The driver hawked and spat. “This is all there is,” he said, brushing the ice from his beard. “Be thankful for that.”
“We paid for forty.”
“That is not my problem, Councillor. Take it up with the merchant Lunder.”
Pooris hunkered down inside his hooded sheepskin coat and thought of the city’s bakers, who later tonight would be queuing at the warehouses. Forty wagons would have been barely enough to supply the bakers with half what was needed. Twenty-two would mean riots in the streets tomorrow.
At Warehouse Street Pooris jumped down from the wagon and entered the small offices beside the guard gate. For several minutes he stood in front of a wood stove, warming his hands and thinking the problem through. The bakers were already rationed to 40 per cent of their needs. Now they would suffer a further 50 per cent cut.
A young cleric approached him, offering a mug of hot tisane, heavily sweetened with sugar. Pooris thanked him. The man returned to his desk and continued to fill in the ledger, noting down the wagons and the time of their arrival. Pooris glanced around the room. The ill-fitting windows had been sealed with paper, which was now sodden and dripping water to the walls below. “Not the most comfortable of working-places,” remarked Pooris.
The young man looked up and smiled. “I like it here,” he said. The cleric rose and donned a fur-lined cape. “I must leave you, Councillor. I need to check the unloading of the wagons.”
“Of course. My thanks to you.” Pooris held out his hand. The young man shook it, then opened the door and stepped out into the snow.
Pooris removed his coat and moved to the desk, scanning the ledger. The cleric’s script was neat and easy to read. During the last two weeks some 320 wagons had been checked through, bringing corn, grain, salted meat, spices, dried fruit and wine from the islands. Almost all of the food had been shipped in through the port city of Loretheli, much of it arranged through the merchant Lunder. Flicking back through the pages, Pooris saw that the amount of food shipped had steadily decreased during the past three months, the prices rising in direct proportion. It was a simple economic law, Pooris knew, that when demand outstripped supply prices would take off like startled pigeons.
The young cleric returned, and looked surprised to see Pooris sitting at his desk. “Is there anything I can help you with, Councillor?” he asked. Pooris glanced up, and saw the nervousness in the man.
“I was just studying the shipments,” he said. “We are fast approaching famine status.”
“I’m sure the Duke will think of something, sir,” said the young man, relaxing. “May I offer you another mug of tisane?”
“No, I must be going.” Once more they shook hands. “What is your name?”
“Cellis, sir.”
“Thank you for your hospitality, Cellis.”
Pooris wandered along Warehouse Street, cutting through the narrow alleyways to the central avenue and thence to the palace. Ensconced in his own small office, he called in Niro, a spider-thin cleric with close-cropped, spiky black hair. “What do you know of the man Cellis who works at the warehouse guard gate?” he asked.
“Nothing, sir. But I shall find out,” Niro answered.
“Do it now, as a matter of urgency,” said Pooris, removing his coat and hanging it on a hook set in the wall. For just over an hour Pooris worked through the tasks he had set himself for the day, compiling a list of armourers, and the various orders for swords, spears, crossbow bolts and armour placed with them, along with the delivery dates promised. He was almost finished when Niro returned.
“I have some of the information you require, sir,” he said. “Cellis has been working for us for two years. His father was a cobbler in the Southern Quarter, his mother a seamstress. He was educated by the Aver monks and passed his examinations with honours. He is not married, and lives in a hill house in Quarter Street. Was there more you wished to know, sir?”
“A cobbler, you say?”
“His father . . . yes.”
“Does he own the house?”
“I . . . I don’t know, sir.”
“Find out.”
Once again Pooris returned to his work. He called in a cleric and dictated several letters, including one to Lunder asking why the number of flour wagons had been fewer than expected.
When Niro returned just before noon, he looked cold and his lips were blue. “Sit you down, man,” said Pooris. Niro rubbed his thin hands together. Moving to the small stove, Pooris flicked open the door, allowing a rush of heat into the room.
“Thank you, sir,” said Niro. “Yes, he does own the house. He bought it four months ago for two hundred gold. It is a fine house, with stables in the rear and an apple orchard.”
“How did a cobbler’s son raise the capital necessary?”
“I thought you’d ask that, sir; that’s why it took me so long. He borrowed the money from . . .”
“. . . the merchant Lunder,” finished Pooris.
“Yes, sir,” said Niro, surprised. “How did you know?”
“Cellis wears a gold ring, set with an emerald the size of my thumbnail. No cleric could afford such a bauble. Go to the Hall of Records and find out how many warehouses Lunder owns or rents. Do it slyly, Niro. I want no-one to know.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pooris shut the stove door, put on coat and gloves and left the building, trudging through the snow towards the southern gate. A quarter-mile from the gate, he stopped at a row of terraced houses. They housed retired soldiers and their wives, and were a gift from the Duke—a reward for loyal service. Moving to the first he rapped on the door. There was no answer, and he walked to the second. When he knocked, an elderly woman called out from within, “Who is it? What do you want?”
“I am the councillor Pooris,” he told her. “I would appreciate a moment of your time, lady.”
He heard the bolts being drawn back, then the door groaned inward. Stepping inside he bowed to the frail, white-haired old woman. “They said I could stay here till I was dead,” said the woman. “Said it was my right. I won’t live in no poorhouse. I’ll kill myself first.”
“Be at ease,” he said softly. “I have not come as a bailiff. Do you sleep well, my lady?”
“Ay,” she said cautiously. “Though not as deep as I used to.”
“I was just wondering if the noise of the wagons disturbs you late at night.”
“No,” she said. “I sit at my window sometimes and watch them go by. I don’t get out much now. Too cold for me. It’s nice to watch life below my window.”
“How often do they come through?” he asked.
“Maybe three times a week. Great convoys of them.”
“Did they come last night?”
“Ay, they did. Three hours before dawn.”
“How many?”
“Maybe fifty. Maybe a little less.”
“I thank you for your time.” He turned to leave. “It is very cold in here. Do you have no fuel?”
“The Duke’s pension don’t extend to luxuries,” she said. “My man fought for him for thirty years. He’s dead now, and his pension is halved. I get food, though. As for the cold—well, I’m used to it.”
“I shall see that coal is delivered to you before the day is out, my lady.”
Pooris bowed once more, then stepped out into the cold, fresh air.
Chapter Ten
The cleric Cellis was arrested at his home and taken to the palace dungeons, where he was offered the choice between confession and torture. An intelligent man, and not without bravery, Cellis knew that following confession they would torture him anyway, and he chose to remain silent.
Pooris, Niro, the Duke and Karis observed the beginning of Cellis’s ordeal, then retired to the Duke’s apartments. Niro was sent to man the small office at Warehouse Street.
Just after dawn, with the stove recently lit and the room still cold, Niro was studying Cellis’s neat ledger when the door opened and a tall, burly man entered. Bald at the crown, h
is receding black hair cropped short, he removed a cloak lined with expensive fur and stood before the stove. “Where is Cellis?” he asked.
“He has been taken ill, sir. I am Niro, and—temporarily, one hopes—in charge here.”
“Ill? He seemed in good spirits yesterday.”
“Frightening, is it not, how swiftly the onset of illness can render a man incapable?” said Niro. “How may I be of service, sir?”
“I have a convoy due today. But I fear it may be delayed until after dark.”
“I see, sir, and so you would like me to request written authorization for the guards to open the gates?”
“We could proceed that way,” agreed the man, pulling up a chair and sitting down opposite Niro. He was wearing a heavy silk shirt of blue, embroidered with gold thread, and a fur-lined waistcoat of soft grey leather. If Niro saved his meagre wages for half a year he could not afford to buy either garment. “But it would be simpler,” the man continued, “to find another solution.”
“Another solution, sir? How can that be? The Duke’s orders are specific. The gates are closed at dusk and there can be no traffic thereafter, save with written authorization.”
“Indeed that is the case,” said the man. “But, in my experience, such authorization takes time, and effort and—” he grinned “—a man’s weight in paperwork. I am sure there is a good reason for the Duke to create such a rule, but poor merchants like myself need to earn an honest crust. Often that means conducting one’s business swiftly—especially with perishable food.”
“I am sure that is true, sir,” said Niro, rising and adding two logs to the stove. “However, my understanding is that there is no private trade in food at present. The Duke, through merchants like yourself, buys all available supplies to keep the city fed. Therefore, whatever food is contained in your convoy is already under the ownership of the Duke. Not so?”
“In theory, that is the case . . . Niro, did you say?” The cleric nodded. “Well, Niro, I can see that you are an honest man. Do you know how I can make such a judgement?”
“Indeed I do not, sir.”
“Your tunic cost around eight copper pennies. The cloak hanging from the peg was no more than three.” He glanced down. “Your boots are worn thin, the leather poor quality. Only an honest man would wear them.”
“I take your point, sir. But surely to take that point a step further, I would have to say that you are a dishonest man, since your silk shirt must have cost . . . ten in silver . . . ?”
“Thirty.” The man gave a broad smile as he opened the pouch at his side. Removing two gold coins he laid them on the desk. “Unless I am mistaken,” he said, “your wage for the year is less than the amount you see here.”
“You are quite correct, sir.”
“Take the coins in your hand. Feel the weight and the warmth. Gold has a special feel, Niro.”
The cleric’s thin hand gathered the coins. “So it does. So it does.”
“My convoy will be here by midnight. There will be no need to register its arrival.”
The man rose and swirled his cloak around his broad shoulders. “Might I know your name, sir?” asked Niro.
“I am Lunder. Serve me well, Niro, and you will enjoy great fortune.”
“I thank you, sir. And you have saved me a journey.” Niro opened the desk drawer and produced a folded sheet of paper bearing the Duke’s seal in red wax. “I was asked to deliver this to you this morning.”
“What is it?” asked the merchant.
“I have no idea, sir. I am not privy to the Duke’s thoughts.” Lunder took the paper and broke the seal. Then he smiled.
“I am invited to dine at the palace this evening,” he said.
“Congratulations, sir. I am informed that the Duke’s chef is exceptional.”
The Duke’s carriage—handsomely crafted from mahogany, and fitted with seats of luxurious padded leather—was drawn by six greys. Lunder sat back and enjoyed the ride. Velvet curtains kept out the winter wind and two copper warming-pans full of hot coals hung from hooks in the roof, filling the compartment with gentle heat.
Lunder was as happy as any man born in a crofter’s hut could be to ride in such a carriage. He wondered what his father would think of him, if he could but see what a man he had become! A house with twenty-six servants, a mistress of great beauty, and a personal fortune greater even than the Duke’s. All this, plus an estate in the islands should the Daroth prove to be the menace everyone feared. Lunder could hear the iron-shod wheels rattling over the cobbles, but inside the compartment there was little sense of movement. He gazed at the ornate panelling, wonderfully carved from red mahogany. I should have a carriage like this, he thought. And I will.
His thick fingers reached into the pocket of his velvet coat, drawing out a gold necklace and a tear-shaped amethyst set in filigree gold. An ancient piece, it had cost him 200 silver pieces. The amethyst was a present for Miriac, who loved such baubles. He would wake her when he got back, and watch her bright blue eyes go wide with joy. It was not a cause of irritation for Lunder that Miriac’s ardour could only be awakened by such gems. Lunder himself found the acquisition of fresh wealth a continuing aphrodisiac. Added to which, all the presents he gave her were, in fact, registered in his name at the treasury, with bills of sale. If ever he tired of her, all the jewels would be his again.
He heard the driver call out to the horses and the carriage slowed to a stop. The journey had been much swifter than he had calculated. Surely they could not be at the palace already? He rapped at the small hatch. “Why are we stopping?” he called. There was no answer. Pulling back the curtains, he gazed out onto a grisly sight. The carriage had stopped in Gallows Square. Torches were lit all around it, and in their flickering light he could see ten corpses hanging by their necks. “Move on!” he shouted at the driver. This was no sight for a man about to dine.
A figure moved to the carriage door, wrenching it open. A soldier in a plumed helm pulled down the steps. “Out you get, sir,” he said.
“What are you doing? I am a guest of the Duke; he is awaiting me.”
“Indeed he is, sir. Now step down.”
Lunder’s mind raced, but he could think of no reason to refuse further. Taking hold of the door frame, he pulled himself upright and climbed down the steps. Duke Albreck was standing there, the councillor Pooris with him, and that fellow Niro from the warehouse offices.
“Good evening, my lord,” said Lunder. “I am at a loss . . .”
“You recognize this man?” asked the Duke, pointing to the first of the corpses. It was Cellis the cleric. Lunder’s mind reeled. “You recognize him?” demanded the Duke again. The other corpses were sentries from the south gate.
“Yes, my lord, but I assure you . . .”
“Your assurances mean nothing, Lunder. You have defrauded me, and caused unnecessary suffering in Corduin. Your goods are forfeit; your lands are forfeit. Your wealth is forfeit.”
Lunder was trembling now. “My lord, I allow that I have been . . . lax in my dealings. But I never intended to defraud you. All the goods are waiting in my warehouses. I . . . I make a gift of them to you.”
“They are already mine,” said the Duke coldly. “Hang him.”
Lunder heard the words—but could not believe them. “Sir, I beg you . . .” he said, as two soldiers grabbed his arms and began to haul him towards the scaffold steps. As he reached them, he started to struggle, but a third man stepped forward and smote him hard in the face with a clenched fist. Lunder was half hauled up the steps. At the top his hands were tied behind him, a noose looped over his head and tightened around his neck. He began to sob, and scream for mercy. Then the floor gave way beneath him—and he dropped into darkness.
“I do not understand why he did it,” said the Duke. “He was already rich. The prices he charged me were exorbitant, and his profits must have been huge.”
“For some men there is never enough wealth, my lord,” said Pooris. “He knew that wh
en the official warehouses were empty, people would pay anything for his goods. By smuggling them in, he would claim they were purchased before your decree was made.”
“I do not understand such greed,” said the Duke. “But I understand the value of loyalty. You, Pooris, have done me a great service. You may have Lunder’s house and his lands.”
“I thank you, my lord,” said Pooris, bowing deeply.
“And now my dinner awaits,” said the Duke, moving to his carriage and stepping inside. Niro approached Pooris. “My congratulations, sir,” he said, with a bow.
The little politician chuckled. “Seventeen warehouses packed with food—enough supplies to last most of the winter, and the treasury fuller than at any time since the war began. A satisfactory day, I think.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Are those new boots I see, Niro?”
“Yes, sir. I bought them this afternoon.”
“They look expensive.”
“They were, sir. Compliments of the merchant Lunder.”
“What a benefactor he proved to be,” observed Pooris.
Early the next morning, Pooris rapped at the door of Lunder’s house. Together with a troop of guardsmen, he entered the main hall and called for the Lady Miriac. She emerged from an upstairs room and, dressed in a gown of white, walked down the long staircase. Pooris marvelled at her beauty—the shining hair like spun gold, the porcelain loveliness of her skin. He took her into the main room and, as gently as he could, explained the circumstances of his visit. She sat demurely, saying little and showing nothing of her emotions.
“So,” she said, when he had finished, “Lunder is dead, and the house is yours. How soon must I leave?”
“There is no need to leave, my lady,” said Pooris. “In fact, I would very much like you to stay. I have brought with me a small gift for you.”
Reaching into his pocket he produced Lunder’s necklace, with the shining amethyst shaped like a tear-drop. With delight he saw her eyes sparkle, and her hand reach out.
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