“And while it appears,” Malisa said, her voice laden with caution, “that while our strike up North gained us the respect and admiration of many of the knights and soldiers within the duchy who have not become victim to the curses, some members of the nobility have only become further estranged. The Lord Mayor of Sorin has only sent in one third in taxes these last two months.”
Thomas tapped his hoof-like fingers brusquely against the arm of his chair as he considered his daughter and Prime Minister’s report. They were all ensconced within the Duke’s meeting chambers, the wide mahogany desk adorned by bright red and white linens with gold trim, and six inch tassels at each corner. The table was arranged lengthwise, so that Thomas sat in the centre of one of the sides, while his three closest advisors, Malisa, Steward Thalberg, and the newly minted Intelligence Chief Andwyn occupied the other.
Around the room, all of the lamps were lit, flames steady, so that a pleasant ambiance filled the warm chambers. The window panes were shut, though no curtains were drawn. Even if the glass were not marred by whorls and crowns that distorted all beyond, the prevailing fog that had barely lifted would have prevented the masters of Metamor from seeing aught outside. Nor did the nebulous and lightless grey outside provide any additional brightness to the room. The evening hour was fast approaching, and the sun, could they have glimpsed it, was already beginning to dip behind the tallest peaks in the Dragon Mountains to the West.
The four of them held meetings together generally once a month. It gave them each a chance to exchange what information they knew, and perhaps learn of something that they had not known, and then apply it to their own duties. Steward Thalberg usually found that most of the political manoeuvring to the South largely immaterial in his own day to day affairs, but when the time came to make trade deals for grains or produce, it was practically the only consideration to be made.
And the news that some of their southern neighbours were not paying proper tribute was ill news indeed. Not only had Nasoj’s attack cost them many valuable lives both to defend Metamor and to serve her, but it had incurred a financial burden that would not be easy for the Duke to bear. Those headaches were serious, and he could understand how they could wear on Thomas. But they had been through such hardship before, and the Steward had never seen his Duke falter so greatly as he had in the past fortnight.
But now, as Thomas gravely considered the words from his advisors, Thalberg could feel the strong man that he admired and was proud to serve coming back to the surface. The calm deliberation was in that equine muzzle, eyes focussed on the matters at hand, seeing the way through to a possible solution, or at least, to ameliorate the burden. With the sleeping draught that Healer Coe had made, Thomas’s recent convalescence must have worked wonders.
“Has Lord Mayor Grinsun given you any reason why he has not paid his taxes?” Duke Thomas asked, voice stern, though the faintest hint of uncertainty remained. More full nights of sleep would bring him back to his old self again, Thalberg felt sure.
Malisa nodded, but her expression was sour. “He claims that the recent events have drained his treasury, and he cannot afford to pay any more at present.”
The horse snorted, demonstrating how little he believed the words. “Andwyn?”
His name called, the bat stirred up from his juice drink. His flat nose twitched slightly, small beady eyes narrowing. One of the two pages that occupied the room with them moved to refill the bat’s drink. “My sources tell me that Lord Mayor Grinsun did suffer some losses earlier in the year. He thought to line his own pockets by establishing two more trade routes by sea. The Dock Worker’s Guild rioted demanding higher pay. Just when some of his troops had come North to aid us, so he had to accede to their demands.”
Thomas tapped his hoof-like fingers on the chair arm again. “I cannot image that took so much from his treasury that he can only pay one third of his taxes.”
Andwyn shook his head. “According to my source, no, it has not. But the Lord Mayor has just recently worked out an arrangement with the Wool Merchant’s Guild which will increase his profits for every new trade route he is able to arrange for them. So far, it is paying handsomely.”
“Interesting. Have you heard of this?” Thomas turned back to his daughter.
Malisa shook her head. “The Lord Mayor neglected to mention it to me in his last letter. But we need his tribute. Merchants will not come here if they do not think us prosperous. We have been dipping all too often into the royal treasury lately.”
“What say you, Thalberg?”
The alligator shifted about in his seat, his long tail swaying behind him. Leaning forward, he spread his scaled paws upon the table, black claws digging against the table cloth. “He is a blackguard if he thinks he can withhold his tribute unless we buy more of his wool. We have enough at present, as do our neighbours in the Valley.”
“What of our neighbours to the North?” Andwyn asked suddenly, one of his large ears twisting to catch some sound that none of the others heard. “We have resumed trade with Starven. Could they use the wool?”
“Perhaps,” Thalberg admitted. “I was under the impression that they were not politically stable.”
“They aren’t,” Malisa assured them all. “And asking them to buy wool through us from Sorin at the already inflated prices that Lord Mayor Grinsun will be asking, it would ruin them.”
Thomas continued to tap his arm chair. His ears twitched once or twice in thought, his gaze crossing over the table to his wine goblet. It was half-empty, and had been that way for some time now. Those brown orbs stayed upon the red liquid within, glistening in the lamplight as if it were a thick jelly.
His voice was slow, as if he were a schoolboy speaking cautiously so as not to offend his instructor. Yet there was a certainty to it as well that was far more familiar to those assembled. “We do need to stabilize Starven. Perhaps we can offer them some of the wool as a gift, and then over the Summer bring the price up to where it should be? By then relations should be normal,”
Malisa considered those words, her face drawn tight. “That is risky, Father. We would be making a commitment to them that we may not be able to keep. What if their situation grows more unstable, or they suddenly decide to renege on their agreement to trade? What then?”
Thomas shook his head. “But if we do this right, we will not take the risk, Lord Mayor Grinsun will.”
Her eyes became interested, and she leaned forward, a conspiratorial smile beginning to crease her lips. “Explain?”
Thomas smiled as well, a soft assuring look that filled Thalberg’s heart with secret delight. This was the Thomas of old, the one that he knew well, the one that he called friend and his Duke. “Write back Lord Mayor Grinsun, remind him gently of his fealty to the House of Hassan. Express sympathy with his recent hardship. But also tell him of a new trade route for his wool that we have discovered. The cost of moving the wool from Sorin to Metamor will be deducted from his taxes, and a portion of the profits from selling to Starven will go back to him.”
The horse lord leaned back in his seat. “He’ll be able to charge his wool merchants on the price of the taxes he will no longer have to pay, and he’ll benefit from every transaction we make. But we only risk the amount of money it takes to transport the wool, nothing else. If we cannot sell to Starven, then the cost of wool in Metamor will go down, making business in Metamor more profitable for foreign merchants. How could he refuse this opportunity?”
Thalberg offered his version of a frown, which amounted to a narrowing of his yellow eyes, and a tightening of his jaws. “I doubt he will. But how will this force him to pay his proper tribute. It only seems to let him pay less.”
“Naturally,” Thomas said, resting one hand upon the tablecloth. “We will state that to arrange this trade route will require some assurances from the people of Starven, and so we will need more from him. Gently suggest that paying all he owes will accomplish this. The longer he waits, the less money he will make.”
Malisa nodded slowly, smiling even more openly. “Yes, I see. Would you like to write the letter or should I?”
Thomas shook his head. “You may write the letter. I will affix my insignia when it is prepared.” He then took his goblet and finished off the last of the wine. The other page approached quickly, and refilled the chalice from his ewer. The horse lord smiled his thanks to the boy, but did not yet drink of the newly poured red wine. At seeing the silence of his advisors, Thomas asked, “Is there any other business?”
“No, your grace,” Andwyn said, dipping his snout once more to his goblet. His hands were stretched out at great length because of his wings, even in his most human of forms, rendering them useless for fine manipulation. All of his letters were dictated, as he lacked even the skill in writing with a pen held between his teeth that Phil had mastered. But no one at Metamor would ever begrudge him because of that.
“I think that covers what I had to say as well,” Malisa admitted, shifting backwards in her seat, waiting for her Father’s word so that she might get to writing that letter.
Thalberg grunted and nodded. “I have but one question.” When Thomas gave his approval to proceed, the alligator asked, “The Questioners are to leave this Saturday, two days hence. Do you wish for me to prepare a banquet for tomorrow, one that they cannot refuse to distract them from their work?”
Andwyn let out a short laugh at the notion, but otherwise kept a firm grip on his expression. Malisa’s eyes widened in surprise at the devious suggestion. She glanced to her father, the clear lines of her face letting Thomas know of her approval. But the horse lord shook his head. He remembered the foulness of their presence, and had no wish to entertain it again. His flesh nearly began to shudder at even the memory of their wraith-like appearance. A common horse would not need to worry about such things, as his rider and master would dispel them. As Duke, he had no such protector.
“That is an interesting idea, Thalberg,” Thomas admitted, keeping as firm a grip over his voice as possible. “But it is too risky. At a dinner, somebody might say something that will give the Questioners reason to doubt us. We should do nothing to interfere with them. I do not want them to leave here suspicious.” Thomas was honestly not sure he wanted them to leave Metamor period. After all, once they had left, Dame Bryonoth would summon him once more, and she had said she would shoe him the next time.
“I will be glad when they are gone,” Malisa admitted, though it was not a surprising revelation. “I think everyone at Metamor will breathe a little easier once Saturday comes.”
“What do we know of them?”
It was the bat who shrugged, his wings rustling drily. “Very little. We do know that they have grilled all who have come before them very thoroughly. We also know the content of most of these conversations. But when the talk amongst themselves, they use a language that none of us know. It is not quite the language of the Ecclesia either, but a variant I think.”
Andwyn could get no further because at that moment, a knocking sounded upon the door. Thomas rose form his seat, as did his three advisors. “Who is it?” Thomas asked as one of the pages walked to the door to find out.
The boy’s face had gone deathly pale when he turned back around. “It’s the Questioners, your grace.”
Thomas felt his legs very nearly give out from underneath of him. He gripped the table in both hands, holding himself up right as best he could. “Let them in,” Thomas called, his voice wavering, breath coming far more raggedly than before.
The three black phantasms glided into the small chambers, their cloaks catching the light subtly, giving the wool the sheen of a black viper. The red cross in the middle of their chests seemed a gaping wound. They quickly assembled into a line of three, their cowls pulled up over their faces. The centre figure spoke, his voice dull and lifeless. “Greetings, Duke Thomas. We will not disturb you for long. We have but one question to ask you at this time.”
Thomas swallowed heavily, his eyes wide, the whites showing. “What is it?”
The Questioners had their arms tucked within their sleeves, giving them the appearance of penitent monks on their way to confessional. But there was also a subtle power in their stance, an alien quality that no monk would ever possess. “We have been told that the mage Wessex had a journeyman that is still alive. Who is this journeyman?”
Thalberg cast one yellow eye in the Duke’s direction. Thomas was doing his best to keep his flesh from trembling, but the quaking of his skin was clear to his Steward. With crackling voice, the horse lord replied in answer, “Jessica. Her name is Jessica. She’s a hawk.”
All three Questioners bowed their heads as one. “We thank you, your grace.” And then, just as they had entered, the three priests began to slide from the room, the hems of their robes undulating across the floor like so many snakes. When the door finally shut behind them, all six in the room let out a sigh of relief.
“Why did you tell them her name?” Malisa asked, her own voice strained.
Thomas blinked, the whites in his eyes remaining. “I didn’t have a choice.” His face then began to hang low, and his flesh shivered visibly. “I did not want to...”
The alligator exchanged a quick look of concern with the Prime Minister. Glancing then to the bat at his side, he could see too that Andwyn was also oddly disturbed by this. But the bat hid his feelings very well. After several moments of uneasy silence, Thomas returned his own gaze upon them all. “I think I need to rest. Please, excuse me, my friends.”
Thalberg nodded to the Duke’s page. “Go back to the Duke’s bedchambers and prepare the sleeping draught for his grace.” As the boy left to see to the task, Thalberg regarded the horse lord with concern. “It is my dearest hope that you will be well tomorrow, your grace.”
Both Andwyn and Malisa offered their concern for his health as well, and then, the three of them each bid their farewells and left the room. Thomas said little to them, simply waving one hoof-like hand weakly. The three advisors said nothing to each other as they left that hall, faces dour, each thinking thoughts too terrible to share. Thalberg knew that while Thomas may get a good night rest that eve, he would not.
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