Wedding Hells (Schooled in Magic Book 8) (24 page)

“
Jade
will have to worry about the consequences,” Frieda said. “He’s the Court Wizard.”

Emily had a mental image of Jade telling Frieda off for hexing Lord Hans, and had to conceal a smile. Jade probably didn’t like Hans any more than
she
did. He’d have to make a show of punishing Frieda, but it wouldn’t be a very
dire
punishment. Frieda might be sentenced to nothing more than reading her way through a few dozen books of magic.

“So will Alassa and her father,” Emily said, shaking her head. Randor
couldn’t
let someone get away with hexing his aristocracy. That was only meant to happen on
his
orders. “Now, it’s almost dinnertime, so we’d better go get changed.”

She dispelled the privacy ward and looked back into the hall. The aristocrats still chattered away, slowly drifting towards the dining hall. Great Ladies wore long flowing dresses, shining under the light, while the male aristocrats wore finely-tailored clothes that showed off their muscles to best advantage. Servants moved between them, carrying glasses of wine or bowls of snacks to tide their lords and masters over until dinnertime. None of the nobility even seemed to register their presence as they talked endlessly about nothing, sharing rumors and gossip about their fellows...

And they’re in for a shock
, she thought, grimly. Had Paris looked so gay on the evening before the French Revolution?
What will happen when the pressure cooker finally explodes
?

Frieda caught her hand. “Emily? You’re staring.”

“I’m sorry,” Emily said. She turned and headed out of the hall, leaving the aristocracy behind. “While you’re dancing, you can think about something for me. What can I give Alassa - in public - for her wedding?”

“You
did
give her the wedding itself,” Frieda pointed out, after a moment. “Would Alassa have met Jade if they both hadn’t known you?”

“Alassa would be embarrassed if I didn’t give her
something
she could show everyone,” Emily pointed out. She shook her head, slowly. “What do I have to give?”

T
HE QUESTION NAGGED AT HER MIND
as she changed into another blue dress, walked back to the dining hall and sat down in her chair. It was almost a relief when Nightingale tapped her shoulder and told her that the king had agreed to meet with her - and Alassa - just after the dancing began. She thanked him, asked Imaiqah to keep an eye on Frieda while she danced with Lord Hans, and endured the dinner as best as she could. It was finer food than she would have eaten on Earth, she had to admit, but eating the same meals day after day was...surprisingly unpleasant.

And back on Earth I would have thanked my lucky stars for such a dinner
, she reminded herself, sharply.
I shouldn’t be complaining when so few people have enough to eat
.

The dinner - and the speeches - finally came to an end. She rose to her feet as a small army of servants cleared the chairs and tables away, while musicians came into the room and started to play. Frieda rose and hurried over to Lord Hans; Emily watched them for a long moment, every instinct screaming that she should have forbidden Frieda from dancing with him, and turned to leave the room. The king and Alassa had already left.

The watchers will note my absence as well as theirs
, Emily thought. Queen Marlena had left too, accompanied by Lady Barb.
No matter what we do, they will put it together
.

She sighed as she walked through the warded door and into the next chamber. King Randor sat on a chair - elevated slightly higher than the others - while Alassa sat next to him, her expression under tight control. Who knew what they’d been saying while waiting for her? Had Randor approved her treatment of Lady Regina, or rebuked her for it? She hesitated, dropped a curtsey to the king and then took the seat he indicated. Alassa gave her a tight smile and winked.

“You requested this meeting,” Randor said, gravely. “We await your pleasure.”

Emily pulled the leaflet out of her pocket, smoothed it out and passed it to him. “This was given to us in the city, Your Majesty,” she said, as she ran through a brief explanation of the leaflets, the meeting and their escape from the guards. “I thought it best to inform you when we returned to the castle.”

Randor stared at her. “You were walking along the street, minding your own business, when you just
happened
to be invited to a seditious meeting?”

Emily colored. Put that way, it sounded more than a little unlikely.

“Yes,” she said, clearing her throat. “That’s precisely what happened.”

Randor leaned forward and started asking questions, going over everything that had happened in minute detail. Emily found herself sweating as he poked and prodded at her memory, forcing her to recall everything she could. Too many of his questions couldn’t be answered; the rebels had used glamors to conceal their faces, as well as a number of other tricks. She had no idea who they were and she doubted they remained in the same building. They’d said the Royal Guard was on the way, after all.

“I see,” Randor said, finally. “They
have
been busy.”

“It seems a little flimsy, father,” Alassa said. “What’s to stop an informer from taking one of the leaflets and going to the meeting?”

“They wouldn’t see the person in charge,” Randor reminded her. “Or, for that matter, most of the people who were too inquisitive for their own good.”

“They’d still need to recruit more rebels,” Alassa pointed out. “At some point, there would
have
to be a meeting without protective spells.”

“Maybe not,” Emily said.

Randor and Alassa both looked at her, as if they’d forgotten she was there.

“Explain,” Randor ordered.

“The rebels spoke to everyone who took and kept a leaflet, Your Majesty,” Emily said. “They presumably have a few other tricks to watch for informers, but they didn’t seem to use them. That suggests, to me, that the whole purpose of the exercise was not to recruit new rebels. As you say, their recruitment method is a little shaky.”

“And if that is the case,” Randor said, calmly, “what
is
the purpose of the exercise?”

“To plant ideas in fertile soil,” Emily said. “To ask the questions that most people will shy away from. To make them think the rebels have a point.”

Alassa frowned. “And so?”

“To prime them for future rebellion,” Emily concluded. “
That’s
the point of the exercise.”

She looked down at her hands. “You may snatch up hundreds of people who attended one of those meetings, but you won’t find any of the
real
rebels,” she warned. “None of them will know anything useful. All you’ll do is make matters worse.”

Randor snorted. “They can get worse?”

“They can,” Emily said. “The rebels want Alexis to become like Swanhaven - a tinderbox just waiting for someone to light the match. One overreaction on your part, perhaps not even something you
ordered
, will be enough to spark a revolution. And even if you
succeed
in putting it down, it will cost you badly and sow the seeds for the
next
revolution.”

She looked up at him. He didn’t see it, any more than Nicolas II had understood the dangers of pushing his abused subjects too far. Randor had survived a coup plot spearheaded by the aristocracy by the skin of his teeth, but he didn’t see the commoners as a danger. How could he? They were nothing to him.

“They have a point, Your Majesty,” she said, tapping the leaflet. “And you need to
realize
that they have a point.”

Randor gave her a long look that chilled her to the bone. “They are rebels against legitimate authority.”

“They haven’t actually
rebelled
yet,” Emily said.

“They are spreading lies about the throne,” Randor said. “That in itself is a crime.”

“They’re not lies,” Emily said, quietly. “That’s the point.”

Alassa coughed. “How are they
not
lies?”

Emily cursed mentally. If Alassa hadn’t been her friend, if she hadn’t been lumbered with Cockatrice, she could have just left the country and watched Randor and his daughter try to cope with the chaos from a safe distance. But she owed it to Alassa to try...and besides, the chaos
was
partly her fault. The innovations she’d introduced had upset the balance of power and shattered it beyond repair.

“They’re asking why so much money needs to be spent on your wedding,” she said. “
Why
does so much money have to be spent?”

“You would deny your friend a big wedding?” Randor asked. “The one chance in her life for a green wedding?”

Emily winced. In hindsight, that might not have been the most diplomatic thing to say.

“They are asking why so much money has to be extracted from the peasants and spent on a ceremony that benefits none of them,” she said, ignoring the question. She didn’t think it had a right answer. “And it is a reasonable question.”

“My wedding will put an end to the threat of civil war,” Alassa said, icily. Emily could sense magic flickering and flaring around her as she lost her grip on her temper. “And
they
should realize that it is for their benefit.”

“They don’t,” Emily said. “You may succeed in preventing the barons from uniting against a single over-mighty subject, but you won’t succeed in convincing the commoners that something isn’t rotten in the state of Zangaria.”

Alassa’s eyes flashed. “And what
is
rotten?”

“Each year, the farmers give up half of their production to their local landlords,” Emily said, feeling her own anger flare. “Why? What gives those landlords the right to take the crops the farmers have worked hard to grow? Every year, innkeepers, merchants and everyone else who earns money has to surrender half of their income to the taxman. Why? What gives the taxman the right to collect the money? For each marriage, a fee has to be paid; for each death, another fee has to be paid; for each child, a fee has to be paid...why?

“Picture yourself a farmer. You work hard and you produce crops. Every year, you still have to give up half your produce to someone who spends half his time harassing you when he isn’t hunting in the fields or chasing your daughter. Right now, those farmers are asking what they get in return. And the answer many of them are coming up with is
nothing
. Because they don’t know where the money goes, or if it’s being used wisely.”

She looked down at her hands. “I saw the production tables for Cockatrice,” she said. “They date back over the last hundred years. Crop production was falling steadily until I rewrote the laws; since then, crop production has actually
risen
sharply. The farmers are producing more because they know they get to
keep
more.”

“They couldn’t use it to feed themselves,” Randor said.

“No,” Emily agreed. “They sell the crops and make money, which they can then invest elsewhere if they please.”

Randor leaned forward. “And then what?”

Alassa spoke before Emily could answer. “Whose side are you on?”

“
Yours
,” Emily said. Angry, bitter frustration welled up inside her. “You’re my friends.”

“You’re a baroness,” Randor reminded her. “And you are steadily undermining your own power base.”

“I don’t
want
that sort of power,” Emily said. She could barely run her own life, let alone the lives of hundreds of others. “And even if I did, it would be a disaster when I tried to wield it. Hundreds of thousands of lives would be ruined.”

She met his eyes and tried to hold them. “I don’t know how long you have until there is an explosion,” she warned. She couldn’t help feeling like Cassandra, aware of the future and yet doomed to helplessly watch as it came to pass. “But you need to do something to accommodate them.”

Randor laughed, harshly. “Anything I do to
accommodate
them will lead to an uprising among the aristocracy,” he pointed out, coldly. “Even
you
might have second thoughts when you lose a considerable amount of your revenue.”

“I would not,” Emily said, flatly. “My revenue has gone up even as my taxes have gone down.”

Alassa sighed. “The other barons would hate the thought of giving up control,” she pointed out, softly. “They would hate the prospect of surrendering authority even if it
did
bring them more money.”

Of course
, Emily thought.
And I would probably feel the same way, if I’d been born into the aristocracy
.

She looked at Randor. “If you
don’t
accommodate them, you will eventually have an uprising from the commoners. And if that happens, your kingdom will never be the same.”

“And if I
did
make accommodations,
without
being overthrown by the aristocracy,” Randor asked, “what would they want
next
?”

He put one hand on his sword. “My grandfather was always fond of a quiet life, I’ve been told,” he said. “
He
would concede anything he was asked, if the person who asked him was forceful enough or just nagged him relentlessly until he gave in. By the time he died and my father took the throne, his power base had been so badly reduced he had to fight a war to regain control. He even killed a number of
barons
for trying to diminish the rights of the king!

“I will not, I
cannot
, go the same way. I will keep my kingdom strong and hand it over to my daughter undiminished. And you, as one of my nobles, have a duty to assist me.”

You never asked me if I wanted to be a baroness
, Emily thought, rebelliously. She understood his point - if he made a minor concession, there would be demands for
more
concessions - but she doubted there was anything he could do to keep the rebels from exploding into an uprising.
And I don’t know how far I’m prepared to go to help you
.