The Merchants’ War

Then he turned and strode through into the light summer rain, his face upturned towards the sky.

The formal gardens in the grounds of the Thorold Palace had been a byword for splendor among the aristocracy of the Gruinmarkt for decades. The hugely rich clan of tinker families had spared no expense in building and furnishing their residence in the capital: individuals might dress to impress, but stone and rampart were the gowns of dynasties. Some might even think that Egon had brought his court to the captured palace because it was (in the aftermath of the fighting that had damaged the Summer Palace) the most fitting royal residence in the city of Niejwein. Rows of carefully cultivated trees marched alongside the high walls around the garden; rose beds, fantastically sculpted, blossomed before the windowed balconies fronting the noble house. A pool, surmounted by a grotesque fountain, squatted in the midst of a compass rose of gravel paths: beyond it, a low curved building glinted oddly through the falling rain. The walls were made of glass, huge slabs of it, unbelievably even in thickness and clear of hue, held in a framework of cast iron. Green vegetation shimmered beyond the windows, whole trees clearly visible like a glimpse into some fantastic tropical world. Egon strode towards it, not once glancing to either side, while his guards nervously paced alongside, eyes swiveling in every direction.

Innsford hurried to keep up with the royal personage. He cleared his throat: “Your Majesty, if the tinkers suspect you are making free with their former estate—

Egon rounded on him with a grimace. “It’s not their estate,” he snapped. “It’s mine. And don’t you forget it.” He continued, moderating his tone, “Why do you think everyone around me dresses alike?” His ill-humor slipped away. “Yes, they can send their assassins, but who is the assassin to shoot first? And besides, I will not stay here long.”

They were at the orangery doors. “Where does your majesty wish his court to reside?” the duke inquired, almost casually.

“Right here.” Egon flashed him a momentary grin. “While I play the King of Night and Mist.” He glanced over his shoulder at Sir Markus. “I need a beater for the royal hunt. Would you fancy the title of general?”

Markus, a strapping fellow with an implausibly bushy mustache, thrust his chest out, beaming with pride: “Absolutely, sire! I am dizzy with delight at the prospect!”

“Good. Kindly make yourself scarce for a few minutes. You too, Carlsen, I’ll have words with you both shortly but first I must speak in confidence with his grace.”

The orangery doors were open and the guards completed their study: Egon stepped over the threshold, and the small gaggle of courtiers followed him. Innsford studied Markus sidelong. Some backwoods peer’s eldest son, beholden to Egon for his drinking space at a royal table, ancestral holdings down at heel over the past five decades: more interested in breaking heads and carousing than the boring business of politicking that his father before him was so bad at. And Egon had just casually offered him a post from which he could reap the drippings from the royal trencher? Innsford blinked slowly, watching the two young bloods bounce away into the glazed pavilion, marveling loudly and crudely about its trappings. “A beater for the hunt should hold the title of general?” he asked.

“When you’re hunting for armies, why yes, I believe that is the custom.” His majesty’s lips quirked slightly, in what might have been intended to be a smile. “If I am in the field at the head of an army, I am clearly looking to the defense of my realm, am I not? Such a grand undertaking will have, I hope, a salutary effect on any secret ambitions the father of my betrothed might hold towards our lands. Leading an army against the tinkers will permit me to burnish my honor, strive for glory, and ensure that those who rally to my banner do so under my eyes so that their claims to the spoils of victory be adjudicated immediately.” Oh, so you don’t trust your vassals with sharp implements out of your sight? Innsford nodded gravely, while Sir Markus beamed like an idiot. A useful idiot, come to think of it. “And the tinker assassins will have little success in striking from the shadows if they do not know, from one day to the next, where I make my bed.”

The duke nodded thoughtfully. “I am pleased by your majesty’s perspicacity and foresight,” he said carefully, thinking: Sky Father! He’s sharp. If Egon was going to go into the field at the head of an army, he was going to slay about six birds with one stone. Hunting down the tinker Clan’s holdings in the wild would compel them to confront him on his own terms, while making it difficult for their assassins to stick a knife in his ribs. An army in being would prevent the neighbors from getting any ideas about picking off a province here or a holding there. Meanwhile, Egon had rung a bell to make his backwoods vassal dogs salivate at the thought of loot: now he would go into the field to gather the leashes of the men they had released for service. He could simultaneously claim the lion’s share of the spoils he’d promised, while maintaining the appearance of generously disbursing loot to his followers. Handled carefully it would raise him to the stature of a true warrior king—somebody only fools or the truly desperate would scheme against—without the attendant risks of declaring war on one of the neighboring kingdoms. If it worked—“I see much in your plan to commend it.” Innsford paused. Egon had come to a halt in front of a bench at the center of a circle of low, dark green trees. Small orange fruits glimmered among their shadowy branches. “But you did not summon me here to tell me this.”

“Indeed not.” Egon inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a moment. Innsford sniffed, but his sinuses— chronically congested, the aftermath of a broken nose in his youth—stubbornly refused to disclose the cause of Egon’s blissful expression. The king opened his eyes: “I have some—problems. I believe you might be able to assist me in their resolution.”

Ah. Here it comes. Innsford had lived through the reign of two kings before this young upstart: nevertheless, his stomach tingled and he felt a shiver of fear, as if a black cat walked across his future grave. “I am at your command, your majesty.”

“While I am on campaign, I must look to the good cultivation of my earthly field.” Niejwein and territories, Innsford translated. “I must also look to the good administration of my army. Who am I to trust, in the halls of power while I am elsewhere?” For a moment the royal gaze fell on Innsford, unblinking and cold as any snake. “His grace of Niejwein is under threat from the tinker knives if he stays in the capital whose name he bears: perhaps he would be safer were he to undertake a pilgrimage to the southern estates? His eldest son will be all too pleased to look to the house hold’s duties in his father’s absence, while his grace could earn my gratitude by looking to the good management of those provinces.”

Innsford stiffened. But Niejwein’s your man! he thought indignantly. Then he unpacked Egon’s plan further. Niejwein’s too powerful, here. Send him away from his power base while keeping his son—inexperienced—as a hostage, and he can serve your ends safely. Is that what you plan? “You have a task in mind for me.” It was an admission, but denying any awareness of the deeper political realities would merely suggest to Egon that he was too stupid to be of any use. And Innsford had a nasty inkling that being pigeonholed as useless by King Egon was unlikely to be conducive to a peaceful and prosperous old age. Especially if one was of high enough birth to conceivably be a threat.

“Indeed.” Egon smiled again, that disturbing smirk with a telltale narrowing of the eyes. “Laurens—the next Duke of Niejwein, I should say—is none too bright himself. He’ll need his hand holding and his back watching.” The smirk faded. “The defense of Niejwein is no minor task, your grace, because I am certain the tinkers will attempt to retake the city. Their holdings are not well adapted to support a war of maneuver, and they are by instinct and upbringing cosmopolitans. Furthermore, Niejwein is the key to their necromantic trade with the land of shades. There are locations in this city that they need. I must assign an army to the defense of the capital, but I would be a thrice-damned fool to leave it in his grace of Niejwein’s own hands. Will you take it?”

“I—” Innsford swallowed. “You surprise me.”

“Not really!” Egon said lightly. “You know as well as I the value of a certain—reputation.” His own reputation for bloody-handed fits of rage had served well enough at court to keep his enemies fearful. “Should you accept this task, then this palace will be yours—and your son Franz? He is well, I trust? I will be needing a page. Franz will accompany me and win glory on the battlefield, and in due course he will inherit the second finest palace in the land from his father’s prudence in this matter.”

Innsford stared. “I wo-would be delighted to accept your gracious offer,” he forced out. You’re going to leave me in charge of this death trap while you take my son as your page? The audacity was offensive, but as an act of positioning it was a masterstroke: rebel against the king and Egon would already hold his firstborn hostage. But meanwhile… thoughts whirled in his head. “You expect the tinkers to try to retake the city, my liege?” he asked: “Is there sound intelligence to this effect?”

“Oh, indeed.” Egon’s reply was equally casual in tone, and just as false. “I have my ways.” He smirked again. “Well, truth be told, I have my spies.” He chuckled dryly. “You understand more than you can politely say, my lord, so I shall say it for you: I trust no one. No one. But don’t let that fool you. The rewards for being true and constant to my service will be great and in time you’ll come round to my way of thinking, I’m