10. N #4
He hummed some more. Things felt as though they were starting to fall into place.
The physician had been sorted out, so knowledge about Triana would be contained just himself, the king, and whomever the king had told.
The rations would keep her silent for now, and the gold and transfer to a different city would make her wealthy and sated.
He rather doubted she was the sort to take his rations and then tell, so for now, he should be in the clear.
Perhaps some messy details remained, but the hard part lay behind him.
The ability to work in the Cave required additional thought, but gave him a way out to take the time he needed to figure out the solution.
And he thought in high good humor if I need to bolt, I just go through.
He took his time dressing, selecting his robes carefully, taking more care than he usually did about his appearance.
He’d been pushing hard, so a light day seemed a fair reward.
Go down to his office, go through his correspondence, perhaps use the Farspeaker to chat with …
well, he didn’t really have any friends …
but he did have colleagues. He’d chat with a few of them.
He rang the bell for the chambermaids, and slid his half-boots on.
They came quickly, aware that he expected no more than a few heartbeats to pass between bell-pull and eager, scrubbed faces.
He glanced at the two of them, amused as always at Andaleisia’s priorities.
His chambermaids always fell on the “crone” end of the beauty standard, as it was the wife’s privilege to hire the staff.
He’d never been the sort to tumble the staff, but his ladywife was taking no chances.
He turned his mind to the practical problems of working in the Cave.
I need to figure out exactly how much time passes there, compared to here.
He might have to spend a lot more time there than he had thought.
No telling what that was going to do to him.
An even more chilling thought. Passing time was passing time.
He was going to age at the same relative rate in both places.
True, elves lived an incredibly long time …
but they were not immortal. If he started to age visibly, people were going to talk.
Not to mention … how was he going to get the extra food to carry with him?
The New High Lord Provisioner tracked every morsel now, so going down and simply drawing out unexplained ration bricks would cause questions, even if he was the lord of the estate.
Should he buy it on the black market? He vaguely knew such a thing existed, but had no idea how to find it, nor how one went about making purchases that way.
He descended the stairs to the main floor of the hall … and heard the unexpected chatter. Staff members typically confined their conversations to belowstairs. Something had happened.
He let the slip in the servants’ protocol pass. For now. “What news?” he said to the nearest, a guard in his off-duty tunic.
The elf looked at him, did a double take and snapped to a stiff brace. “One of the Jeweled cities … Citrine, I think. Lost almost all of its arable land, m’lor. Word is an attack of some kind.”
Haldeen furrowed his brow. Citrine was far from the city here, far enough for news to pass slowly. Rumor?
“How did you hear?” he said.
“It’s all over the city m’lor. I heard from the guards on the wall. They’re on double watch. Rumors there was maybe an attack there. Some kind of weakening of the Wall. A new Predator thing, they’re saying? Mebbee digging under the Wall to bring it down?”
Haldeen puffed out his cheeks, his warm and happy feelings melting away like ice in the sun. Perhaps he was going to have even less time than he thought. “We’re built on bedrock here. Nothing they can dig under. As for the rest, you shouldn’t listen to street gossip.”
The guard bobbed his head. Haldeen made a “go-away” gesture with his fingers and the guard fled.
He crossed to his courtyard office, deep in thought, and only distantly aware of the talk and chatter around him.
Citrine wasn’t one of the outlying places, the ones far from the Gate networks and built on soft rock.
Citrine held pride of place as one of the oldest and largest, built on bedrock, and while its farms were …
or had been … relatively exposed, it certainly had the wealth and power to protect them.
Don’t borrow trouble. He admonished himself. So far, it’s just a rumor.
He entered his office, and went to his desk. He opened it to get a pen and fresh nib, and heard the Farspeaker’s chime. He closed the desk drawer and went into the secret room.
He had barely seated himself in front of it when the Farspeaker came to life. “Pelias! What news?”
The Lord High Provisioner looked tired, even in the shimmering and unsteady image of the Farspeaker. “Citrine. You heard?”
Haldeen shrugged. “Just street gossip.”
The Lord High Provisioner shook his head …
. “Doesn’t know the half of it. All are sworn to secrecy. A Source failed completely. The ambient magic drained away, the guardwall went down, and Predators got into the city. It’s bad. The farms are completely gone, and the Central Granary apparently burned in some kind of secondary fire.
There is going to be an assessment to send food, blankets, relief supplies to Citrine, or what’s left of it. Quotas are going up.”
Haldeen swore. “Pelias, we still haven’t answered the last assessment.”
The High Lord nodded wearily. “I know. The king knows. But, we’re stuck. We’re all stuck. This isn’t some back of beyond hamlet that we can ignore and let die. This is Citrine.”
“How much?” Haldeen asked.
“Ten percent … on top of the last assessment. All the Jeweled cities agreed.”
Haldeen rubbed his forehead. “All right. Any other good news?”
“Yes,” Pelias replied. “Black mold, found in Erthord’s assessment. Unclear if he thought he could slip it past, or if he was just sloppy. Contaminated several hundred bricks. He’s being made to make good on it. He’s ruined. King’s taking his land, titles, everything.
He’s to be turned out of the city if he can’t beg, borrow, or steal the rations.”
Haldeen felt his stomach lurch. “Thank you for the warning. We’ll be careful.”
Pelias gave him a tight grin. “Council meeting. Third past noon. The king is in a mood, so don’t be late. Says the meetings go daily until progress picks up.”
Another rictus-grin. “Time for me to spread good cheer elsewhere.”
His face vanished from the ’Speaker, leaving the tracery of lines as the last of the magic dissipated.
Haldeen’s sense of well-being completely evaporated.
He left the Farspeaker room, closing the door behind him.
He went into the large outer office and rang the bell for a messenger.
Something of his urgency must have communicated through the bell-pull as the fellow appeared before the pull had stopped swaying.
Haldeen made no effort at politeness. “Overseer. Now.”
He tried to work out the math … so many workers, so many ration bricks, so much algae and other feedstock … the constant temptation to cut corners. The heavy punishments to fall once the cheater got caught … as they inevitably were.
He had worked out a few rough numbers when the Overseer entered. Haldeen could see by his expression that he already knew the broad outlines, if not perhaps not the exact details.
“Where do we stand?” Haldeen asked.
“Rumor is another tithe? Another 10 percent?” the Overseer asked.
“You’re well informed,” Haldeen replied, though it was the Overseer’s job to remain so. “Can we cover it?”
The Overseer glanced up and away, doing the numbers in his head. “Only barely. It will leave us short for the King’s Portion at the end of the month.”
“Can we hire more? Better rewards? Nice Lord’s House … all that.”
The Overseer shook his head …. “No one to hire, m’lor. Everyone’s in the same boat … midlevel magic … anyone who can turn brick-mulch into food is worth their weight in gold.” Haldeen rubbed his eyes … he’d just used a portion of his precious reserve to buy the physician’s silence.
He had an inspiration that would solve his personal food problem.
“There is a rumor about black mold. Made it into a Lord’s assessment. Ruined a bunch of other bricks. Draw me 10 rations, at random, from the household stores, and bag them. I’ll take them with me when I attend the King’s Table this afternoon.
An offering of food to show our rations remain uncontaminated.”
He didn’t usually explain himself, but found himself running on.
“Mark it as a donation for the Accounter. Go.”
Once the Overseer left he sat back down behind his desk in the outer office and took a stylus from the desk drawer.
He began drafting out rescripts and making lists …
the first for his meeting, the second for his next foray to the Cave.
Food? Check. He didn’t make it past the one line before he found himself staring blankly at the paper.
His worry flashed into anger, and into fury.
He smashed the stylus down, driving it deeply into the desk.
He swept all of the papers, the mage-light, the telltales, and the rest of the litter onto the floor.
His rage passed quickly, leaving him drained and startled.
He couldn’t say where these outbursts came from, only that they occurred more frequently, and when the pressure felt particularly overwhelming.
He collected the papers off of the ground, cleaned up the spilled ink, and started to work out what he would say …
and remain silent about … during the Council meeting.
Marks passed as he sat hunched over his desk until the servants delivered the sack of rations.
They returned later to tell him that the king had summoned him, and a rare and precious Skydancer had been sent to collect him.
He spilled his careful notes into his satchel when he left for the King’s Table, but not the rations he would never deliver.
He brushed his fingers along the satchel.
He would have to be careful today as he gave his report, and would have to endure the king’s frustration at the lack of progress …
. Not Yet, My King … no luck on the transit.
Will work night and day to make this happen.
He nearly laughed at the literal truth of that promise.
Expected the king would be angry about Triana, and demand to know why he hadn’t transferred her.