From outside came the snap of a whip, the carriage jerking into motion as the four greys took the strain. “It was a gift,” the king explained. “The carriage, the horses. From Lord Al Telnar, you remember him?”
Vaelin recalled the finely dressed man from the Council Chamber. “The Minister of Works.”
“Yes, snide little bastard wasn’t he? Wanted me to seize a quarter of the Cumbraelin Fief Lord’s lands, punishment for his brother’s rebellion. Of course, he would generously take on the burden of stewardship, together with all the attendant rents. I thanked him for his carriage and seized a quarter of his own lands, gave the rents to Fief Lord Mustor. Should keep him in wine and whores for a while. A reminder to Lord Al Telnar that a true king cannot be bought.”
The king fished inside his cloak, coming out with a leather pouch about the size of an apple. “Here.” He tossed the pouch to Vaelin. “Know what this is?”
Vaelin tugged the pouch open to find a large stone of blue, veined with grey. “Bluestone. A big one.”
“Yes, the largest ever found, dug out of the mines in the Northern Reaches seventy-odd years ago when my grandfather, the twentieth Lord of Asrael, built the tower and established the first colony. Know what it’s worth?”
Vaelin glanced at the stone again, the lamplight gleamed on its smooth surface. “A large amount of money, Highness.” He closed the bag and held it out to the king.
The old man kept his hands within his cloak. “Keep it. A King’s gift to his most valued sword.”
“I have no need of riches, Highness.” I can’t be bought either.
“Even a brother of the Sixth Order may one day find himself in need of riches. Please, think of it as a talisman.”
Vaelin returned the stone to the bag and hooked it to his belt.
“Bluestone,” the king went on, “is the most precious mineral in the world, highly prized by peoples of all nations, Alpirans, Volarians, the merchant kings of the Far West. It commands a better price than silver, gold or diamonds, and most of it is to be found in the Northern Reaches. The Realm has other riches of course, Cumbraelin wine, Asraelin steel and so on, but it was with bluestone that I built my fleet and with bluestone that I forged the Realm Guard, the two pins that hold this Realm in unity. And Tower Lord Al Myrna tells me the bluestone seams are beginning to thin. Within twenty years there wont be enough left to pay the miners to dig it out. And then what will we do, Young Hawk?”
Vaelin shrugged, commerce not being a familiar subject. “As you say, Highness, the Realm has other riches.”
“But not enough, not without taxing nobles and commons to such an extent that they’d both happily see me and my children hung from the palace walls. You’ve seen how troubled this land can be, even with the Realm Guard to hold it together, imagine the blood that will flow when it’s gone. No, we need more, we need spices and silk.”
“Spices and silk, Highness?”
“The main trade route for spices and silk runs through the Erinean sea, spices from the southern provinces of the Alpiran Empire, silk from the Far West, they come together at the Alpiran ports on the northern coast of the empire. Every ship that docks must pay the emperor for the privilege and a share in the value of their cargo. Alpiran merchants have grown wealthy off this trade, some more wealthy than even the Merchant Kings of the West, and they all pay tribute to the emperor.”
Vaelin’s unease deepened. He can’t be thinking it. “You wish to lure this trade to our ports?” he ventured.
The old man shook his head. “Our ports are too few, our harbours too small. Too many storms lash our coast and we are too far north to capture so much trade. If we want it, we’ll have to take it.”
“Highness, I know little of history but I cannot recall any occasion when this Realm or any of the fiefs was threatened by Alpiran invasion or even raid. There is no blood between our peoples. The Catechisms tell us that war is only justified in defence of land, life or Faith.”
“Alpirans are god-worshippers are they not? A whole empire in denial of the Faith.”
“The Faith can only be accepted, not forced, especially not on an empire.”
“But they scheme to bring their gods here, to undermine our Faith. Their spies are everywhere, disguised as merchants, whispering denial, defiling our youth in Dark rites. And all the time their army grows and the Emperor builds more ships.”
“Is any of this true?”
The king gave a small smile, owl eyes glittering. “It will be.”
“You expect the whole Realm to believe this nonsense?”
“People always believe what they want to, true or not. Remember the Aspect massacre, all those deniers and suspected deniers slaughtered in the riots on the basis of mere rumour. Give them the right lie and they’ll believe it.”
Vaelin regarded the king in silence as the carriage rattled over the cobbled streets of the northern quarter, the certainty of his realisation was chilling. There’s no lie here, he actually means to do it. “What do you want of me, Highness? Why share this with me?”
The king spread his bony hands. “I need your sword, of course. Could hardly go to war without the Realm’s most famous warrior now can I? What would the commons think if you were to refuse to bring the sword of the Faith to the Empire of Deniers?”
“You expect me to make war on a people with whom this Realm has no quarrel on the basis of lies?”
“I most certainly do.”
“And why would I?”
“Loyalty is your strength.”
Linden Al Hestian’s face, turning marble white as the blood drained from the gash in his neck… “Loyalty is another lie you use to trap the unwary in your designs.”
The king frowned, at first he seemed angry then barked a laugh. “Of course it is. What do you think kingship is for?” His mirth faded quickly. “You forget the bargain we made. I command and you follow. You remember?”
“I’ve already broken our bargain, Highness. I didn’t do what you commanded of me in the Martishe.”
“And yet Linden Al Hestian still resides in the Beyond, taken by your knife.”
“He was suffering. I had to end his pain.”
“Yes, very convenient.” The king waved a hand in irritation, apparently bored with this subject. “It matters not, you made a bargain. You’re mine, Young Hawk. This attachment to the Order is a fiction, you know it as well as I do. I command, you follow.”
“Not to the Alpiran Empire. Not without a better reason than a shortage of bluestone.”
“You refuse me?”
“I do. Execute me if you must. I will make no declamation in my defence. But I’m tired of your schemes.”
“Execute you?” Janus barked another laugh, even louder than the first. “How noble, especially since you are fully aware I can do no such thing without arousing rebellion amongst the commons and war with the Faith. And I think my daughter hates me enough as it is.”
Abruptly the King pulled aside the velvet curtain covering the window, his face suddenly lighting up. “Ah, the widow Norna’s bakery.” He rapped on the carriage roof again, raising his king’s voice “STOP!”
Climbing out of the carriage he waved away the assistance of the two soldiers of the Mounted Guard who had ridden in escort, grinning at Vaelin, almost like an overgrown child. “Come join me, Young Hawk. Finest pastries in the city, possibly the fief. Indulge an old man’s weakness.”
Widow Norna’s bakery was warm and thick with the smell of oven-fresh bread. On seeing the king she hurried from behind her counter, a tall, thickset woman with heat-reddened cheeks and flour speckled hair. “Highness! Sire! You bless my humble enterprise again!” she gushed, bowing awkwardly and shouldering shocked customers aside. “Move! Move for the king!”
“My lady,” the took her hand and kissed it, the redness of her cheeks deepening. “A chance to enjoy your pastries can never be ignored. Besides Lord Vaelin here is curious. He has scant opportunity for cakes, do you brother?”
Vaelin saw the way her eyes roamed his face, drinking in the sight of him, the way her customers, now bowed to one knee, stole furtive glances, almost hating them for their adulation. “My knowledge of cakes is scant indeed, Highness,” he replied, hoping his annoyance didn’t colour his tone.
“Do you perhaps have a back room where we can enjoy your wares?” the king enquired of the widow. “I should hate to disturb your business further.”
“Of course, Highness. Of course.”
She led them to the rear of the bakery, ushering them into what appeared to be a storage room, shelves laden with jars and sacks of flour lining the walls, furnished with a table and chairs. Seated at the table was a buxom young woman wearing a gaudy dress of cheap material, her hair dyed red, lips painted scarlet and her blouse open at the neck to reveal ample cleavage. She rose as the king entered, executing a perfect bow. “Highness,” her voice was coarse, the vowels clipped. A voice from the streets.
“Derla,” the king greeted her before turning to the baker. “The apple snaps I think, mistress Nornah. And some tea if you could.”
