Page 28 of Valdemar

The first part of the Council meeting this morning was, as he had more or less expected, devoted to discussing the coronation. Mostly people rehashing the parts they had liked the best. Kordas really couldn’t blame them; it was the first time in years that any of them had enjoyed being dressed finely and fed the way they had been accustomed to back in the Duchy, and there was a lot of wistful talk about how nostalgic it had made them feel, how homesick they were, and how his Councilors wished that could happen more often.

Not that they’ll go back, any of them. By now some new strongman is Emperor, and he’s likely to be as bad or worse than the old one. Or, more likely, the Empire has collapsed into localized chaos. One thing’s for certain—no one will be in the old Imperial Palace unless they can swim in lava.

But of course, they all knew that a celebration like that couldn’t happen very often, and more importantly, they all knew why it couldn’t, because they had all been intimately involved with the preparations. They knew, one and all, how much scrimping and improvising and work had gone into making sure that there would be enough food for a real celebration everyone remembered without robbing from tomorrow’s breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. How much even the highborn had sacrificed, with many of them actually doing servants’ work as they had in the first two years, sacrificing their own leisure on coronation preparations.

“Well, I’m not sorry we put all that work in,” said the Lord Chancellor, who himself had spent the day before helping to police the grounds for horse pats so no one in the field in front of the Palace would have an unpleasant surprise. “It was worth it, every bit.” And he didn’t add, I just wish . . ., probably because everyone, especially Kordas, just wished that some things could be the way they had been back in the place they had all once called home. “I must say, Kordas, that light display would have been almost enough all by itself. I did wonder, though, why the horses were silver instead of your Valdemar Golds.”

Kordas had been expecting a question like that. “I suspect because they were modeled after the crest, rather than the Golds, and they were meant to represent where my family came from, rather than some mythical winged beast,” he said, and added with regret, “After all, the Golds as a breed are not going to be around much longer. Better to look ahead than behind.”

“And speaking of that,” the Lord Martial broke in, taking advantage of the cue, “you do remember that I sent off a couple of clever youngsters to see what they could find out about the renegades and their ally? They got back yesterday morning and reported to me before the coronation itself.” “Clever youngsters” was code-speak for junior spies.

Kordas stifled his immediate reaction—to ask if they’d been caught, or had to flee because they’d stood out, or anything of that nature. The Lord Martial was perfectly calm; there was nothing in his voice or demeanor that suggested anything had gone wrong with his operation.

Sai’s voice rang in his mind. You are not “the glass is half-empty.” You are not “the glass is half-full.” You are “The glass has a hole in the bottom and everything is draining away!”

Well, someone has to be an alarmist! he thought with irritation.

“Did they learn much?” he asked instead. “At least, did they learn anything we didn’t already know?”

The Lord Martial nodded. He was a heavyset, usually somber man, who could have been a member of Kordas’s own family, given his black hair and dark complexion. There were thick silver streaks in his hair and beard that gave him an aura of age and dignity, and those he certainly had in plenty. He was in charge of the Guard—one of the first people Kordas had delegated a major task to, once he had the opportunity.

Lord Ventis Endimon was his name, though by this time, everyone referred to him by his title, and his wealth had come from the excellent weapons his family had produced for as long as the Valdemars had produced horses. He was no slouch at using them, either, and his hobby of replaying old and new battles with counters in his leisure time had certainly fitted him for his position.

“I ordered them to be careful; they used to be gamekeepers on my estate, so it wasn’t likely anyone would recognize them, but two new faces would certainly stand out if they weren’t extremely canny,” Lord Endimon replied, taking a sip of leftover wine. “But it turned out that they didn’t stand out at all. The mage’s stronghold has about the same population as we do, and it covers about the same expanse of territory. So they stole some local clothing and slipped into the enclave where our defectors live, making out as if they were common laborers from the mage’s people—which, of course, meant the defectors thought they didn’t speak our tongue, and ignored them as they made road repairs or toted objects around. The defectors are very pleased with themselves. The mage is treating them well. They’re living as well as they did back home—well, the highborn and formerly wealthy ones are. For their servants, it’s pretty much the same as it was back in the Duchy, and there was quite a lot of quiet debate about whether it would have been better to stay with us, and at least have the chance at a farm of their own even though they’d be sweating themselves and their families to get it, or do what they’d done and follow their masters and end up in the same position they were before the exodus.”

“How much discontent is there?” Kordas asked.

“None, from the privileged. About fifty percent of the working class wish they’d stayed. The mage didn’t bother giving anyone the local tongue except the people he wants to talk to, so that leaves everyone else living inside a kind of ‘foreigners enclave,’ and they’re stared at or ignored when they venture out of it. Mostly they’re kept around, or so my informants think, as sources of information about Valdemar. They were given holdings equivalent to their original lands. But they’re not encouraged to live on those lands. The mage keeps them in his main city. Well, I say ‘he,’ but we are still assuming the mage is male. We don’t actually know for sure.”

“The better to control them.” Kordas nodded.

“Exactly. The biggest pieces of information they brought back is that the mage is building heavy fortifications in the far south of his country, and he’s not at all pleased about us being here, even though we’re not exactly sitting on his border.”

“In the strategy game,” Kordas said, thinking aloud, “building fortifications tended to mean that you didn’t expect to attack the other player, you expected them to attack you.”

“Now, Highness,” the Lord Martial rebuked, much more at ease with using the title than Kordas was with hearing it, “you can’t believe he was trained on the same game as you!”

“No, but . . .”

“It seems reasonable, but reason and fear don’t have much to do with each other,” Endimon pointed out. “But . . . yes, that would have been my reading of the situation too. And now that I’ve sent them in and they are familiar with the main city and those border enhancements, we come to the next portion of the plan. I’ve told them to report to the mages once they’re fully rested so the mages can use the pebbles they brought back and the knowledge in their heads to see if they can set up some scrying.”

“And then what?” asked Lady Amberdin.

“We keep an eye on them. No more, no less,” Endimon replied. “That’s all. He’s got to be powerful, this mage. Styles himself ‘the Archmagus Renariel,’ and although my people didn’t see anything of his work, he has to be powerful if he’s built himself a city and a kingdom as big as ours.”

“Well . . . he has the advantage that territory that far north is probably better cleansed than ours is,” temporized the Seneschal.

“Maybe, maybe not. It’s not worth a debate,” said Endimon. “Best we keep an eye on him if we can, as close as possible. I’ll be consulting with the Old Men about what can be done when this meeting is over. If I have my druthers,” he added thoughtfully, “they’ll be able to get the local tongue, and someone can plant it in my spies’ heads and I can send them back. I don’t know if that’s possible, but I intend to ask.”

The usual minutiae of the day was discussed and disposed of, the usual reports summed up and the originals passed to the Chronicler, and the meeting was finished in good time for Kordas and the rest to be among the first to select their noon meal from yesterday’s leftovers. What wouldn’t keep longer than a day had already been sent down into the city to be distributed—well, fairly randomly, first come, first served. At the moment there were no “poor” for the food to go to, but everyone knew that when the carts came down from the Palace, it was time to grab a basket and come get a share. Granted, some carts went straight to various temples to be distributed from there to the sick, injured, and elderly, but only because those three classes would not be able to move quickly enough to get their portions before it was all gone.

Kordas reflected that in the eyes of some, these would be halcyon days indeed. Imagine having no poor! Even in the Duchy, there had been poor. I’ll enjoy this while it lasts.

Because people would always be greedy, the strong would always take from the weak, and there was only so much even a King could do about that. Only a fool would think otherwise. All I can do is my best. And that goes for Restil; at least we’ve brought him up well. But when the rot set in, as it inevitably would, would it penetrate as far as the now—royal family?

“Did you bite into something sour, or are you worrying again, Father?” Hakkon asked, a little anxiously, from his left.

“Worrying again. Worrying always, Isla would say,” he responded. Hakkon was an adept pupil when he chose, and his uncle had deemed him both suitably educated and suitably chastised to be released back to his normal studies and duties. But he was spending time every day with his new puppy and the Houndmaster, as much time as Restil and Delia had spent with their first Valdemar Golds, so Kordas was pleased with the results of the corrective discipline.