“A very good find,” Amaury said. “This will take a great deal of pressure off until we normalise grain shipments. The Vosges has been secured nearly the whole way to the coast. Once that is finished, we will start bringing barges up from the port, but until then, I’ll just be handing the grain to rebels and bandits. These stores will tide us over very nicely. How did you find it?”
Voclain blushed. “I, well, the warehouse is owned by a former business partner of mine.”
Amaury laughed. “Let me guess, your partnership ended on less than ideal terms?”
Voclain shrugged.
“I don’t care about the hows or the whys. All that matters is that we have it. Inform your former business partner that the Crown is requisitioning his stock. I won’t brook any opposition. The city needs this grain, and if the owner refuses to do his patriotic duty and tries to stand in the way, make an example of him. Understand?”
Voclain nodded. “Perfectly.”
“Good. Start distributing it to the mills immediately. The flour will have to be kept under guard until it reaches taverns, bakeries, and shops. People won’t believe there’s no food shortage unless they can see plenty of food on the market stalls. We need to make sure they’re kept full. Get to it.”
Amaury rapped on the roof of the carriage and the carriage rolled off, surrounded by some of Luther’s mercenary hires, dressed in the livery of the Royal Guard. It had been Amaury’s initial intention to put the Order out on the streets, visible as both a carrot and a stick, enforcing the rule of law, but carrying out good works around the city. As he’d mulled over the tactic, he decided that, for the time being, appearing to be the carrot was more important for the Order. There was unrest, which meant there would be violent crackdowns. Far better those actions be taken by men wearing the king’s uniform, rather than that of the Order.
The captain of Amaury’s bodyguard rode up alongside the carriage’s window. “Back to the palace, my Lord?”
“No. I want to call in at the clinic on Northgate Road.”
“Are you sure that’s wise? The farther we get from the palace, the more exposed you are if there’s trouble.”
“There are plenty of soldiers and watchmen patrolling the streets and there’s a big difference between random acts of destruction and attacking the Lord Protector of Mirabaya and his heavily armed retinue.”
“I … my Lord, I must counsel against spending any more time out in the city.”
Amaury wanted nothing more than to go back to the palace and lock every door, but knew he couldn’t win the country that way. He had to be seen making good on the promises that filled every morning’s news sheets. “You have my command,” Amaury said.
“Aye, my Lord.”
As the carriage rattled toward its destination, Amaury allowed himself a moment of calm. One by one, the problems he faced were falling before him, as had every other obstacle he had encountered in life. He was reshaping the kingdom to comply with his model of modern efficiency, to be aided by every benefit magic could bring. The more he improved their lives, the more problems he solved, the more likely the people of Mirabaya were to accept the Order—and Amaury as their ruler. In time, perhaps, they might proclaim him king by popular accord.
The master of the clinic at Northgate Road was a newly promoted novice whom Amaury vaguely recognised from his visits to the Priory—one of the prospective mages dal Drezony had brought in, after the Prince Bishop had adopted a less hands-on approach to running the Order. There were three members of the Order in the clinic, and only five patients.
“How are they?” Amaury said, redirecting his concern from the venture’s political success to the condition of the patients.
“They’ll be fine,” the master said. Amaury couldn’t remember his name, and didn’t bother asking. “And far sooner than any of them would have believed. I think one of them would have died if it were not for our help. This is a good thing we’re doing, my Lord. The best thing, I think.”
Forcing a smile and pointing at one patient, Amaury asked, “What happened to him?”
“Run over by a cart in the street,” the master said. “Stove his chest in. If the internal injuries hadn’t killed him, the fever it caused would have. Now? He’ll go home tomorrow like it never happened.”
Amaury nodded. This was the type of success the Order needed. The type of success he needed.
“You’re doing excellent work,” Amaury said, fixated on how few patients there were. He had ordered that three other clinics be set up around the city, and wondered if they were faring any better.
“Has it been this … quiet all the time?”
The master shrugged and nodded. “It will take time before people come to trust us. I’ll be sending two of these patients home in the next couple of hours. They’ll tell their family and friends what we did for them. Then I expect we’ll get far, far busier.”
Amaury wasn’t as confident as his underling, but hoped he was right. “Keep up the good work.” He returned to his carriage, and gave his next destination to the captain of his guard, who still wore a disapproving expression. The reality was—Amaury knew from personal experience—that if someone wanted to kill you badly enough, they would find a way. Here on the streets, locked away in his office in the palace, it didn’t matter.
Drinking water in Mirabay was supplied by fountains dotted throughout the city. Amaury’s personal supply was ferried in from natural springs several miles north of the city, as was the practice for most of the nobility and better-off. What came into the city was rarely clear, rarely smelled palatable. As for the taste? He couldn’t say. He’d never dared drink it. Cholera was a regular visitor to the city. Hundreds of people died that horrific death each year, and the traditional methods of keeping the water clean enough to drink were haphazard at best, even when diligently carried out.
The problem had existed for such a long time that people had accepted it. No king had felt that providing consistently clean water to the citizens was a worthy expenditure. Amaury vaguely recalled the old king making some comment about “letting them drink wine,” or something along those lines, no doubt hoping to maintain the tax revenues he made on the sale of wine. Generations of kings had sat on their thrones in Mirabay, but Amaury would be the man to bring the city clean drinking water.
His carriage arrived at the water tower in the city’s northwest, into which water was pumped by the endless circling of beasts of burden. They turned a screw that carried the water to the top; the height gave it the force needed to push it out to the dozen or so fountains across the city. It was a miracle of Imperial engineering, a feat that modern engineers struggled to maintain. Hence the often brown, stinking effluent that emerged from the glorious marble fountains.
A group of men and women were gathered at the aqueduct, all wearing Spurrier cream and gold. This too had been a finely balanced decision. The last thing Amaury needed was the people deciding the sorcerers had poisoned their water. Equally, when spring-fresh, crystal-clear water started flowing from the fountains, he needed the Order to get the credit.
The mages were purifying the insides of the tower, piping, and aqueduct, stripping away the accumulated filth of centuries without interrupting supply. Conventional methods would have resulted in shortages and months of work. He watched a moment longer—although there really wasn’t anything of interest to see—before ordering the carriage to return to the palace.
Amaury had only just reached his office’s antechamber when he was approached by a messenger.