Chapter 4

* * *

"We always want our enemies to be worse than us. We must feel the undeniable righteousness and moral superiority of our cause, the natural justice of our victory, and, of course, of the actions that led to this victory. It is necessary that any baseness created by our henchmen should appear as an act, if not of mercy and virtue, at least of dignity. And truly happy is the one whose enemies really correspond to the demonic image that we paint in thought and speech, for ourselves and others"

Gaval Sentry-Poton-Batleau.

“Sixth letter to my son, which contains a philosophical reflection on the ephemeral nature of evil.”

* * *

Unlike Flessa, who lived closer to the Court, Duke Wartensleben had settled in the capital and rented a house separate from Milvess. Rather not a house, but an estate outside the city walls. This choice had both advantages and disadvantages. One thing he could not take away was that the place was well suited for a meeting that no outsider should know about. The four aristocrats could be almost certain that their private meeting would remain a secret. Almost, for only sunrise and sunset are inevitable and predictable.

The floor of carefully fitted stone slabs was polished to a mirror-like sheen. It reflected four blurred figures, like picturesque sketches that had been generously splashed with water. The circular room was meant for dinner parties and dinners, but the current owner was extremely abstemious about food and had turned the room into a large study for work. The choice was a good one; the semicircular wall with its large windows faced the sunny side so you could read and write there from dusk to dawn without lighting lamps or candles.

"Thank you, good Duke, for your honor and hospitality,” Curzio said, placing a box in the center of the round table, simple, uncarved, and unadorned, but with a good lock. Judging by its shape and the distinctive marks on the smooth wood, it was a secret drawer for valuables. They were built into bureaus and desks so that the owner, and only the owner, would always have easy access to important documents.

"Blessed be this house,” Prince Gayot said, sitting comfortably in a wooden chair. "And its generous, hospitable host."

Count Shotan limited himself to a silent bow.

"Thank you, dear guests,” Duke Wartensleben said grouchily, glancing at the box. "It is an honor for me and my humble house to have you under this roof. Taste the wine, I hope it is not too bitter and will not offend your refined taste."

In the Duke's mouth, the ritual phrase sounded in a peculiarly emasculated, lifeless way. The footmen had been ordered not to even approach the hall; not a single word spoken here was intended for outside ears. So the glasses and small jugs of wine were filled in advance and stood in bowls of crushed ice.

Curzio took the invitation and sipped, noting that the green wine was good, very good, but could be a little better. He took another sip, envying Wartensleben fiercely. Where did the old man get such exquisite glassware? There was enough glass in the world, masters of fine work with it - too, but beautiful, openwork glasses from the ducal table were unique and worthy of the imperial banquet. Looking at such exquisite things, one is forced to believe the tales of a pact with the devil, because without the help of the Dark Jeweler, it is impossible to get so pure - without a single bubble and the smallest flaw - glass mass and so skillfully dissolve the salts of gold and lead in it, creating a unique play of light.

The duke refrained from wine and, as usual, with his chronic melancholic expression, stuck his nose into the spice bottle that hung from his thin neck with its many flabby wrinkles. Looking at Wartensleben Curzio thought vindictively that Udolar had changed a lot in the past year. Very much, perhaps. Majestic old age was receding, giving way to decrepit infirmity. Back in the spring, the Duke could be seen in armor on the battlefield, albeit with some effort. Not now; Wartensleben would probably collapse under the weight of a gorget, let alone a cuirass. Obviously, the hour when the old man will go to hell is not far off, because no matter how lightly his sins are measured, it is impossible to balance them. Wartensleben will die, and Curzio will still enjoy life and wine, albeit of unsophisticated silver. Though precious dishes could be bought back... Footmen are usually inclined to sell off the possessions of deceased lords.

Well, Curzio thought, let's hope Wartensleben's mind is in better condition than his worn-out body.

The duke sneezed, wiped his long, pigmented nose, and let go of the pepper bottle, letting the precious vessel hang on the gold chain. Udolar looked at Curzio, literally slid a fleeting glance, and the islander immediately drew himself up and set the glass aside. Wartensleben's eyes were clear and attentive beyond his years. No aging spots, no livid pupils, the bright points of his pupils looked at the world with the squint of an experienced predator.

"If I may be so curious,” Curzio launched a trial balloon. "How is your dear daughter's health?"

He deliberately did not specify which daughter, so as to leave the conversation room for development and maneuvering. The aristocrats gathered here were too different in everything, from their backgrounds to temperaments. They did not trust each other and preferred to listen more than talk. It was necessary to move this ice floe somehow, to let the swift current melt the cold matter.

"Thank you, not bad,” the duke nodded with a casual graciousness but did not pursue the subject further. Wartensleben's voice was the same as his appearance, muffled, with an aging rattle.

Curzio held back a wry grimace and looked around the gathering once more.

An outside observer would be surprised at the choice of company. Curzio is an emissary of Saltoluchard, disgraced and dismissed by the Council of Regents, but who has retained both his mental acuity and some connections. Prince Gaiot - Chief of the Court Guard (but not of the Emperor's person) and of the regiment of Highland infantry at Milvesse. “Soldier” Count Shotan, commander and owner of the finest mounted company in the East, which handled special affairs in the interests of the Island and the Regents. Duke Wartensleben, a personage in every way powerful and influential. The four men were different, but they shared one thing in common: their initial hopes for more than they had received in the coup.

The Count sat down, took a sip from his glass, and put his foot on his leg as if he were a shopkeeper. However, even this rough, almost peasant gesture looked stylish and arrogant in his performance. Shotan was one of those people the Pantocrator had endowed with excess in everything.

"We should have met at the hunting lodge,” he said, and those were the first words spoken by the ‘soldier count’ since the greeting. "As I suggested. Even before the evening, everyone in Milvess would know that certain individuals had met behind the scenes, without proper company, servants, wine, games, or women."

Curzio noted that the Count had listed women last. A small thing, but such seemingly insignificant trifles paint the image of a man.

"A meeting is not a complot,” smiled the prince sparingly. "Men of honor have many reasons to meet."

"Shall I tell you how few such occasions there really are?" returned the Count's even more laconic smile.

"And that's right," the prince marked the salute with his glass as if recognizing the truth of his interlocutor's words.

Oh, Isthen and Erdeg, fathers of the world and time, how much easier it is to discuss purely business matters with their own, Curzio thought wistfully. The centuries-old tradition and etiquette of the Isles turn the conversation into a clearly regulated action, where each participant knows his place, and any word can be stated. Mainlanders are fidgety, undisciplined, and most importantly, completely unable to listen to anyone but themselves. But, alas, as they say in their homeland, we have to mold from the clay that claymores bring.

"Gentlemen,” Curzio, as mediator, gently took the reins in his own hands, which outwardly seemed pampered and unresponsive. "Be indulgent of my provinciality, and I will allow myself to speak bluntly."

"Oh, come on, honorable,” said the Prince, waving his hand. "Who among us here is not a provincial?"

The Duke thrust up his chin haughtily, and the Count barely perceptibly moved his sculpted perfect jaw, which was shaved to the purity and smoothness of marble.

"Gentlemen,” snorted Prince Gaiot, whose attention was not unaware of his interlocutors' obvious displeasure. "Well, by God, or gods, as you like,” he bowed slightly toward the bigot Curzio. "My family, two generations ago, considered it a feat to sack the village of a nobleman from the plains. The Duchy of Malersyde would have gone to pay the debts that my ancestors had generously accumulated and inherited. If its present owner had been afraid to get his hands dirty in other people's blood. And you, my dear Count, as I recall, despised the fate of a magnate and landowner, swearing an oath to live only from a knight's lance. Because three family villages for a second son is a joke."

"Four villages,” Shotan corrected with an impenetrable face. "And I was the third son."

The prince paused as if to give his companions a chance to consider what they had heard, not for too long, however. Curzio kept a stony face, but in his heart, he recognized the Prince's diplomatic skill, which made him seem like a dumb butcher. Gaiot began the enumeration with himself so that the truth did not sting the aristocrats' painful ego too much or cause instant rejection. Shotan seemed to accept it with restrained irony, though it was from him that Curzio had expected the most nervous reaction.

"Each of us has a long line of ancestors behind us, but they only gave us opportunities. We made ourselves. And that is why we understand better than most that there is nothing in the world that cannot be lost."

The Prince took a noisy breath. Curzio was torn between the desire to applaud and to poison Gayot. To poison, because the prince had, with splendid disregard, broken the entire plan of the conversation the two of them had so carefully thought out. To applaud, because, to all appearances, the Highlander's vigorous and demonstratively frank speech had been much more effective in the end.

"Let the mannered degenerates of the Primators weave the lace of words. We are men of action,” Gayot concluded. "So let's get down to business."

The Count silently corrected a long lacquered strand that had been delicately and deliberately dislodged from his hair. He adjusted the lace lapel of his sleeve so that the openwork edge reached to the middle of his hand and not a hair further. He remarked politely but coldly:

"I appreciate the candor. I appreciate your sense of humor, it's... straightforward and therefore quite original. But I don't see what we're talking about here."

"That's good,” said the Prince, not embarrassed. "And the point is simple. My friends, there is a possibility of losing everything. Or, at least, a lot."

In the silence that ensued, there were a few claps - the Duke of Wartensleben applauded sparingly.

"Brilliant speech,” he said. "Well, I can't speak for your friends, but you've got my attention. For now, anyway."

The prince glanced silently at the islander as if to say, I pass the torch.

"Deeds are worth more than words,” Curzio said, accepting the message. "But recorded words are sometimes worth more than deeds. Gentlemen, may I draw your attention to..."

Curzio took a small key on a steel chain from his neck and opened the box. He took out a stack of identical sheets of paper, evenly trimmed and of very good quality. The yellowish surface was covered with small letters and numbers, from edge to edge, almost without margins. The handwriting on all the sheets was the same.

"Please."

"What is this? The count asked emotionlessly, not even making an attempt to pick up a single sheet. The duke cocked an eyebrow at him and seemed to be interested.

These are copies of certain documents and reports which are now before your Treasury and our Councils. In particular the Coin Council and the Gold and Silver Council. I suppose you know that the head of the latter came to the capital yesterday to do some auditing and settle the painful issues of payment of the most “hot” bills.

"I am only interested in bills as long as they are paid,” said the count, with the same indifference. "The Crown has no debts to me or my company."

"They will,” Curzio promised briefly, bored with the ostentatious decadence of a mercenary who thought himself an aristocrat of the highest order. "And it says where they'll come from."

He placed a separate sheet in front of the Count, and almost added “if you can read.” Shotan pressed his lips together, pale and sharply defined like a statue's, but he took the sheet. And the duke pulled from the folds of his white robe a monocle on a handle made of the precious bone of a northern sea beast.

Silence reigned in the office for several minutes, interrupted only by a faint, barely perceptible rustling. Despite his reputation for writing with a blade on the bodies of his enemies, Shotan read surprisingly fluently, and he knew how to work with documents. In a barely perceptible moment, the “soldier count's” attitude toward what he had written down changed. He straightened a little and pressed his lips together. Curzio refrained from smiling, though the temptation was great. The islander even knew at which line the Shotan had changed from squeamish listener to attentive participant.

"It's more than interesting, I won't hide it. But some of the numbers need to be checked,” Wartensleben said at last, placing his monocle on the table lined with the finest hematite tiles.

"Alas, these papers must stay with me,” Curzio said with an ostentatious regret. "I had to work hard to get copies, for my influence is not what it used to be."

He met the Duke and Count's somewhat surprised gaze with a straightforward, impenetrable smile. He added:

"We agreed to call things by their proper names, didn't we? There's no shame in pointing out the obvious."

"Yes, indeed,” Wartensleben agreed.

"And that's why I'll probably destroy these copies after our conversation. Ashes don't give away secrets."

"I see. Then...” The duke pulled a small notebook with a lead pencil in the binding from an inner pocket of his robe. "Would you mind if I made some notes in my own hand and on my own paper?"

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

"Not at all."

Count Shotan stood up soft and springy, like a hyena, well-fed enough not to lunge at others, but not so well that the heaviness in his belly took away even a modicum of his predatory agility. Curzio thought only now that Shotan's face was perfectly clean, not a single scar, not even a slight dash. Either the rumors of his exploits were lies, or the Count had sold his soul for invulnerability, or he was simply a great fighter with any weapon. Shotan silently took a glass of wine from the cup scattering crystals of melted ice, but he barely took a sip.

"All right,” said the Count. "Since we are speaking frankly, as fighting comrades, marauders gorging on sour wine from a stolen keg... I'll be blunt. I'm interested. It was clear that the Council of Regents was not doing so well, but I did not realize that... so much."

"Yeah,” the duke flipped a page in his notebook. "In the old days, thirty years ago, I would have wrung my hands and cried out, “Lord, save us and have mercy on us. Now I'll just ask: How did you get things so far out of hand?"

Count Shotan did not sit down, leaning his shoulder against the carved panel and crossing his arms over his chest. But he was listening, and he seemed to be listening intently.

"Our problems turned out to be... somewhat deeper than expected,” with those words Curzio spread his long loose sleeves and inhaled, preparing his lungs and throat for a not-too-short monologue.

The Count and Duke (and a little earlier the Prince) did not possess all the information about the state of affairs in the Ecumene, but by virtue of their position, they knew much more than an ordinary burgher or even an official. The unknown could speculate, relying on rumors, reports of spies, and other sources. What they really lacked was generalization, what distant Hel would have called a “comprehensive, systematic view.” It was this view that Curzio was now giving his vis-a-vis, backing up his words with secret reports and financial summaries.

Long ago, the Empire was not only called, but was actually an “empire”, where the law was unified on eight sides of the world, and the word of the Emperor, spoken in the morning, even before sunset became binding in the farthest corners of the world. The four main provinces were called “kingdoms” symbolically, as an echo of ancient times, when emperors had gathered the world power, bending the stiff necks of independent lords under their knees and abolishing the old orders. But that great country perished, and the “kingdoms” became kingdoms again, generally living their own lives, subject to the capital in limited matters, and not always.

The Tetrarch kings accepted the change of the Emperor with understanding and approval, they didn't even have to buy them dearly - nobody liked the young Gothdua's pretensions to unity of power. It was enough for the royal courts that everything would go back to the old order. But... people always want more. When it became clear that the new branch of the dynasty was not holding onto the throne so tightly, the local authorities began to show their teeth.

The Aleinsae family had invested a great deal of money in preparing the conspiracy, including providing it with armed force. It was necessary to multiply the forces of the Imperial Court and buy their loyalty. To strengthen the military presence in the major cities, to stomp out any defiance of the new branch of the Gotdua Dynasty. But this great strain of power was intended to be temporary, and once the goals were achieved, of course, the grip had to be loosened. Gently, finger by finger, but remove the steel gauntlet from the financial veins of the Empire. And the expenses for the men of war were to be included in the total bill, which the Aleynsees intended to collect from the Crown, in a kinship way, managing the treasury directly.

Now the beautiful plan has broken down, shattered by a confluence of circumstances no one could have foreseen.

"Artigo Gotdua,” Shotan said, and the words fell as heavy as a stone in a pond.

Curzio spread his legs wide and crossed his arms over his chest, clearly preparing to rebuke, but the count raised his palm in a gesture of peace, and it was unexpected. So much so that Curzio stammered and almost choked on the harsh words that were about to come out.

"Yes, I know you had nothing to do with it,” said Shotan, sharply and angrily. "I also know that you did not support this course of action afterward, and that is why you are in disgrace. My anger is not directed at you."

Curzio silently bowed his head, slightly to the side, so that it didn't look like a bow, but rather a polite acknowledgment.

"Damn it, how could Artigo Sr. and Malissa be allowed to enjoy such freedom!" The Count bellowed, peering out from behind his armor of aristocratic coldness for a moment like a grinning marauder from a burning house. "One phrase would have been enough and my men would have apprehended them, all three of them. How could you be so stupid?!"

"It's not stupidity,” Curzio sighed. "It is the problem with any complex plan. There are too many people who must do too many interlocking things, often without realizing it. Our emissaries blocked every possible escape route for the Gotdua-Pievielles, and they found another one that no one could have foreseen. Just as no one foresaw that the parents would be willing to sacrifice themselves."

"And now the damned boy is wandering the hell knows where, in the empire of de facto dual power, fortunately, not everyone has realized it yet. The nobility's feuds and border conflicts have increased manifold. The empire is shaking at the seams. Every lousy baron thinks he's the master of life."

Curzio, who in the confused ranking system of the Aleinse family bore the old Imperial title “ali-ishpan,” corresponding just to the baron, pressed his lips together, but did not confront him and said:

"That's true. But unfortunately, that's only half the trouble."

He put his hand into the box again, and then Wartensleben exhaustively confirmed his reputation as one of the cleverest men in Ecumene. He did so with a single word, but he put a depth of meaning into it with the skill of a man who had spent decades mastering the science of speechmaking.

"Bread?"

"Yes, bread. One year of famine meant nothing on the scale of the Ecumene, as well as two in a row. Even perennial famines, which sometimes happened, were usually limited to one region. Some people died, some got rich or went bankrupt, but the vast and conventionally unified market somehow allowed manipulating supplies to compensate for the shortage. The Emperor's mission - the most important one, on which the authority of imperial power stood - was to take emergency measures in case of a great famine, which occurred once every ten or twelve years."

"Here are the bulletins from the bread merchants,” Curzio shook the sheet of paper slightly and placed it in the center of the table. "Prices and stock for the main cities and royal capitals for ten years. And this," the next paper lay next to the first. "Expectations for the coming year."

"Do we have such a service?" wondered the count.

"No, but the Island collects data year-round. Saltoluchard is, among other things, the largest carrier of grain by sea. To maximize profits, we must always know where it's expensive and where it's cheap. Where to buy and where to sell."

"I see."

"The last six years had been difficult, but tolerable. Every kingdom had at least two skinny years in a row, but they did not overlap, and the late Gotdua did well."

"Isn't that how you bought some of the support of the mainland merchants and aristocracy?" Shotan grinned sardonically. "The magnates of the Golden Belt, to whom hard prices, the obligation to stockpile a share of bread, and the capital's comites were like a knife in the heart?"

"I will refrain from commenting,” Curzio said gloomily. "Shall I continue?"

"Yes,” the count grumbled and finished with an obvious effort. "If you please, I'm listening attentively."

"But now all the information flowing to the Grain and Wine Council is literally screaming: there will be no bread next year. Not anywhere."

"Confirmed,” the Duke pointed with his pencil to the islander's papers. "As the owner of the seaside town and port. Yesterday I received a letter from my youngest daughter. She runs the family business in Malersyde and writes that there is no bread for sale in the entire sunset part of the Ecumene, north or south. At any price."

"I saw Flessa...” Shotan glanced at Gayot, and both shook their heads as if remembering something. "A very resolute and sensible girl, despite her young age. Did she not dare to confiscate?"

"She's dared,” the duke grinned with restrained pride. "Even to the point of taking hostages from merchant families."

"And? It didn't work?"

"Not this time."

"I'm sorry, I don't believe it. That's impossible."

"I would agree with you," the duke was not offended at all, and this best demonstrated the significance of the situation. "As practice shows, a rope around the neck makes merchants give up even five times the profit. But here we are talking about such sums that the Guilds of Bread Merchants make any sacrifices. They are ready to burn warehouses and abandon residences, but not to sell grain, holding the goods until summer."

"So..." Shotan crossed the fingers of both hands and moved away from the carved panel. "What kind of markup are we talking about? Tenfold?"

"You don't understand, my dear,” Curzio explained patiently. "In the spring, everyone will understand what only a limited number of people, including those here, know now. The harvest is gone. Everywhere. There will be no bread. Nowhere. And grain will lose its price as some established equivalent of a commodity. The seller will be able to demand anything. Exchange by weight of grain for silver. Wives and children sold into slavery. Anything."

Shotan sighed, shaking his head as if his neck muscles and shoulders were stiff.

"Yes,” he said after a moment's silence. "You have decided to kill the Emperor at a bad time."

"It wasn't my idea,” Curzio said grudgingly. "I was in favor of slowly strangling young Gotdua with a noose of debt. Yes, it would take many years, and the money would be paid back to us, most likely by the deceased's son, maybe even grandson. But Aleinsae could afford the luxury of taking their time. I was in the minority, however, alas. To be fair, no one could have foreseen such a fall and winter. Little snow, lots of rain, bare ground where grain either rots or freezes without a blanket of snow. And so it is all over the Ecumene."

"I'll tell Flessa to drown all the astrologers in Malersyde,” Wartensleben muttered, making a quick note in his book. "They're no good at all if only they'd predicted something accurately once... worse than magicians."

"You're right,” Curzio agreed. "But I think it would be better to pay them to predict things that are useful to the lord. It doesn't cost too much, and it's very timely."

"Or so,” the duke muttered.

"Let's clarify,” Count Shotan's face seemed to be a motionless mask. "So, as I understand it, the Great Famine is inevitable. The Empire is teetering on the brink of Global Turmoil. If the Council of Regents reduces the army to its former size, we'll have a civil war, just like in the days of the kings' rule. If it doesn't, we'll have the same war trying to raise money to support it. There is still a possibility to release the servants before the summer and thus save at least a third of the costs, but this is not a solution, because it will not be possible to collect soldiers afterward. Have I missed anything?"

"Alas, no."

"And now we come to the most interesting part,” Wartensleben grinned wickedly. "How much money are we talking about? Would you be so kind as to give me the last of your documents? If my eyesight is correct, I see a notation for the next year. I presume it's a schedule of planned expenditures?"

"It's correct,” Curzio agreed, honoring the wish.

"So sweet,” Wartensleben murmured, running his eyes over the finely written sheet, then handed it to the count. Shotan read much longer, moving his lips slightly, and then literally threw the paper across the table.

"A million,” the duke hummed, tapping a simple rhythm with his pencil. "And as far as I can tell, there's no such sum in the treasury. I'm sure there isn't."

Gayot covered his face with a broad palm without rings or even the silk ribbons customary for Highlanders, and hid an ironic smile in his hand, recalling a conversation that had taken place a few days earlier in Curzio's house. Then the Prince said the same words but with a different tone.

* * *

"A million?!" Gaiot was silent, fighting the urge to bite his lip childishly. "That can't be."

"Alas,” Curzio pursed his lips. "Maybe. Pay attention to these lines, they are underlined in red. There are currently two and a half thousand gendarmes in the custody of the imperial crown. Each receives an annual salary of between fifty and one hundred gold measures, totaling one hundred and eighty thousand. Ten thousand other cavalry with an annual salary of twenty to thirty-five merks per rider, totaling two hundred and fifty thousand. Highland infantry - nine thousand, annual allowance of fifteen merks and additional bonuses for tukhums, a total of one hundred and fifty thousand. Ordinary infantry and special guards - twenty-five thousand, maintenance from two to seven gold pieces, a total of one hundred and thirty thousand. The total is just over seven hundred thousand gold coins a year. Adjusting for the inevitable theft and unplanned spending, a million. That's the cost of Aleinsae's power over the Ecumene."

"But this is an inconceivable amount!" The prince shook his head. "It is as if we were fighting to the death."

"And you thought coups are cheap?"

"No, of course not, but it turns out that you have planned for the next year the preservation and multiplication of the armed force. Why? Doesn't Saltoluchard have any money to spend? It's already done!"

"As if you were against military spending?" Curzio smiled ironically.

"I absolutely love military spending!" Gayot was about to raise his voice, but he came to his senses and lowered his voice. "There's nothing like a fair sum of money for good infantry work. But... how much did the treasury spend before?"

"Including the Emperor's personal income from the fair, the imperial treasury spent about four hundred and fifty thousand merks in a year."

"Half a million gold,” Gaiot repeated. "And that's for everything from the postal service to the upkeep of His Majesty's residences."

"Yes, that's it."

"And you say that the Island Treasurers intend to spend twice as much next year on the army alone? I've never been a tax collector, but it's clear even to me that such a sum is impossible to raise. And that means someone is not going to get paid."

"Exactly."

* * *

"So someone will not be paid,” the count said in a dry, unpleasant voice, and the duke smiled even more broadly, trying not to be seen. But the next remark came not from Curzio, as might have been expected, but from the Duke. He filled in another page of the little book, raised his pencil like a pointer, and sharply blurted out, no longer caring about decorum:

"And I warned... I told!"

"You did." Curzio agreed.

"You didn't listen!" Wartensleben threw.

"They didn't listen,” Curzio emphasized the word ‘they’ with a clear intonation. "And I tried to persuade them until the last moment. But the Privy Council had its own way."

Wartensleben threw a pencil on the table, expressing in one gesture the depth of the rage that gripped the duke. Curzio, not allowing the conversation to degenerate into an exchange of heated remarks, stepped into the geometric center of the disposition, drawing everyone's attention.

"Gentlemen, that's actually why we've gathered this little..." Curzio allowed himself an ironic smile. "...сomplot. Because, as my dear friend, Mr. Gayot, has rightly pointed out, we are the kind of people who are used to taking fate by the throat. And it may well turn out that fate will take us by the throat. And we would do well to prevent it."

"Is it easier to beat the father together?" Wartensleben joked glumly and plebeianly.

"Yes."

"So, Saltoluchard and the Court should somehow miraculously find a million gold pieces,” stated Shotan. "Right?"

"A million and a half,” Curzio clarified. "After all, the Court is not exempt from current expenses."

"It won't work,” Wartensleben said, uncorking the bottle of pepper again to clear his lungs. "After all, we'd have to pay Gotdua's existing debts. And if the merchant guilds can be shown the dick, then the banking houses of the primators to say “to whom I owe, I forgive from the bottom of my heart” will not work. The upper aristocracy is neutral, but only as long as theAleinsae pay at least the interest. And given that it's going to be a very difficult year, they'll be stealing and attributing as if it were the last day, no matter how much you hang them with. Two million, and that's on the low end."

Curzio bowed his head silently, saying it was so. He thought that the Duke had weakened in his body, but his mind was still sharp. Udolar could prove to be a most useful ally. Or vice versa. However, that would be decided in the near future, perhaps now, in this hall.

"Well...” Wartensleben took a deep drag from the bottle, and exchanged glances with Shotan. "I'll check your numbers, but in general the picture matches what I see. Thank you for filling in some of the white spots, for example, I was sure that there were far fewer gendarmes on the payroll. The mountain infantry, on the contrary, is at least twelve thousand."

"We had hoped for fifteen,” Curzio admitted. "It would have solved a lot of problems and saved on cavalry. The Pillars' pikemen and halberdiers are disciplined, organized, and most importantly, they can't be outbid. And the most expensive infantryman is cheaper than the cheapest cavalryman. A very good investment of military capital. But unfortunately, the Pillars got bogged down in their own infighting, so only nine thousand could be hired. Eighteen regiments and 27 separate units without their own banners."

Shotan curled his lips in disdain but decided that this was not the moment to demonstrate the opinion of a born knight and commander of knights about dirty footsoldiers. Noticing the friendly glances of all present, Prince Gayot shrugged and said:

What can be done, not everyone likes the order, when the hirer makes a contract with the tukhum, and already the union of clans provides the regiment. Many would like to sell the force outright, like regular mercenaries. It will take... some time to sensitize those “many”. And troops.

"Well, they'd sell it,” the duke grumbled. As people do. Here's the regiment, here's the money, why make it so complicated?

"But that lowers the price,” the prince explained patiently. "Besides, the right order guarantees to the employer that our infantry will not run away from the battlefield. After all, the deserters will not be able to return home to their families, there will be shame and dishonor waiting for them. That's the stability you're paying for, isn't it?"

Shotan tapped his fingernail on the glass, which was almost empty of wine. The thin glass tinkled melodiously, attracting attention.

"It's very interesting,” said the Count. "And I must apologize most sincerely to you, dear ..."

Shotan inclined his head toward Curzio, and the islander noted that the high-ranking mercenary had not mentioned his title. Perhaps he remembered his remark about lousy barons and decided not to make it worse.

"I can easily imagine how any of you could be threatened by all of this,” continued Shotan. "But I am not a landowner. I have no property to be destroyed by war and turmoil. On the contrary, the more war, the more work and money for the cavalry. So... I am waiting for the continuation."

"Yes, we're distracted again,” Wartensleben decided. "So what do you have to offer us? Why this extensive and informative excursion into the coming troubles and budgetary policies of the Regents' Council?"

Curzio felt himself the center of attention again. Shotan was no longer looking at him with arrogant disdain, and the Duke was keenly interested. Half the job was done. But half the work was still to come.

"And here, gentlemen,” said the islander. "A word or two should be said about my family, the young Emperor Ottovio, and the means with which the empty treasury of the Empire will have to be filled...."

* * *