The Dark Lord's Handbook (32 page)

“You make a good point,” said Hautville. “I had not considered this thing about ideas. It explains much.”

“Indeed,” said Sven Trondheim, a bullish man with extravagant facial hair. “This thing with the orcs is most disturbing. My human workers have started talking in the same way.”

“Forgive me, Sven,” said Birkenfeldt, “I am a man of numbers, not workers, what is it that you talk about?”

“You know,” said Sven, waving his fork, “this talk of workers’ rights and conditions.”

“Old hat,” said Pierre, sniffing.

“Yes, yes,” said Sven, “We have all heard this when it is localised to a mine or a mill, but now they are talking in wider circles. They are organising.”

“Bah,” said Pierre, “We have had guilds for centuries.”

“True again, my friend,” said Sven. Penbury could see the big man was trying to contain his temper by the way his beard was positively bristling. “But these are not guilds. These are not a loose collection of tradesmen but workers: loggers, miners, herders, dockers, even foot soldiers. They are getting together and talking about withholding labour. Strikes they call it. They demand better pay, better conditions and holidays.”

“Again,” said Pierre, “this is not new. Send in your boys and break some bones and it will go away. It always does. Or sack them and get someone else. There are a hundred people ready to do any man’s work.”

“I thought that too,” said Sven. “But things have changed. They are organised and they fight back. They blockade my wood mills and they have this thing called scabs.”

“A pox?” asked Pierre, screwing his face up.

“No. They use shame and big sticks to stop the men I get to replace them working. They call those that would break the strike scabs. An effective taunt as it turns out. Soon my mills stop and I am forced to talk to them. It’s not right. And this Morden is to blame. His orcs started it all and it’s catching on, I tell you.”

Everything that Sven said confirmed to Penbury what he had been reading in the Snort reports. What was worrying was that it was spreading beyond the cities that Morden had sacked.

“And where is Morden now?” asked Paolo de Luca, the olive oil baron whose interests included most of the shipping that they all used to move goods. “He has much of my fleet and I would like it back.”

“He has sailed east,” said Penbury. “Beyond the Great Sea.”

A ripple of surprised grunts ran around the table.

“But this is good news is it not?” said Sven. “If he has sailed that far then surely that is the last of him?”

Penbury wished that were so. “I am afraid not, Sven. If only he were a common pirate, but he is not. He is a Deathwing and worse, a Dark Lord rising. He heads east to gather his power. If I am right, he is going to the Great Fortress of Zoon the Reviled.”

“Fairy tales!” said Pierre. “If that is the case then he will be gone forever and we are rid of him.”

“Zoon the Reviled was no fairy tale,” said Penbury. “He is clearly described in the archives.”

Though available only to the Chancellor, the existence of the archives and the reliability of them was well known among those present. The Chancellor’s words caused great consternation.

“If you are correct, Chancellor,” said Birkenfeldt once the muttering had subsided, “and you expect Morden to return in full power and with a host that befits a Dark Lord, the question before us is, what should we do?”

“It seems to me,” said Karoof, entering the conversation, “that there are two sides and it is a matter of choosing the winning side. With the resources we have then surely whomever we back will win through?”

“Do these nobles have a chance even with our backing?” asked Pierre. “They are full of huff and puff but let’s be honest, with the odd exception, there is hardly a brain between them.”

Penbury let the laughter die down before replying. The discussion was going as he had expected but he had one more tit bit to throw into the mix. “They have a hero.”

That silenced them all.

“A hero? Like Uther?” Trondheim’s voice cracked as he mentioned the name.

The only one who seemed unaffected was Birkenfeldt. “You have me at a disadvantage, gentlemen. Who is this Uther?”

“Let’s just say,” said Penbury, “if there is one thing worse than a Dark Lord, it’s a hero.”

“Forgive me,” said Birkenfeldt, “but isn’t having a hero to oppose the Dark Lord a good thing?”

Penbury felt a warm glow inside, partly due to the slight heart burn he had developed but mostly as a reaction to young Birkenfeldt’s comment. It was good to see that even among a group such as themselves, driven by profit and power, such naivety was still present, even if it was confined to the youngest.

“I suggest you go and read the histories,” said Penbury as gently as he could manage. “While it is true that Uther defeated Zoon and thus saved the world from an Undead Lord who would have laid jealous ruin across the world, what he replaced it with was barely any better; forty years of righteousness and inquisition the like of which the world had never seen. Many more died in those terrible years, denounced as heretics and blasphemers, as had been killed in the war itself. It was only thanks to the secular revolution of Chancellor Huffenhoff that religion was finally put in its place. So far, however, we have been lucky and this current hero, Edwin, has not yet played the religion card, but you can bet he will.”

Penbury sat back and steepled his fingers. Waiters nipped in to clear the main course and to refill glasses. A mood of quiet contemplation descended as the group considered what had been said. In Penbury’s mind it was a conundrum. Ideally he didn’t want to have to pick either side in what seemed to be an inevitable conflict. As far as he was concerned, they were both as bad as each other and would seriously upset the stability that he, as Chancellor, managed. While he was aware of those who despised and feared him, and he did on occasion have to employ rather radical practices, it was all for the best. Not necessarily the good, but the best.

His mind wandered back to his recent cornering of the drug market, and in particular Headfucker, as it was so charmingly known on the street. He could have left it in the hands of organised crime and let them continue to make huge profits, which could only be bad for business if they used that money to acquire power. Penbury was a practical man. He recognised that there would always be drug takers, and if that was the case then it was better he did the supplying. At least he was happy with the market as it was and would not seek to expand it into unsavoury areas.

There seemed to be strong parallels with the current situation. It wasn’t a question of morals or ethics but more of practical expediency.

Sven was the first to break the meditation. “Have we tried lawyers yet?” he asked.

“If by that,” said Penbury, “you mean, have attempts been made to shorten their lives, then yes, with the obvious lack of success.”

“Not so easy to kill a hero, I suppose?” asked Pierre.

“Indeed not,” said Penbury. “They have the most incredible good fortune.”

“And Morden is equally impervious?” asked Karoof.

Penbury nodded and there was a collective sigh from the group.

“Is there anyone close to them we can use as leverage?” asked Birkenfeldt.

“A fine idea,” said Pierre. “Everyone has a weakness. Chancellor?”

In instructing the Snort brothers he had asked them to find out all they could about Morden and Edwin and there had been mention of a girl. “The only thing that springs to mind is a girl. Apparently Edwin’s love, Griselda, was stolen from him by Morden and he has sworn to save her. He couldn’t give a pig’s nipple about anything else, or so I hear.”

“There we have it,” said Paolo slapping the table. “The girl is the key.”

“Maybe,” said Penbury. “But I fear there are other forces at work here. How is it that Morden, from all I can fathom, an odd but unremarkable child from a monastery of brewers, turns out to be a black dragon and a Dark Lord rising? And Edwin. Yes, he is an orphan raised by a blacksmith, and we all know what that means, but there are thousands of blacksmiths’ sons with barely an heroic hair between them. How is it that he has become such a hero? Besides, kidnapping the girl isn’t going to solve our problem, merely attract unwanted attention from both parties.”

“There is one thing that I have noticed that I find curious,” said Birkenfeldt. “As you know, I am probably the biggest banker here, the Chancellor excepted. Borrowing over the last decade is up but of late it has increased dramatically; mainly among the aristocrats.”

“Is that not to fund their war games?” asked Pierre.

“I thought so too until I tied it into other areas. While spending on armour, weapons and the supplies of war has increased, it does not match the amount being borrowed. What has gone up is the price of gold. This is normal in uncertain times, but the movements cannot be attributed purely to speculators and worried savers. Somebody, somewhere, is stockpiling.”

This was the first bit of news that Penbury did not already know himself and it was both interesting and disturbing. With everything that had been going on it was also a reminder that he needed to maintain a close eye on his own businesses and the markets. As had just been shown, movements of goods and hard currency often gave away preparations for war and other less visible activities.

“Very good, Birkenfeldt,” said Penbury. “A most interesting observation. Clearly we need to look into matters more closely. If, as I am beginning to suspect, Morden and Edwin are mere puppets then we need to know who is pulling the strings.”

As the other seven murmured their assent, the doors at the far end of the hall swung open and a procession of waiters entered each with a covered platter held aloft.

“Ah, dessert,” said Penbury.

While chatter at the table turned to the quality of the sponge, the use of vanilla and various thickening agents in custard, and the sweetness of dessert wine, Penbury’s mind was going over the discussion so far. It was, as he had thought, a tricky situation and one that could not be solved by a hostile takeover or a well targeted slanderous pamphlet campaign.

Once dessert had been given due diligence and the eight were once more left alone, cigars on hand, port glasses full and cheeseboard arrayed appropriately, Penbury guided discussion away from how long soft Yak cheese should be left and back to weightier matters.

“Gentlemen,” said Penbury, tapping his glass. “Let’s wrap up this Dark Lord issue before we retire.”

The seven other richest, most powerful men in the western world made sure their glasses were full, their cigars lit and waistbands adjusted.

“We find ourselves in a situation that has not been faced for centuries. A Dark Lord is rising and a hero has appeared, leaving a trail of blood behind him. These are indeed worrying events. I shall continue in my intelligence gathering and keep you all appraised. The goal is to try to find a resolution that will cause the least disruption to our affairs so that the world, and most particularly ourselves, may continue to prosper. We must also accept, however, that the world as we know it may well be laid waste.”

There were grunts of consternation at this frank observation but Penbury had always believed in not dressing things up or avoiding hard truths. That kind of head-in-the-sand thinking led to companies over extending and losing far too much money long after they should have been wrapped up.

“Gentlemen,” said Penbury, calming them with a raised hand. “Let us also not forget one of the immutable truths: you can’t beat economics. Whatever transpires in the world, people will still need feeding and Paolo will ship their food. They will need houses and Sven will build them. There will still be money to be lent and Birkenfeldt will lend it. While ideally we would like things to continue as they are, and I pledge I will do everything in my power to ensure that this is the case, if the worst does happen and there is a Dark Lord holding dominion over us all, he’ll still need us. Because it is us, gentlemen, who make things work; for where there is a profit to be made, we will be there.”

It was the insight that the first Chancellor had written down and had passed on to every Chancellor that had followed. Kings and Queens, despots and dictators, came and went; people were richer and poorer, but there was always, always, always a profit to be made.

Chapter 35 Foreign Lands

Pain is a great motivator.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

Morden wasn’t sure how long he had been unconscious. The last thing he remembered was collapsing onto the beach and hearing a crow. He opened one eye. There was a fly on the end of his nose. It sat there for a second and then took off. Around him there was a buzzing sound consistent with a pile of dung and a hot summer’s day. Opening his other eye, but still lacking the strength to move, Morden could see a cloud of flies dipping and buzzing over the sand next to him. His first thought was that the way his luck had been going that something had wandered along and crapped on him.

Well, whatever had happened while he had been out cold he couldn’t lie there forever. The sun was blazing down and his mouth felt drier than the hot sand he was lying on. Bracing himself for the anticipated pain, he lifted himself up onto one elbow, sending flies into an annoyed cloud. But the pain didn’t come. He did feel stiff around the middle but there was no sharp pain as he would have expected having been impaled.