Chuckling, I nod, “He’s allowed his dukes and his exchequer to loot his kingdom. He’s given away his power so he can chase women around his court. Now… Now he gets to see what it’s like to dance to my tune. My tune includes a lot of notes he won’t be familiar with, like fiscal responsibility and economic expansion.”
Melina looks puzzled.
“Let me give you an example,” I say, “Who decides if a bridge gets built?"
"The King," she answers promptly. "He orders it."
I waggle my finger at her. “Oh, no. The king wishes for a bridge to be built, but his wishes do not quarry stone and stack it. Who actually decides if the bridge exists?"
“The architect?” Melina says cautiously.
I shake my head. "Closer. The architect might decide where it's built and how it's built, but the architect cannot work without stone. The stonemasons cannot work without wages. The quarry cannot cut stone without tools."
I tap my purse with a finger. “The person who decides if the bridge gets built is the person who pays for it. Until yesterday, that was the King's Treasurer. But the Treasury is empty. So now, who decides?"
Melina looks at my purse with dawning understanding. "You do."
Now my feral grin is back. "Exactly. Oskar can scream for a bridge until his throat bleeds. Once I look at the plans and decide the location is poor, or the interest rate on the loan is too risky, or I simply dislike the architect's mustache, then that bridge does not happen."
I lean back, smiling. "We are creating a new court in Centis, Melina. It won’t be the official court; it will be a shadow court, if you will. The nobles will still go to the palace to bow, to gossip, and to be seen. Everything of substance will happen at the Embassy and the Bank. The movers, the doers, they will come here. The palace offers titles, but the Embassy and Bank offer means.”
The following morning, the reality of this new dynamic arrives in the form of Lord Hargin, the Minister of Public Works. He is a pompous man who is used to Oskar rubber-stamping his requests. Most of the requests are ridiculous and do nothing to bootstrap Centis’s struggling economy.
Without even bothering with any of the court formalities, he flops a scroll down on my table at breakfast, earning himself a glare from Kenric, Iwan, Ulrick, and Tobias. His behaviour is beyond rude.
"We require forty thousand gold pieces," Hargin announces, not bothering to sit. "For the repair of the West Wall and the construction of a new hunting pavilion for the King in the Whispering Woods."
I don’t even look up from my plate. "Good morning to you, too, Lord Hargin. Please, take a seat. I believe the waiting period for loan applications is currently about ten days, since the Bank isn’t officially open yet."
"Loan application?" Hargin sputters. "This is a Royal Requisition! The King commands it!"
I finally look up. I lace my fingers together. “King Oskar commands his treasury. The Royal Fey Bank is part of King Ellisar’s treasury. We do not take commands from Oskar, but we might accept a proposal.”
I reach out and pull the scroll toward me. I unroll it. I scan the items, shaking my head. Nothing here is worth the gold.
"Denied," I say, rolling it back up.
Hargin looks like I just slapped him. "Denied? You cannot deny the King!"
“There is no return on either of these investments. The west wall is structurally sound, if lacking in aesthetic appeal. Another hunting lodge is unnecessary. Oskar already has three of them. These are vanity projects, and the Royal Fey Bank doesn’t fund vanity projects. We most certainly don’t dump gold into the woods. MY king doesn’t permit it,” I reply.
Hargin slams his hand on the desk. "I will go to the King! He will hear of this treason!"
"Go," I invite him. "Tell the King that I refused to waste gold on a hunting shack. Tell him I am saving the capital for the sewer renovation project that will prevent cholera in the lower districts."
I lean forward, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Go tell the King that he can have his pavilion, Hargin. But tell him he has to pay for it out of his own purse. And we both know that purse is full of moths."
Hargin freezes. He knows the King is broke. He knows that without my gold, the Ministry of Works shuts down. He realizes, in that moment, that the King is no longer his boss.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
I am.
I hand him back his scrolls. "If you would like to discuss the sewer renovation, or perhaps the expansion of the docks to increase trade revenue, or some other economically beneficial project, I might listen. If you bring me another drawing of a hunting lodge, I will have my guards haul you to Varpua and throw you into the harbor."
Hargin swallows. He slowly sits down in the chair he previously refused. He looks at his hands.
"The... the docks," he stammers. "We have had plans for a new pier for years, but no funding."
"A new pier means more ships," I calculate. "More ships mean more taxes. That is a sound investment. Bring me your plans for that, and if they’re good, you’ll have your gold."
As they discuss the new pier, Melina watches from the corner. She sees the shift. Hargin came in as a Lion of the Court. He is now a lamb at the trough.
The King reigns, but I control the purse.
After breakfast, I look at Melina. “I do believe that little display at breakfast merits another gift from the Fey Embassy.
Melina smirks, “Where are we going this time?”
The Guild of Leatherworkers and Cobblers smells of tannin, dye, and the sharp, curing scent of urine used to treat the hides. It is a pungent, heavy smell, but to me, it smells like another opportunity to tighten the noose around Oskar’s ego.
We enter the workshop, the floorboards creaking under the weight of Inaba’s armor. Dozens of workers are cutting, stitching, and hammering. They stop to stare at the Fey Princess standing in their midst, her silk dress a stark contrast to the stained aprons and raw hides.
The Guildmaster, a man named Baldur who looks as rugged and weathered as an old saddle, approaches. He has an awl tucked behind one ear and a hammer in his belt.
“Princess,” he grunts, wiping his hands on his trousers. “We heard you were visiting the Guilds. I wondered when you would make it to the stink of the tannery.”
“The smell of industry is never offensive, Master Baldur,” I reply, stepping fully into the room. “And I have a large order. The Royal Guard is… ill-equipped for the coming winter.”
Baldur snorts. “They’ve been ill-equipped for five years. The King buys the cheapest leather and expects it to last forever. Most of those lads are walking on rags and prayers.”
“Then let us answer their prayers,” I say. “I need five hundred pairs of boots. Knee-high. Double-soled. Waterproofed with beeswax and tallow, and lined with sheepskin.”
Baldur raises an eyebrow. “That’s a noble’s boot, not a soldier’s.”
“A soldier with frostbite cannot march,” I counter. “And while we are at it, they need gloves. Deerskin, lined with wool, but thin enough to pull a bowstring or grip a pike. Five hundred pairs.”
“And belts,” Melina adds, checking her list. “The current ones are cracking.”
“New belts,” I agree. “Broad, sturdy ox-hide. And winter hats. Fur-lined, with ear flaps. Dyed Royal Blue to match the cloaks.”
Baldur scratches his beard, doing the mental arithmetic. “That is… a mountain of leather, My Lady. And a river of work. It will cost—”
“I know the cost,” I interrupt, signaling Melina. She places a heavy bag of Fey gold on the cutting table. “This is the retainer. There will be a bonus for every day you finish early.”
Baldur opens the bag. The gold glitters in the dim light. He nods, satisfied. “We will have to buy every hide in the city, but we can do it.”
“Excellent,” I say. “But, Master Baldur, there is one… specific modification I require for the boots.”
“A modification?” he asks.
“The heels,” I say, walking over to a finished boot on a display rack. I pick it up, tapping the wooden heel. “I want them shod in iron.”
“Iron plates?” Baldur asks. “For durability? That is standard.”
“Not standard plates,” I correct him. “I want a custom die. A reversed engraving on the bottom of every heel.”
I pull a small wax tablet from my bag. I have already etched the design. It is simple, bold text, reversed so that, when stamped into mud, snow, or soft earth, it will read correctly.
A Gift from Princess Víl?.
Baldur stares at the wax tablet. Then he looks at me. Then he throws his head back and laughs, a loud, barking sound.
“You want to brand the ground they walk on?” he asks, wiping a tear from his eye.
“Every step they take,” I say, smiling coldly. “Every patrol they walk around the palace. Every time they march through the city square. I want them to leave a trail of gratitude. I want the King to look out his window after a snowfall and see my name stamped ten thousand times in his courtyard.”
“It is wicked,” Baldur says admiringly. “Purely wicked.”
“It is branding,” I correct him. “If I am paying for the boots, I expect to see my mark.”
“And the gloves?” Baldur asks, grinning now. “Do you want your name on their palms, so they salute you every time they wave?”
“No,” I say. “Just the boots. The gloves should be unadorned. I want their hands free to hold their weapons.”
I lean closer. “Can you do the heels, Baldur? Deep enough to leave a mark even in shallow mud?”
“I will have the smiths cast the plates today,” Baldur promises. “They will be deep. Sharp. Legible.”
“Good,” I say. “I want five hundred men marching my name into the very soil of Centis. Let Oskar try to ignore that.”
I turn to leave, feeling the satisfying weight of another victory. “Oh, and Baldur?”
“Yes, Princess?” he replies.
“Make sure the belts have good, strong buckles,” I say. “I have a feeling the King’s men are going to be eating very well this winter.”
As we're leaving, Melina snickers, “He’s going to HATE that.”
I nod. “He’ll hate it as much as I hate being trapped here because he’s got some bet or other with the dukes about me. No one will say what the bet is or what it’s for, but no one’s denied it exists, either.”
A few more days march on with the renovations, and I’m busy working in my office, creating files on all the nobles and how to handle them. In short, everything my replacement will need to know.
Melina walks in, “Brigit is here to see you.”
Brigit sits herself, “We’re ready. The tents are made up. The musicians are hired. The food is arranged.”
She flips open a calendar, and her finger stabs down a nearly empty day, “We should have it then. That’s when most of them will be able to attend.”
It’s a few days from now, but still before midwinter. “Then let's have a party.”
With the decision made, I decide that I need a Fey-style dress for the party. Here, I am not the Viscountess. Here, I am the Princess, the Royal envoy, the ambassador, the head of the bank. I need to look my part.
power shifting hands — quietly, ruthlessly, and with a smile.A few moments worth spotlighting:
reign, but the one who controls the purse rules. Lord Hargin walked in like a storm and left like a rain puddle.
“A Gift from Princess Víl?” into the very dirt of Centis? That’s not petty. That’s art.
practical and a political coup. Nothing says loyalty like good boots, warm gloves, and the sudden realization that the Princess wants you alive and frostbite?free.
everyone who actually matters. This is how revolutions start, not with fire, but with ledgers and often beer.
“I negotiate treaties before breakfast and bankrupt kings before lunch.”
- Can you see the storm coming?