For almost a month now—since shortly after the Duchess Tremontaine’s infamous ball to which the Kinwiinik chocolate Traders wore their jewel-toned feathers (which became instantly fashionable, even as the ball itself ended in a fiasco of epic proportions)—the stores of chocolate in the City have been dwindling. According to those in the know (most assume the news traveled from the Kinwiinik Traders to the Middle City chocolate-house owners to their increasingly irritable patrons), a long-awaited shipment was sunk in a storm, the ship lost at sea and the sailors, tragically, drowned. A new shipment is expected (the chocolate-house owners hasten to assure their patrons), but due to variable weather across the North Sea, no one knows precisely when it will arrive.
For Jeremiah Clarkson, owner of Clarkson’s, the Middle City’s finest chocolate emporium, this uncertainty has led to drastic measures. At first, he raised the price of chocolate, which had the desired effect for a brief period of time: fewer patrons paid more, which meant his income stream remained level and his supplies did not decline as quickly. But as the shortage dragged into a second week, and then a third, Clarkson resorted to watering down his chocolate and hoping that his patrons would not notice. Unfortunately, they did, and he was forced to reveal the truth of the matter: There was no more chocolate in the City for him to buy.
On this fine day, as Clarkson gazed gloomily into his empty stockroom before opening shop, he wondered for the first time how long he could manage to keep his business afloat. He would have to close if he couldn’t find a substitute for chocolate. He had heard that the nobles on the Hill had begun to drink something called vanilla cream instead of chocolate, but vanilla was so expensive he would have to find a cheaper substitute before he could sell it to his patrons. He had also heard that some intrepid University students had fermented a new brew made of crushed nuts, which they called amandyne and which they claimed recreated the flavor and stimulating effect of chocolate. The idea intrigued him. Clarkson resolved to take a trip to the University area, where he was friendly with one of the few chocolate shop owners—chocolate being a luxury to most students—to try some of this amandyne himself.
* * *
The Duchess Tremontaine lifted the porcelain cup from its saucer and took a particularly satisfying sip of bitter chocolate. It was the finest in the City, kept under lock and key by the cook, and was flavored with Kinwiinik spices that the duchess had personally requested from the Balam family. The cup was a beauty, too: one from a set of twelve given to Diane by her husband, each hand-painted with a different blooming rose. This one Diane especially loved because the thorns in the pink rose’s stem were rendered with such exquisite detail it seemed as if one could easily prick a finger when touching the cup itself.
The duchess set the cup back into its matching saucer, relishing the lingering taste of chocolate on her tongue, and glanced out the window. She always enjoyed the view from her private retreat at the highest point of Tremontaine House. Diane’s writing desk was situated so that she could look out the windows as she handled her private correspondence, providing her with a lofty vantage point suitable to her station and matched to her ambition. It was in this room that she had conceived of the plan that would finally engineer the outcome she desperately needed: The Balams would have their tariff relaxed, and she would receive her cut of their increased profit, thus mitigating the disaster of the Everfair. Her previous efforts with her husband and with Gregory, Lord Davenant, had not resulted in immediate success, but she was certain that this time would be different. None had ever dared to do what she had orchestrated, but she was not one to allow tradition to dictate her desires.
It was quite simple, in the end. The City loved chocolate, but the Balams controlled the entire supply. Diane had suggested that the Balams send their most trusted envoy to the private residence of the Dragon Chancellor with a message, dictated secretly by the duchess to appeal to Gregory’s ego. First, the Balams’ latest chocolate shipment had been tragically lost at sea; second, the Balams viewed this as an opportunity to renegotiate the terms of their trade with the City, in preparation for the imminent arrival of the next shipment. Diane had suspected that Gregory would be initially flummoxed by such a request—these things simply were not done—but if he wanted to keep his title of Dragon Chancellor, he would be highly motivated to make sure the City (and all the persnickety nobles on the Hill) continued to get their chocolate. In order to further persuade him, the temporary (albeit false) chocolate shortage would quickly demonstrate how much the City needed the Kinwiinik’s goods, not to mention their goodwill. If the City wanted to continue to enjoy chocolate, the Council simply had to acquiesce to the Balams’ entirely rational demands and address the tariff.
Initially, Ahchuleb of the Balams had been hesitant to do as she suggested, but Diane had a hunch that his wife—who had so elegantly put the Duke of Karleigh in his place after his insulting behavior at the Swan Ball—had seen the wisdom of Diane’s new plan. It had the added benefit of making the duchess and the Balams equal partners in this task, rather than keeping them beholden to Diane’s secret machinations. Yes, the duchess mused, equality—or at least the appearance of such, because she was certain that no envoy of theirs would have a chance of succeeding without her coaching—made a solid foundation for future profit.
Now she only needed to update the Balams on the latest developments. She picked up the pen and squared off the thin sheet of paper that she had ordered her swordsman, now also her personal agent, Reynald, to purchase for her from one of the Middle City stationers. It was not the thick, embossed stationery the duchess was accustomed to using for Tremontaine business, but that was deliberate. She began to write.
Dear Sir and Madam,
You may have already heard of the growing panic among those on the Hill regarding the recent decline in availability of that most precious of commodities, your own very fine chocolate. The shortage has traveled from the Middle City chocolate shops, whose sad owners I trust you are not finding too importunate, up the Hill, and into the drawing rooms of many of my noble friends, taking the matter from one of minor inconvenience to other mortals, to a perfect crisis among the City’s nobility.
The Dragon Chancellor, as I predicted, has not shared your envoy’s request with the other Councilors. I am certain this is because he is on the verge of presenting your request to the Council of Lords as his own idea. Given the deprivation that all the Councilors have been enduring of late, I believe they will be quite ready to follow the Dragon Chancellor’s direction, especially once rumors that I have leaked to the Merchants’ Confederation come to light. Neither the Council of Lords nor the Dragon Chancellor will wish to be unmasked as weaklings at your mercy (though they are), and I am certain your goods will shortly be welcomed back into the City under much more generous terms than in the past.
I thank you for your partnership in this endeavor, and I trust that my efforts to increase the popularity of vanilla have recompensed you at least a small amount for the short-term sacrifice you are making in chocolate profits.
I remain,
Your friend, who wishes you nothing but well.
Diane read over the letter several times before folding and sealing it with a plain wax stamp. Satisfied, she rang for the servant and asked her to send up Reynald.
The chocolate in her cup had gone cool while she wrote, but she drank the last few drops of it anyway. She enjoyed the slightly sandy texture on her tongue and thought of how far those tiny grains had traveled. She had been intrigued by the hints of distant lands that the Balam family had brought with them to her ball last month. Those feathers they had worn suggested birds of some size, with plumage of such brilliant colors. Several of the duchess’s friends had asked her if she knew how to acquire similar feathers for their summer hats, but Diane did not wish to trouble the Balams with such frivolous demands—at least, not while she and they were engaged in these particular business matters. Perhaps later, when this was all resolved and the Balams’ chocolate s
tores were once more opened to the City merchants, then Diane would acquire for herself a number of Kinwiinik feathers and wear them to great acclaim, perhaps at the theater.
The door opened, and the swordsman entered. “My lady,” Reynald said, bowing.
Diane picked up the sealed letter and held it out to him. “Have this delivered to the Trader Ahchuleb of the Balams in the Kinwiinik compound. Discreetly, mind you.”
“Of course, madam.” He crossed the room and took the letter from her, moving silently as a cat on the soft rug.
After he left, Diane moved to the window seat and opened the glass to the warm early summer air. Below, the Tremontaine gardens looked pristine, lush with newly budded foliage and swelling roses in pink and peach and crimson. The gardener had done an excellent job of maintaining the grounds, given the cost-cutting measures the duchess had implemented. Then again, labor was cheap, and there had been just the right amount of rain this year. The river was especially pretty today, the water sparkling beneath the warm sunlight. Diane watched a ship float decorously out of sight toward the merchants’ docks. She couldn’t make out the details of the flag, but it was not a Balam ship. All their ships, as agreed, were docked in port, awaiting her order to unload. Everything was proceeding according to plan, although she regretted that she had been forced to take this action. It would have been so much simpler if Lord Davenant had acquiesced to her wishes. It was a pity. He was a charming man, and she’d had quite a lovely time with him after the ball. Besides Davenant’s own talents, there was a certain novelty in being with a man other than her husband. For one thing, he was so much more eager than Tremontaine these days. Diane had not realized how much she missed that. Now that the Hill was so desperate for chocolate, Davenant would soon see how foolish he had been to deny Diane. And once he gave her what she wanted, she would be perfectly willing to give him what he wanted.
A fair trade, the duchess thought, especially when his desires lined up so neatly with her own.
* * *
Gregory, Lord Davenant, set down his cup of vanilla cream and pinched the bridge of his nose as the headache that had throbbed behind his eyes all morning swelled. He had drunk his last cup of chocolate the previous afternoon, and it had been comprised of the leavings at the bottom of the chocolate tin.
Across from him, his wife rattled her cup in its saucer and pleaded, “Are you sure you can’t speak to those Traders, Gregory? I’m certain they must have some chocolate hidden away that we could buy from them directly.”
He raised his bleary gaze to hers and said, “You shouldn’t worry yourself about this, Isabella.”
“But what am I to do this afternoon when my friends arrive? Am I to serve this vanilla cream?” She gestured to her cup, which contained the sweet, milky drink that someone on the Hill—she couldn’t remember who—had concocted out of desperation when their chocolate had run out. “It does nothing for conversation; it puts one to sleep!”
“Then serve some wine,” he snapped, pushing his seat back.
“A lady never drinks wine in the afternoon,” she said frostily.
He sighed. When had his wife become so insufferable? He couldn’t remember, but he blamed it on the chocolate shortage. Or, more accurately, he blamed it on the Duchess Tremontaine. Ever since their amorous evening after her ball, his appreciation of his own wife had plummeted. He was certain the chocolate shortage was making things worse, though. She disliked the vanilla cream, fine; he disliked it too. But she was the one who invited her friends over to “take chocolate,” even when there was none, so she should be the one to determine what to serve them.
“Well?” she prompted him. “What are you going to do about this chocolate shortage? You are the Dragon Chancellor, after all, and if even you cannot get me some chocolate, no one can. It makes us look like poverty-stricken wretches to not have any chocolate to serve. Have you tried Tremontaine? They must know how to get some. They know those Traders.”
Indeed they do, he thought bitterly. He said to his wife, “Tremontaine is of no use. He’s obsessed with the University and has no interest in trade. He barely even manages to attend any Council meetings.”
“I mean his wife,” Isabella said pertly. “We all know the duke is useless when it comes to business. The duchess is the one to ask. In fact, perhaps I should pay her a call—I want some of those feathers the Kinwiinik wore. They would be perfect with my gown this afternoon. Yes, I’ll—”
“No, no,” Gregory said hastily. The last thing he wanted was for the duchess to spend any time alone with his wife. “I’ll go. You’re right—it is my duty. I cannot allow the Davenant reputation to be tarnished by a lack of chocolate.”
Isabella clapped her hands like a little girl. “Thank you, my dear. I know you can find me chocolate. If you could bring some home before the ladies arrive this afternoon I would be ever so grateful.”
He gave her a thin smile. “Of course, Isabella. I will do my best.”
If there was one advantage to the chocolate shortage, it was that few of Rafe’s fellow students were alert enough to attend his oral examination. When Rafe—with Micah, Joshua, and Thaddeus in tow—arrived at Badrick Hall after gulping down a cup of disgusting amandyne, the seats were nearly empty. Typically, oral examinations were attended by a good number of fellow students, eager both to cheer on the scholar being examined and to be among the first to witness any spectacular intellectual mistakes. Legend had it that in the early days of the University, exams sometimes went on for as long as twenty-four hours, and at least one young scholar had failed to survive, felled by a deadly combination of lack of sleep and excessive use of stimulants.
But those days were long past. The University was now a civilized place, and many newly minted Fellows or Masters were launched into their careers by an exemplary performance during their oral exam. Rafe had long imagined that he would be one of those scholars, holding forth brilliantly on his theories of experimental natural philosophy, but the reality of the situation that confronted him was far less satisfying. Normally, oral exams were planned well in advance—a month or more, which left plenty of time to draw an audience—but Rafe had been given notice of his exam scarcely a week ago. Additionally, because of the short notice, only Badrick Hall had been available. It was one of the smallest and most out-of-the-way lecture halls at the University, with centuries-old benches that creaked when students so much as breathed on them and windows of dark stained glass depicting the eerie hunting of a horned figure whose long hair looped nooselike around his neck. The windows might have been of interest to some students in the School of History, but to Rafe all they did was block out most of the daylight, turning the interior into a gloomy pit of shadows that seemed to reflect the murky circumstances under which he had been granted the exam.
“At least there’s no trouble finding a seat,” Joshua said, his voice straining under false cheer.
“Is it usually crowded?” Micah asked.
“Well, it depends,” Joshua said diplomatically.
“On what?” Micah asked.
“Oh, you know, various variables,” Joshua said. “Look, there’s Matthew—shall we go? Best of luck, Rafe, we’ll be cheering for you!” Joshua clapped Rafe on the shoulder, nearly sending him sprawling on the steep, narrow stairs that led down past the tiered benches of the lecture hall.
Thaddeus, who seemed half asleep on his feet—a consequence of his chocolate-less state—mumbled something unintelligible and followed Joshua toward their classmate Matthew, who had claimed a seat in the center of the hall.
“You’d better sit with them,” Rafe said to Micah. “I have to go down there.” He pointed toward the front, where a long table was set on a low dais.
Micah looked worried. “Will you be all right?”
Rafe forced a smile. “Of course! And when I’m finished we’ll go out for some tomato pie to celebrate.” The thought of tomato pie seemed to cheer up Micah, but it made Rafe’s stomach squeeze ominously—and not because of
hunger. He wasn’t sure if that amandyne had entirely agreed with him. As Micah turned along the row to join their friends, Rafe headed down the stairs. Facing the long oak table was a single, hard chair that was clearly meant for the examinee. The setting bore more than a passing resemblance to the Court of Honor as depicted in sketches sold at the market after a swordsman was called to answer for a questionable kill. As Rafe took his seat with his back to the audience, he felt distinctly as if he were about to be judged for a crime. And indeed, there was honor at stake here: the honor of Rafe’s intellectual convictions, dueling with hundreds of years of received wisdom that he was convinced was nothing more than myth papered over with empty scholarly words.
Two of Rafe’s three examiners were already seated at the oak table facing him: ruddy-faced Chauncey, whose bald pate gleamed despite the dim light; and gray-haired Featherstone, whose yellow-sleeved robe bore the unmistakable traces of egg yolk spilled down the front. The third examiner arrived shortly after Rafe took his seat. Rafe heard the man’s labored breathing as he descended the stairs, a cane thumping alongside him. As the elderly man slid with a grunt into the empty chair at the table, Rafe recognized him. It was Doctor Archibald Lyttle, who had given a series of lectures on eclipses of the moon during Rafe’s first year at the University. Lyttle’s theories had been widely dismissed as the fancies of a man nearing senility, and he had retired shortly afterward. Apparently he had come out of retirement, at least temporarily.
Tremontaine Season 1 Saga Omnibus Page 33
