Five Hundred Years After Page 3

  "Yes, yes, I understand that. Go on."

  Jurabin cleared his throat and continued. "Yes, Sire. The issue, just at the moment, is difficult for the Princes."

  "That's just it, Jurabin; what makes it so? Or, rather, what makes it more difficult than usual?"

  "Well, in the first place, there is the House of the Dragon, which demands that its entire portion be waived, to offset the expenses of raising armies."

  "Raising armies? For what reason do they raise armies?"

  "There are encroachments of Easterners in the South, Sire. In addition, there are Teckla rebellions threatening in several western duchies. We have received petitions for Imperial aid from the Duke of Atwater, the Duke of Lonerock, the Duchess of Greatworks, the—"

  "Well, but I had thought we had made peace with the Easterners."

  "Sire, there are many Easterners, and they do not all speak with each other, nor do they adhere to each others' treaties. The agreement Your Majesty had of the kingdom east of the Pepperfields at the beginning of Your Majesty's reign still holds, but there are others—"

  "Hmmph. A sloppy way to do things, it seems to me. They should be brought under a single banner."

  "That, Sire, is what the House of the Dragon, through its Heir, Eastmanswatch, is proposing."

  "How, Eastmanswatch is behind this?"

  "According to my sources, Sire—"

  "You mean your spies?"

  Jurabin shrugged. "It seems that the Duke opposes such an action, but nevertheless brings it forward on behalf of his House, which favors it."

  His Majesty shook his head, as if refusing to consider the internal politics of the House of the Dragon. "Well," he said, "and the Teckla? Has their House been asked about these uprisings, and warned that the Heir of the House may, under law, be held accountable?"

  "They pretend, Sire, to be unable to meet the demands placed upon them, due to crop shortages, caused by general climate changes in the West over the last two hundred years, which has led to thirty or forty seasons of drought, which trend is expected to last well into the next phase. This same drought has caused their demand for a lessening in the payments they make to their landlords, and has also led to numerous uprisings, which seem to be continuing, perhaps even increasing."

  "Drought? Haven't we sorcerers for that sort of thing?"

  "The cost, Sire—"

  "Ah, yes, the cost. Well, what of the cost?"

  "The House of the Athyra has claimed that, should they call up the required sorcery, they would be unable to pay their portion."

  "They have said this?"

  "'Yes, Sire, through their Heir, Tropyr."

  "Well, that hardly seems unreasonable."

  "Yes, Sire."

  "'And as for the lessening of the payments, can't this be done in an equitable manner?"

  "Sire, most of those affected are of the Houses of the Jhegaala and the Lyorn, and the matter has been taken up by the Iorich, to study the legalities. But, as an Imperial matter, naturally the Iorich charge heavily for their services, and—"

  "The Gods!"

  "Yes, Sire. Especially as the Vallista are adamant on mainlining the full payments—"

  "The Vallista?"

  "Yes, Sire, most of the mines in the North are owned by Vallista, and they depend on trade with the West to feed the Laborers, who have been growing restive, due to short rations. This has resulted in lower production, which, in turn, reduces the amount of shipping, so the House of the Orca is claiming extreme poverty among many of its nobles, and will have a great deal of trouble in contributing to the Imperial Allow—Tax."

  "I see."

  "Moreover—"

  "How, there is more?"

  "Yes, Sire."

  "Go on."

  "Various of the poorer Houses have banded together, to prevent the more powerful Houses from taking advantage of them."

  "It is always thus."

  "Yes, Sire. In this case, the Tiassa and the Jhegaala have formed an alliance along with the Dzur and the Iorich, while the Hawk, Tsalmoth, Jhereg and Issola are supporting the Orca and the Lyorn. The Teckla might have come to some sort of agreement with the Yendi; we are unable to be certain—one never knows what the Yendi are doing."

  "Well?"

  "It is very confusing, Sire, but it seems the alliances are shifting a great deal, and everyone is trying to guess who will be forced to pay heavily, who will be able to escape paying heavily, and whether the Imperial Treasury will, in fact, be able to operate at all."

  "I see."

  His Majesty fell silent for a moment, then said, "These alliances—"

  "Yes, Sire?"

  "Can we break them up?"

  "We have been trying to do so, Sire."

  "With what results?"

  Jurabin made a slight shift in his chair—almost his firs movement of any kind since they had begun speaking. The Emperor was aware that this indicated that the Prime Minister was somewhat unsure of himself. "Sire—"

  "Yes?"

  "The alliances have been increasingly unstable, in part due to our efforts."

  "Well?"

  "The result is none of the parties are strong enough to stand against your will."

  "That is good, I think."

  "Yes, Sire. But it also means that many of the Princes and Deputies will be unable to avoid offending the Empire, or their own party, and in some cases, however things go, they will be certain to offend both."

  "I see."

  "And that is why many of them, either from fear or confusion, have been backing out of the meeting."

  "I see."

  His Majesty thought over all that he had heard. At last he said, "You ought to have brought these things to my attention years ago, Jurabin."

  "I'm sorry, Sire, if I have erred. But—"

  "But nothing! I would have settled it at once."

  "How," said Jurabin, frowning. "Settled it?"

  "Exactly."

  "And, if I may be permitted the honor of asking a question—"

  "You may."

  "How would Your Majesty have settled it?"

  "In the simplest manner, Jurabin. I would have commanded the Athyra to bring out their best sorcerers, and to solve this drought before it reached this stage."

  "But, Sire, the cost—"

  "Is nothing compared to the cost of ignoring the problem, Jurabin. With the drought removed—"

  "So is the largest source of revenue for the Empire, Sire."

  "The largest?"

  "Yes, Sire. If Your Majesty had commanded them to bring the weather to heel, they would have been within their rights to refuse Your Majesty any contribution whatsoever, and, moreover, they would have done so. We then would have no funds for the Imperial Army, and would have to demand mercenaries to defend the eastern borders."

  "But the House of the Dragon could pay heavily."

  "Indeed they could, Sire, but they would not do so."

  "They would not? Why would they not?"

  "Because, Sire, if the House of the Athyra was not forced pay, because they had provided services to the Empire, the House of the Dragon would demand the same right, and justly, too. If they didn't, the Athyra would gain economic power over them, and those two Houses are ever struggling with one another for much of the same land in the Northeast.

  "And yet, there ought to be some money left in the Imperial Treasury."

  "Very little, Sire. We will, by budgeting carefully, be able to survive to the end of the phase, until the new taxes are prepared, but—"

  "But where has the money gone, Jurabin? I know that by the time wheat has been harvested and turned into flour, and the flour reaches the market, it has already been taxed four times, and—"

  "Five times, Sire."

  "—There has been no large war—"

  "No large war, Sire? The war with Elde Island was not large?"

  "Jurabin, it lasted a mere five years, and if our casualties were more than ten thousand, someone has deceived me. And, more
over, we won."

  "Sire, there is no more expensive war than one fought on the sea, for each time we lose even a skirmish, at least one ship has been taken or sunk, and the smallest frigate in the fleet cannot be replaced for less than ten thousands of imperials. And in the Battle of Redsky Harbor alone we lost eleven frigates and two ships of the line, and we won that battle."

  His Majesty paused to consider these statistics, then said, "But the War Tax should have seen to those expenses."

  "Sire, that tax was necessary to raise money to prosecute the war, and there was little time to raise it, so we sold Bills of Taxation to speculators, mostly Phoenix and Dragons, who still own those Bills."

  "Still? Well, we shall take them back, and use them to raise taxes for the Empire."

  "Take, Sire? Your Majesty would invite civil war?"

  "Well, then, we shall buy them back."

  "With what, Sire? The least of them is worth twenty thousands of imperials."

  "The Gods! Perhaps that war was a mistake, Jurabin."

  "A mistake, Sire? But without it, the pirates of Elde Island would have utterly prevented our trade with Greenaere, Holcomb, and Landsight, which would have bankrupted the House of the Orca."

  "Oh, the Orca!" said His Majesty scornfully.

  "Yes, Sire, the Orca, who are politically allied with the Hawk, the Tsalmoth, the Jhereg, the Issola, and the Lyorn. Yes, Sire."

  His Majesty shook his head, sighed, and looked thoughtful for several moments. Then he said, "Well, but surely we could survive, at least for a short time, without taxes from the Dragon and the Athyra."

  "Sire? Without two of the three largest contributors to the Imperial Treasury? Perhaps we could, if that were all, but—"

  "How, if that were all? It is not?"

  "No, Sire."

  "What more is there?"

  "Well, Sire, we are of the House of the Phoenix, and you are Prince, as well as Emperor. What will be the contribution of our House to the Imperium?"

  "I must ask our Deputy, who is the Princess Loudin, to whom I have delegated this matter."

  "I have asked her, Sire."

  "And has she given you an answer?"

  "Yes, Sire. She has said that the House is on the verge of bankruptcy."

  "Bankruptcy!"

  "Those were her words, Sire."

  "But how could this be?"

  "Because, Sire, the House, in its own name, and many of us as individuals, have made certain speculations—"

  "What speculations?"

  "You know, Sire, that we are a small House, and none of as, except perhaps Baroness Highplane and Countess Nolanthe, have large holdings, so it is by speculation that, for the most part, we—"

  "What speculation, Jurabin?"

  "Primarily, Sire, to certain Dragonlords, counting on funds they will receive from the Empire for military operations, and to certain Athyra, counting on actions to appease the climate. These operations have been delayed, pending the Meeting of Principalities, and the—"

  The Prime Minister stopped speaking, for His Majesty had topped listening, but was, rather, sitting with his head leaning back, his eyes tightly shut. After an interval, the Emperor spoke, saying, "Jurabin, do me the kindness to summon my physicker."

  "Yes, Sire. Is it the headache?"

  "Go, Jurabin."

  "Yes, Sire."

  Jurabin rose at once and left to find the physicker, leaving His Majesty with his head in his hands, and the Orb an ugly brown as it circled His Majesty's head. The physicker, whose name, by the way, was Navier, though it is not our intention to fully introduce her at this point in our history, arrived in due time, bringing with her tea made with certain herbs that were used to cure the headaches with which the Emperor was afflicted on those rare occasions when he tried to understand the workings of the Empire he ruled.

  After administering the treatment, the physicker remained to make certain His Majesty felt better, after which she took her leave, and a few minutes later, the Emperor, seeing that it was approaching his dinner hour, rose to leave. He opened the door, and found himself facing a familiar figure, that of the officer on duty, the Ensign of the Red Boot Battalion of the Imperial Guard.

  Chapter The Second

  Which Treats of an Old Friend,

  And His Conversations with

  Three Acquaintances from the Past.

  To those familiar with our earlier history, it should come as no surprise that the ensign to whom we have just referred is none other than Khaavren, who has now passed his six hundredth year—that is to say, he has achieved an age at which the energy of youth is lost, but is replaced by a calmness that comes with knowing one's position. In Khaavren's case, his position was at His Majesty's door—or, rather, at the door of whatever room His Majesty happened to occupy—and the centuries of waiting there, and making reports to his superiors, and making campaigns against enemies of one sort or another, had, to all appearances, entirely sapped the energy that had been the particular mark of his youth.

  Where he had been wont to make wry observations and loyal outbursts, now he kept his observations to himself, and relegated his outbursts to those occasions when his duties required it (and, as a good officer, his duties seldom required outbursts). Where he had been quick to bring hand to sword upon any real or imagined slight, now he was more likely to chuckle, shake his head, and pass on. And yet, should anyone be foolish enough to insist on playing, there were, in the Empire, few with whom it would be a more dangerous pastime. Khaavren's wrist was as strong and supple as ever, his eyes were as sure, and his body as limber. If he had lost, perhaps, the rash exuberance of youth, he had gained far more in his knowledge of the science and art of defense.

  As to appearances, the changes were fewer. The Khaavren of five hundred years before would, upon meeting the Khaavren of this day, have thought he was looking into a glass, were it not for a slight thinning of both face and figure, brought on by constant exercise, and a few faint lines on his forehead, brought on by responsibility—the implacable foe of all lighthearted natures.

  Yet he took this responsibility gladly, for it was a mark of his character as it had emerged over centuries that he took great care and pride in carrying out his duties merely because he found he was good at them—that is, he no longer saw the service as a means to glory and accomplishment; rather he now saw it as an end in itself, and as his prospects for tomorrow faded, so did his resolve strengthen to perform to the very best of his ability. Whereas five hundred years before his motto had been, "Let there be no limit to my ambition," now his motto was, "Let my ambition carry me to the limit," which subtle change in emphasis, as we can see, bespeaks worlds of change in character.

  This, then, was the person His Majesty suddenly found himself confronting—the same as he had accustomed himself to seeing for some five hundred and thirty years. The Emperor prided himself on being able to judge his fellow creatures (in fact, in one of his few surviving letters he wrote to his mistress of the time, Enova of Ridge, shortly before the infamous scandal of the Three Gibbets, "In spite of what they say, I trust Lord Capstra. Why? Because all of my instincts tell me to, and I'd sooner listen to my instincts than to all of the advisers in the Empire."), and, after seeing this officer, in the blue and white of the House of the Tiassa, with the gold uniform half-cloak of the Imperial Guard and the badge of an ensign—after seeing this officer, we say, for more than half a millennium, he realized that here was someone in whom he could confide. And his Majesty was taken with the need to confide in someone.

  "Well, Ensign?" he began.

  Khaavren's eyes widened slightly; he was unused to being addressed by His Majesty, other than to be given orders. "Sire?" said the guardsman, looking frankly back at him whom the gods had made his master.

  It is worth noting that the Khaavren of a few hundred years before would have put into word and countenance all of his eagerness for glory and willingness to risk his life on His Majesty's orders; the Khaavren of today merely answ
ered and waited, slightly curious. Faced with this mild yet confident look, the Emperor faltered for a moment, and covered his confusion by saying, "Well?"

  "Sire?" repeated Khaavren.

  "Have you nothing to say, then?"

  Khaavren had, in the intervening years, become a soldier of few words, and those carefully chosen. On this occasion he chose six of them: "I am at Your Majesty's orders," he said.

  "And I," said the Emperor, "am waiting to hear what you have to say."

  "What I have to say, Sire?"

  "Precisely."

  "I beg Your Majesty's pardon, but I do not understand the question Your Majesty does me the honor to ask."

  "Do you pretend you do not know what we were talking about just now?"

  Khaavren's countenance remained impassive. "I assure Your Majesty, I have not the least idea in the world."

  "And yet, you were outside of the door, and the walls are so thin that I can hear when anyone passes by, and I can even hear you explain to passersby in that soft, gentle lilt which still betrays your country of origin, that the room is occupied. How is it, then, that you cannot hear what is said within?"

  "Sire, it may be that I have trained my ears not to hear what does not concern them."

  "You have very complaisant ears, sir."

  "That may be, Sire. In any case, they thank Your Majesty for deigning to notice them." Khaavren accompanied these words with a small bow.

  Tortaalik made a sound that is the despair of the historian to render, but may be thought of as midway between a snort and a harrumph. After which ejaculation he said, "Then you persist in denying that you overheard our conversation?"

  "I assure Your Majesty—"

  "Would you say so again, standing beneath the Orb?"

  For the first time Khaavren's expression changed; a light of something like anger gleamed in his eyes. He said, "It would not, Sire, be the first time I have been required to swear beneath the Orb."

  "Ah—ah," said the Emperor. "You did so once before, didn't you?"

  "I had that honor," said Khaavren.

  "I seem to recall the circumstances," said His Majesty slowly. "It had something to do with a charge of murder, had it not?"

  "A murder, Sire, of which the Orb acquitted me."