The Merchant’s War

Lady Bishop clapped her hands together before he could muster a coherent objection. "Excellent!" She smiled. "I'll have Edward sort out documents and some suitable clothing for her, and you can take her back to Boston as soon as possible. What do you say?"

"But- " The servant's room is full of furniture in hock, the second bedroom doesn't have room to swing a cat for all the old clothing and books I've got stored in it, and the old biddies up the street will wag their tongues so fast their jaws explode -"I think the word Miss Beckstein would use is 'okay.'" He sighed. 'This is going to be interesting."

* * *

His Majesty King Egon the Third had convened his special assizes in the grand hall of the Thorold Palace-still smoking, and somewhat battered by his soldiers in their enthusiasm to drive out the enemy-precisely thirty-six hours after the explosion and subsequent attack on his father. "By parties of great treachery in league with the Tinker tribe," as the gebanes dispatched by royal messenger to all his vassal lords put it: "Let all know that by decree of this court in accordance with the doctrine of outlawry the afore-named families are declared outwith the law, and their chattels and holdings hereby escheat to the Crown." The writs were flying by courier to all quarters of the kingdom; now his majesty was dictating a codicil.

"This ague at the heart of our kingdom pains us grievously, but we are young and healthy enough that it shall soon be overcome and the canker cut out," his majesty said. "To this end, an half of all real properties and chattels recovered from the outlaw band is hereby granted to whosoever shall yield those properties to the Crown." He frowned: "is that clear enough do you suppose, Inns-ford?"

"Absolutely clear, my lord." His excellency the duke of Innsford bobbed his head like a hungry duck plowing a mill pond. "As clear as temple glass!" Whether it is wise is another matter, he thought, but held his counsel. Egon might be eager to rid himself of the tinker clan, and declaring them outlaw and promising half their estates to whoever killed them was a good way to go about the job, but in the long run it might come back to haunt him: other kings had been overthrown by ambitious dukes, with coffers filled and estates bloated by the spoils of a civil war fought by proxy. Innsford harbored no such ambitions-his old man's plans did not call for a desperate all-or-nothing gamble to take the throne-but others might think differently. Meanwhile, the scribe seated at the table behind him scratched on, his pen bobbing between ink pot and paper as he committed the King's speech to paper.

His majesty glanced up at the huge, clear windows overhead, frames occupied by flawless sheets of plate imported from the shadowlands by the tinkers. "May Sky Father adorn his tree with them." In the wan morning light his expression was almost hungry. Innsford nodded again. The king-a golden youth only a handful of years ago, now come into his full power as a young man, handsome as an eagle and strong as an ox-was not someone anyone would disagree with openly. He was fast to laugh, but his cruel streak was rarely far below the surface and his mind was both deceptively sharp and coldly untrusting. He kept his openness for a small coterie of friends, their loyalty honed beyond question by bleak years of complicity during the decade when his father had held him at arm's reach, suspicious of the brain rot inflicted on his younger brother Creon during a sly assassination attempt. The other courtiers (of whom there were no small number, Duke Innsford among them) would have a long wait until they earned his confidence.

And as Egon had demonstrated already, losing the royal confidence could be a fatal blunder.

Egon glanced at the scribe: "That's enough for now." He stood up, shifting his weight from foot to foot to restore the circulation that the hard wooden chair had slowed. "My lord Innsford, attend us, please. And you, my lord Carlsen, and you, Sir Markus."