Kieri estimated the extent as perhaps a third of the kingdom that might otherwise, as in Tsaia, have been populated, but also extending up the foothills of the Dwarfmounts.
After a break for lunch, they finally worked their way to the present financial status of Lyonya.
“I’m used to Tsaian crowns and Guild League nitis and natas,” Kieri said. “What does this—” He pointed to the sums at the bottoms of three columns. “—mean in those terms?”
“About twice as much in Tsaian gold crowns,” Egil said, a little smugly. “Our coins are marked with tree and leaf: those are trees.”
Kieri felt his brows rising. He had heard Lyonya spoken of as a backward, secretive land, poor because “elves won’t let humans get rich,” but he knew the Tsaian treasury had no more than this, and often less.
“We are not bankrupt, at least,” Galvary said. Again that hint of a smile.
“And has the balance changed much, year to year?”
“There has been a slow trend downward, over the past ten years,” Egil said. “Not large, but troubling. The late king’s illness made necessary some expenses here at the palace … unavoidable, of course. There have been crop failures, some difficulties with bands of robbers coming over the Tsaian border, requiring more patrols, more rangers. The Council has not been concerned.” He glanced at Sier Galvary, a look almost rebellious.
“Ten years …” Kieri said. “That’s a long time for a downward trend.”
“But we have quite enough for a coronation celebration,” Galvary said. “If it is not too extravagant.”
Kieri let that stand, ridiculous as it was when he had just seen the figures. Still, more than the total mattered. “Let’s look at the previous years,” Kieri said. “Has the income fallen, or the expense grown?”
“A little of both. Crop yields have dropped a little, and prices for our usual exports are down, too.”
“Hmm. You have a Merchants’ Guild?”
“In Chaya, yes.”
“And their representative to the Council would be—”
“Oh, they’re not on the Council.”
“Not at all?”
“Er … no. Did you … are they … in Tsaia?”
“The Merchants’ Guild has a representative, not much power, but someone there to know what’s going on. In Aarenis, the Merchants’ Guild runs the Guild League cities.”
“The elves don’t think much of merchants …”
Kieri wondered if that was true. He’d already encountered beliefs about elves that didn’t match his knowledge of them.
“Merchants bring change; they make people greedy,” Egil added. “Elves prefer stability.”
“Stagnation,” muttered Galvary.
“I thought people were greedy enough by themselves,” Kieri said. At Egil’s shocked expression, he went on. “Do not your people commonly want more than they have?”
“What could they want that they do not have?” Egil asked.
“You’ve already mentioned that our human subjects wanted more land, more access to forest resources,” Kieri said.
Brows furrowed; clearly they had not made this connection before.
“In my experience,” Kieri said, “most want more than they have, even if they call themselves content. And some resources do not grow of themselves. When I got my grant of land in northern Tsaia and people applied for permission to live there, I soon learned that what had seemed abundant resources for a few were not so abundant when the population grew. I, like the elves, had to institute rules about how much wood could be cut, and so on.”
“Perhaps it was your elven half …” Galvary’s words slowed and stopped as Kieri looked at him.
“Come now,” Kieri said. “You must know—your wives do, if you do not—that if you have only one barrel of meal in the pantry, you cannot feed a hundred with it. And how many teams of plough must you have for that barrel of meal?”
“Well, but … if there were more land …”
“Land does not grow wider because you wish it,” Kieri said. “We have neighbors: would you have us invade them, to get more land? When Tsaia runs short, do you not watch our borders here?”
More furrowed brows. “Yes …”
“Have you never told a son or daughter to trim their desires to the purse you give them?”
“Of course …”
“Well, then. Lyonya is the size it is; our human share of it is the size it is; we must make the best of it. Having merchants on the Council will help—they know foreign markets better than anyone here, I daresay, and can advise us on the most advantageous types of trade—”
“But they make money off us—”
Kieri sighed, but silently. “We make money off of trade and they carry the goods—they must live, just as we do.”
Yet again, the furrowed brows. Finally Egil said, “I have heard—from a wine importer—that one reason we are not exporting so much jewelry is that our craftsmen now live and work in Tsaia and even Aarenis.”
“Exactly the sort of thing I meant,” Kieri said. “If we cannot support them at home, they must move elsewhere, and if they move elsewhere, their work profits us less.”
“Well …” Galvary scrubbed his hands over his face, as if trying to put on a new skin. “I will not oppose including a merchant or two on the Council. If it means restoring the treasury …”
Kieri wondered if they would accept the next step. Might as well try … “It is not so much the size of our treasury as what circulates among our people. Yes, the royal treasury must have reserves for emergencies, but the wealth of a kingdom lies in more than a heap of gold.” At their doubtful expressions, he tried another tack. “The food in your pantry does you no good if you never eat it.”
“The elves said something like that, the last time I spoke to one of them about it,” Galvary said. “It didn’t make sense to me, though.”
“Well, first things first,” Kieri said. “I want to see merchants represented on the Council by midsummer. I’d like a list of those you consider suitable in ten days. I will then meet them and interview them.”
“So soon? I mean—yes, Sir King, but—there is still your coronation to plan.”
“And plenty of help to plan it,” Kieri said. “If you will give the Council a limit to spend, I believe Sier Halveric can take it from there—”
Galvary looked shocked, but nodded. Kieri stretched and glanced around. Outside the light was fading—near time for dinner, surely.
“Thank you, Sier Galvary, and Egil,” he said. “We can go deeper into this tomorrow, but now—I would like to explore more of the palace grounds while there is still light.”
“Of course, Sir King,” they both said, looking relieved.
In the low slanting light of evening, Kieri asked Astil how to find the garden he remembered. “It had roses,” he said.
“Yes, Sir King! I know the one. It’s through here—”
Kieri came out into the evening sky, pale blue with high wisps of gold. In the silence, he could hear the sound of water trickling somewhere. Stone-flagged paths curved among thorny bushes, some pruned low and some as high as his head. A few tiny leaves showed purple-red; most of the leaf buds looked pinkish.
“By your coronation, the early flowers will have opened,” Astil said. “It is not all roses here; you will see. It is said the elf queen planted it.”
“My mother,” Kieri said. He had a moment’s clear memory: the smell of roses and the sound of her laugh.
After dinner that evening, Kieri asked Dorrin and Paks to look at the maps with him.
“What do you see?” he asked.
Dorrin ran her finger around the line of the border. “Where are the defenses? I see no indication of fortresses.”
“Rangers,” Paks said. “I served with them, as you know. They’re effective on the Tsaian side, at least.”