The outer edge of the inner city seemed to be composed of tower blocks, each one with at least five floors. They looked tiny compared to the skyscrapers Emily recalled from Earth, but she rather doubted that anyone in Zangaria could build a skyscraper without using magic to hold it upright. The sergeants had told their students about buildings held up by magic–floating in the air or perched on the head of a needle–but they all had the same weakness. If something happened to the magic, they came tumbling down and smashed to pieces on the ground. Only a nexus could provide enough magic to keep the building safe.
Most of the population looked rather more prosperous than the people outside the walls, she realized, as she started to wave again. Their cheers seemed somewhat less heartfelt and more calculating, although she was probably imagining it. Being able to live in the inner city was something of a status symbol, according to Imaiqah; the successful commoners were the ones who could afford to live there. The apartments might be small, unless they had vast amounts of money, but they brought an astonishing amount of prestige.
There were a handful of larger buildings, all guarded by armed men. It took Emily a moment to realize that they were banks, storing money and records for the locals, or contract rooms, where contracts were stored. From what she’d heard, a large contract between two merchants could only be legally enforced if it was recorded and witnessed by the King’s bureaucrats, a service that cost a bronze coin from each of the participants. Emily had puzzled over that until she’d realized that it gave the king and his servants a neat way to keep track of what the merchants were doing, although it didn’t work as well as they might have hoped. Someone who broke an agreement that hadn’t been witnessed would still be blacklisted by the merchant community.
The banking system itself was fundamentally flawed, Emily knew. It charged money for everything, including saving money, which meant that only the very wealthy were able to use it. Most people just kept their money at home, under their beds or in a magically-secured chest like Emily’s. It was impossible to get a loan without having enough property to guarantee the loan, which put a freeze on economic activity. One of Emily’s long-term plans was to create a bank that would allow small amounts of credit, just to see what other ideas people would come up with if they had a little support. But it would be difficult to start one in Zangaria.
She smiled when the tower blocks became houses as they moved closer to the castle. Some of the buildings belonged to noble families, passed down through the generations to ensure that their families would have a place to stay while they were in the city. Being able to maintain such an establishment was yet another sign of wealth; the older buildings never changed hands, but the younger ones were often traded between aristocratic families as one family tried to rise and another finally admitted defeat, at least for the moment. Given enough time, the merchants might also try to muscle their way into the very highest levels of society. Who knew what would happen then?
“That’s the Speaking House,” Lady Barb muttered, pointing towards a long low building that had been built in the shadow of the castle. One half of the building looked like a noble mansion, complete with golden paint; the other half looked plain and unadorned. “The painted half of the building houses the Noble Estates, where noblemen meet to discuss the kingdom’s affairs; the unpainted half of the building houses the Assembly, where the commons meet. But no one pays much attention to them.”
Emily scowled, but nodded. Reading between the lines, Alexis III had made a deal with the wealthier commoners, offering them a share in political power in exchange for their help defeating the rebellious and over-mighty nobles. He’d won the civil war–after killing three of the worst barons and exterminating their families, just to make the point–and he hadn’t exactly broken his word, but as long as the king and noble families controlled most of the wealth in the country, the Assembly could be safely ignored.
But that was going to change, Emily knew. Even without her innovations, the merchants would probably have continued to grow in wealth and power, giving them influence–unless the king tried to tax them into submission. But heavy taxes would simply kill the goose that laid the golden eggs. France’s failure to match Britain as a merchant society had certainly been made worse by a taxation program that actually penalized success. And, for that matter, allowed vast numbers of wealthy noblemen and clergy to escape paying taxes altogether. How many of those problems did Zangaria have?
And if it went on, what might happen? Charles I hadn’t known. Emily did.
Lady Barb pointed out a handful of other landmarks as they approached the castle. There was a colossal temple dedicated to Lokane, the patron god of the royal family. This world had never spawned a religion dedicated to worshipping a single god, somewhat to Emily’s surprise; the concept had never really occurred to them. All of the gods existed, somewhere, they believed, even if not everyone worshipped them. According to some of the books Emily had read, there were over two thousand major gods and goddesses–and uncounted minor ones, including household gods who were spawned when a new household was created. If one state happened to overrun another, the losers would still keep their gods.
There were a handful of other temples, including a small temple that seemed almost completely unadorned. Emily frowned in puzzlement, wondering why the temple was so plain, before realizing that it had to have been a deliberate decision. Even a temple would have to pay colossal rents to remain in the inner city.
“That’s the shrine to the Crone Goddess,” Lady Barb explained, when Emily asked. “Do not go inside unless you are accompanied by one of their sisters.”
Emily blinked. “Why not?”
“There are very powerful spells woven into the building,” Lady Barb said. “They don’t like intruders–you have to be welcomed into their mysteries before you can enter safely, unaccompanied. And men are not welcome at all. Those who walk in come out as women.”
She snickered. “The writing on the front door says that no man shall walk out of this temple, if he be foolish enough to enter,” she added. “They mean it too.”
Emily shook her head in disbelief. Every time she thought that she was used to the strange new world, something else happened to remain her that the locals often had very different attitudes from the people she’d known on Earth. Transforming a man into a woman–or vice versa–would cause all sorts of mental problems, but they seemed to be completely comfortable with the idea. Maybe she should be relieved; if Alassa could have been transformed into a man safely, she had no doubt that her parents would have done just that.
The castle rose up above them as they passed over a drawbridge and into the courtyard. It was more confining than she had expected, with hidden murder holes in position to rain down arrows and sorcery on uninvited guards. She remembered the sergeant’s lessons and shivered. Alexis Castle had been designed to stand off a siege for as long as necessary. And as long as they didn’t face a necromancer, the castle was almost completely impregnable.
Or it will be until they invent cannons, Emily thought. After kings had mastered cannons, noble fortresses had suddenly become a great deal less impregnable. It had started the process that had bound Europe into proper countries.
“You wait at the rear of the room until the king calls you forward,” Lady Barb informed her. “Alassa must greet her father on her own, then the princes will be presented, one by one. You come last.”
Emily felt an odd flash of irritation, but nodded. Alassa was her father’s only child, after all, and the princes were royal guests, even if they would be largely disappointed. Emily was nothing on that scale, although she had beaten a necromancer and a cockatrice. She watched the footmen unloading the boxes, handling her chest with extreme care, and smiled inwardly. Anyone would think that they thought the pocket dimension would burst at any second and a very angry monster would be freed. But the dimensions should hold. She’d assured them of that a dozen times over.
She glanced upwards as she heard bir
ds cawing overhead. There were dozens of birds flying around the castle’s towers, from a single snowy owl to a huge flock of ravens. She had to smile, oddly touched by the sight, before Nightingale caught her arm and dragged her into the castle. His touch felt unpleasant and she shook him off, unable to understand why he was panicking. The king wouldn’t mind a short delay, would he?
Inside, she saw a large stone door, slowly opening to reveal a grand hall. Bracing herself, she took one look at Nightingale, who looked surprisingly worried, and then followed Lady Barb into the hall. The king was waiting for them.
Chapter Eighteen
ALASSA’S FATHER WAS STRIKING.
It shouldn’t have surprised her, Emily realized. Alassa had been literally programmed to be beautiful, to the point where she was physically perfect, at least in appearance. Why shouldn’t her grandfather have done the same to her father? King Randor of Zangaria was astonishingly handsome, with long blonde hair, a beard and brilliant blue eyes. He wore a simple red and purple tunic that didn’t do anything to conceal his physique. Emily couldn’t escape the absurd impression that he was a character from a bad cartoon series come to life.
Queen Marlena, Alassa’s mother, stood beside the throne. She looked surprisingly frail for the wife of such an intensely masculine man, but Emily recognized an iron determination in her eyes that reminded her of Mistress Irene. This was not a woman to take lightly, she realized. Unlike her husband, Marlena was starting to go grey at the temples, yet she carried herself with a poise that only added to her aura of determination. The red dress she wore neatly matched her husband’s tunic.
The throne was surrounded by a throng of noblemen, all wearing their finest outfits. Some of the barons were wearing robes that matched their names, others stranger outfits that showed off their simple lack of concern for society’s approval. The lesser lords wore simpler outfits made out of expensive materials, showing off their wealth as well as their humility. Emily wondered just how many of them faked it, using cheaper materials or magic to give the appearance of wealth. There was no way to know.
From what Alassa had said, the noblemen argued amongst themselves as often as they argued with King Randor. Her father quietly encouraged it, on the grounds that it kept the noblemen from uniting against him. Emily wasn’t sure that was a good idea for the long-term stability of the kingdom; if Alassa died suddenly, perhaps in childbirth, there would be no strong coalition of noblemen to enforce peace. But then, the coalition probably wouldn’t last very long in any case. The prize–the kingdom itself–was simply too tempting.
The guards lining the walls carried staffs, rather than bladed weapons. They also wore masks that concealed their identities. From what Alassa had said, the disputes between aristocrats sometimes turned violent, with fists flying and magic not too far behind. And then the guards would move in and separate the combatants with as much force as necessary. It was often the only opportunity a low-born guard would have to manhandle a nobleman and they tended to enjoy themselves while doing it. Alexis I had ruled that his court would not become a battleground and he’d enforced it brutally. And every king since then–except Bryon–had done the same.
Emily watched as Alassa made her way up towards her father, looking almost like a bride on her way to the altar. The nobles drew aside to allow her to pass, although some of them were watching with ill-concealed calculating expressions. They knew that the kingdom had never had a ruling queen before and suspected that she would be weak, perhaps as weak as her great-grandfather. And they knew that she’d been a brat before she went to Whitehall. Someone like that would have been easy to manipulate.
Alassa stopped in front of the throne and knelt before her father. King Randor waited one long moment, just long enough for silence to fall, and then stood up and took Alassa’s hands in his, helping her to her feet. The assembled nobles cheered lustily at the silent acknowledgement of paternity, although the calculating ones didn’t seem to be cheering very enthusiastically. But they had to wonder if the guards were also monitoring them and if a lack of cheering would be reported.
“Our daughter has returned for her Confirmation,” King Randor said. He seemed to speak quietly, but the words echoed through the Great Hall. “We welcome her to her place amongst us.”
The nobles cheered again. Emily wondered just what they were thinking about the new Alassa–and about Emily, who had made the change happen. And about the fact that she’d effectively gotten away with nearly murdering the heir to the throne. It would have been an accident, but that would have been no consolation to anyone caught up in the inevitable civil war. And if they knew that she was to blame for the new innovations…
“We also welcome twenty-two princes who have come to bid for her hand,” King Randor continued. There was no trace of doubt in his voice–but then, his marriage would have been arranged for political reasons too. He saw nothing wrong in the practice, even though he could have ignored his wife and Alassa would have found it hard to ignore her husband. “Give them great honor, as they deserve.”
Twenty-two? Emily glanced back and saw that the princes had been joined by a handful of others, princes who hadn’t come with the procession. But they hadn’t had time to visit all of the prospective princes in their natural environment. Emily wondered absently if that meant that those princes had a poor chance of winning Alassa’s hand–or the exact opposite. Alassa had already declared that there was absolutely no hope of spending the rest of her life with Prince Slark, even if she had to kill him herself. And Prince Hedrick just didn’t seem to care.
The herald stepped forward as trumpets blared. “Your Majesty, Your Excellencies, Your Lordships…Prince Hedrick of Alluvia, son of King Jorlem!”
Prince Hedrick ambled up to the throne as if he were an actress on a catwalk. Emily had to conceal her own amusement and noticed that several of the lords were doing the same, although others were looking calculating. If Prince Hedrick was touched in the head, it would ensure that he wouldn’t be able to supply Alassa with a backbone–although if they thought she didn’t have one, they didn’t know her very well. Given time and experience–and magic–she was likely to be formidable.
King Randor’s face showed no trace of his true feelings as he accepted a bow from Prince Hedrick. Emily watched as the prince stepped to one side and waited as the herald announced Prince Slark, who swaggered forward and bowed grandly to King Randor. Some of the younger members of the court looked interested, but the older ones still looked calculating. A slimy prince might be easy to manipulate too.
He wouldn’t force her to marry him, would he? Emily asked herself. But who knew what Slark would bring to the match, apart from his own personality? What sort of calculations might cross the King’s mind? And yet Alassa was determined to refuse him.
One by one, the princes bowed to King Randor and joined the line beside the throne. Emily realized that the whole purpose of the ceremony was to introduce them formally, ensuring that everyone would know who they were. But there were so many princes that she felt her head beginning to hurt just trying to keep track of them. Maybe Alassa could do it–she’d been memorising aristocratic genealogies since she had been old enough to read–but Emily couldn’t. It was hard enough remembering the spells she’d memorized since coming to Whitehall.
The line of princes finally came to an end. It was difficult to read King Randor’s feelings–he was far more skillful than his daughter at concealing his innermost thoughts–but Alassa looked both relieved and worried. Emily realized, as heads turned back towards the doors expectantly, that she was next. She wanted to run and hide–this was going to be worse than any of the other kingdoms–but somehow she held herself in place. And then the herald read her out.
“Your Majesty, Your Excellencies, Your Lordships…Lady Emily, Necromancer’s Bane.”
Emily had to force herself to walk forward, feeling all eyes on her. She had no real title–Lady was a courtesy title offered to a sorceress–but she had killed a necrom
ancer. And if she’d tricked Shadye, no one would have kept it a secret. The mystery only added to the potency of her growing reputation, as well as suggesting that no one should mess with her. In hindsight, she wondered about King Rupert’s veiled threats. Should she have been snarkier to ensure that he knew she was powerful?
But even the most powerful of necromancers could still be poisoned.
The back of her neck felt hot as she approached King Randor. Alassa hadn’t been entirely sure of the correct protocol for Emily; officially, she was common-born, but she was a close friend of the princess and that effectively conferred aristocratic status. And then she might have been the daughter of an immensely powerful sorcerer, powerful enough to cause huge amounts of devastation if he felt that his daughter had been insulted, and she had killed a necromancer. All of the factors, added together, could only cause confusion. Who knew what the correct protocol should have been?
She curtseyed, very carefully, and then went down on one knee. It was the standard protocol used by sorcerers and sorceresses, who were generally considered honorary nobility. They were powerful, but not too powerful. There was a long pause, just long enough for her to wonder if she’d messed it all up, and then King Randor stepped forward and helped her to her feet. Up close, the impact of his presence was astonishing. If Emily hadn’t faced Shadye, who had also had a powerful presence, she might have swooned at his feet.
The cynical side of her mind pointed out that such a presence would be a powerful asset to any monarch. Or, for that matter, to any man. Love potions and spells didn’t last very long, unless one deliberately brewed one of the forbidden recipes, but glamors to make someone more attractive could be quite potent. And not, for some reason, forbidden, at least outside Whitehall.
“Lady Emily saved the life of Our crown princess,” King Randor said. He hadn’t let go of Emily’s hand. “When she was kidnapped, it was Lady Emily who rescued her. When an assassin tried to murder her, it was Lady Emily who saved her life. When a cockatrice tried to kill her, it was Lady Emily who tricked and captured the beast. She is welcome in Our kingdom.”
Lessons in Etiquette (Schooled in Magic series) Page 17
