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“Maester Theodr Galt, your Majesty.”
“And your demands?”
Galt hesitated, clearly taken aback at Armand’s blunt phrasing.
“Your Majesty, I make no demands—”
“You do, Maester Galt, however softly you phrase them.”
He deliberately narrowed his eyes and stared at Galt. The man was wealthy, he could determine that even without his steward’s report. Dressed in sober black linen, trimmed in silk, the style the latest fashion in Duenne, which meant he had ordered a new wardrobe after his arrival. That same report named Galt as the chief of the shipping guild for Melnek and the surrounding territories. Galt could not be even forty years old—young for the post. Ruthless and ambitious, then.
All the courtiers were listening, a detail Armand had not forgotten, though apparently Galt had. The man tilted his face up. His coloring was dark brown, his features strong and stinking of stubbornness—too stubborn for diplomacy, and yet a fine veneer of mildness overlaid everything.
“I wish the best for Veraene,” Galt said. “Let me prove myself, your Majesty. If you find me and my promises adequate, then let us further discuss my guild.”
Stubbornness and desperation, a most interesting—and useful—combination. Melnek was a major trade city, inhabited by many wealthy merchants. That much money could fund a war, Armand thought.
And so he smiled upon Theodr Galt, and offered him the hospitality of the royal palace.
* * *
HE SPENT THE next hour with his ministers, discussing matters of the treasury, then retreated into a private assembly chamber with his senior advisers. This was a quiet wing in the palace, once the library for Erythandra’s emperors and mages, now derelict except for this one room.
Today, however, it was an uncomfortable meeting. Large blue-black thunderclouds massed above the northern hills, turning the air stale and close. Armand’s head ached. It felt as though a dozen fingers pressed against his eyes and temples. The presence of magic—the dozens of spells needed to seal this chamber from any spy—offered no relief.
His senior council appeared equally affected by the close hot room, but no one suggested they open the windows. They knew his preference for discretion. Unlike the usual council sessions, Armand would have no guards present. Even the few servants were a concession, and only because Khandarr had excised their ability to speak or hear.
“Next item,” Armand said harshly. “Austerlant.”
Duke Feltzen shuffled a stack of papers, undoubtedly searching for his notes about the subject. Normally Lord Khandarr acted as chief councillor and spokesman during these meetings, but Khandarr’s absence these past four months had altered the usual order of things. “Austerlant,” Feltzen said. “Yes. We’ve received official complaints about excess fees for goods crossing the border.”
Armand signaled to the steward for water. He drank deeply and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
Austerlant. Yes. The fees were in retaliation for previous taxes imposed on Veraenen caravans. Just as important, according to Markus Khandarr, the fees encouraged stricter laws governing the more casual border crossings between friendly kingdoms. Everyone was taxed, even if they only carried a loaf of bread for the noonday meal.
“The taxes and fees stand,” he said. “If they dislike it, let them send all their trade by ship instead.”
A route open only during the brief summer season.
“But your Majesty—”
“Do it.”
He spoke softly. Even so, the duke flinched. Baron Quint merely smiled, but it was a weak, fluttering smile. The other three men glanced at each other, clearly uneasy.
Cowards, Armand thought. None of them dared to confront him. He had previously liked Feltzen, a man who used to challenge his grandfather. If the rumors were true, Feltzen had flirted with an alliance with Lord Kosenmark. But like his other councillors, Feltzen had turned overly cautious, overly placating. Quint was no different. They were like dogs, begging for treats.
“What comes next?” he asked. “Ournes, wasn’t it?”
His senior secretary had brought him reports from Ournes, whose regional governor had abdicat
ed his post. Feltzen named several candidates. Quint offered objections to three. Armand ended the debate by ordering the two men to provide detailed reports on all candidates by the following week. Fortezzien wanted concessions. Lord Nicol Joannis had vowed his allegiance once again to the crown, but the man could not compel every citizen to obedience. It was a never-ending task, like magical strings that untied themselves as soon as you loosed your hold on them.
We need the taxes and fees from Austerlant. We need funds to pay the soldiers, to quell the unrest before we can do anything about Károví. Even if—
He felt a twitch deep in his gut. He lifted a hand to signal for more water, when a tangible ripple passed through the room. The scent of magic sharpened to a strong green aroma, at once sickening and invigorating, as though the magical guards had suddenly gone alert. Quint’s face turned gray. Feltzen gripped his useless papers in both fists.
Markus Khandarr limped into the room, leaning upon a wooden staff.
