by Dave Duncan
The boy sulked for a moment longer, shame wrestling with fear. “That’s all? Swear allegiance?”
“That is quite a lot. Read him the oath, Commander.”
“Your Majesty! He—”
“Silence!” she yelled. “Did you question my father’s commands? I will not hear another word. Do you have a copy of the oath?”
Dominic did have a copy of the oath in his pouch, it being much in demand today. Glowering, he read it out.
Neville shrugged. “I so swear.”
Malinda relaxed with a sigh. “No, you have to say the words. But I am glad, Nephew. Perhaps one day we can get to know each other and be friends. Our family isn’t very good at that. Carry on, Commander. Administer the oath, clean him up, clothe him, release him. Absolutely no mal-treatment!” She rose. “And no arguments!”
“Deliver him to the Constable, you mean, my lady?”
She paused at the door. “No. He’s a big boy and we trust him. Let him walk.” She did not expect to see Neville again.
She ended the day with a family dinner party, entertaining the Duke and Duchess of Brinton and a trio of assorted Candlefens. Not Courtney. It was a dull affair, not helped by the dismal Bastion food, which arrived cold from some incredibly remote kitchen. The Queen withdrew as soon as she reasonably could—and monarchs need not be excessively polite to anyone. She went off to bed.
“So how do you like it?” Dian asked when the last lady’s maid had withdrawn and they were alone in the firelight with the customary hairbrush.
“Like what?” Malinda asked contentedly.
“Being a despot. You’ve had two whole days of it. Your hair is much easier to handle than usual.”
“I may leave it like that always and set a new style. Despotism is fun. I had no idea it was so easy. I enjoy it tremendously. Is Dog out in the antechamber?”
“Dog and seven others.”
“Never mind the seven others,” said the Queen. “Just send in Dog. I feel a need to rape somebody.”
35
I had no idea it was so easy.
QUEEN MALINDA
The state funeral was poorly attended. Amby would not have cared about that, and he would certainly have enjoyed all the bands the efficient Master Kinwinkle had managed to collect—almost two dozen of them, from great military companies down to the squeaky but enthusiastic marching band of the Worshipful Brotherhood of Silk Washers. He would probably have liked the fireworks, too, and the great pyre brightening the night sky.
Although official mourning lasted for months and a new reign began officially at the moment of the previous ruler’s death, in practical terms it was often the funeral that marked the change of leadership. With the capital peaceful, she had decreed that the following morning—her fifth day as queen—court would move from the Bastion to Greymere. There she would preside over the first formal session of her Privy Council. She would start to rule.
The move was a chance for the people to view and greet their queen. She had dressed with care, in a purple gown and a jeweled coronet, and had ordered a large escort of Yeomen and mounted Blades to conduct her coach through the streets. She expected at least some cheers, but her passage was marked by sullen silence at best and frequently by boos. She arrived at the palace in a very grim mood, heading straight to the Royal Suite to change her clothes and calm her anger. The first was easy, but the booing was still rankling when she went down to join the Council.
The council chamber was an ugly, squarish room, paneled with dark wood. Even at noon its mullioned windows failed to let in enough light; the white marble fireplaces were unlit. Audley entered first and then stepped aside to take up his position beside the door. Ma-linda was greeted by a dozen bobbing hats as their wearers bowed or curtseyed. Although the big table in the center was already well littered with papers, she was pleased to see that none of the chairs lining the walls had been moved. When the door had closed behind her, she realized that she faced an assembly ominously divided into three distinct groups.
On her right stood old-timers from her father’s day: the monotonous Duke of Brinton to supply all the clichés and platitudes required; Grand Inquisitor like a gallows wrapped in crepe; breezy Lord High Admiral, whom Ambrose had valued mostly as a drinking partner; the fusspot Grand Wizard beside the fireplace; mousy Baron Dechaise, First Lord of the Treasury, who had begged in vain to be allowed to retire; and Sir Snake.
Facing her with their backs to the windows, were the newcomers. Chancellor Burningstar had replaced the white robes and hennin of her Sisterhood with a dove gray gown and a conservative bonnet, and thus seemed shorter but still intimidating. Beside her was the horse-faced Dowager Duchess of De Mayes. As Lord Roland had once remarked, Ansel’s mother would wield enormous power in Chivial during her son’s minority; that had been enough excuse for Malinda to appoint her to the council. She was a massive woman and just as stubborn as she looked, notorious for speaking her mind. She was usually loud, too. Master Kinwinkle stood at a writing desk, fighting yawns and ready to fall asleep on his feet.
By the other fireplace, to Malinda’s left, were the three Granville men she had reappointed: Constable Valdor, Marshal Souris, and Lord Wrandolph. Wrandolph was the one Snake had called Ratface, Granville’s master of commissariat and later Lord Chamberlain. Although he had not taken up arms against the Lord Protector as the other two had, he had turned traitor even earlier, supporting Malinda’s cause at her interrogation. She wanted to keep all three of them under her eye—visible but also vulnerable, because members of the Privy Council were notoriously susceptible to trumped-up charges of treason and the fatal results thereof. It was a small council, in need of being fleshed out with a few more senior aristocrats and officers of the crown. Meantime she must try to blend the separate groups into one efficient body.
She did not invite anyone to sit. “My lords and ladies, I repeat now what I have said already to most of you individually. I require from you honesty, diligence, and loyalty, but most of all I bid you give me true counsel, without fear or favor, being mindful of my needs, not my feelings. I shall chop off no heads in fits of pique, I assure you.” That won not a single smile. “Let us begin with a sensitive topic. New monarchs are normally cheered, but on my way here I was booed. Can any of you explain this?”
A lack of surprise suggested that the information had already been reported and discussed.
“We think we should make inquiries,” the Chancellor said.
“That is what I am doing.”
A sepulchral rumble from Constable Valdor: “The riffraff were undoubtedly just booing the Blades, Your Grace. Wet-shore left a bad taste…. Sycamore Square, also. Just the Blades. Next time you have occasion to ride out, try dressing them up as Yeomen and I’m sure you’ll have no trouble.”
No trouble except a Blade rebellion. She saw Snake’s eyebrows shoot up.
The Duke huffed. “It only takes one bad apple to spoil a barrel. There’s always a few malcontents about.”
“I should like to believe you.” She waited to see if there were any more original suggestions, but how could these hidebound aristocrats possibly know what the people in the streets were thinking? Then her eye caught a vague and deniable fidget from Kinwinkle. “Yes, Master Secretary? You have our leave to speak in these meetings.”
“I am honored, Your Grace. Um, it was common knowledge for some time that the young king was dying. The Lord Protector was generally expected to succeed him, Your Grace. He was a popular warrior hero. He looked like a king, if you’ll forgive…a younger version of your respected father, my lady. He spent a lot of time riding around with his son beside him, and the people—I mean…”
“They wanted a king, and one with a grown son would be even better. They hate the very thought of a queen regnant or of a disputed succession?”
“Er, some think that way.”
And then the hero’s head was on a spike. Noticing the Duke opening his mouth again, Malinda said quickly,
; “Thank you, Master Secretary. I believe you have defined the problem exactly. Can anyone suggest any solution?”
Burningstar said, “Time, patience, and good government.”
“Well said! Well, let us practice some good government. What urgent business do you have for me?”
“Finance, my lady! Money!”
All eyes turned to the wizened little Baron Dechaise. He donned a pair of spectacles—with a mutter of apology—and limped closer to the table so he could shuffle papers, although that must be only habit, for he did not look at them.
“The situation is not good, Your Grace. Most government employees have not been paid in weeks. The Treasury is empty. It is fortunate that your household is in large part supplied directly from the royal estates, else there would be nothing to eat in the palace. Tradesmen are reluctant to deliver. The problem, my lady, is that the crown has had no revenue since your father died and has sold off or mortgaged everything marketable. Lord Granville waited far too long to summon Parliament. Then, of course, the writ died with your brother.”
“We must issue another immediately, surely?”
“Harvest time!” Brinton growled. “Serious labor shortage just now, you know. Bad time to give the men a day off for yet another election.”
“A worse time for the government to go broke, I’d think,” Malinda said crossly. “We need a loan from the bankers, then? You spoke to the Lord Mayor, Chancellor?”
“I did. We did.” With a look of extreme distaste, Burningstar passed the question on to Dechaise, who took off his spectacles and breathed on them. “The burgesses’ terms are impossible, Your Grace. Twenty percent a week is the lowest they will even consider, and that is for very limited—indeed I must say in my experience, entirely inadequate—amounts and duration.”
“They don’t think much of their new monarch, you mean?”
“Bankers hate anything unusual,” remarked the Duke.
The Dowager Duchess’s voice entered the conversation like a charging bull. “It would help if you had been crowned. A fine display of pomp and ceremony will win the city over and establish you as monarch beyond dispute! And I do believe the Chancellor was saying earlier that foreign governments are reluctant to recognize Your Majesty until you have been properly crowned. It is rather like a wedding, where—”
“How much does a coronation cost?” Malinda inquired.
The little baron ignored the question. He could be very deaf when he wanted. “The burgesses are well aware that the crown is deeply in debt and has no real source of revenue. We must hope that Parliament will vote supply when it meets, but traditionally the crown’s income is heavily reliant on customs duties and with the Baelish blockade reimposed we can anticipate very little real revenue until a peace treaty has been signed.”
Malinda turned to eye Snake. “How soon can you confiscate some elementaries for us?”
Even his cynical aplomb seemed a little frayed. “Don’t know, Your Grace. I did have a list ready, but I am finding that many targets have moved, and others have cleaned up their bill of fare. I’m sure you can still buy a sex slave or a love potion somewhere, or have the evil eye clapped on your mother-in-law, but the seamy side of the conjuring business is not readily visible anymore. The protectorate gave the enchanters a six-month respite, and they’ve used it to go underground. Your Commissioners need to start from scratch, and it may take much longer to win convictions now. I’m sure we can help Your Grace, but we can’t do it very soon.”
In the gloomy silence that followed, the Duke exercised his battle-ax tact again. “What’s her debt to the Constable, mm, Baron? And the Marshal here? Did you include those in the tally, eh?” The mood of the room soured abruptly at the thought of paying off the turncoats.
“No,” Dechaise said. “Such amounts are not normally listed in the state rolls. How would they be categorized?”
“As the price of justice!” Malinda snapped. “My lords Beaufort and Thencaster—I trust you two gentlemen appreciate that payment will have to be delayed until the current crisis is resolved?”
“Of course,” Mouse Rampant said briskly. “The Constable and I quite understand. We shall try to explain to our men, who are, for the most part, uneducated, rather simple fellows. None of them have been paid in months. It was their disaffection that persuaded us to support the rightful claimant in the recent dynastic dispute.” His beady little eyes gleamed with amusement, but the threat was blatant: their steel and muscle had put her on the throne and they could whisk it out from under her just as easily.
Had Granville been such a bonehead as to go to Beaufort and put himself at the mercy of two military leaders whose pay he had let fall into arrears? Or was the little mercenary spinning yarns now, inventing a claim against the crown?
“We thank you, Lord Beaufort. We appreciate your loyal support,” Malinda said carefully. We would appreciate it if we believed in it. Mention of his new title had sparked a little mental tinder—“As for the recompense we owe you, perhaps part of your eponymous honor of Beaufort might constitute your settlement. Since our dear brother died there, it has little sentimental value for us, and I am sure that fine edifice must be worth far more than the trifling sum we owe you.”
“Actually, no, Your Grace, it isn’t.” Souris sighed deeply.
“I presumed to inquire and discovered that the hideous place has been mortgaged all the way to bedrock. Isn’t that right, Baron?”
Dechaise shuffled papers and this time kept his eyes down. “I have not yet compiled a complete list of properties pledged by the, er, Traitor…if such a list is even available.”
The meeting was rapidly turning into one of those nightmares where a new horror sprang up every time one turned around. The lack of revenue she had expected, but not this talk of staggering debts. She must appear unsurprised and confident before her advisors.
“Glamorous warrior hero he may have been, dear Granville seems to have made a thorough botch of governing my brother’s kingdom. What did he do with all that money?”
After a perceptible pause, it was Souris who answered. “He fortified coastal points, my lady, and raised garrisons to man them. He was determined to make Chivial impregnable to Baelish raiders…so he said.”
Dangerous implications rumbled like thunder in the hills.
“How many strongholds? How many men?”
“I was not privy to the complete list,” the Marshal said evasively. “Constable?”
“Nor I, my lady. At least a score of fortresses and walled towns, perhaps twice that many. As for men…His Grace here was remarking about the labor shortage only a few minutes ago.”
More thunder, closer this time. Malinda’s countercoup had perhaps not been so adroit as she had believed. If Granville had enlisted his own army and neglected to pay the Yeomen and Black Riders—perhaps even threatened to disband them—then the traitors’ dramatic switch of allegiance became easier to understand.
Needing time to think it through, she said, “The crown simply must find some money. Has anyone any clever suggestions?” Oh, why was Lord Roland not here when Chivial needed him?
After a sullen pause, Constable Valdor rumbled, “If the merchants will not provide, then Your Majesty will have to ask the rich landowners for loans.”
“The Black Riders will be happy to assist in collecting,” Souris suggested.
The Duke of Brinton and the Dowager Duchess of De Mayes collided head-on, at least verbally, each shouting so loud that neither could be understood. Chancellor Burningstar bellowed for order, and then everyone seemed to join in. The Council split, aristocrats screaming that they saw no reason why they should be beggared to pay bribes to traitors; the military responding with insulting comments on useless, bloated parasites; and the others shouting at cross-purposes.
Malinda stood and glared at any eye she could catch until the racket finally subsided into embarrassed silence.
“This is a council, not a school yard,” she said icily. “We had est
ablished that the Lord Protector tried to fight Baelish pirates with castles, cavalry, and foot soldiers. Is that right? Did he actually kill any Baels? Didn’t he understand that the blockade was the real problem? Was he completely crazy?” Her grandfather had discovered that forts and fortified towns were useless when longships could be beached almost anywhere along the coast. Building a fleet was equally futile, because nobody could beat the Baels on water. The only defense that had met with even limited success was a mobile mounted militia maintained by the local sheriffs. Even those rarely managed to do more than chase the raiders back to their boats after the damage was done.
Souris shrugged. “He was a foot soldier himself. He thought that way.”
“Well!” she said angrily. “His estates were forfeit to the crown. If they were mortgaged too, that’s bad luck for someone else. We must seize them right away. I trust you have had the necessary proclamations prepared, Chancellor?”
“There has not been time to—”
“They are here, Your Excellency,” Kinwinkle murmured, passing papers to the Chancellor.
Malinda flashed him a grateful smile. Her secretary was the greatest success of her reign so far. “How much are the Granville lands worth, does anyone know?”
“A pretty penny, I’d say,” mumbled the Duke.
“Probably a sizable amount,” Constable Valdor agreed in his deep rumble. “But only when you are in a position to make your claim good, Your Grace. Thencaster’s up north, near the Wylderland border. We haven’t heard from there yet.”
Suddenly nobody was meeting the Queen’s eye. Could so disastrous a meeting actually get worse?
“What have you heard from?”
“Tharburgh,” the Chancellor said, taking up a list from the table, “Fullers Knob, Horselea, Pompifarth—”
Now the thunder was right overhead, rolling on and on.
