could not sense them-though he knew they were there-but the knowledge of their existence comforted him as much as the sight of his treasure.
How splendid the gold was! And what a great hoard! He knew, at the latest count, that there were twelve thousand four hundred and sixty eight bars of gold in here. And they all belonged to him!
There were those who claimed that steel, not gold, was the most precious metal. Others, like Duke Rathskell of Solanthus, preferred to keep their wealth in the form of precious gems, like those Stones of Garnet the duke was always boasting about. But to Bakkard du Chagne, there was nothing like the solidity of gold. It was good for his soul to come here, now and then-as often as possible, if truth be told-to bask in the sight of this vast fortune.
He stayed for more than an hour, occasionally touching one of the smooth bars, letting the essence of that treasure wash over him. Sweat slicked his head, ran down his face, but it was a cleansing perspiration and only invigorated him. Finally, he felt healed, complete, and ready again to face the world.
Emerging from the lofty tower-top room, he carefully locked the door and started down the long, winding staircase. It took a long time for him to descend to the great hall of his palace. The trip down was harder, and every step away from his gold seemed to add weight to his shoulders, to bring further burdens to his soul. By the time he reached the bottom, he felt fully mortal again, glum and moody about the challenges awaiting him.
Frowning, he crossed the vast courtyard and leaned against a chiseled column as he stared at the vast, blue expanse of the bay. Ships dotted that azure highway, two dozen sails that appeared as tiny dots from the regent’s lofty vantage-each one representing another brick in the great house of trade that was once again bringing his cherished city into the forefront of world commerce. Sailors were sailing, merchants selling, craftsmen manufacturing, and vast sums of money were changing hands. Each transaction brought a percentage of profit to him, and every transaction made him richer. He was already rich beyond the imaginings of most.
Everyone had a task, a part to play, a job to do in the grand scheme of du Chagne’s operations. His main work was to oversee, to organize. He had many to help him, and he paid his assistants, even his common workers, very well. Why, then, did it seem that the lord had to do all the really important things by himself?
With a sigh, Bakkard turned back to the high, arched doorway of his splendid domicile. He looked up one last time at the turrets, gleaming white against the sky. Tall windows, precious glass imported from Ergoth, gleamed like mirrors in the stone wall, reflecting the dazzling sweep of sea. Inside was the gold.
Well, didn’t he deserve his rewards? After all, Palanthas had not been prosperous, clean, and productive for long. It was only three short years ago that Bakkard’s knights had finally evicted the Dark Knights from the city and raised the Solamnic banner here for the first time since the before the Chaos War. Signs of devastation, of the thirty-nine years of scourge that had followed that shattering conflict still darkened whole swaths of the city. There were blocks, entire neighborhoods of shantytowns, where teeming thousands lived under tents, crate-planking, or thinly thatched roofs. Other places were still black ruin-catacombs and mazes of charred timber and blasted stone, domains only of rats and of things that preyed upon rats.
Yet so much of the city had sprung back to life under his leadership! All around was evidence of his success. Sometimes, though, he felt it was all too much. Too many things needed his attention, nothing worked properly without his direct involvement.
A guard in gleaming golden armor and scarlet tunic pulled open the door and mutely, probably even unconsciously, invited the prince back to his responsibilities. The regent held his head high as he stalked past the man into the lofty room.
The great chamber managed to be ornate and sterile at the same time. Sunlight poured through the windows, illuminating the relief works etched onto the two dozen columns, reflecting from the bronzed engravings lining the interior walls. Even so, he immediately felt as if he had entered a realm of shadow. The air was cool here, and now for some reason he shivered, though it was early summer and the day was balmy even at this morning hour.
“I have the maps displayed in the planning room, Excellency,” noted Baron Dekage, his aide de camp. “Together with the dispatches that arrived overnight.”
“Dispatches? More than one? What is it now?”
“I am afraid the squabble between the realms on the western shore continues to escalate. Word arrived by pigeon last night, after you had retired, sir, regarding Coastlund’s claim that the fishing fleets of the south and Vinlund are encroaching upon Costian waters. This morning, shortly after dawn, a ship arrived at the docks, bearing word from a captain of the Southlund fishers. He says his comrades were attacked by Costian galleys. Boats have been burned and crews left to roast or drown.”
“By Joli-how dare they play around with war! Do they know that the Princess Selinda was just sailing through those very waters?” snapped the regent. “By all the gods, if they so much as fired an arrow in my daughter’s direction, I’ll hang them all from the topmasts without so much as a by-your-leave!”
He went to a sideboard, poured a glass of cold water, and drank it. It was no good-the acid churning in his stomach continued unabated. “Who is my admiral in Caergoth, again?” he demanded crossly.
“That would be Lord Marrett,” Dekage replied. “He took command this spring.”
“Oh, yes, Marrett.” The regent didn’t recall much about the man-it was a routine promotion that had been necessary to appease the Duke of Caergoth-something involving in-laws of the recently married duke-but Lord Marrett would have to be ordered to sea. That would require a series of authorizations, issuances, and provisionings that would take half a day just to organize. Damn it! He was expecting quarterly reports tomorrow night and had been counting on these last two days to steel himself for the strain. There were always problems with the books, missing inventories from the iron mines and coal shipments, details that would inevitably cost time and money to resolve.
Now, he had extra work to do.
“Er, my lord… there is another thing,” Dekage said hesitantly.
“What? Spit it out, man!”
“Patriarch Hower begs an audience. He is waiting outside.”
“Very well then, send him in-and leave us alone.”
Seconds later the aged priest, master of the temple of Shinare in Palanthas, came in and bowed humbly before the Lord Regent. He was a rotund bald man, clad in a robe of shimmering gold. He mopped his pate nervously as du Chagne fixed him with a glare.
“What is it, old fellow? I have a lot to do today.”
“Begging my lord’s pardon-I must speak with you about the temple in Caergoth. It is the matter of the young patriarch, Issel. I fear, my lord, that he has offended some of the elders. I have received no less that four complaints during the last week. I know that young Issel was your personal selection for the post, and the man suggests great potential, but perhaps it is too soon for-”
“Have the collections suffered?” interrupted the lord regent curtly.
“No, my lord. If anything, the donations have increased slightly since Issel’s arrival two months ago.”
“Then tell these complaining priests that I am satisfied with the new patriarch. Furthermore, tell them that, if they continue to complain, I shall require you to share their names with me.”
“My lord!” gasped the priest. “That would confound the sanctity of our order’s sacred bond!”
“Nevertheless, do as I say. Tell them.”
“Very well, my lord,” replied the chubby patriarch, deflated in his gilded robe. He withdrew swiftly and silently, while the aide de camp returned to introduce more business.
“It is regarding the duke’s conference to be convened in Caergoth next week. Princess Selinda is due to arrive in the next few days, depending on the vagaries of wind and tide, of course-”
“Yes, I know, I know. I fret for her, but she insisted upon going. The matter was out of my hands, and of course, there are a thousand-no, a million-things I need to attend to here! Matters of commerce, of taxation-of income and debt! Besides, my daughter will serve well as my representative at the conference.”
“Er, I understand that, lord. I am certain the Lady Selinda will do a more than creditable job in your stead. No, my lord, the problem is the other two dukes. Both Thelgaard and Solanthus have sent missives in the last few hours, begging your lordship’s pardon and pleading that they have been detained. Each will be several days late in arriving for the conference.”
“By the gods!” The lord mayor’s face flushed, his voice cracked. “This is an insult to my station, my very self! How dare they?”
“Begging my lord’s pardon, since you sent your daughter to the conference to represent you, the insult-a
