wanted to inquire what this summons was about, but knew better than to ask, and so he filled the time with idle chatter instead. "I need this in my carriage. Or what about a tea delivery service? Do you think people would go for that?"
"I couldn't say, my lord," the king's man said.
"Con: it's pretty easy to make tea for yourself. Pro: who wants to make their own damn tea?" Blays stared at the dark liquid in his cup. In order to help sustain the illusion that he was a wealthy merchant, he'd gotten in the habit of musing about hypothetical business ventures, and had found, to his great surprise, that he enjoyed it. Commerce was like a philosopher's stone that turned ideas into gold. It was fascinating.
On reflection, a tea delivery service was probably not a viable enterprise. If someone were to run out to order tea delivered, they may as well just pick it up. Perhaps it would be useful at large meetings and the like, but anyone scheduling such an event would be wealthy enough to have servants to take care of their tea for them. The concept was intriguing, but the logistics rendered it a nonstarter. However, if people had the means to order tea without leaving their homes—if they all had loons, say—his brain might be sitting on a fortune.
The cart slowed, climbing an arched bridge over a minor tributary of the river that split the capital. Now that he thought about it, loons were easily among the most valuable items in the world. Yet so far as he knew, they were completely uncommercialized. The only people who owned them were norren tribes and Dante's people. If Blays could get his hands on a source...
...then they'd soon wind up appropriated by King Moddegan, who would use them to solidify the very empire Blays was attempting to crumble.
Still, fun to think about. Really, many parts of business were fun. He got to travel, see strange places, plot and scheme and brainstorm. If he had his life to do over, he'd spend part of it as a merchant. He'd be damn good at it, too. Become disgustingly rich while seeing the world and having a blast. Sounded pretty good. Especially if he got to challenge people to duels when they tried to gouge him.
But he didn't have that option. His life was committed. To a much different course.
The carriage swung onto the swarming Street of Kings. Blays swilled his tea, which had gone lukewarm. He didn't
bother to glance at the lake as they crossed the causeway to the palace. The wheels crunched to a stop in the red gravel. A servant materialized to open Blays' door. He forgot to thank the man. He tilted back his head and pretended to appreciate the layered palace while he adjusted his attitude. No time for surliness. Not in front of the king.
The man who'd summoned him waited until Blays was ready, then guided him up the steps. Two armed guards fell in beside them, accompanying them onto the lift. The bell jangled three times. The platform clunked and raised.
"Has this thing ever collapsed?" Blays said.
The servant glanced at him sidelong. "I can assure you it's safe."
"If it's the same as the king's, I'm sure it is. I'm just curious. Would be a heck of a ride down, eh?"
The man nodded indulgently. Blays made no further efforts to engage him. After a slow ascent, the platform rocked to a stop at the top floor. More guards waited on the landing, inspecting the platform's occupants. The servant gestured the way forward and Blays stepped off.
Ceilings hung twenty feet above them. Patterns of bright red stone zagged through the white marble walls. Silver artifacts rested on pedestals around the walls of the vast circular foyer. The servant's shoes whispered over lush carpets. He brought Blays to a cherrywood door and led him through a quick series of wood-paneled passages. Typically when the weather was fine, as it was this morning, the nobles preferred to sit around their terraces, but the room Blays was deposited in was windowless and small.
The walls featured paintings and end tables, but the middle of the room was empty except for two chairs. One was high-backed and red plush, elevated on a sandalwood plinth. The other was a plain but comfortable-looking white seat. It didn't take a genius to deduce which one was his. Five minutes later, the back door opened.
The Cycle of Arawn: The Complete Epic Fantasy Trilogy Page 116