Jellema steps forward, running his hand over the fur. “It is magnificent, Princess. Truly.”
“It is warm,” I smile at him genuinely. “To ward off the chill of the coming winter.”
Next, I call for the other Dukes. “Duke Keimpe de Boer.”
Keimpe approaches warily. I hand him a cloak made from the hide of a Stonehorn. The fur is shaggy and grey-white, tough as iron. It is lined with Fey linen and still high quality, but not the silk Jellema received.
“Stonehorn,” Keimpe mutters, impressed by the durability. “These are hard to bring down.”
“Not for everyone,” I reply coolly.
I hand out similar cloaks to the other dukes, watching them preen in their new finery.
Finally, I pick up the last Stonehorn cloak. It is large, heavy, and unclaimed.
“Duke Aart Lindeman?” I call out.
Silence descends on the hall.
“Is Duke Lindeman not present?” I ask, looking around with wide, innocent eyes. “I have a gift for him. A Stonehorn cloak, perfect for this time of year.”
I look at Oskar. “Your Majesty? Is the Duke ill? He has not been seen since... the incident with Kenric getting lost in the walls.”
Oskar shifts uncomfortably. He assumes Aart fled or is hiding. “Duke Lindeman is... unavailable,” Oskar grunts.
“A pity,” I say, stroking the fur of the cloak. “I wanted to ensure he was warm. Winters can be so cold.”
I hand the cloak to one of his servants. “Keep it safe for him. I am sure he will turn up. Eventually.”
I look at Kenric. His face is impassive, but his eyes are hard. He has no love for Aart after being kidnapped and threatened.
The tension in the hall is palpable following the non-presentation of Aart Lindeman’s cloak. The empty space where the Duke should be feels heavier than the stone walls. Oskar looks ready to bolt, but he cannot leave until I am finished.
I turn then to the Duchesses. They are watching with a mix of envy and apprehension.
“Duchess Ina,” I call out.
Ina steps forward, her chin high. She has been my rock in this court, and I intend to honor her.
“For you,” I say, taking a different box from Inaba. I open it to reveal the tiara I crafted from the oak twigs I gathered in the mountains. It does not look like metal; it looks like living wood turned to gold and amber. The acorns are perfect pearls capped by chocolate diamonds. The leaves are emeralds, and the twigs themselves are wrought from amber.
“The strength of the oak,” I say, placing it in her hands. “For the woman who holds the roots of this court together.”
Ina beams, genuinely touched. “Thank you, my dear.”
“Duchess Priscilla,” I say next.
Priscilla approaches. She is the only other Duchess who has shown me kindness, or at least, the only one smart enough not to be rude.
“I admire your elegance,” I say, handing her a set. It contains the original necklace design I duplicated for Grethe, a delicate chain of flowers rendered in vibrant, living colors, along with matching ear drops shaped like flowers on curved stems . “To highlight a lovely long neck.”
Priscilla curtsies deeply, her eyes wide at the craftsmanship.
Then, I look at the remaining Duchesses, the wives of Basten, Nelis, and the others who have sneered at me, ignored me, or treated me like a curiosity. They step forward, expecting their own treasures. I do not reward rudeness.
“And for the other noble ladies,” I say, my voice cooling significantly.
I gesture to Usami, who brings forward a basket. It is not a velvet-lined chest. It is a simple basket. Inside are several identical, small brooches. They are silver, shaped like simple leaves. They are nice enough and far better than anything Centis smiths usually produce, but compared to the gem gardens I just bestowed upon Grethe, Ina, and Priscilla, they are costume jewelry.
“Tokens,” I say, letting them pick the brooches out of the basket themselves. “To remember the occasion.”
They take them, their smiles stiff and brittle. They know they have been slighted. They know that in the hierarchy of the Fey, they barely register.
“You have been... barely civil,” I think at them, keeping my face pleasant . “And so you get the bare minimum.”
“Earl Vellam,” I say.
Vellam steps forward, looking smug. He thinks he has survived the purge of his master, Nelis Doerr.
“A cloak,” I say, handing him the garment I crafted with special care. It is trimmed with Stonehorn, but the lining is... unique. Every time Vellam thinks anything untoward about Kenric or myself, it will reek. “I crafted this myself, My Lord. I hope you like it.”
Vellam puts it on. He swirls the fabric. “It is light,” he says, pleased.
I smile at him but there is something predatory in my smile that makes him pause.
He freezes and his thoughts shift for a moment. I catch a strong scent of dog shit. He forces a smile, but he looks nauseous. He knows. He knows that I know his thoughts are poisonous.
“Thank you, Princess,” he chokes out, backing away quickly.
The court whispers. They look at the empty space where Aart should be standing. They look at the pale, sweating Earl Vellam. They look at the shredded bear skin draped over the King's chair.
And they realize, with a collective shiver, that the Fey gift-giving is not just about generosity. It is about marking territory.
I turn back to Kenric. The gifts are given. The warnings are delivered. The territory is marked.
“I believe,” I say, “that concludes our business with the court for the day.”
Kenric and I step out of line and allow the other Viscounts to proceed with their gifts.
The next morning, I’m at the bank with Jan. The problem with a resurrection machine is that once it starts working, it produces a terrifying amount of energy. Three days after opening the Blue Bowl and the Merchant Entrances, the Vault is becoming a logistical problem. We have bags of copper from the washerwomen, sacks of silver from the merchants, and chests of gold from the nobles who are hedging their bets against Oskar’s incompetence.
Jan Vermeersch stands in my office, looking at the latest balance sheet. He looks nauseous.
“We are too liquid, Princess,” he whispers, as if it is a sin. “We are sitting on a mountain of coins. We are paying interest on deposits, but we have no income from loans to offset it. We are bleeding money.”
“We are not bleeding, Jan. We are priming the pump,” I say, dipping my quill. “But you are right. Money must flow. It is time to open the sluice gates.”
“The small loans?” Jan asks. “The ones to the widows?”
“Those are for goodwill,” I dismiss. “We need something heavier. Something that anchors us to the bedrock of this kingdom.”
I look at the door. “Send in Lord Hargin.”
Lord Hargin, the Minister of Public Works, enters. He looks different than he did the last time he approached me at breakfast. He is humbler. He smells less of arrogance and more of anxiety. He knows the King has no money. He knows I have all of it.
He places a large roll of parchment on my desk.
“The plans for the harbor expansion, Princess,” Hargin says quietly. “As you requested.”
I unroll them. They are ambitious. A new deep-water pier. A stone breakwater to protect against winter storms. New warehouses.
“It will double the capacity of the port,” Hargin explains, finding a bit of his old bluster. “More ships. More tariffs. The King is... eager to see it begin.”
“I am sure he is,” I murmur, tracing the line of the breakwater.
“And the cost?” I ask.
“Sixty thousand gold pieces,” Hargin says, wincing slightly.
Jan makes a choking sound in the corner.
“Done,” I say.
Hargin’s jaw drops. Jan looks like he is about to faint.
“Done?” Hargin stammers. “Just like that?”
“With conditions,” I add, leaning back.
I slide a contract across the desk. It is thick. It is binding. And it is written in Fey script and Centis legalese.
“This is not a gift, Lord Hargin. It is a mortgage. The Fey Bank will fund the construction directly. We will pay the masons. We will pay the quarrymen.”
“And the repayment?” Lord Hargin asks.
“The Crown will assign forty percent of the docking tariffs to the Bank until the principal plus seven percent interest is repaid,” I state.
“Forty percent!” Hargin gasps. “The King will never agree! That is his spending money!”
“Then he can build the pier with his spending money,” I counter. “Oh, wait. He doesn't have any. He’s still trying to get it back from that banker in Vupis.”
I tap the contract.
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“Here is the second clause. The collateral. If the Crown defaults on payments for three consecutive months... the title to the pier, the warehouses, and the land they sit on reverts to the Fey Bank and becomes property of Ellisar, the Fey King.”
Hargin reads it. He pales. “You would own the harbor entrance?”
“I would own a pile of stone and wood that I paid for,” I correct him. “Take it to the King, Hargin. Tell him he can have his grand opening ceremony. He can cut the ribbon. He can take the credit. All I want is the paper.”
Hargin hesitates, then grabs the contract and scurries out. He knows Oskar will sign. Oskar never looks past next week’s pleasure.
Once he is gone, Jan collapses into a chair.
“Princess... a pier? Are you sure? Any number of things can happen to disrupt trade.”
“Jan,” I say, pouring him a drink. “You are thinking like a merchant. You need to think like an immortal.”
“An immortal?” he asks
“Given enough time, things change. Governments fall,” I explain, walking to the window that overlooks the river. “Kings lose their crowns. Empires crumble into dust. Currencies lose their value. But do you know what never loses value?”
I point toward the river barges, the ones who have sailed up river to trade in Dobile directly.
“Logistics. No matter who sits on throne, ships must dock. Goods must move. If the tariffs stop, we seize the pier. And then we control the flow of food and steel into the city.”
“Even if an army takes this city,” I explain, walking to the window that overlooks the river. “They will burn the palace. They will loot the treasury. They might even burn the houses.”
I point toward the docks.
“But they will not destroy the deep-water pier. They need it to land their supplies. They need it to export the loot.”
I turn back to him.
“And they will not destroy the granaries,” I add. “Which is our next investment. I want you to buy the mortgages of the three largest mills in the valley. Offer them better rates than the other moneylenders. Consolidate them.”
“The mills?”
“People must eat, Jan. Even under occupation. Especially under occupation. Every army marches on its stomach.”
I sit on the edge of the desk.
“You’re buying the king,” Jan says quietly.
“We are not buying the King,” I tell him softly. “Think longer term. Kings fall. Dynasties end. We are buying the bones of the kingdom. The stone piers. The millstones. The things that survive the fire when dynasties fall, and kingdoms collapse.”
“And if the invaders refuse to honor the contract?” Jan asks.
“Then they deal with the Fey,” I smile, and it is a cold, sharp thing. “We are excellent debt collectors. And unlike Oskar, the King Ellisar has a very long reach.”
I pick up the quill again.
“Draft the papers for the mills, Jan., and look into the iron mines in the north. I hear they are underproducing. I think they need a capital injection.”
“And... the iron mines?” he asks. “You mentioned them before.”
“Iron,” I say, a dark smile touching my lips. “Iron makes plows. Iron makes nails. And if times get hard... iron makes other things. It is the one commodity that is always in demand when the world gets loud.”
I pick up the quill again.
“Draft the papers for the mills, Jan. Look into the iron mines in the north. We are not just building a portfolio. We are building a keep.”
“A keep?” Melina asks.
Kenric pours a glass of water, his face thoughtful. "I spoke with Jellema again last night, after the gifts were distributed. He was impressed by the cloaks, but more impressed by the empty space where Aart Lindeman used to stand."
"Did you press him?" I ask.
"I did," Kenric nods. "I told him that if the Bank is to hold mortgages on Duke-level estates, the man signing the papers cannot be a lowly Viscount. It upsets the hierarchy. The Barons won't mortgage their lands to a superior, but a Duke might hesitate to mortgage to an inferior."
"Smart," I approve.
"Jellema agrees," Kenric continues. "He says that if we can prove the mines in the north are viable, if we can turn a profit where others failed, he will back my petition to absorb the title of Earl of Padma. The current Earl is eighty, childless, and owes Jellema a fortune. It would be a... smooth transition."
"It's not just about the rank," Kenric admits, pouring a glass of wine. His hand shakes, just slightly. "My father died a disgraced Viscount. The King took half our lands and all of our pride." He looks out the window at the snow. "If I die a Viscount, I'm just the son of a traitor who got lucky with a Fey wife. But if I die an Earl... if I reclaim our lost lands and double the estate..." He turns to me, his eyes fierce. "Then I rewrite the history, Víl?. I wipe the stain off the name. I want to be the man who didn't just survive the purge, but conquered the purgers."
I touch his arm. I usually see him as the shield. Tonight, I see the spear.
"Then we shall make the mines profitable," I decide, before returning to Melina's question.
“Metaphorically,” I stretch the truth. “We are protecting our assets against... inclement weather. And I have a feeling a storm is coming.”
I turn to Melina, “Now it’s time to begin on Oskar in earnest. We must go to the weaver’s guild. He and Grethe need cushions for the thrones.”
The Weaver’s Guild is delighted to see me again. I describe what I want. Wulf is overjoyed. This commission is simple compared to some of the others. We’re told it will be done in a few days.
The morning sun streams into the Great Hall, illuminating the dust motes that dance in the drafty air. Oskar sits on his throne, shifting uncomfortably. The wood is hard, ancient oak, and his back is clearly bothering him.
I have promised retribution, now I deliver it.
He is trying to look regal while listening to a report on grain yields, but he keeps rubbing his lower back.
“Your Majesty looks... tense,” I announce, sweeping into the room.
Oskar groans. “Princess. I was just... thinking.”
“You were squirming,” I correct him gently. “And no wonder. That chair was designed three hundred years ago by a man who seemingly hated the human spine. It is a torture device, not a seat of power.”
“Luckily, I have a solution. Since we are stuck here for the winter, I thought we should make the palace... pop.”
I clap my hands. The doors swing open.
Four servants march in carrying the new cushions. They are plush, velvet, and stuffed with the finest Fey-down. They are also Burnt Orange. A deep, aggressive, pumpkin-spice orange that screams for attention.
“Orange?” Oskar asks, eyeing them warily.
“'Sunset Fire',” I correct. “It is the color of vitality. Of energy. Of a King who is awake and alert.”
I signal the servants to place them. A thick seat cushion. A back support. Two lumbar pillows. Most of the dark wood of the throne vanishes beneath a mountain of orange velvet.
“Try it,” I urge.
Oskar hesitates, then sits. He sinks into the down. A look of pure physical relief washes over his face. This is followed immediately by a look of aesthetic horror as he glances down at the armrests.
“It is... comfortable,” he admits. “But the color... against the blue of the guards uniforms...”
He gestures to the Royal Guard standing nearby in their Deep Royal Blue tunics.
“It creates a statement!” I beam. “Blue and Orange are opposites. They create dynamic tension. When you sit there, surrounded by your blue guards, on your orange throne... you will vibrate with power. Literally. It might hurt the eyes to look at you directly, which is exactly how a King should be viewed. Like the sun.”
I pull out a swatch book, holding it up against the stone wall.
“But we cannot stop at the throne, Your Majesty. The harmony is still off. The gray stone drags down the energy.”
I point to the heavy, moth-eaten tapestries hanging above the dais.
They are dusty, moth-eaten, and portray more of the judgmental men. I hate them. I am required to be here. They are not. They can go into storage.
“Those must go. I have commissioned the Weavers. We are going to replace them with heavy velvet drapes in 'Mustard Gold' to pick up the highlights in the orange.”
Oskar looks at the swatch of yellow-gold I am holding. “Mustard?”
“Gold,” I insist. “And for the floor... This cold stone must be terrible for your joints. I have ordered a runner. A nice thick wool one, extending from the door to the throne, in 'Moss Green'.”
Oskar closes his eyes, trying to visualize it.
“Blue guards,” he mutters. “Orange throne. Yellow drapes. Green carpet.”
“It is a garden!” I declare. “A vibrant, indoor garden to keep our spirits up during the gray winter. It will be warm. It will be cozy. It will be... distinct.”
“It will look like a fruit tart,” Oskar whispers.
“It will look like progress,” I say, tucking the swatch book away. “The installers arrive at noon. I suggest you move court to the library for a few days. The dust from the carpet installation can be quite choking.”
I turn to leave, pausing to admire the clash of the orange cushion against the blue tunic of the nearest guard. It is hideous. It is perfect.
“Oh, and Your Majesty?”
“Yes?” he asks weakly from his pile of orange velvet.
“I ordered a matching footstool. In the Mustard Gold. With orange tassels. You need to elevate your feet. Circulation is very important for a man of your... vintage.”
“Vintage?” Oskar sputters. “Vintage?!”
Yes, you fool of a king. You're just another loud, rude, drunk. And you're getting older. It's not a good look on a king. I sail off, dress swirling around me, pretending to be oblivious to his sputtering. When I’m done with him, he’ll wish he never tried to hold us here.
We are off to the bank. It’s a lovely day, bright and crisp, if a bit cold. We walk along the stretch I repaved, and the dividends are apparent. The snow and slush aren’t deep here. We walk easily.
Jan is waiting for me when I get to the bank. “Lord Hargin is here to see you.”
I head to my office, “Send him in.”
Hargin enters, looking remarkably more cheerful than usual. He has the signed contract for the harbor expansion in his hand.
“The King signed!” Hargin announces, placing the document on my desk. “He was... reluctant about the tariff clause, but I reminded him that the groundbreaking ceremony would require a silver shovel, and he was quite taken with the idea.”
“Excellent,” I say, filing the mortgage away. “Now, Lord Hargin. The sewers.”
Hargin’s face falls. “Ah. Yes. The lower district sanitation project.”
“It is a cesspool,” I state bluntly. “And when the river rises in the spring, it backs up into the streets. It breeds cholera. It breeds rats.”
“It is also costly to fix,” Hargin sighs. “Tunnels. Brickwork. Digging up the cobblestones.”
“The Bank will fund it,” I announce. “Fully.”
Hargin blinks. “Fully? But... there is no profit in sewage, Princess. How will you recoup the investment?”
“Public health is a dividend all its own,” I say. “However, the Bank requires... oversight. Since we are paying for the bricks, we will supply the architects. I have Fey engineers who are experts in... subterranean flow.”
“Fey engineers?” Hargin asks nervously.
“They are very efficient,” I assure him. “They will widen the main arteries. Reinforce the arches. Ensure there are... access points... for maintenance.”
I lean back.
I cannot tell him that I am building a highway under the city. I cannot tell him that if the walls are breached, these “widened arteries” will allow me to move supplies, evacuate women and children, or move troops from the river to the palace without ever being seen by the enemy.
“Think of the legacy, Lord Hargin,” I urge him. “You will be the Minister who cleaned the capital. The King... His Majesty... will be hailed as the purifier of the city.”
I am careful to use the correct address. I will not call that man 'Sire'. He is not my father, and he is certainly not my lord. I have no oaths to him or this kingdom. The main thing I care about in all of Centis is Kenric. Kenric sometimes calls him ‘Sire', but he is Kenric’s king. Oskar clings desperately to every shred of court etiquette that bolsters his power and his image.
“The King does hate the smell in the summer,” Hargin admits.
“Exactly. And if you sign this,” I slide the proposal forward, “the smell will be gone before the summer heat arrives. Just... do not ask too many questions about where the new tunnels lead. My engineers get very technical about drainage gradients.”
Hargin signs. He is too happy about the funding to worry about the blueprints.
I watch the ink dry.
I have the food (the mills). I have the metal (the mines). I have the exit strategy (the sewers). And I have the economy. The resurrection machine is in full swing.
Let the invasion come. Oskar may lose his crown, but I will not lose my investments.
With Hargin out of my office, I look at Jan. “We have the mills to grind the grain and the warehouses to store it. We have the mills, Jan. We have the mechanism to grind the grain. But a millstone is nothing but a heavy rock if the hopper is empty. We need the source. We are missing the foundation. We need the land itself.”
Jan frowns at me, “You mean the farms, Princess? The smallholders?” He hesitates, adjusting his spectacles. “With respect, farmers are… volatile investments. A bad harvest, a flood, a blight… the risk is high.”
“Not the small holders, Jan. They rent the dirt. I want the bank to own the dirt,” I reply, “Small holders possess nothing but their labor and their debts. I have no interest in owning their poverty. I want to own their masters.”
I walk over to the map of Centis. One by one, I tap the large estates marked with noble crests. “The Barons. The Viscounts. The Earls. They hold the deeds. They own the dirt.”
Jan looks a bit green, “Princess, asking a noble to mortgage his ancestral seat... it is an insult. They claim their land is their blood.”
“They can claim that all they like,” I shrug, “but unless, you’re bleeding for it. It’s nothing more than empty words and posturing. Otherwise, it is just an asset. And right now, these nobles are 'land rich and cash poor.' They have acres of dirt, but they cannot spend dirt at the card table. They cannot wear dirt to a ball. And they certainly cannot use dirt to pay off the debts they owe to people like Basten Pleiter.”
“So we offer them liquidity?” Jan asks.
“We offer them a lifeline that is actually a noose. We create a new instrument: The 'Estate Preservation Loan.' We offer them massive sums of gold, enough to pay their debts, refurbish their manors, and buy their wives silence. All of it secured against the title of their land and with a payment just low enough to fall within their current income,” I reply.
“But the risk... If the war comes, as you seem to suspect, the crops will burn. The tenants will flee. The nobles will have no income to repay the loan,” Jan scoffs.
“Exactly. When the invasion starts, their harvest income drops to zero. They will default. And when they default...” I grin at Jan. It’s a big toothy, threatening grin.
“We foreclose,” Jan nods.
“Any invaders will strip them of their titles. The title transfers to the Royal Fey Bank. The local lord is evicted, or perhaps allowed to stay on as a manager if he is useful. But the Bank becomes the Landlord. We keep the tenant farmers in place because they know the soil. We just change who they pay rent to,” I shrug.
“It’s a game they have long played on the small holders. They’re owed a bit of comeuppance for it, but to foreclose on a duke. That will require an army,” Jan says grimly.
“Perhaps, but perhaps not. It might only require a contract written in High Fey that binds their signature to their honor and their assets across borders. A conqueror does not care about a Baron's crest. But a conqueror does care about a Bank that controls the food supply. If we own the land, we can negotiate with the invaders as a neutral financial power, not a defeated enemy,” I explain.
basket while their rivals received heirloom?tier fey jewelry.
Your turn:
- Do you think anyone's going to find Aart?
Let me know your answer in the comments.