“I know,” I said. “What happened to the other servants?”
“They didn’t get paid,” Uncle Jalil said. There was a hint of waspishness in his voice, as if I’d asked a silly question. “And so they left.”
I winced, inwardly. A common or garden servant could get a job anywhere, as long as they had a good character. I’d heard more than enough grumbling about competition for good servants from my mother, back before the House War. The old retainers like Ellington ... my heart sank as I realised I might be wrong. If he left the household, someone would ask pointed questions about precisely why. They’d wonder if he’d resigned or been kicked out or ... if they thought he’d been disloyal, they’d refuse to hire him. And I was responsible for him. And everyone else.
The wind blew again. I watched the ashes blowing across the grounds, then turned and started to walk back to the hall. The remaining mourners had left without so much as bothering to offer their condolences. I ground my teeth in bitter frustration, even though I was relieved. I didn’t want to exchange insincere chitchat with relatives who either wanted the headship for themselves or were silently grateful they’d been spared the poisoned chalice. Idiots. They could have just left. It wasn’t as if they needed to stay on the sinking ship.
I said nothing until we stepped back into the hall. It should have been warmer inside the building - it was summer, damn it - but it felt cold. I muttered a heating spell as I looked around, my heart sinking as I saw the dust. It felt as if I were walking into an abandoned building, not the heart of a Great House. The wards sparkled around me - they, at least, knew me - but there was little else welcoming. I stared up at the bare spaces on the walls, where the paintings should have been. What had happened to them?
“Your father sold many of them,” Uncle Jalil said, as if he’d read my thoughts. “Others were placed into storage ...”
“He sold them?” I couldn’t believe it. “Why?”
“He was desperate for capital,” Uncle Jalil said. “And short of ways to get it.”
I felt my heart sink, again. Again. “Why didn’t he tell me? Why did he send me away?”
“For your own good, I suspect,” Uncle Jalil said. “You were the Heir Primus by default, Lucy, but you were isolated from the realities of the role. He kept you in ignorance to ensure you could not be blamed for his failings, let alone forced to pay his debts. You - you personally - are not legally responsible for anything he did. If you’d stayed here, if you’d effectively been apprenticed to him, you might have wound up bearing some of the blame.”
“Really?” I wasn’t sure of that. “Do apprentices get blamed when their master makes a mistake?”
“Sometimes,” Uncle Jalil said. “If the apprentice is taken on with the intention of eventually inheriting his master’s business ... yes, he could be blamed. It would be assumed, rightly or wrongly, that he’d played a role in making the decisions. A Heir Primus who was involved throughout his teenage years would certainly have played a role ...”
“I was at school,” I protested.
“Yes,” Uncle Jalil agreed. His voice was very calm. “And that’s why you have a clean slate.”
I nodded, slowly. “I’m going to his rooms,” I said. “Meet me there in thirty minutes. I want to know everything.”
“I’ll be there,” Uncle Jalil said. If he took offense at my tone, he didn’t show it. “And I’ll have Jadish bring us some tea. We’re going to need it.”
Chapter Six
I felt oddly out of place as I walked up the stairs to the top floor, even though Lamplighter Hall was mine now and the wards parted at my touch. My father’s domain had been firmly off limits to everyone, save for his friends and business associates. Mother hadn’t been allowed onto the floor, even though ... I shook my head as I opened the door and peered into the empty office. My father had lived and worked up here ... I thought, just for a moment, that I saw his ghost sitting behind a large wooden desk. The wards crackled around me as I walked towards the desk and sat on his chair. It was mine now, but ... it didn’t feel right.
The sensation of unreality grew stronger as I looked around the chamber. One wall was covered in bookshelves, crammed to bursting with volumes that looked untouched; another was covered in maps and drawings that didn’t seem to be in any reasonable order. A pair of wooden filing cabinets were placed against the third wall, between the windowpanes. My father had been able to stand by the window and stare over North Shallot. I wondered what he’d seen, when he’d had the time. A city of opportunity, or a land of rivals who’d tear him down if he gave them half a chance? Or both?
I tried to open the drawer, but couldn’t. The locking charms were designed to keep everyone out, even me. I studied them for a moment, then made a mental note to try to unpick them later. I might need to hire help. My father could easily have woven a lethal curse into the charms, if he’d been sure no one he liked would try to break into the drawer. I supposed anyone who actually tried would have proven themselves thoroughly untrustworthy. I smiled, although there was little humour in it. He’d gone so far to protect his secrets, whatever they were, that he’d kept them from his heir too.
The smell of old leather rose up around me as I leaned back in the chair. It had clearly been designed for someone bigger than me ... bigger than my father too, unless he’d gained weight in the six years since I’d last seen him and his death. I felt silly sitting on the chair, but ... it had been my father’s. I didn’t want to put it aside and bring in something more suitable, not yet. It was all I had to remember him.
I heard a noise at the door and looked up. Jadish stood there, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. I smiled, feeling oddly conflicted. Jadish - Ellington’s granddaughter - had practically grown up with me. We’d been friends, despite the vast gulf between us. And yet ... I wondered, suddenly, why she hadn’t written to me. She’d shared my lessons. She could read and write better than some of the girls at school.
“My Lady.” Jadish dropped a neat curtsy. She wore an old-fashioned maid’s outfit that clashed oddly with her dark skin. Her hair was still in braids. “It’s good to see you again.”
“And you,” I said, honestly. She’d be accused of being overfamiliar everywhere else, but ... I didn’t care. Not here, at least. “I missed you.”
Jadish looked down. “The master wouldn’t let me write to you. Not one word.”
I winced. “It wasn’t your fault,” I assured her. If father had forbidden her to write, she’d be whipped - or worse - if she went against him. “I ... why? Did he say why?”
“No, My Lady.” Jadish shook her head. “He just ordered me to mind my own business.”
She put the tray on the desk as Uncle Jalil entered, carrying a handful of leather folders under his arm. “We can pour the tea,” I said, quickly. “I’ll speak to you later.”
Jadish dropped another curtsy. “Of course, My Lady.”
I watched her go, then tightened the wards as soon as the door closed behind her. “Why did father forbid her to write to me?”
“I believe it would have been improper for you to receive letters from a servant,” Uncle Jalil said. “Your father would certainly have believed it to be so.”
I scowled. “I would have been happy to receive letters from anyone.”
“And those letters would not have remained private,” Uncle Jalil pointed out. “Or have things changed since my day?”
“Probably not,” I admitted, sourly. We’d had enough hints, over the years, that Mistress Grayling read our letters, even before I’d found proof. I picked up the teapot and started to pour. “Milk? One lump or two?”
“No milk, one lump,” Uncle Jalil said. “And you have to remember your father was a very complex man, facing a series of very complex problems.”
“Bully for him,” I muttered. I passed him a cup, then sank back into the leather chair as he sat facing me. “How bad is it?”
“The tea is very good,” Uncle Jalil said. He hadn’t touch
ed it. “But I’m afraid our financial situation is very bad.”
I took a breath. “Details?”
Uncle Jalil looked back at me, evenly. “Where would you like me to start?”
“The beginning,” I said. “I thought we were a wealthy house.”
“We were, a few hundred years ago.” Uncle Jalil smiled, humourlessly. “Of course, that was before any of us were born.”
He indicated the folders on the table. “Like I told you, the family had been in decline for quite some time before your father assumed his position as head. We were finding it hard to concentrate the wealth we needed to invest in everything from farming and mining for forgery and enchantment. We were barely able to meet our obligations to keep things on an even keel. Even when we did” - he shrugged, elaborately - “we were unable to halt our steady decline. Your grandfather tried to cut expenditures as much as possible, but it made no difference. We were being left behind.”
I considered it for a moment. “And then?”
“Your father attempted to amass the cash we needed to invest,” Uncle Jalil said. “He started well, I admit, but he failed to quit while he was ahead. He made a string of bad calls, investing in unprofitable farmland and mines that proved largely worthless; he invested heavily in international shipping and trade, only to lose most of his investments during the House War. He hadn’t bothered to insure most of it, you see, and the insurance on what little he did insure was nowhere near enough to repay our losses. He couldn’t even get rid of the farmland. People wouldn’t even take it.”
“Ouch,” I said.
“Yes.” Uncle Jalil stared at his fingers for a long moment. “Your father got desperate. He sent you away, then tried to get more cash. He sold everything he could see, sometimes at rock bottom prices. He took out loans, creating a complex network of deals that even I have been unable to disentangle, throwing money at every halfway solid business opportunity that came his way. And none of them worked. By the time he died, apparently of natural causes, he was deep in debt. Personal debt. He had no hope of repaying the loans.”
I met his eyes. “Apparently of natural causes?”
“It might have been suicide,” Uncle Jalil admitted. “Your father was certainly ingenious enough to ensure his suicide looked natural.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to think about it. “I ... how much money do we have now?”
“Almost nothing,” Uncle Jalil said, bluntly. “Lucy ... what little income we have comes from our lands and we practically have to keep reinvesting if we want the money to keep flowing.”
I cocked my head. “I thought we grew potions ingredients?”
“Yes, but we’re not the only ones growing potions ingredients,” Uncle Jalil reminded me. “If we put up our prices, Lucy, we’ll lose sales. Customers will go elsewhere.”
“And that will be that,” I muttered. I’d studied business at school. It had been mandatory for aristos. “What do we have that we can sell?”
“Almost nothing,” Uncle Jalil said. “What little we own is entailed. It cannot be sold as long as the family survives. We can’t even loan it to someone willing to pay through the nose ... if such a person even exists. Your father sold everything he could to raise money. About the only thing he didn’t sell was you.”
I made a face. “He wouldn’t have.”
“He couldn’t have,” Uncle Jalil corrected. “As long as you were underage, nothing could be finalised. You could repudiate the betrothal the moment you came of age. And that would have upset a whole string of apple carts.”
I shuddered. “Is there nothing we can do to raise cash?”
“Almost nothing,” Uncle Jalil said. I was getting sick of hearing that. “We can sell our vote, in Magus Court, but ... we only have one seat and no influence. There’s no way we can ramp up the price unless the vote is really close.”
“I see.” I glared at the folders. “What do you advise?”
“Leave.” Uncle Jalil met my eyes, evenly. “You’re an adult. You can go elsewhere. You don’t have to stay on the sinking ship. And your father’s debts are going to catch up with us sooner rather than later. Whoever becomes head will have to deal with them.”
“I ...” I shook my head. “I’m Heir Primus.”
“By default,” Uncle Jalil said. “You didn’t come of age until after your father’s death. You don’t have to accept the poisoned chalice. You can go before the conclave and formally refuse to accept it or ... or you can just leave. You’re an intelligent young woman with a good education. You’ll be fine.”
I looked at him. “But what about the servants? Ellington and Jadish ... what about you?”
“I’m an old man,” Uncle Jalil said. “What happens to me is not important.”
“And the servants?” I pressed as hard as I dared. “What happens to them if the family collapses?”
“Jadish is young and pretty,” Uncle Jalil said. “She’ll have no trouble ...”
“I can’t just abandon them,” I said. “And I can’t abandon the family.”
“What family?” Uncle Jalil shook his head. “Lucy, the days when there were hundreds of kindred living within this hall are gone. Half the surviving family couldn’t be bothered to come to your father’s funeral. Walk away. Walk away, now. Leave the ones who haven’t already deserted to their fate. You don’t have to die with them.”
“I can’t go,” I said. I’d been raised to think of myself as having a duty to the family. “I can’t just abandon them. Or the family ...”
“Your father spent six years racking up debts as he tried to strike it big,” Uncle Jalil snapped. “Lucy ... do you think you can do any better?”
“I’m going to have to try,” I said. “Will you stay?”
“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Uncle Jalil said. He looked resigned. “Lucy ... are you sure? Because once you’re recognised as Matriarch, you’ll be committed.”
“I know.” I looked around the room. “But I can’t just walk away.”
“You can,” Uncle Jalil said. “Take Jadish with you, if you like. Take Ellington ...”
I shook my head. The obligation to the family name was too strong. Yes, I could abandon my name and walk away ... but I couldn’t have lived with myself afterwards. I was Lucilla of House Lamplighter and that was all there was to it. I’d just have to think of a way to raise money that would give us half a chance of saving ourselves. I just wished I knew what that might be.
Start small, I told myself. And find something you can sell.
“You’re not confirmed yet,” Uncle Jalil said. “If you leave before then, you’re free and clear.”
“I know,” I mumbled. A hundred ideas, all wildly impractical, danced through my head. “How many family members are left? I mean ... family with voting rights?”
Uncle Jalil grimaced. “Technically, twenty-seven,” he said. “A third of them have strong ties to other families, to the point they’ve effectively cut their ties to us.”
I blinked. “They’ve disowned us?”
“No one’s disowned anyone.” Uncle Jalil smiled, rather coldly. “They just do their level best to pretend we don’t exist.”
“Oh.” I’d known girls like that at school. They’d been just as irritating as the brats who hurled hexes whenever someone turned their back. “They haven’t formally given up their vote?”
“No.” Uncle Jalil’s smile grew colder. “They simply haven’t bothered to vote.”
“I see,” I said. “Can you write them a note as my closest adult relative? Or do I have to do it myself?”
“It depends,” Uncle Jalil said. “What do you want to say?”
“I’m going to hold a Family Conclave,” I said. “Five days from now ... I think that’s enough time to clean up the meeting room and go through the accounts. Anyone who doesn’t attend will be deemed to have forfeited their voting rights and classed as inactive members of the family. Their children, assuming they have them, will no longe
r be considered family. The ones who have no interest in salvaging the sinking ship will take themselves out of the picture.”
“You’ll annoy them,” Uncle Jalil pointed out.
“And they’ll have to decide if they want to take the role for themselves,” I said. I had few illusions - the vast majority of my kin didn’t know me and those that did remembered me as a little girl - but I was Heir Primus, Matriarch Presumptive until I was voted out of office. It would be hard for anyone to organise opposition without outing themselves as my enemy - there were only twenty-seven voters - and anyone who did would probably find themselves lumbered with the poisoned chalice. “Let them be annoyed, as long as they stay out of my way.”
Uncle Jalil raised his eyebrows. “You do know your family, right?”
The Lady Heiress (The Zero Enigma Book 8) Page 6
