“What’s your name?” demanded the king. His Firbolg blood was not immediately visible, but then nothing was except those unsettling eyes. The emissary decided he was probably of mixed race, as his physical frame did not resemble that of any of the gruesome specimens of the citizenry he had encountered thus far. Obviously standard court etiquette was not going to be the rule of order here.
“Sir Francis Pratt, Your Majesty, emissary from the court of Lord Cedric Canderre. It is an honor to be here.”
“Yes, it is,” said the king. “I doubt you know it yet, but you will. Before we get to points, do you have something you are supposed to say?”
Sir Francis swallowed his rising ire. “Yes, Your Majesty.” There was something inherently repulsive about having to address a Bolg by the title that had not been used since the last true king occupied that throne. “Lord Cedric sends you his congratulations on your ascendancy, and wishes you a long and joyous reign.”
The king smiled; the expression was clear even beneath his cloaked face. “I’m very glad to hear that. Here’s how he can assure that my reign is joyous: I want Canderre to perform an economic experiment for me.”
Sir Francis blinked. He had never been addressed so bluntly before. Generally the art of diplomacy involved a respected, complicated dance full of ritual and intricacy, like a courtship of sorts. In his youth it had been a game he relished, but as he grew older he had tired of it, and tended to place more of a value on plain-spokenness than he had when he was younger. He found the directness of the monstrous king surprisingly refreshing.
“What sort of experiment, Your Majesty?”
The Firbolg king gestured, and two of his minions came forward, one bearing a beautifully carved chair fashioned in a dark wood the color of black walnut but with a deeper, richer luster and an almost blue undertone. The other held a silver tray on which rested a goblet. There was something oddly amusing about the delicacies in hairy Firbolg hands. The chair was placed behind him, the glass before him.
“Sit.”
“Thank you, Sire.” Sir Francis sat and accepted the goblet. He sniffed it surreptitiously, hoping to be subtle, but he could see that the king had noticed what he had done immediately. The wine it contained had an elegant bouquet.
To make up for his rude action he took a deep drink. He had swallowed before the flavor caught up with him; it was surprisingly good, with a rich, full body and a tang that was barely perceptible. Like most nobles in Canderre, Sir Francis knew wine, and he was impressed by the king’s choice. He took another sip. It was a young wine, undoubtedly just a spring pressing, one that needed a little time to reach full maturity, but a bellwether of vines that would produce excellent grapes in a year or two.
The king motioned again, and two more guards came in, bearing an enormous nautical net. They dropped it on the floor at Sir Francis’s feet. He bent to pick up a corner of it and found that he could lift almost all of it, a feat of which he had never expected to be capable. He knew most nets of that size weighed a tremendous amount, but for some reason this one was only a fraction of standard weight. Instantly the value of it was apparent to him.
“Where did you get this?”
The Firbolg king sighed in annoyance. “Do not give me the impression that Cedric Canderre sent me an idiot.”
Sir Francis’s face flushed. “I’m sorry.”
The giant’s face spread into a wide grin, revealing grotesque teeth. “Well, yes, we’ve thought so all along, but we’re far too polite to say so.”
“We made it, obviously. What’s your opinion of it, Pratt?”
“It’s amazing.” Sir Francis turned the rope net over in his hands. “The workmanship is extraordinary, as is the material.”
The Firbolg king nodded, and signaled once more. A chest was dropped at Sir Francis’s feet. The emissary opened it; what he lifted out made him blush. It was a set of lingerie, fashioned from intricately crocheted silk threads, or something that looked like them. It was softer than gossamer, and had a natural sheen to the textile, but what was most appealing about it was the design. It was spare and cut in a scandalous way, but still beautiful and elegant, like the more refined and staid camisoles and undergarments Canderre was famous for producing. The process by which the garment was crafted was totally unknown to him, a situation he would have thought impossible, given his training and background.
“What do you call this?” he asked.
“Underwear, you nitwit,” said the girl without looking up from her game.
“Oi call mine ‘Beulah,’ ” offered the giant Bolg helpfully.
“I meant the fiber, the process,” said the emissary.
“It doesn’t matter,” said the Firbolg king. He glanced at Grunthor, and they exchanged a nod. Rhapsody’s expertise on such things was borne out; she knew what women felt beautiful in, and in what men wanted to see them. “Do you like it?”
“Yes, indeed, it’s very impressive.”
“What about the wine?”
Sir Francis’s eyes opened in amazement. “That’s a Firbolg product as well?” The hooded king nodded. Pratt rubbed his neck, trying to sort out his comments and thoughts. “What form does this economic experiment take?”
The king leaned forward slightly. “We wish to test the interest in these things, without revealing their origins as yet.” It was Sir Francis’s turn to nod. “I want you to put them into your trade stream, sell these products through your merchant network. They will be assumed to be Canderian, and their quality will be judged against the high standards that name invokes.”
Sir Francis smiled at the compliment. “Thank you, Sire.”
“In a year’s time you will report back to me accurately about the performance of these products. I warn you, don’t ever try to dupe me, Pratt; I don’t take well to it. I’d offer to let you question someone who tried, but there are none presently alive.”
The elderly ambassador drew himself up to his full height. “I assure you, Sire, strictly honorable trade practices are an age-old matter of pride in Canderre.”
“So I’ve heard. I just want to be sure that is true, even when your suppliers are Firbolg.”
“Of course.”
“Good. If, at the end of the year, there is a demand, as I expect there will be, we will enter into a trade agreement by which Canderre will be granted the exclusive right to sell certain Bolg merchandise, specifically the luxury items. In addition, we will consider selling you the raw materials to use in your own manufacturing, specifically the grapes and the wood.”
Pratt looked confused. “Wood?”
The giant laughed. “Look under yer arse, sonny.”
The emissary checked the chair beneath him. When he looked up the new admiration was apparent on his face. “Well, well. This certainly has been an interesting day.”
The king smirked. “You feeling genuinely honored yet, Pratt?”
“Yes, indeed.” Sir Francis smiled. In a strange way, he was.
Centuries had passed since the road to Canrif had seen such traffic as Shrike saw today. Not since the wedding celebration a thousand years earlier had a host of hopeful emissaries trod their way through the waiting front gates as they did now, and as they had apparently been doing for days.
He almost laughed out loud at the high and mighty falling over themselves, pretending to legitimize the reign of a monster over what had at one time been the richest fortress of this world or the last. He stopped himself when he realized he had been sent on the same mission as they had: to discover who this new king was, get a glimpse of what remained of the glory of Canrif, and prevent what happened to two thousand troops of Roland from happening to the armies of each of their homelands.