25. Twenty-Five
twenty-five
The palace never failed to amaze her. She had memorised the fastest route from the royal wing to the library and rarely wandered if she could prevent it, but somehow she must have taken a different turn somewhere, because she well and truly found herself lost not a day after her fitting with Syndra.
"It astounds me," she said to Strings, who eagerly kept pace with her, "how one palace can have so many gardens. Look at this." Neira swept her arm at the grotto they were strolling past; a hip-high balustrade separated the green-and-pink mosaic path they walked on from the dome of stained glass housing a burbling little spring and pond, the surface of the water covered by fat, pink blooms on flat leaves of a size she could easily make a skirt out of. Gleaming little fish zipped between them like colourful darts, and dragonflies the length of her hand buzzed just out of reach of their hungry, fishy mouths.
Strings gracefully jumped onto the stone railing, as if to get a closer look at what his mistress was complaining about.
"I don't understand why everything needs to be so colourful," Neira continued. "You cannot tell me anyone would find this pleasant for a prolonged time."
But the cat was not Safir, who would have found a clever quip at the elaborately maintained indoor garden's expense to delight her. Instead, the cat chittered excitedly at the dragonflies and Neira sighed, scratching behind his ears.
"Silly beast. Come on."
Her wandering landed her eventually in hallways more utilitarian than the ones she had come through so far. It was still very much the palace, but the pomp of the main building was clearly missing.
Perhaps she should move here. Leave the overly frilly part behind and find peace in these unadorned walls and muted colours.
Up ahead, a door opened. A deep voice echoed up the hallway. Annoyance tinged it, enough that Neira was immediately on edge, like she had done something wrong and was about to be scolded.
"A mistake like this is grave," said the voice, which belonged to a surprisingly slight young man with pale hair and features Neira could only describe as aristocratic. Spectacles perched high on his nose, his brows low over them in his displeasure. He carried an open tome in one arm like it was an infant, stabbing the page with a finger. "The realms could fall into absolute disarray! Please tell me you understand, Otan."
A much taller man around the same age followed him into the hall, looking at once chastened and confused. And then panicked, when he spotted Neira just a few feet away.
"T-the queen!"
The man with the tome turned to her, regarding her over the rim of his spectacles before bowing. "Your Majesty. Forgive us. Otan has neither tact nor any sense for numbers." He sighed and waved his compatriot away, who disappeared quickly down the hall. "How may I serve?"
Neira was more amused than anything. "What is this?"
"The officiars' offices, your Highness. I am Ira Kartenn." He bowed again, with the practised grace of an aristocrat. "I oversee the realm's finances."
"An important task," Neira said. "Have you worked here long?"
Ira sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why don't we get out of the hall? Would you like some tea?"
She knew she should probably leave him to his work, despite his offer, but this gave her a strange sense of normalcy. "I would."
"Frankly, it's about time someone came to check on the officiars," Ira said brusquely. He had led Neira to a sitting room a few paces down the hall, and now indicated a seat for her. "His Majesty certainly has no head for numbers, nor does he appreciate just how expensive an empire such as his can become. Perhaps I should make him one of my apprentices, he'd fit right in."
"I assume the king hasn't given you so much as the time of day?"
"He has not." Ira huffed, pouring two cups of tea. He set one in front of Neira, then took the armchair across from hers, his long legs crossed at the knee. "Too busy adding more realms to his empire, with little regard for the added work that places on my plate."
Neira frowned. "Is the empire struggling? Do we need to adjust the taxes?"
"Not yet, fortunately. But if his Majesty keeps going at this pace – well, perhaps the next realm he conquers will have resources enough for us all."
It stung, although Ira was not wrong. Neira still wasn't sure how her father had kept his realm afloat – but then again, it seemed he hadn’t had a kingdom to keep fed in a very long time.
"Well, on the bright side, I suppose Brightmere adds no work to your plate."
"That's what you think." Ira shook his head. "Even a realm without citizens produces something. In Brightmere's case, her Majesty permitting – whimsy ." He fluttered his hand in the air with the word, his vaguely annoyed expression never lightened, his lips pursed in displeasure.
"…whimsy."
"Indeed. A deserted, cursed realm, full of potential treasure? Patrols will need to watch the borders day and night so no one sneaks in and takes, or wakes, something they shouldn't. And that means soldiers who need to be paid, as well as provisions diverted. And that just scratches the surface."
"I see."
There was no treasure left that Neira knew of – she and Qavor had taken most of it, and Qavor would of course have told his master about the vault. No doubt Erqis had sent someone to clear out the rest before they left.
Neither was anything left to wake, but she supposed brave adventurers could still drown in the marsh, or be snatched by murk-dwellers.
“Frankly, I do hope he spends the rest of the year in Duskport and finds something less expensive to do. I have my hands full with the compensation from his recent campaign.” Ira looked like he had lived with a certain type of migraine for a very long time.
“Who is being compensated? Surely the troops receive a wage.”
Ira waved his slender hand dismissively. “Never you mind the troops, your Majesty – it’s the people of Vellia who haven’t been paid yet for half the army camping in their meadows and requiring food. Which came from the surrounding villages and smaller towns.” A deep, suffering sigh. “On credit .”
Neira winced in sympathy. "How long has his Majesty sat the throne now?"
"Almost four years. He brought Vellia's support to draw out his predecessor, and once he had them all in the field, well…" Ira waved a hand dismissively. "Let's just say it took a while before Mir's fields yielded grain again. The people began calling him the Grey King – for the ashes he leaves behind. His campaign into Sersina was hasty, to secure food security for the western realms, and then Helorn a year past when they thought to take back the lands of their former allies." He clicked his tongue. "I did bet on him taking Nivida next. But here you are."
"Here I am." Neira watched him for a moment. "I'm sure his Majesty is already planning the next campaign."
"Woodhaven, I have heard. We'll have need of their, well… wood . You'll be happy to know that the king did negotiate beneficent trade contracts with Sersina and Helorn. Things are running smoothly – mostly. Thanks to my department."
Ira took his work very seriously, that was obvious. And if he was a little brusque, well… Neira was rather certain a firm hand was sometimes needed. "Mostly?"
"Well." A grimace. "I abhor gossip, but it is an open secret that the young Lord Restir has been less than keen to fulfil the duties he inherited from his grandfather. Not the first young man to squander his wealth on entertainment and company, of course, but most young men don't oversee a large fief in one of the continent's most important agricultural regions."
"The noble houses oversee the realms, then?"
"Yes, A duty of which they need to be reminded, if you ask me. Imagine the realms of Mir, Vellia, Sersina and Helorn cut into smaller parts, those smaller parts overseen by noble houses who own land and employ the people. At least they should. Instead, they all come here, appoint ealdormen back home, and do as they please."
"I see." That's why the aristocrats were all here, crowding the palace of Duskport. They wanted the privileges that came with their titles and birthrights, but none of the work or responsibility. "I suppose the wedding is also a great expense, straining the coffers?"
"Well," Ira conceded, refilling both their cups. "Not nearly as much as her Majesty would expect. Our biggest expense, truly, are the stipends the crown pays the heads of Malvea's noble houses to support their provinces." He made a face, his elegant features twisting in disgust. "At least that is what they are supposed to do with those funds."
"They don't?" She wasn't even surprised. The glee on their faces at the sensational sight of a murdered young woman came to mind again, turned the tea sour on her tongue.
"No. In fact, some provinces in particular seem to be starving. We have received concerning letters-"
Neira frowned, sitting forward. "And the king does nothing?"
"The king was busy seeking a bride." When she bristled, Ira lifted his palm to soothe her. "A king needs a bride as much as a kingdom needs money. Even if that was not the case, you are not to blame. But I would truly appreciate your patronage in this matter." There was a quiet fire burning in his pale eyes. "In an empire as rich as this one, your Majesty, there is no need for anyone to go hungry."
A purpose. That was what this young man had put before her. "Ira, I believe you and I will do great work together."