In the Shadow of Lions - Chapter 7

Valemonde, Empire of Lynese

Princess Isolde slipped through the oak doors, the hem of her gown whispering across the marble floor as she entered her father’s chambers. It was late, but she knew he liked to retire to his chambers after meeting with his advisors for one last time, to read over reports from his less public advisors.

She had spent the last several days working on plans of her own, but planning was over, and the time had come to actually talk to him about them. Which is what she had been trying to do for the last twenty minutes, pacing back and forth in front of the ornate doors to his private study, working up her confidence.

He had told her the last time they argued about the state of their people that if she wanted to do something, she should do it instead of “whining to him.” She knew he’d said it mostly to get her to leave him alone, but she’d decided to take him at his words, and not his meaning.

“Father, do you have a moment?” she said, stopping inside the large front parlor of his expansive chambers, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and back again.

He was behind his desk, reading papers, just as she’d known he would be. He looked up, annoyed at her interruption, but smoothed his features after a moment.

“What is it, Isolde?” he said, setting the letter he had been reading down.

“Last week, when we were discussing the injured coming back from the front, and you told me I should do something about it, I began working on a plan. The winter was very hard on them, and there have been reports of outbreaks of illness, malnutrition, and the Disciples have not received enough medicine for the men put in their care. As you said, the empire is stretched thin as it is, fighting the invaders, so I’ve coordinated with some of the noble houses to gather supplies; food, medicine, and clothing to help with some of those shortfalls. It’s taken weeks to organize discreetly, but we’ve amassed enough to make a real difference for our men,” she said, the words tumbling out, without the steady rhythm she’d practiced over and over in her head.

It was hard to stay calm. This was her chance to actually do something good. Something that mattered. It had been difficult convincing the merchants and nobles to give up anything, but she’d persisted. She’d managed to convince enough to give donations of material and a little money that she finally pulled together a large enough shipment of supplies, especially once she convinced the Order of Aid to add to what was donated. Considering all of the Orders’ stance on avoiding anything political, funds for supporting soldiers had been difficult, but she’d made enough assurances and had the backing of the Disciples from the Order of Aide, who had seen firsthand the deplorable state of their wounded.

“Fine,” he said, waving her off again, reaching to pick the letter back up.

“I  the disciples have also told me we have men being held by the Sidorians. The Order has set up treatment there, but as you can imagine, the invaders have provided little in the way of supplies for them. The Order has tried the best they can, but they have never had much in the way of funds. When I get to the front, I plan on, under a flag of truce, delivering supplies to the men caring for our wounded prisoners as well.”

As she spoke, she saw his eyes narrow and the letter fall once again to the desk, this time fully ignored. She knew what that meant, not that she was going to let that stop her.

“Absolutely not,” he said as soon as she finished speaking. “It is far too dangerous for you to travel to the front lines yourself.”

“I will take guards with me, and I will have some of the Disciples.”

“With the army occupied, the roads are less safe than they once were, and the Sidorians are nearly at the Chansol River. If they make it to that, it’s onto the Lynesian Plains. It’s much too dangerous for you to be traveling.”

“But, Father …”

“I told you ‘no,’” he said, harshly, and then softened, holding a hand out to his daughter. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to yell.”

She gave him a suspicious look, since this was far from the first time he’d yelled at her, but she went to him anyway, taking his hand.

“I know your heart’s in the right place and how much you care about our people, and I commend you for the amazing success you’ve had. If you could get the nobles to unclench their fists long enough to let one coin slip through, then you’ve done something truly spectacular. I think next time I need to haggle with the Viceroys, I should send you in my place.”

“Father, I’m serious.”

“And so am I, child. Still, I know you have a good heart and this means something to you, so I will not let your efforts be for nothing. I will send Sir Gilberton with the supplies and instruct him to request, under a flag of truce, that the supplies be delivered to the Disciples tending to our injured captives. Is that fair?”

For a moment, Isolde wanted to argue with her father. She’d done all this work and didn’t want to see it finished by another. This had been an opportunity for her to really see her country. She hardly ever got out of the capital, and when she did, it was to the stuffy libraries and shrines of the Acolytes, where she only studied and worshiped. Of course, that reasoning was sure to convince her father not to let her go. As much as she longed to see the world, he wanted to keep her locked away from it.

“Yes, Father,” she said finally, casting her eyes down so he couldn’t see what she was thinking.

Not that it would help. Her father was incredibly clever and seemed to always know what everyone around him was thinking even before they thought it. If he knew her thoughts, though, he said nothing.

Patting her hand, he said, “Good. Tell the guards on the way out to send for Sir Gilberton. I will give him instructions tonight, and have him ride out with the supplies by midday.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said, trying to sound the dutiful daughter.

He gave her a small smile, one of the crooked ones that meant he knew more than she did, which suggested that he did indeed read her true wishes as he waved her away. At least she’d succeeded in getting the supplies, and they were going to be delivered.

That’s what was actually important.

***

Starhaven, Kingdom of Sidor, Duchy of King’s Heart

Edmund sat behind the massive desk, quill in hand, as he reviewed ledgers detailing the kingdom’s finances. Across the room, Serwyn slouched in an oversized chair, idly flipping a dagger end over end, catching it by the handle as it fell each time.

“I don’t see why I have to be here. This is work for clerks and scribes, or the Exchequer. It’s not my job to read these,” Serwyn complained, tossing the knife again.

Edmund resisted the urge to point out he wasn’t actually going over anything, only playing with a knife.

“The Exchequer is who gave us these reports. While clerks, scribes, and even your own nobles are valuable assets, and make the running of the kingdom feasible, delegating all of it to them is a recipe for corruption. It is the king’s job to at least be aware of the state of his kingdom.”

“And what is the state of my kingdom?” Serwyn asked, clearly sounding like he did not care what the answer was.

Edmund set down the quill and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he regarded his nephew.

“From a financial viewpoint, not good. Not good at all. The war has strained our resources considerably.”

“So? Wars cost money. We’ll just take what we need from Lynese after we crush them.”

"It's not that simple," Edmund said, rising and pacing slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. “The campaign against Lynese has already dragged on far longer than your father expected. Our coffers are nearly empty. Tax revenues have fallen sharply, hampered by poor harvests two years running in the northern baronies.”

He ticked the points off on his fingers. “We’ve had to take out substantial loans from lenders in Inos and will almost certainly have to go to them again this year, at the very least. Our debt to them grows to the point that, even the riches of Lynese might not be enough to pay it back. And they aren’t the only ones we owe money to. We’ve also borrowed from the merchant cartels here as well, just to keep paying the troops. Half the Crown’s ships are committed to maintaining supply lines across the Sea of Kings. And the coastal raids from Alchmara have only made matters worse. We can almost certainly expect the Iron Keep baronies, at least those along the coast, to return less than we’d projected. Potentially far less. And some of the other baronies there might decide to do the same, since Windermere doesn’t have the fortitude to force the issue as he once did.”

“Then we loan him the fortitude and take what the barons owe us. Why are we even having to pay their men in Lynese? Those are their men. They should pay them.”

“Yes, but we called their men to service. While tradition states that we pay for our subjects’ forces when in our service, there’s a good reason for it beyond tradition. The men in those armies, especially the conscripts and yeomen pressed into service, aren’t able to generate revenue while they’re in the field for us. If we make the barons pay for them on top of losing the revenue those men generate, they might be inclined to hold back the next time we ask.”

“Then we just increase taxes on the barons to make up the difference. They’re the ones causing these problems by not paying what they owe. We just don’t tell them it’s needed to pay their men.”

“They will see through that, nephew. Many of the coastal barons are already strained to their limits by the Alchmaran raids. Demanding higher payments from them now could push some to outright rebellion. I know it’s tiring to hear, but we must handle this delicately, without provoking those barons already chafing under their obligations.”

“It is tiring to hear. The only thing you seem to know how to say is ‘let them get away with defying us.’ I made it clear at my crowning that I would not accept defiance from anyone in the realm. Including them.”

“I’m sorry if it seems that way, Serwyn. My only goal is to give you the best advice I can to ensure your rule is both long and prosperous. Politics is not an easy game, but it is one you must learn. Besides, there are other ways to deal with this. Ones that allow us to collect the revenues we require without unduly burdening the nobility or further straining their loyalty.”

“Like what?” Serwyn asked, finally stopping the knife’s incessant motion.

“We increase taxes on the peasants,” Edmund said, stopping his pacing and looking almost pleased with himself.

“On the peasants? How? Surely, the barons would take any additional tax on them and still claim poverty.”

“There are ways around that. Ways we can better track. For instance, a tax on salt, which all need and which we control the production and distribution of through the royal saltworks. Perhaps an extra copper on each bushel of grain sold or traded, all of which the baronies keep records of. Perhaps even a head tax on every family, which sheriffs can easily collect.”

“But would it even be enough? How much could one family pay?”

“That’s the beauty of this, my grace. We don’t need to tax each family much. A little here or there, added up over the thousands of peasants in the kingdom, can become a large sum very quickly. Better yet, as long as this doesn’t come out of their own coffers, most of the barons won’t care. As long as they don’t feel the pinch themselves.”

“Fine. Do that then. So, are we done? Have we solved the kingdom’s burdens?” Serwyn asked, pulling himself out of the chair and sliding the knife back into its sheath.

Edmund nodded agreeably, maintaining his polite smile until Serwyn turned on his heel and strode from the room. As soon as the door closed behind him, Edmund let out a slow breath and allowed his shoulders to slump.

Dealing with his nephew was proving more difficult than anticipated. Serwyn seemed to have little interest in anything beyond his own pleasures, leaving the tedious business of actually governing the realm to others. In some ways, Edmund mused, that made things simpler. With the boy diverted by his hobbies, it gave Edmund an easier time arranging everything else as it needed to be, without having to cajole or convince his nephew to do it instead.

Still, there were risks to doing it this way. His nephew had always been … capricious. Should some crisis arise that engaged the young king’s interest, there was no telling how he might overreact. Serwyn’s pride and arrogance could easily turn him tyrannical if challenged.

Edmund moved to gaze out the window, clasping his hands behind his back as he pondered the conundrum his nephew presented. Some way must be found to make the tedious business of governing appealing, even exciting, to the youth. To engage his competitive nature and pride in a positive direction that motivated him to take his duties seriously.

Then, as long as he let the king be the one to make the decisions, managing the flow of information to him instead of making them for the boy in his own right, any difficulties could be more easily passed to someone more … expendable.

***

Sidorian Army Camp, Chansol River, Lynese

William was again standing silently in the corner of the command tent, watching as his uncle Aldric and the other commanders pored over campaign maps as they discussed the army’s next strategy. The pieces representing the two armies were separated by a winding blue ribbon that denoted the Chansol River, a major waterway that formed a barrier between the Black Hills and Rendalia Bay. There had once been a bridge spanning the center of that river, old and solidly built of stone. The Lynesians, in their retreat, destroyed it to ensure no one followed behind them and onto the Lynesian plains.

“They’ve learned. After their mad retreat from the Dorée, instead of clever force placement to keep us from crossing, they simply smashed the bridges behind them,” he said, gesturing at the wide expanse of blue curving across the heavy parchment map. “Worse, the Chansol is wider and swifter than the Dorée, so there won’t be any fords like there were there to bring men across.”

“And the inlet is still contested enough that taking ships around won’t work,” Baron Pembroke said, pointing at the outline of Rendalia Bay that stretched in from the Sea of Kings. “We could try to push them back long enough to ferry men across to the other side of the river, but we’re about evenly matched, and even if we were successful, we don’t have enough boats. They’d be able to easily counter the small waves of men we could send across at a time.”

“What about the Black Hills again?” Sir Alistair asked. “I understand it was a problem when we were further east, by the Dorée, but the hills only end a few miles beyond the Chansol. It couldn’t be more than a day’s ride to cut across and come out onto the plains of Lynese.”

“It’s still enough to spread our men out and force our horsemen to dismount and go on foot. And they’ll have men waiting on the other side just as we have men guarding the hills to our south, in case anyone attempts to cross them and gain the upper hand,” Aldric said. “Our men would come out scattered and easy prey for the heavy infantry the Lynesians gravitate toward.”

“Then it’s back to bridging the river under fire from their archers and larger weapons,” Baron Pembroke said.

“Perhaps, but not yet. We don’t have enough men to just throw at building a bridge they will be trying to light on fire. I’ve attempted a bridging like this once before, when Baron Ironstock attempted his ill-planned insurrection. He only had the smallest fraction of men I had, and still the casualties were horrendous. No, we are not so blessed in soldiers that we can afford to do that unless it’s the other way around.”

“It might b…” Sir Cedric was saying when the heavy canvas flap was suddenly brushed aside and a dusty scout entered.

“Enter,” Aldric said, waving the young man, not much older than William himself, forward.

“Yes, Your Excellency,” the scout said quickly. “A group of Lynese have come out of the Black Hills by the old smuggler’s trail. They’ve got a line of carts with them, pulled by mules and oxen, loaded up with supplies.”

“An ambush?” Pembroke asked, although sounding a little confused.

The scout shook his head. “Doesn’t seem so, milord. Sir Drummond checked the wagons himself. It’s medicine, food, things like that. The disciples with them claim its relief supplies donated by nobles in Lynese. Collected by the emperor’s daughter, they say, and meant for the disciples tending to the wounded here and at the Order of Healing chantry in Rendalia City.”

William had grown up hearing stories about Rendalia City, the birthplace of the Whittons, before they conquered King’s Heart and started the Whitton dynasty. In the stories, it had always seemed like a founderous place, foreign, yet still somehow part of their legacy. The reality was somewhat different.

The first city conquered by Gavric during the war, it was still the primary port for Sidorian ships, and where the Lions Pride had docked when they’d arrived. The city was still in ruins from the fight to take it, but the level of poverty William had witnessed could not have been solely caused by collateral damage. He had no doubt the Order’s chantry there was busy, and in need of supplies.

“The knights escorting them. How many are there?” Aldric asked.

“No more than ten, armored and armed, but letting the disciples do the talking. The disciples said they’re just guards on account of the bandits in the hills.”

William saw Aldric considering. He knew his uncle to be a good man, but he was also a pragmatist. While the disciples were generally considered non-state actors and granted passage between lines, it was rare, owing to the jumpy nature of most armies. Aldric had read a lot of tales of war and famous battles, and he’d never heard of an offer like this, and he was pretty sure his uncle hadn’t either, from the expression he was making.

After a long moment of consideration, Aldric shook his head. “As much as the disciples could use these supplies, and caring for the enemy’s wounded might free up our own, I cannot risk letting any of them behind our lines. The hills are a warren; who knows what else lies within?”

William was surprised at his disappointment for his uncle. While he was sure it made military sense not to let men from an enemy country behind their lines, the laws of the Acolytes commanded that all disciples doing the work for their order be allowed free passage. That each was a nation unto themselves and in service of the ancients. He’d heard it preached often by the elders. Surely, this was covered by that commandment.

William knew Aldric to be a true follower of the Acolytes, and hadn’t even considered his uncle might say no.

“Perhaps there is still some way we could turn this to our advantage,” Sir Cedric said. “The disciples clearly found a path to bring wagons through the hills; might we follow their route back and find a way around? It would solve our current dilemma and allow us to break free onto the plains of Lynese.”

Baron Pembroke shook his head. “There is a reason the enemy has not attacked from the hills themselves. Any force we sent would come out scattered and easy prey. It is too great a risk.”

“But we learned in the Great Temple it is our duty to assist the Orders when able. This seems one such chance,” William pleaded when it became clear none of the men were going to speak up for doing the right thing. “Shouldn’t we allow the disciples and their supplies through, if only temporarily? Besides, they have our men held prisoner as well. It would give the Lynesians reason to treat our own people better in return.”

Aldric turned to look at his nephew, his expression unreadable as he stared at William hard, making the younger man take a step back from the stare alone.

William was so focused on his uncle’s attention that Baron Pembroke’s voice almost made him jump when the older man spoke.

“I must object, Your Excellency. Allowing any number of the enemy behind our lines is too great a risk, especially with …”

“Perhaps my nephew is right,” Aldric interrupted, raising a hand to quiet Pembroke’s protest. “While military caution must rule our actions, we also have a duty to the Orders decreed by the Ancients themselves.”

Aldric paused, glancing back at the map pensively before looking at William.

“Very well. If he thinks this is a good idea, I will allow this aid through, albeit with precautions. William, consider this your first test of leadership. Take a contingent and inspect the shipment thoroughly to make sure this isn’t a trick. If all is in order, ask Sir Drummond to provide an escort through our lines to the chantry. The disciples only. No Lynesian knight may cross our lines.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” William said.

“Eskild,” Aldric said, turning his attention to the Sergeant. “Help him pick out a detachment to take and then go with him, in case he has any questions. Also, make it clear to Sir Drummond that the final decisions are Lord William’s.”

“As you command,” Eskild said, slapping fist to chest.

With a respectful bow, William turned and strode from the tent, Eskild on his heels. His first command and his chance to show everyone he was ready for this.