Iome's mother used to say that if her father had been wiser, he'd have slit the rapacious child's throat then.
For years, Venetta had tried to convince King Sylvarresta of the necessity of striking the first blow, of crushing Raj Ahten when he was young. Somehow, Iome's father never believed the boy would conquer all twenty-two kingdoms in Indhopal.
Iome urged her father now, “So you will put this spy to death? You must insist on justice.”
Lord Sylvarresta answered, “I will have justice. Raj Ahten will pay dearly. But I won't kill the knight.”
At this news, Hollicks sighed in relief.
Iome must have appeared crestfallen, for her father quickly added. “Your idealistic solution to this matter is laudable, but hardly practical. We can't execute the spy.”
“So, I'll hold him ransom.”
“Ransom?” Hollicks asked. “Raj Ahten will never admit that this spy is his man!”
Iome smiled to hear Hollicks finally admit that the man was a spy.
“Of course not,” King Sylvarresta said. “But the Indhopal merchants claim him as their own. They'll pay the ransom to save the fair. It's a common practice in Indhopal. They say a farmer can hardly go to market without coming home to find the neighbors holding his pigs hostage.”
“And how can you be sure they'll pay?” Iome asked.
“Because the merchants want to save the fair. And because, I believe, Raj Ahten has soldiers hiding in the Dunnwood, waiting for the information this man will give. At least some of these merchants must know this—which is why they are so hasty to demand the fellow's release. So they will be eager to ransom the spy lest we manage to torture a confession from him.”
“And why do you suspect that warriors are hiding in the Dunnwood?” Hollicks asked.
“Because days ago I sent five foresters into the woods to find out where the largest boars are laying up before next week's hunt. They were to report to me yesterday morning. None have returned. Five men. Had it been one, I'd suspect an accident. But these were trustworthy men. Nothing would keep them from obeying my command. They've either been captured, or killed. I've sent scouts to confirm my fears, but I think we already know what they'll find.”
Hollicks' face paled at this news.
“So, Raj Ahten's soldiers hide in the Dunnwood, and they need to attack within the next three days—before the hunts begin, lest they be discovered.” King Sylvarresta folded his hands behind his back, paced over to the hearth.
“Will it be a large battle, milord?” Hollicks asked.
Sylvarresta shook his head. “I doubt it. Only some prewar maneuvering is likely, so late of the year. I think we have a band of assassins out there. They'll either strike the Dedicates' Keep, seeking to weaken me, or they'll strike at the royal family itself.”
“But, what of us merchants?” Hollicks said. “Couldn't they as easily strike our manors? Why, why, no one is safe!”
The idea that Raj Ahten would strike at the bourgeois seemed ludicrous.
Sylvarresta laughed. “Come, old friend, bolt your doors tonight, and you'll have nothing to fear. But now, I need your counsel. We must set a price for this 'merchant's' ransom. How much damage shall we say he caused the King?”
“I would say a thousand silver hawks,” Hollicks answered cautiously.
Iome had listened to her father, followed his reasoning and found it both flawless and infuriating. “I don't like the idea of ransoming this spy. It's...a form of surrender. Certainly, you aren't considering Chemoise's feelings! Her betrothed was murdered!”
King Sylvarresta looked up at Chemoise, a certain sadness, a certain pleading in the troubled creases around his eyes. Chemoise's tears had dried, yet Iome's father looked as if he could see the sadness still burning there. “I am sorry, Chemoise. You trust me, don't you? You trust I am doing the right thing? If I am right, you'll have that murderer's head on a stick by the end of the week—plus a thousand silver hawks of the ransom money.”
“Of course, as you please, milord,” Chemoise said. She could hardly debate the matter.
“Good,” Sylvarresta said, taking Chemoise's words at face value. “Now, Master Hollicks, let's consider that ransom. A thousand pieces of silver, you say? Then it's good you're not king. We'll start by demanding twenty times that—along with fifty pounds of mace, fifty of pepper, and two thousand of salt. And I'll want blood metal. How much have the traders weighed in this year?”
“Why, I don't know for certain!” Hollicks said, all a bluster at the King's outrageous demands.
King Sylvarresta raised a brow in question. Hollicks knew how much blood metal was available to the ounce. Ten years before, in recognition of Hollicks' service to the King, Sylvarresta had granted the merchant a Petition to take out an endowment of wit. Though an endowment of wit did not make the merchant any wiser or more creative or let him think more clearly, that endowment did let Hollicks remember trivial details almost faultlessly.
Taking an endowment of wit was like opening a door into another man's mind. A man who got an endowment of wit suddenly had the capacity to enter a mind and store whatever he liked, while the man who gave the wit had the doors of memory barred and was forbidden to even peek at the contents hidden within his own skull. Now Hollicks stored his tallies in the mind of his Dedicate.
Indeed, it was said that the guildmaster could quote every contract he'd ever written, word for word; Hollicks always knew to the moment when his loans came due.
Certainly, he knew how much blood metal the Southern traders had weighed out in the past week. As Master of the Fair, he was in charge of assuring that all goods were properly weighed, that products sold were of highest quality.
“I...uh, so far, the Southern merchants have weighed in only thirteen pounds of blood metal. They...say the mines in Kartish have not produced well this year...”
Enough to make less than a hundred forcibles. Hollicks cringed, as if Sylvarresta might fly into rage at the news.
Iome's father nodded thoughtfully. “I doubt Raj Ahten knows that so much made it across his borders. We won't see any more, next year. Then to our tally of damages, add a ransom of thirty pounds of blood metal.”
“They don't have that much!” Master Hollicks complained.
“They'll find it,” Sylvarresta said. “If they're smuggling it in, they'll have some secreted away.
“Now, go, send word to our foreign friends. Tell them that the King is beside himself with rage. Urge them to act quickly, for Sylvarresta can hardly be restrained from taking vengeance. Tell them that even now, I'm in my buttery, getting blind drunk on brandy, vacillating about whether I should torture secrets from the man first, or if I should just slit his belly and strangle him with his own guts.”
“Aye, milord,” Hollicks said, flustered. The parti-colored merchant bowed and took his leave, sweating profusely at the thought of the negotiations about to begin.
During this whole discussion, the somber Chancellor Rodderman had kept silent, sitting on a bench by the Queen, narrowly studying the exchange between the King and the Master of the Fair. Sometimes he stroked his long white sideburns. When Hollicks left, the chancellor said, “Your Grace, do you think you'll get that much ransom?”
Lord Sylvarresta said simply, “Let us hope.”
Iome knew her father needed money. The costs of armor and endowments and supplies associated with waging the upcoming war would be onerous.
Sylvarresta glanced about. “Now, Chancellor, fetch me Captain Derrow. If I am not mistaken, we shall be visited by assassins tonight. We must arrange a proper greeting.”
The chancellor got up stiffly, rubbed the small of his back and then left.
Iome's father looked deep in thought. As she prepared to leave, a nagging question took her. “Father, when you played chess with Raj Ahten, who came off victor?”