The Path to Power

by Karen Miller

  “All married off, Your Grace. And even if they weren’t, after the disastrous widow there’ll be no more women permitted sole rule in Cassinia.”

  “No,” said Roric, his gaze dangerously unfocused. “I dare say you’re right.”

  Shifting in his chair, needing to ease his aching bones, Humbert knocked his booted foot against Roric’s ankle. A timely hint. Let the boy be distracted by Berardine and her dead daughter and they’d not escape the merchant’s company before sunrise.

  “What news else, Blane?” he said briskly. “No need to dwell on Ardenn. His Grace knows already where Clemen can and cannot trade.”

  “But he doesn’t, my lord,” Blane said, banging his emptied goblet on the side table. “And nor does any man who thinks to do business in Cassinia these days. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! For in Cassinia these days up is down and down is up and the rules change from moment to moment, on a whim!”

  Roric turned. “Patience, Humbert. We need to hear him out.”

  And that was true, though he wished it wasn’t. He didn’t care for Master Blane. Rich men who opened their coin chests to dukes oft had a nasty habit of thinking they’d made a purchase, not a loan. Resting his chin on his chest he gestured at the merchant.

  “Very well, Blane. We’re listening.”

  Blane smoothed his wine-stained beard, the costly rings on his fingers catching the firelight. “Your Grace, allow me to illustrate my point. This last venture, we travelled particularly to Duchy Hardane–being given reliably before we sailed that the noblemen there favour tawny silk above all. Now as everyone knows, the best silk-dyers you’ll find anywhere live in Clemen. So at great expense I shipped in highest-quality silk from the Quartered Isles and had it dyed here. But when we arrived in Hardane, we were told tawny silk is forbidden in the duchy, by order of the Regents’ Council!”

  Despite himself, Humbert was intrigued. “For what reason?”

  “Because, my lord—” Blane hissed a breath between clenched teeth. “—the duke of Hardane’s nephew insulted one of the regents while wearing a tawny silk doublet.”

  From the look on Roric’s face, it seemed he didn’t know whether to laugh or howl. “I’d not heard that, Blane.”

  “Nor I, Your Grace,” Blane said glumly. “Or I wouldn’t have carted twenty bales of tawny silk all the way to Hardane.”

  “Twenty bales?” Humbert snorted. “A foolish risk.”

  “No, my lord,” Blane said, not quite hiding his resentment. “The duke of Hardane’s nephew is passionate fond of tawny silk. And whatever he esteems becomes wildly popular with the nobility. If he’d not ruined himself with the regents I’d have turned a pretty profit. As it was…”

  “You had to bring it back again?” said Roric, all sympathy.

  Blane heaved a morose sigh. “No, Your Grace. I was able to sell the stuff eventually. To a passing Hentish merchant. At a steep loss.”

  “What?” Humbert stared. How was it this man headed the Merchants’ Guild? “You couldn’t get a better price for it elsewhere in Cassinia?”

  “I tried, my lord,” Blane said stiffly. “But the duke of Lambard’s third cousin is wed to that same insulted regent’s wife’s brother, so the duke refused me an audience. Next, I approached Duchy Voldare, but the duchess of Voldare is feuding with the duchess of Rebbai, whose second son is betrothed to the youngest daughter of another regent’s—”

  “Clap tongue, for pity’s sake!” Humbert snapped. “D’you think His Grace has time for this nonsense?”

  Blane pinched his lips. “My lord, you asked.” Pointedly shifting his gaze to Roric, he adjusted the guild medallion resting on his breast. “Your Grace, the unhappy truth is that Cassinia writhes like a viper’s nest with dispute. Its dukes see a slight in a smile, a deadly insult in a sneeze. And while it shouldn’t be our business, they make it so. You’d need a soothsayer to tell you which duke was trading insults with which, and whether our travelling papers will be honoured–or torn to shreds for the offence of trading with a neighbour who one day is seen as friendly and the next declared a bitter foe! I tell you plainly, these quarrelsome dukes are as constant as a–as a–frog. And when they aren’t fighting each other they’re fighting the prince’s regents! Which gives our merchants no respite, for the end result is the same. Much knavery on Cassinia’s roads. And that means fistfuls of coin in hired protection for the avoiding of it, to our great detriment.”

  Roric picked up his goblet, but didn’t drink. “You say all our merchants faces these dilemmas?”

  “Every one, Your Grace,” said Blane. “But alas, there’s more. Even when the dukes stop their feuding long enough to catch breath, from one day to the next Clemen’s merchants can’t be sure how much we’ll be taxed from duchy to duchy, or if we can use the donkeys we hire at port-fall or must hire more afresh every time we enter a different duke’s lands, or whether what might be lawfully–and profitably–sold yesterday can still be sold today. Or tomorrow!”

  “But what of the regents? Don’t they see the rule of law enforced? What you’re describing sounds monstrous unfair.”

  “Ha! Your Grace, the regents know better than to stir the dukes against them. Indeed, I think they think it useful to keep the dukes busy with their squabblings. So they wink and nod at floutish behaviours, interfering only when they must. And then, to keep the dukes sweet after, they let pass certain imposts their duchies owe the crown and instead wring them from us!”

  Humbert exchanged a troubled glance with Roric. This was worse even than Aistan had reported.

  “I’ll be blunt, Your Grace,” Blane added. “Matters can’t continue in this fashion.”

  “No,” Roric murmured, and sipped his wine. “I see that.”

  “And there’s something else.”

  “What?” Humbert prompted, as the merchant worried at the emerald dangling from one heavy lobed ear. “Don’t hold back now, Blane.”

  “It’s Prince Gäel,” Blane said heavily. “Rumour has it he’s quite mad.”

  “Mad?” Roric set down his goblet. “How can a child be mad?”

  Blane shrugged. “Some say he foams at the mouth. Others say he holds tongue for weeks at a time and walks about his grand palace quite naked, but for one shoe. This whisper claims he sees a mirror and runs screaming, that whisper swears he thinks himself a dog. Every tale is different, but at the heart they’re all the same.”

  “That Cassinia’s prince is mad.” Roric pushed to his feet and crossed to the closet’s hearth, where cheerful flames still leapt. Head lowered, he rested his forearm on the carved oak mantel. “Poor boy. To lose father and mother, and then his wits.”

  Humbert scowled at the scant swallow of wine left in his goblet. A pity he’d not let Roric refill it. He could use a good dose of strong grape. This news was ill indeed, and came as a surprise. Not even Aistan had managed to nose it… and the implications for Clemen were dire.

  “It’s also whispered the regents will do anything to conceal their prince’s madness,” Blane added. “They’ve spies in every mouse hole, and every butt of ale. But though they’ve killed some who’ve spoken, and locked others away, the truth slithers free.”

  “And serves to embolden Cassinia’s dukes,” Humbert growled. “If the whispers prove true, they’ll not accept the rule of a mad prince. I’ll wager every one of those cockshites goes to bed at night dreaming of a crown.”

  Blane’s earring swung vigorously as he nodded. “Aye, my lord, aye! ’Tis only a matter of time before they do more than dream. And they won’t care when their ambitions tear Cassinia apart… and us with it.”

  “If the whispers are true,” said Roric, turning back to them. “There’s a chance they’re false, Blane. Spread by one of the dukes to bolster a claim to the crown.”

  “That’s possible,” Blane said slowly. “But what’s certain is that between the growing ructions in Cassinia, and the difficulties we face when we try to trade further afield–pirates, and dangero
us, ill-natured waters, and skullduggery from nations who don’t care to share their spoils–and a new plague come down from Agribia, touching the Treble Kingdom and Zeidica and even the Danetto Peninsula, or so that Hentish merchant told me, well… Clemen’s in for yet more hardship and heartache. How are we expected to survive?”

  The shadows in Roric’s eyes deepened. Seeing his distress, Humbert fought the urge to sink a fist into the merchant’s expensively clad paunch. Cockshite. Did Blane think Roric blind to the duchy’s growing burdens? Or was he offering a veiled warning? You owe me money, boy. Don’t forget it. As if Roric would, or could, forget the debt when every day he faced the many troubles that had forced him to borrow so much coin, and tormented himself over his imagined failings like an exarchite who beat his own back with a knotted rope.

  “You needn’t worry on that score, Blane,” he said, standing. “Everything possible is being done to see Clemen’s set to rights.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Blane said. “But I thought it should be said.”

  “And I’m–we’re–grateful for your insights,” said Roric. “Isn’t that so, Humbert?”

  He sniffed. “I’ll be grateful for an assurance that Master Blane won’t repeat what’s been discussed here.”

  “My lord.” Blane unfolded from his chair and offered a frosty bow. “You have it.” Turning to Roric he bowed again, more warmly. “Your Grace. If there’s nothing else you need…?”

  Roric’s smile was faint, and strained. “Only your promise you’ll not refuse me further counsel.”

  “I’d refuse you nothing, Your Grace. You’ve only to ask. Good night.”

  “Good night, Master Blane. Beyond the door you’ll find a squire waiting to see you safely out of the castle.”

  “Thank you.”A sharp nod. “Good night, Lord Humbert.”

  He grunted something suitable. Tried to catch Roric’s eye as the merchant shrugged into his warm outdoors cloak, fastened his crimson-enamelled cloak pin then pulled on his gloves. But Roric was staring into the fire, heedless.

  Hand on the chamber’s door-latch, Blane turned. “One last thing, Your Grace. If I might be so bold.”

  Humbert gritted his teeth. Spirits curse the garrulous shite. What now?

  Encouraged by Roric’s nod, Blane settled on his heels. “If Clemen’s merchants are to weather these harsh times, Your Grace, we need Ardenn’s coin. So whatever must be done to reclaim our trading rights there, I urge you to do it.”

  “Again I’ll advise you to clap tongue, Master Blane,” Humbert snapped. “Clemen’s not subject to arrogant Cassinian demands–and any man thinking the duke’s council would travel the duchy down that road is a fool.”

  Blane’s eyes narrowed. “That’s as may be, my lord. But better the council swallows its pride than the rest of us in Clemen swallow gruel, and hear our children wail with hunger, because we can no longer afford to put meat and bread on our tables.”

  “He’s right, Humbert, and you know it,” Roric said, once the merchant was gone.

  “I know nothing of the sort! Who’s Master Blane, to be ordering Clemen’s council? Or its duke?”

  “He’s a good man who fears what lies ahead for our duchy.” Sighing, Roric retrieved a length of wood from beside the hearth and fed it to the lowering flames. “As I do.”

  “Roric, if you’re about to start blaming yourself again I swear I’ll—”

  “Don’t, Humbert.” Bone-white weary, Roric rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. “You say I can’t blame myself, but who else is there to blame? Have I convinced Cassinia’s regents to stop punishing us for Berardine and Catrain? No. Did I prevent even one fresh outbreak of plague in the duchy? Or blistermouth? Or fish rot? No, no, and no. Have I been forced to borrow coin from wealthy men like Master Blane? More than once. And have I sired a son to sit the Falcon Throne after me? No, Humbert. I haven’t. So tell me, my lord. Is this how you’d measure success?”

  Humbert jutted his beard. “And I suppose you’re to blame for three poor harvests in a row, too. For the flooding in eastern Clemen and the parched soil everywhere else.”

  “Perhaps not, but I haven’t been able to ease the pain those natural miseries have caused and for that I should be blamed. I’m Clemen’s duke.”

  Ah, the spirits save him. First Harald, who cared so little… and now Roric, who cared too much. He felt like a pendulum, swung between two impossible extremes. And resented it, for his bones ached. He was getting old.

  But who could look into Roric’s face and not feel a mote of pity?

  “I know what’s brought on this mopish mood. For the last time, boy, the widow’s fate is not your fault.”

  “And what of Catrain?” Roric’s jaw tightened. “She might be alive had I wed her instead of Lindara. And your daughter would doubtless be a mother by now.”

  “Suckling brats sired by that shite Vidar! Is that what you’d wish on me? Would you wish it on her?”

  “I wish Lindara nothing but happiness.” Taking up the fireplace poker, Roric stabbed at the flickering flames. “Which, it seems, she can’t find with me.”

  A chill of fright. “What d’you mean by that?”

  “Nothing,” Roric muttered. “Never mind me, Humbert. I’m tired.”

  “Roric.” Anger and frustration drained away, leaving him shaken. “If there’s strain between you and Lindara, it can’t be wondered at. But you’re young enough still, both of you. There’ll be children. And then all will be well. Isn’t that what Arthgallo says? To be patient, for you’re not mismade. You or Lindara.”

  The stirred firelight played over Roric’s face, grown thinner with the weight of Clemen’s trouble. “He does.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Well, then…” Taking a deep breath, Roric glanced over his shoulder. “Humbert, I think I must go to Cassinia.”

  Fists on hips, he stared. “Go to–Roric, are your wits faery-snatched? Go to Cassinia? For what purpose?”

  “To meet face-to-face with the prince’s regents.”

  “And do what? Beg for scraps from their table? Promise them what they want till we’re no better than their subjects? Over my dead body!”

  “Humbert—”

  “No, Roric!” Seizing the boy’s shoulder, he wrenched him around. “You are duke of Clemen, not a pustuled, penniless scapegrace forced to seek charity from your betters. Go to Cassinia? You can’t!”

  Sighing, Roric shrugged himself free. “You heard Master Blane. Matters there are dire for us, and growing worse. But it’s not simply that we still can’t trade in Ardenn. Or that Cassinia’s unruly dukes cost our merchants coin they can’t spare. It’s the prices they charge us for their mutton and beef and wool, now that our herds are so thinned by blistermouth and footrot. It’s their tardiness in paying the tolls and taxes their merchants owe here, knowing we can’t afford to sanction them as they’ve sanctioned us.”

  “Then send a delegation, Roric! But—”

  Roric laughed, bitterly. “Another one? Surely the last four I sent prove how easily the regents disregard letters and envoys. But they’ll have a harder time disregarding a duke. Besides, Humbert.” A faint, sardonic smile. “While I might not be pustuled, I’m most certainly penniless. Or almost.”

  He could easily tug his beard out by its roots. “You cannot go to Cassinia! The council won’t abide it!”

  “I don’t require the council’s leave, Humbert,” Roric retorted, his face hardening. “Nor can it be told my business till I’m safely arrived at the prince’s court. Not when we could never uncover who it was betrayed Berardine to the regents. That same man could well betray me.”

  Yes, tug out his beard and throw every hair into the fire. “Not that nonsense again. It was a Cassinian betrayed the widow. Her judgement’s so poor I’ll wager she had a score of trusted courtiers lined up to do it. Roric—”

  Roric banged his fist to the fireplace mantel. “Enough! I must go. For what do I have left to me but personal persu
asion? Short of declaring war on the regents. Is that what you want? For Clemen to take up arms against the Prince’s Isle?”

  “Say the word, boy, and I’ll lead an army there myself!” he shouted. “On foot, and the faeries curse my bunions.”

  “Oh, Humbert.” Discarding the poker, Roric dropped into his chair. “I know you would. But that’s no answer.”

  “Neither is you bending your knee to the prince’s regents.”

  Roric looked up. “You don’t think Clemen is worth a little bruising of my pride?”

  “And if foul play should befall you?”

  “That’s a risk I’ll have to take.”

  His heart was shrivelling in his chest. “There must be another way.”

  “There might be,” Roric said, after a moment. “But you’ll like it even less than the thought of me bending my knee to Cassinia’s regents.”

  There was something worse than that? He couldn’t imagine it. Certainly didn’t want to hear it. But it seemed he was to have no peace this night.

  “Tell me.”

  Instead of answering, Roric stood again. “We’ll need more wine.”

  So he waited, while Roric uncorked a fresh bottle of rich Dolchetti red and filled both their goblets to the brim. Half emptied his own in one swallow, refilled it, then wandered the small chamber looking at the tapestried nobles hunting their hounds around the walls, seemingly oblivious to the falcons flying over their heads. The colourful panels were years old, but still exquisite.

  “Come, boy,” Humbert said at last. “There’s no sharp sword that loses its edge for the staring at it. Tell me, and have done.”

  Roric halted by the closet’s shuttered window. Touching one of the cast-iron studs buried in the seasoned oak, for a moment he looked as green and uncertain as the youth who’d so long ago left his home for fostering.

  “Aimery seeks to broker a formal peace between our duchies.”

  He put down his goblet, untouched. “What?”

  “If such a peace were brokered, we could ask Harcia for help. Then I’d not need to bruise my pride with the regents.”

  He shook his head, unsure of his hearing. “How do you know Aimery wants peace?”