Chapter 26

The morning meeting had been convened in such haste that no one had received proper notice.

Lucien arrived at the tower’s council chamber after wasting several precious minutes cursing the abrupt summons, only to find himself face-to-face with the King’s eldest son, a man who ordinarily never emerged from his quarters before noon. The sight of Bastian allowed Lucien to make a reasonable guess at the subject of the unexpected meeting.

Beside him sat the King’s secretary, wearing an expression of studied innocence.

Situated at the heart of the royal castle, the long council hall was ostensibly reserved for official matters of state. Yet the throne upon the dais at the far end stood empty. Before it, two long tables had been arranged in perfect parallel, divided by a central aisle paved with red terracotta tiles. Six heavy, angular chairs lined each table, facing one another, their occupants changing with the passing of ages and generations.

By custom, the King’s secretary, the Minister of Finance, and the head of the Royal Court each occupied one of those seats. The remainder were generally reserved for the lords of autonomous territories and tribunes appointed for limited terms.

Naturally, the chamber was seldom filled to capacity. The meeting had been called so abruptly that only seven officials had managed to attend that morning. Nevertheless, each of them had arrived with nearly a dozen retainers and servants in tow, leaving the air inside oppressively close.

Government meetings held without the King’s leadership had a habit of descending into utter chaos.

Lucien glanced toward the window out of habit. Unfortunately, the chamber reflected the architectural tastes fashionable when the castle had first been built. Crude iron bars divided panes of brightly colored stained glass into gaudy, ornate designs. Whatever decorative merit they possessed, the windows made it impossible to see what was happening outside, much less judge the time of day.

Ordinarily, Lucien would have played along, pretending to listen while allowing the proceedings to drift past him. This time, however, the discussion had grown too absurd to ignore.

“Let us think logically, Duke of Aramor.”

Lucien’s voice cut through the chamber after a prolonged silence. A collection of weary and indignant gazes turned toward him.

“The report calls for three thousand infantrymen and two thousand archers. Do you have any idea how much it would cost to mobilize a force of that size? I am not asking for a rough estimate. I want the specific figures.”

Justification, strategic benefit, conscription, and the selection of commanders were all secondary matters. Without the funds to raise and supply the army, none of them were worth discussing.

Lucien’s openly critical tone brought a flush to Bastian’s face that remained visible even in the chamber’s dim, murky light. It certainly could not have been caused by the cheap wine sitting untouched in his glass, slowly souring in the stale air.

The King’s eldest son had plainly been raised far too gently, which was rather at odds with his appearance.

Then again, few people truly lived up to the impression their faces created. Lucien’s thoughts strayed, almost without his permission, to a certain mage who looked as though he had been cherished and protected from birth, despite having grown up amid circumstances that could hardly have been more miserable.

He dismissed the thought and continued.

“Do you intend to procure the entire sum through taxation? Overnight, no less?”

Collecting taxes cost money as well. More importantly, it took time. Winter lay only a few months away, and if they delayed until then, the weather would resolve the matter for them. In regions such as Maleste, neither marching nor combat was feasible during winter.

“Ha! Leave it to someone from Carlot to be so miserly and pathetic.”

Bastian released a shrill, derisive laugh.

“Calculating the expense of war is the finance officer’s responsibility. The local lords can conduct a census and submit their reports. Once that is done, we divide the cost by the number of people and levy the appropriate tax. What could possibly be difficult about accomplishing that overnight?”

Lucien stared at him in silence.

“What, exactly, is there to stop us?” Bastian demanded.

Beside Lucien, the Minister of Finance gaped in horror before forcing himself to interject in a thin, trembling voice.

“Duke of Aramor, a poll tax of that magnitude…”

Of course, if one twisted a dry cloth hard enough, a few drops of water would eventually seep out. Most people who possessed the authority to levy taxes shared that belief, and in a narrow sense, it was true. Something could always be extracted.

The problem was that one could never predict what that something would turn out to be.

Lucien rubbed his brow, already bored, and completed the timid minister’s warning for him.

“The population will decline.”

The chamber went still.

“People will murder their children and elderly relatives to reduce the number of heads in their households, or they will simply gather what they can carry and flee in the middle of the night.”

A modest decline in the population of someone else’s territory was hardly a matter Lucien felt personally compelled to mourn. Even so, the consequences would not remain confined to Aramor.

“Unless you intend to cultivate peasant rebellions and bands of thieves throughout Izeland, I suggest you find another method, Duke of Aramor. I am thoroughly sick of dealing with those particular problems.” Lucien allowed a deliberate pause before adding, “Unlike certain people, I have had considerable experience cleaning up such messes.”

Before the King had formally acknowledged him as his true-born son, Lucien had been required to undergo the rite of knighthood. There had been several political and practical reasons for the arrangement, but the result had been simple enough.

From that point onward, every military crisis in Izeland had somehow become Lucien’s sole responsibility. His half brother had been only too eager to cast every one of those burdens into his lap, perhaps while secretly praying that Lucien might catch a stray arrow and die somewhere far from the capital.

This time, however, the truth appeared to strike a particularly raw nerve. Bastian’s features twisted with rage.

“Then tell us yourself, you arrogant prick. How are we supposed to procure the war funds?”

“Me?”

A full, hollow laugh escaped Lucien.

“Why should I tell you when it is not my army you intend to mobilize?”

A muscle began to jump in Bastian’s cheek. Lucien leaned back in his chair and waited with lazy anticipation for the thunderous outburst certain to follow.

The meeting finally came to an end when the King’s eldest son kicked his desk and stormed from the chamber.

Although Lucien had effectively sacrificed half his morning to the debacle, he found the outcome satisfactory enough. He left the council chamber and entered the corridor that curved along the tower’s outer wall. Once outside the stained-glass gloom, he checked the sun’s position again out of habit.

It appeared to be past noon. His frayed nerves had robbed him of his appetite, however, and he was preparing to dismiss the retainers who had accompanied him so they could take their meal when a familiar figure caught his attention near the West Wing.

“Your Highness.”

The voice carried cleanly through the corridor.

Mailot froze. His heart sank as he turned to face the prince.

Mailot, who had missed the hastily called meeting while attending to other matters, approached with long, hurried strides. He accepted the documents passed to him and immediately began asking questions.

“What happened at the meeting? Is it already over? I had hoped to join halfway through. What was the agenda?”

“Bastian.” Irritation sharpened Lucien’s answer. “It seems that fool genuinely intends to command an army of five thousand and march on Maleste.”

“Five thousand?” Mailot frowned as he rapidly leafed through the documents in his hands. After a moment, a vague sound of understanding rose in his throat. “Ah.”

He considered the matter before continuing. “To be fair, he has almost no military experience, especially compared with Arabella, who has already commanded the army several times. He must be feeling the pressure. He has always given the impression that he lacks any particular martial aptitude.”

Strictly speaking, the issue concerned Izeland’s law of succession. Unlike its neighboring kingdoms, Izeland did not observe primogeniture. Under laws inherited from Asila, the mother kingdom, succession depended upon three principles.

First, the candidate had to possess royal blood. Second, the King had to select that candidate. Third, the candidate had to prove worthy of becoming king.

The difficulty lay in the fact that very few kings survived long enough to formally designate their successors. As a result, succession usually deteriorated into a contest in which every possible heir struggled to demonstrate his or her worth.

But what, precisely, constituted the worth of a king? More troubling still, who possessed the authority to judge it?

“It is not certain yet, but Arabella may be goading Bastian into this.” Mailot’s eyes shifted from side to side with a sly gleam. “In other words, the subjugation of Maleste may be nothing more than an excuse.”

Lucien clicked his tongue.

That interpretation was entirely plausible. Arabella’s long-cherished ambition was likely to watch her two fully grown younger brothers tear each other apart until neither remained alive.

Still, did she truly intend to risk a civil war merely to see that wish fulfilled? Arabella was currently away at her southern estate. If Lucien gave Bastian five thousand troops and sent him northeast, then Lucien, left behind in Osterbrache, would find himself threatened from both directions.

A war on two fronts? Here, in Osterbrache of all places? That would be sheer madness.

“In any case, within a few months the army will be unable to move, authorization or not,” Lucien said. “Conclude the negotiations with the Imperial Household Department before that fool manages to draft a proper military expenditure plan. If necessary, tell them to meet with me directly.”

“Yes, I’m working on it.” Mailot nodded obediently.

Under other circumstances, the conversation might have ended there. Instead, Mailot glanced around before lowering his voice.

“There is also the matter of the so-called love potion.”

That subject was the very reason he had been unable to accompany his lord to the meeting.

Lucien instinctively surveyed their surroundings. It was lunchtime, and ever since the first prince had been struck in the head with a rock, even the swarms of crows had vanished. The main tower’s courtyard lay unnaturally silent.

“It appears such things have been circulating through the city’s underbelly,” Mailot explained. “I caught an apothecary and managed to force the formula out of him.”

He drew a sheet of paper, folded twice over, from inside his coat. After unfolding it, he held it out.

Lucien scanned the formula, and his brow tightened. He was hardly an expert in pharmacology, but he understood enough to recognize the kind of trouble such a concoction could cause.