Champion of the Rose - Kobo Ebook (20 page)

"Being?"

"Tell me."

Another drawn out moment of assessment. On these rare occasions when he forewent
sugar crystal venom, Lord Aristide would go very still, and his mouth would
relax from its habitual slight curl. It
was, Soren realised, exactly how he looked when he lay in bed in the morning
staring at the ceiling. She wondered
what he thought about, between waking and rising.

"We aren't producing enough," he began now. "Lack of goods and high impost make us
an unattractive port, which means the trade between the far east and the
western kingdoms travels straight past the Bay of Diamonds. Few take the land route. Without funds or manpower, we cannot maintain
sufficient garrisons, and anyone outside a large town believes themselves
exposed. People flock to the cities and
live hand-to-mouth rather than risk the supposedly blighted countryside,
leaving large tracts undermanned or deserted. Which leads to even lower production, and we take another turn down the
spiral."

He paused, gauging Strake's reaction, then sat back before
continuing. "There are other
factors. What we do produce is mainly
raw resources, which we export at a poor profit. Some of our most valuable, like the silver
mines, are failing. Taxation is badly
distributed, and we spend our revenues unwisely. The Tongue grows ever wider. It's not a desperate case. We can feed ourselves and are not beyond
luxuries. But it is a long time since
Darest flourished."

"The mines are depleted?"

Dissatisfaction glinted in Lord Aristide's eyes, at the
question or lack of silver. "They've near emptied out the vein, but there should be
others. I sent a diviner, but she did
not return and I have yet to establish whether it was accident, murder or
something else."

"Its lack at least makes the border less
attractive."

"The iron is draw enough. There are two major factors holding back
invasion from the West. The first is the
belief that an attempt to take Darest would only lead to The Deeping resuming
the kingdom – if it is not already doing so. But perhaps the more powerful is the West itself. Sax would not see
Cya
in Darest,
Cya
would certainly not see Sax more than
double its size. They block each
other.
Korm
and Ceria might even assist us, should they see the region's balance begin to
shift."

Strake nodded, and went back to an earlier point. "Increasing production is a slow
business. A Rathen presence might boost
confidence, but it will not arrest this cycle."

"No. In the near
future I want to focus on trade."

A shadow of a frown touched Strake's eyes, then
cleared. "Establish ourselves as
the market-place, let others supply the goods?"

"Exactly." A school-master with a quick pupil, Lord Aristide leaned forward,
sketching his thoughts with one hand. "The Westerners sail all the way to the east to trade with places
like
Kaldeban
, and eastern merchants pass Darest to
sail up the Horns to
Cya
. At the moment the Bay of Diamonds represents
a detour for them, and too often they do not make us a port of call, but cross
from
Sumaric
Heads directly to Sapphire Point."

Strake wasn't looking precisely encouraging. "In the past the
Cyans
would arrive in Tor Darest with half a hold to trade and half to take
east. They would stock the best Darest
had to offer and travel on. Long
journeys with high profits and higher risks. I imagine it should be possible to convince more than a few of the
advantages of shorter trips, but again this is a slow business, with many whose
interests are invested in the older patterns. What kind of inducements, other than dropping the port duties, do you
propose offering?"

"Hold races," Soren said, and they both stopped,
straightened, and turned to her. Not so
much affronted as remembering she was there. "Or a tourney," she went on, refusing to feel rankled. "Or duelling illusionists, which are
always popular. Whatever takes your
fancy, so long as there's a large purse and plenty of things for people to bet
on. Coordinate whatever it is we usually
import from the east and the west, and order supplies timed to arrive in the
week leading up to your races. Best to
use several rival cartels, and let slip who will be there. They'll be fighting each other off to get
here first."

They were still staring at her, disconcertingly blank, and
she had to fight a tide of heat in her cheeks. As well a fish might sing, apparently. "It's what my heart-mother does, though of course on a smaller
scale. Carn Keep lives off the proceeds
of the Midsummer Festival for the rest of the year."

"I will have to appoint your mother another of my
advisers," Strake said, but although his tone was dry, they took the
suggestion very seriously. Deeming it
too late for a harvest festival, they began tossing around the viability of
Spring races.

Relocation to somewhere with paper to make notes became
necessary as the discussion carried on into lunch, then the afternoon. They could well go for days without break,
Soren thought, and were very likely to, given the amount of resources they
intended to invest.

Soren contributed little to the planning, speaking up only
when they touched upon something where she had particular knowledge, but she
was learning an extraordinary amount. About Tor Darest, but primarily the two men who wished to rule it.

That they were both highly intelligent, decisive men she had
already known. That restoring Darest was
important to both of them was obvious. That they were very alike was becoming increasingly clear. More than just shades of blue eyes.

They had hardly become bosom-chums, though. Total capitulation did not fit with Lord
Aristide's ruthless image, and the honey and acid quickly returned, just as
Strake had almost immediately fallen back into his terse, demanding habit. With distinct, definite opinions about just
how they should proceed, their discussion involved a good measure of feint and
thrust, and ever-wary observation. Fortunately, they were both willing to concede a point in the face of
compelling argument and in their own ways she thought they were enjoying the
sheer magnitude of the task ahead, and a comrade-in-arms to tackle it with.

But Soren, watching them while she crossed Fleeting Hall,
could not help but remember again that Lord Aristide had made this move knowing
both the doom predicted for Strake and the existence of the child he had
fathered. Were these all plans he would
carry through alone?

And she could not help but wonder why her Rathen had not so
much as mentioned the Rose.

Chapter Fifteen

Strake announced Aristide
Couerveur
his Councillor of Mages, and the Court approved. The stories of an impending marriage
strengthened, and those who had wavered rushed to show their allegiance to King
and Councillor. Fors
Cabtly
was the first to pay the price of change, losing position, apartments and even
his apprentice, though Aspen admitted he had not so much transferred his tutor
as received permission to temporarily keep his room. Fors' new apartment, as befitted a mere
jobbing mage, did not stretch to housing more than his immediate family.

Strake made few other appointments, and held off further
replacements while he strove to learn enough about the Darest of now to make
more sweeping changes. He had not
reached the point of simply accepting everything Aristide told him.

Ambassadors began to trickle in, along with outlying Barons,
come to pay their respects. No-one made
any open attempt to object to the Whirlwind King, and the Court settled into a
kind of watchful anticipation.

Soren missed dreaming. Missed the rambling epics of day-to-day routine, the skewed tangles of
past and future loves, the crystal sharp urgencies where worlds were saved and
forgotten before dawn. She'd never been
one to clearly remember her dreams, but she was used to waking out of all
manner of night-born oddity. Now, she
had only the palace.

Possibly what she saw while sleeping included
conjurings
of her own mind, but it remained obstinately
focused on privies and gardens, lovers and loiterers. So many people. Far too much of Strake.

He slept badly, still had nightmares. Ten days now, and he continued to toss and
turn through the night, sometimes bolting awake, sweating and shaking. And Soren would wake with him and watch as he
paced or pissed or read. Once he had sat
with a hand covering his eyes. Her
Rathen.

On the morning of the eleventh day of his reign,
Aluster
, first King of that name, turned and sighed,
burrowing beneath blankets. His mouth
quirked and relaxed, the shadow of lashes shifted. No nightmares for once, not about the frozen
moment of death at his back, or the Champion who had betrayed him.

Soren slid out of bed, impatient with this morning ritual of
waking only to continue to watch Strake sleep. Scurrying over the chill floor to dress, she felt no drowsiness despite
only half a night's rest. One of the
compensations of the Rose, like being able to move about dark palace rooms
without worrying about uncovering a mageglow.

She had watched Strake too much this last week, seeking
signs that his anger was easing. Over
and again palace sight had revealed him looking fixedly at her when she was
turned away, had shown intent study slide to a frown he could not hold back,
his eyes flashing resentment or pain, sometimes outright anger. And then the shutter would come up, with only
a hint of constraint leaking through as he plunged back into plans and
preparations.

It had been too much to hope Aristide wouldn't notice. He and Strake spent most of every day
together, and though Strake watched her more when they were alone, it was
inevitable that Aristide's bright gaze would catch first the constraint, then
what lay beneath it.

He kept any speculation to himself. In fact, both men were being entirely
circumspect. So far as Soren could tell,
since Aristide's oath neither of them had said a word which did not involve
things like merchant fleets, flax crops or the viability of transforming the
problem of the Tongue into a shipbuilding industry.

Wisdom on Aristide's part, Soren thought, glancing at him
curled in the centre of his bed. He
always looked so young in sleep, vulnerable. It was those lips, soft-sweet and deceptive, more suited to an infant. The
saecstra
was a coil beneath half-closed fingers. She alone of the Court knew that when he slept it seemed to come awake,
whirled and twisted like there were dragons chasing their tails beneath his
skin, trying to break free.

Despite the certainty of the spell, and her speculated
explanation, she still couldn't trust his sudden capitulation. But careful observation had revealed nothing
she could mark as preparation for betrayal. To all outward appearance, Aristide was willing to simply cement his position,
playing the long game. Strake had even
started to greet him with something akin to relief, thanks in part to the man's
exclusive focus on business. For the
rest of the Court was in full pursuit.

He had lost all patience with the onslaught. Fisk still hadn't recovered from whatever
Strake had said to him when the secretary had tried his luck, and now crept
about like gallows-bait. The only person
who'd had any hint of success was
Jansette
, and that
mainly because she'd twice more met Strake briefly, showed open admiration,
then hastily left. That had roused his
curiosity, if nothing else. Soren was
sick of the entire business, of her head's insistence that he was her Rathen
despite her heart's ambivalence. And
especially of the palace. She lived for
her dawn escapes.

The guards at
Dathan's
Walk
saluted as she approached, and drew open the double doors. They were a weary, depressed pair who
obviously found the Champion's morning departure the most interesting thing on
their watch. Or a harbinger of their
release, since they were never there when she came back. Soren smiled at the older of the two men,
feeling sorry for him and pleased when he nodded his head. And then she smiled in earnest, for she was
outside, with a cool breeze nipping at her face and the palace merely a building
at her back.

This is the only time of the day I'm actually me
, she
thought, tugging a red-streaked apple from one pocket and a mageglow from the
other.
There isn't room for me inside
the palace. If I'm lucky, Strake will
decide he does want to look over Islay before winter sets in, and then I'll
have entire days of not being the palace. Perhaps I can convince him he really wants to look over Carn Keep, and
I'll be able to visit Mother. Tell her
about the baby without fear of telling the whole world. And talk to someone who sees Soren first, who
lets me be someone other than Rathen Champion.

I need to be held
.

Soren paused to look up at the stars. More than a few had offered to do just that
in the past week, for the Champion had most definitely become a person of
consequence. Aspen had been graceful,
but Lady Rothwell's daughter Varian evidently now thought Soren marriage
material and had been persistent despite refusals. Regretfully, Lady Rothwell was mother enough
to see the advantages of her daughter's pursuit of the Champion, and liked
Soren enough to want her part of the family. That was a door Soren would rather not have had closed.

Halcean
now obligingly screened
out people wanting an audience with the Rathen Champion purely for romantic
purposes. The number of propositions was
sure to change when her pregnancy was known, though it was difficult to say
whether they would increase or decrease. But that would surely be months off, and her surcoat would long hide a
thickening waist.