“And yet,” said I, “royalty has a way of getting what it wants.”
A man with extravagantly wide sleeves approached Queen Berlauda, took off his hat, and bowed low. The two spoke, he with florid gestures, she briefly and impassively.
“The ambassador of Varcellos,” said the duke. “Varcellos is burdened with a number of spare princes, and the ambassador offers them severally, or all together, according to her majesty’s taste.”
Another man hastened to approach the Queen, a tall fellow with a handsome, dark face and eyebrows raised in perpetual half circles. He wore a gold chain. He too bowed, and joined the envoy from Varcellos, who seemed none too pleased to see him.
“The ambassador of Loretto,” I was told. “Loretto has only one unmarried prince, but he is the heir.”
I gave his grace a surprised look. “Is it a serious offer? For Duisland to unite with our greatest enemy?”
“In the event of marriage, they would not be our enemies, but our kin.”
“Then they greatly underestimate the sorts of quarrels that can arise in families.”
Queen Berlauda listened to the two ambassadors for a brief while, then gave a nod and continued her progress around the room. She approached the duke, and the two of us bowed low and swept off our hats. Her scent, very floral, flowed over me as I straightened.
“Is her grace not with you?” asked the Queen. “We have not seen her.”
“This morning, she rides in the park with friends,” said the duke. “She will attend court this afternoon.”
“Tell her we have missed her.” A faint smile touched Berlauda’s impassive face.
“I shall assure her of your majesty’s kind regard.” His grace turned to me. “Your majesty, may I introduce Quillifer, who has escaped both pirates and bandits to ride to Selford and alert us to the fate of unfortunate Ethlebight.”
The Queen regarded me with her pale blue eyes. “We have been informed of the sad plight of our loyal city,” said she. “It moves us.”
“Thank you, your majesty,” said I.
“And we thank you, Lord Quillifer, for your bravery and enterprise in bringing the news to us.”
I decided not to correct the Queen on the matter of my being a lord. “It was only my duty, your majesty,” I said.
“Would that all our subjects shared your sense of duty.” And then, regally, she turned her handsome blond head and continued her procession around the room.
The duke and I bowed again, and as we straightened I observed the duke exchanging nods with one of the royal party, a very tall man dressed all in black, from his shoes to his skullcap. His raiment had none of the pearls or purfles affected by the others, though he wore a gold chain of office, and sapphires and smaragds worn over the gloves on his fingers. His face was lean and careworn, and his hair and beard streaked with gray. The duke turned once more to me.
“Quillifer, this is Sir Denys Hulme, the Lord Chancellor.”
I bowed. “Sir.”
“Let us go to my closet,” said the Chancellor. He spoke in a deep, almost subterranean voice.
He led us out of the great room and to a different entrance hall from the one his grace and I had used earlier. This was far more magnificent, with an enormous straight marble stair ascending two storeys. It seemed a wonder of the world, for I had never seen a straight stair in my life, but only stairs that circled round, or tracked back and forth from landings. Then I realized that I had never seen such a stair because I had never before been in a building large enough to house one.
The Chancellor took us to the second story, and from there through a series of offices filled with scribes plying their quills. He took from around his neck a key, opened an iron-strapped oaken door, and brought us into a small room. There were a desk and a pair of cabinets, and everywhere a profusion of books and papers. The smell of paper and dust and ink brought a memory of my old master Dacket, and his little offices above Scarcroft Square in that building owned by the duke. The room was lit by a high bull’s-eye window, though gloomy for all that.
His excellency bade us sit. He went behind his desk and brought out some blown-glass goblets and a brass tankard filled with sauterne, which he offered. As his grace accepted, I did as well, and the Chancellor kindly served us. Then he poured a glass for himself, sat at his desk, and took out a fresh sheet of paper.
“Goodman Quillifer,” he said. “I understand that your report was lost when you were captured by Sir Basil of the Heugh. But do you remember the essence of it?”
The report never existed—I was to write it on the journey, with due reference to the Delward translation of the Rhetorica Forensica, but Gribbins’s insistence on my sleeping in barns and haylofts mitigated against such work. But I knew all the figures, and was able to recite them for the Lord Chancellor. He wrote them down swiftly, the noise of his scratching pen loud in the small room, and when he was finished, he looked up at me from his desk.
“That was singularly comprehensive, young man,” he said. “Now, what does your city need? Food?”
“There is plenty of food in the granaries,” I said. “The reivers had no way of carrying it off, and so left it alone. What the city needs is money for ransoms and rebuilding, and soldiers for protection.”
“Money is all marked for the suppression of rebellion,” said the Chancellor. “Food I could possibly have arranged.”
“Then sell the food,” said I, “and use the money for ransoms.”
The Chancellor smiled somewhat as he raised his goblet of sauterne. “Twelve years have I husbanded the resources of the kingdom,” he said. “I had hoped that next year, we could at last pay off the remaining loans for the King’s last war. And now there will need to be more loans.”
I was startled at this, for King Stilwell’s last war had ended before I was born, and ended in triumph, with the armies of Duisland occupying whole districts of western Loretto. King Edouardo of that country had been forced to ransom his own cities for a fabulous sum, and then was forced to submit to captivity until the sum was paid. Eventually, he had to return to Loretto to raise the money personally, but his son and heir took his place in the gilded prison in Howel, and after a few years died there.
On account of Prince Antonio’s death, and Edouardo’s a year later, the ransom was never handed over; but it had not occurred to me that in a score of years a war could not be paid for.
“We may hope for a short war,” said the duke.
“So we may hope,” said the Chancellor, musing into his cup, “but I dare not wager the future of the state upon a short campaign. The foundations of revenue must be laid brick by brick, to support the weight of the kingdom withal. And, to speak frankly, I may not have the time to do you much service—there are many who would gladly sit in this chair, and hurl crowns and royals to the people in hopes of buying popularity. And these may influence the Queen more than I.”
“I will urge her majesty to retain you,” said the duke. “The treasury is too vital to be left to some base office-seeker.”
“I give you thanks, though I am ever reminded that I am by many considered that selfsame base seeker. Your grace is kind enough to overlook my common birth, but others are not.” The Chancellor raised his eyes from his goblet to me. “I hope you do not find these obstacles too discouraging.”
“Sir,” said I, “over the last months, I am grown used to discouragement.” Those crowns and royals whirled in my mind, and I leaned forward as an idea took me. I donned my learnèd-advocate face. “Sir, you must spend money to make a war. Can you not spend some of it in Ethlebight? There is a royal dockyard that could provide small craft to the fleet, pinnaces and tenders and powder-hoys.”
The Chancellor gave a small, discreet nod. “Some of these sorts of arrangements are within my scope. Others will require consultation with the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.”