Standing over an open chest, Simon held up the mass of mail. He could see now that it was a vest, though with its fine small links of alternating black iron and white silver, it would not likely stop the thrust of a spear or a good sword unless it was mage-tempered—and though silver took well to mage-tempering, cold iron did not. Still, Baron Greystoke had prized the vest enough to bring it with him and hide it away. Logically, that meant it was either sentimental or it was meant to protect against something other than steel weapons.
There was a knock at the door; then another, impatient.
“Coming!” Simon shouted, sliding the vest back into the chest. He cracked the door, recognizing at once the livery of the ducal guard, and opened the door wider. “How may I serve His Grace?”
“His Grace requests your presence at a matter related to the deceased Baron de Greystoke’s business affairs,” the guard said. “Henry de Greystoke had registered a purchase offer with the city office—land valued by him at some eight hundred pounds. He believes the matter may be soon settled. As his heir, it falls upon you to execute or abrogate the contract.”
“I see,” Simon said, brushing his hands off on a stained undershirt. “I will go at once. It should not take long to settle the matter.” Whatever the baron wished to purchase in town—something on Ivette’s behalf, likely—his plans are surely moot.
The guard cleared his throat. “Lord Greystoke, perhaps you might wish a few minutes to render yourself presentable in a manner suiting your status? The duke will not set out from the castle for another third of a bell—he is having the officers of the York Textile Company summoned, and prefers not to wait for their arrival.”
“The York Textile Company?” Simon frowned, remembering what Henry de Greystoke had told him and suddenly re-evaluating his earlier decision. The triumph of water over bone. “I had known he hoped to buy out a controlling share of the company, but I imagined it would be much more than eight hundred pounds. Are they selling the manufactory site?”
The guard shrugged. “I do not know, milord, but if you wish me to carry a strongbox for you, I can do that for you.”
“No need,” Simon said. “Henry de Greystoke carried letters of credit with him for the greater part of his portable wealth.”
“I will wait outside, then.” The ducal guard looked around the cluttered room uncomfortably before backing out of the door.
Simon looked down at the iron and silver chain vest thoughtfully. Henry de Greystoke had described the York Textile Company as “bloodsuckers,” and the investors included the local wizard collegium. If this is protection, I had best use it, he thought to himself.
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Smell Alric. No see Alric. Where Alric? The wolfhound’s voice sounded in the head of his companion, a human guard named Philip. The wolfhound’s voice didn’t reach the well-dressed men standing across from them on the muddy field where most of the pieces of a cloth manufactory had been assembled. The site itself was on low ground, the land around the dyeworks tower dug out to more easily draw water from the river.
The site included two finished buildings, one a squat round stone building with a coffin port next to a heavy metal-banded door, and the other a short wooden tower perched next to the river. The dyeworks tower had a curious overhanging roof covering wide open windows and a small wheel meant to pull water from the river by the force of its own current.
“Where is Master Alric?” Philip said aloud. “His Grace wished to meet with all of the officers of the York Textile Company here on this site, and word was most assuredly sent to the collegium.”
Jacob Hebert and Guilbert de Lancaster both looked over at Edward Taylor. Edward in turn looked at his brother William, who glanced briefly at the squat stone building before meeting the ducal guard’s gaze.
“I have been deputized to represent the collegium as needed,” William said. “The collegium itself is the investor of record, not just Master Alric personally. It’s true he is the collegium’s usual representative in this affair, but if you had wished the full collegium in attendance, you would have needed to give notice well ahead of time—some members are away.”
Philip glanced down at the wolfhound, who growled.
Smell Alric, the wolfhound insisted, flicking an ear.
Philip shrugged minutely. “Very well, then. I hope His Grace is not disappointed.”
William Taylor puffed out his chest. “I’m a credentialed master necromancer, and I am deputized with the collegium’s authority on this matter. Whatever His Grace wished from Master Alric, I can capably provide.”
At that, Edward Taylor shifted nervously from foot to foot. Guilbert de Lancaster patted Edward on the shoulder, whispering some kind of reassurance in his ear.
Philip did not respond to either William’s pronouncement or Guilbert’s whispering, as no response seemed to be required. Instead, he patiently waited in silence for the arrival of the duke. Beauford, meanwhile, circled the site, sniffing around the perimeter. When the hound reached the tower, he sneezed, then gave it a wide berth as he continued his circuit, giving one brief warning.
Poison scent stronger today. Beauford settled next to Philip. Tower dangerous.
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Sir Simon—Baron Simon, now, if one believed the Duke of York—trailed after the liveried guard. The guard kept a brisk pace; at first, Simon kept up but then slowed, falling behind as he took in the gathering of the investors of the York Textile Company. One of the duke’s guards and one of his hounds—it was curious that the hounds accompanied the guards, but such seemed to be Yorkish tradition.
Among the company of investors was one very finely dressed man, in a fashion that was current in London just the previous season. Madame Percy had brought some of London’s latest fashions with her for women’s clothing, but she specialized almost entirely in dresses and had no impact on men’s fashion.
The others looked familiar enough, though. Simon could recognize Jacob Hebert—Henry de Greystoke had expounded on the man’s venal corruption at length one evening—and Edward Taylor, and then there was another unfamiliar man, dressed in master’s robes and with a face that marked him as kin to Edward. One of the Taylor family wizards.
Henry had shown Simon a copy of the charter of the York Textile Company, and it was only a three-way partnership between Taylor, Hebert, and the collegium. The fourth man, though—a man dressed that finely was no servant, and if he was present as a representative of the collegium, he would surely wear robes marking his profession. No, this man was a well-connected noble or an imperial bureaucrat, possibly both, and Simon felt uneasy about the implications of either possibility. So, he hung back with the small gathering crowd of onlookers.
The liveried guard who had accompanied him gave him a quick puzzled glance, and Simon nodded, smiling brightly as if the two of them had planned to arrive separately. Both liveried guards looked down at the hound, who barked quietly once; then the guards turned back to the group of investors, waiting for the arrival of the duke.
This did not take much longer. Duke Avery arrived on horseback, accompanied by human and canine members of the guard in numbers that, in Simon’s learned opinion, qualified as a serious show of force. Either the duke expected the investors of the York Textile Company to resist his authority, or he intended to intimidate them into compliance with the threat of force.
Underneath the voluminous embroidered cloak that had belonged to Henry, Simon’s hand drifted to his baldric, quietly checking that his blade was loose and ready in its scabbard. With all eyes on the dismounting duke, Simon walked purposefully in the direction of the partially constructed manufactory.
The duke spoke with a loud and clear voice as two groups of wolfhounds circled around the site to either side of the construction site, one upriver and one downriver. Simon casually leaned against a canvas-covered pile of cut lumber, directing his attention to what the duke had to say.
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“Investigations have shown that the alchemical substance used in the massacre at the Golden Fleece is stored upon this site. Right there, in the dyeworks.” The duke’s golden eyes transfixed Edward Taylor as he pointed at the short wooden tower built right against the river. “While the person or persons responsible took steps to remove themselves from the vicinity of both the poison and the attack, it is plain that they had knowledge of and access to the commercial secrets of the York Textile Company.”
Edward shuddered. “I swear, neither I nor any of my family had anything to do with it! I’ve never even been inside the dyeworks nor the Golden Fleece. I had naught to do with any of it.”
“You bought the bodies afterwards.” The duke stepped forward, looming over the shorter man. “Did you not? That is what you told my men.”
“Yes, I did.” Edward swallowed nervously. “It was me, Your Grace. Poor judgement, really; we’re just desperate for working bodies here.” He waved at the low, squat building.
“And now you lie to me.” The duke did not move, and his expression remained calm.
“I—um—my daughter was the one who gave the orders to my servants,” Edward said, dropping to his knees. “But it’s my responsibility; I’m her guardian. I’ve punished her for her misbehavior, Your Grace, and if you must punish me further for lying to you, I accept it.”
“Do you know anything more about the murders?”
“No, Your Grace,” Edward said. “This is the first time I’ve heard it could have anything in common with our dyeworks.”
The other Taylor, the wizard, turned to Edward. “I know I’ve told you before that our whitening dye can be extraordinarily dangerous if mishandled, and we went over the fume venting designs for the works together because you weren’t sure if the expense was justified.”
“William!” Edward’s voice sounded horrified, but his face looked angry.
“Enough.” The duke held up a finger, then turned his gaze on William. “What more do you know?”
“I know we’ve lost two apprentice wizards to alchemical poisoning while getting the dyeworks figured out, and one was a promising student,” William said. “The other one drank vermillion dye on a dare, but Gwen’s only mistake was to clean the bleaching tub with an experimental cleaning solution made with purified sal ammoniac, and the whole room was suddenly flooded with deadly gases. An entirely unanticipated alchemical reaction. When I learned the Golden Fleece was attacked with alchemical fumes, I thought it might be something similar to what we use in the dyeworks.”
“Which is what, exactly?” The duke took a step back, moving up the muddy slope.
“I don’t know the formulation, Your Grace.” William shrugged. “The master alchemist guards the secret closely, and I have better things to do than try to spy out his work. I’m sure it’s something quite complicated.”
“And that’s all you know?” The duke frowned. “Who has access to the whitening dye used for your bleaching process?”
“Any of the alchemy students, nearly, they’re in and out quite frequently as we test dyes. But after Gwen’s death, they’re quite leery of the bleaching formula. I’m in charge of automating the process, so I supervise—not in person; we have a good watch-skull with nearly perfectly spherical crystal eyes. Any apprentice diviner could scry in with a regular crystal ball, and I’ve the matching pair sitting on my desk.” William swallowed nervously. “Not that they’re strictly necessary, I could use a regular crystal ball myself if I needed to, it just saves a little on effort.”
“How much do you have stored at the dyeworks?” The duke waved at the low tower. “Do you keep track?”
“About three hundred gallons?” William said. “Master Alric keeps the accounts, but I review them on the regular—we haven’t had any significant amount go missing. We’d notice if we were more than a couple of gallons short.”
“How much would it take to kill everyone in the Golden Fleece if it was unleashed to its deadliest effect?” The duke frowned.
“Probably… um…” William paused in thought. “I think I would guess one or two pints if the building was shut up fairly tightly, and round that up to a half gallon if I wanted to be sure? I don’t know if it sinks or rises.”
Simon stared at the tower, suddenly concerned. If half a gallon of the substance could kill everyone inside an inn several stories tall, what would three hundred gallons do if released all at once? The open air between him and the tower was vast, but if the deadly fumes filled a sphere, it would only have to fill ten or twenty times the volume of the Golden Fleece to kill him at this range. Three hundred gallons was six hundred half-gallons and forty-eight hundred pints, Simon thought to himself. Ten by ten by ten is a thousand… I would need to be at least ten buildings away to be safe in the open air.
“Very well. I am satisfied of your personal innocence in this matter.” Duke Avery frowned. “Jacob Hebert, tell me what you know of the attack on the Golden Fleece.”
“Nothing,” Jacob said, then shivered suddenly.
“Nothing?” The duke’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing at all?”
Jacob wrapped his jacket more tightly around himself, his teeth chattering. “Your Grace, I am suddenly reminded that I owed the innkeeper fifty pounds sterling, the deposit he made as surety for the regular delivery of spirits and fine wine. I was glad not to have to repay it when he died. My apologies for the fault in my memory.”
Duke Avery frowned, then turned to the well-dressed man. “I have been told you are an investor in the York Textile Company, but I have not seen you before. Who are you?”
“Guilbert de Lancaster, Your Grace. The Baron of Penrose and your future father-in-law.” The man bowed deeply. “This is my first time here since I chose to invest in the York Textile Company.”
The Silver Duke blinked, stepping back to digest unexpected information. Then he shook his head. “And do you know anything at all that would shed light on this matter?”
“You accuse me of foul murder?” Guilbert’s head rocked back. “Your own future father-in-law?”
“Answer the question, Baron Penrose,” Duke Avery said, his voice flat.
“I have had nothing to do with the attack,” Guilbert ground out. “And it is absolutely outrageous that you would suspect me, Your Grace. This is no way to treat a family member. I have but lately invested in the company.”
“My apologies, I must be thorough.” Duke Avery frowned, confusion showing on his face. “However, it is clear that while the four of you are individually innocent, I cannot have this manufactory and its dyeworks posing a danger.”
“That’s outrageous!” Guilbert shook his head. “You cannot punish innocent investors for the malicious actions of some rogue employed by the company.”
Simon stepped forward, moving around the pile of lumber and clearing his throat. “If I may speak, Your Grace?”
“Granted. You may proceed.” The tall silver man’s face was a study in neutrality.
“A company can hold assets, debts, and contracts,” Simon said. “Indeed, according to a reputable professor at Oxford, it is for such purposes a sort of person. As such, it is perfectly sensible that the company itself can be, in its personhood, an accessory to murder, with punishment applied to its entity like any other person.”
“That seems absurd,” Edward Taylor said, shaking his head. “Totally absurd.”
Guilbert nodded. “Your Grace, now that you have brought this matter to our attention, we will assist you in discovering the true identity of the murderer,” he said. “I can forgive your rash accusations; it is in our interest to uncover any theft or misappropriation of our proprietary secrets or alchemical substances.”
Duke Avery shook his head. “I find the York Textile Company itself, in its person, guilty as an accessory to aggravated murder in multiple counts. As such, I am banishing it from the city. This manufactory site will no longer belong to the York Textile Company. I am compelling the company to accept the Greystoke offer of purchase of the site.”
Simon cleared his throat. “Your Grace…”
“Do you need to fetch payment?” The duke looked at him.
“Ah, no, Your Grace,” Simon said. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a piece of paper with the Greystoke seal attached. “This is a letter of credit offering the withdrawal of eight hundred pounds from the Greystoke accounts in Cumbria.”
“Baron Henry de Greystoke is dead,” Jacob said. “Even if he drew up the letter before dying, and even if we accepted such an absurdly low price, such a note will likely not be honored if it was handed over after his death. Only the baron himself could issue the payment.”
“Baron Simon de Greystoke has every right to issue such a letter,” Duke Avery said. “I have made a finding that he is Henry’s heir. Be glad that the York Textile Company was able to exchange its one immovable asset—that of land—into currency. You may remove any of its movable assets to divide amongst yourselves before you finish either dissolving the company or removing its operations outside of my domain.”
There was a loud thump from the direction of the squat building, and the door opened. Edward’s hat flew off of his head, and several footsteps appeared in the mud behind him. Several of the hounds started barking, moving into action as the door on the side of the tower swung open and then banged shut.
Simon nervously ran a hand across his chest, feeling the fine links underneath the cloth of his shirt.