Seeds

It was a winter's morning, cold and clear, and Monza's breath smoked on the air.

She stood outside the chamber where they killed her brother. On the terrace they threw her from. Her hands resting on the parapet they'd rolled her off. Above the mountainside that had broken her apart. She felt that nagging ache still up the bones of her legs, across the back of her gloved hand, down the side of her skull. She felt that prickling need for the husk-pipe that she knew would never quite fade. It was far from comfortable, staring down that long drop towards the tiny trees that had snatched at her as she fell. That was why she came here every morning.

A good leader should never be comfortable, Stolicus wrote.

The sun was climbing, now, and the bright world was full of colour. The blood had drained from the sky and left it a vivid blue, white clouds crawling high above. To the east, the forest crumbled away into a patchwork of fields—squares of fallow green, rich black earth, golden-brown stubble. Her fields. Further still and the river met the grey sea, branching out in a wide delta, choked with islands. Monza could just make out the suggestion of tiny towers there, buildings, bridges, walls. Great Talins, no bigger than her thumbnail. Her city.

That idea still seemed a madman's ranting.

“Your Excellency.” Monza's chamberlain lurked in one of the high doorways, bowing so low he almost tongued the stone. The same man who'd served Orso for fifteen years, had somehow come through the sack of Fontezarmo unscathed, and now had made the transition from master to mistress with admirable smoothness. Monza had stolen Orso's city, after all, his palace, some of his clothes, even, with a few adjustments. Why not his retainers too? Who knew their jobs better?

“What is it?”

“Your ministers are here. Lord Rubine, Chancellor Grulo, Chancellor Scavier, Colonel Volfier and … Mistress Vitari.” He cleared his throat, looking somewhat pained. “Might I enquire whether Mistress Vitari has a specific title yet?”

“She handles those things no one with a specific title can.”

“Of course, your Excellency.”

“Bring them in.”

The heavy doors were swung open, faced with beaten copper engraved with twisting serpents. Not the works of art Orso's lion-face veneers had been, perhaps, but a great deal stronger. Monza had made sure of that. Her five visitors strutted, strode, bustled and shuffled through, their footsteps echoing around the chill marble of Orso's private audience hall. Two months in, and still she couldn't think of it as hers.

Vitari came first, with much the same dark clothes and smirk she'd worn when Monza first met her in Sipani. Volfier was next, walking stiffly in his braided uniform. Scavier and Grulo competed with each other to follow him. Old Rubine laboured along at the rear, bent under his chain of office, taking his time getting to the point, as always.

“So you still haven't got rid of it.” Vitari frowned at the vast portrait of Orso gazing down from the far wall.

“Why would I? Reminds me of my victories, and my defeats. Reminds me where I came from. And that I have no intention of going back.”

“And it is a fine painting,” observed Rubine, looking sadly about. “Precious few remain.”

“The Thousand Swords are nothing if not thorough.” The room had lost almost everything not nailed down or carved into the mountainside. Orso's vast desk still crouched grimly at the far end, if somewhat wounded by an axe as someone had searched in vain for hidden compartments. The towering fireplace, held up by monstrous marble figures of Juvens and Kanedias, had proved impossible to remove and now contained a few flaming logs, failing utterly to warm the cavernous interior. The great round table too was still in place, the same map unrolled across it. As it had been the last day that Benna lived, but stained now in one corner with a few brown spots of Orso's blood.

Monza walked to it, wincing at a niggle through her hip, and her ministers gathered around the table in a ring just as Orso's ministers had. They say history moves in circles. “The news?”

“Good,” said Vitari, “if you love bad news. I hear the Baolish have crossed the river ten thousand strong and invaded Osprian territory. Muris has declared independence and gone to war with Sipani, again, while Sotorius' sons fight each other in the streets of the city.” Her finger waved over the map, carelessly spreading chaos across the continent. “Visserine remains leaderless, a plundered shadow of her former glory. There are rumours of plague in Affoia, of a great fire in Nicante. Puranti is in uproar. Musselia is in turmoil.”

Rubine tugged unhappily at his beard. “Woe is Styria! They say Rogont was right. The Years of Blood are at an end. The Years of Fire are just beginning. In Westport, the holy men are proclaiming the end of the world.”

Monza snorted. “Those bastards proclaim the end of the world whenever a bird shits. Anywhere without calamities?”

“Talins?” Vitari glanced around the room. “Though I hear the palace at Fontezarmo did suffer some light looting recently. And Borletta.”

“Borletta?” It wasn't much more than a year since Monza had told Orso, in this very hall, how she'd thoroughly looted that very city. Not to mention spiked its ruler's head above the gates.

“Duke Cantain's young niece foiled a plot by the nobles of the city to depose her. Apparently, she made such a fine speech they all threw aside their swords, fell to their knees and swore undying fealty to her on the spot. Or that's the story they're telling, at any rate.”

“Making armed men fall to their knees is a neat trick, however she managed it.” Monza remembered how Rogont won his great victory. Blades can kill men, but only words can move them, and good neighbours are the surest shelter in a storm. “Do we have such a thing as an ambassador?”

Rubine looked around the table. “I daresay one could be produced.”

“Produce one and send him to Borletta, with a suitable gift for the persuasive duchess and … offers of our sisterly affection.”

“Sisterly … affection?” Vitari looked like she'd found a turd in her bed. “I didn't think that was your style.”

“My style is whatever works. I hear good neighbours are the surest shelter in a storm.”

“Them and good swords.”

“Good swords go without saying.”

Rubine was looking deeply apologetic. “Your Excellency, your reputation is not … all it might be.”

“It never has been.”

“But you are widely blamed for the death of King Rogont, Chancellor Sotorius and their comrades in the League of Nine. Your lone survival was …”

Vitari smirked at her. “Damnably suspicious.”

“In Talins that only makes you better loved, of course. But elsewhere … if Styria were not so deeply divided, it would undoubtedly be united against you.”

Grulo frowned across at Scavier. “We need someone to blame.”

“Let's put the blame where it belongs,” said Monza, “this once. Castor Morveer poisoned the crown, on Orso's instructions, no doubt. Let it be known. As widely as possible.”

“But, your Excellency …” Rubine had moved from apologetic to abject. “No one knows the name. For great crimes, people must blame great figures.”

Monza's eyes rolled up. Duke Orso smirked triumphantly at her from the painting of a battle he was never at. She found herself smirking back. Fine lies beat tedious truths every time.

“Inflate him, then. Castor Morveer, death without a face, most infamous of Master Poisoners. The greatest and most subtle murderer in history. A poisoner-poet. A man who could slip into the best-guarded building in Styria, murder its monarch and four of its greatest leaders and away unnoticed like a night breeze. Who is safe from the very King of Poisons? Why, I was lucky to escape with my life.”

“Poor innocent that you are.” Vitari slowly shook her head. “Rubs me wrong to heap fame on that slime of a man.”

“I daresay you live with worse.”

“Dead men make poor scapegoats.”

“Oh, come now, you can breathe some life into him. Bills at every corner, proclaiming his guilt in this heinous crime and offering, let's say, a hundred thousand scales for his head.”

Volfier was looking more worried by the moment. “But … he is dead, isn't he?”

“Buried with the rest when we filled in the trenches. Which means we'll never have to pay. Hell, make it two hundred thousand, then we look rich at the same time.”

“And looking rich is almost as useful as being it,” said Scavier, frowning at Grulo.

“With the tale I'll get told, the name of Morveer will be spoken with hushed awe when we're long dead and gone.” Vitari smiled. “Mothers will scare their children with it.”

“No doubt he's grinning in his grave at the thought,” said Monza. “I hear you unpicked a little revolt, by the way.”

“I wouldn't insult the term by applying it to those amateurs. The fools put up bills advertising their meetings! We knew already, but bills? In plain sight? You ask me, they deserve the death penalty just for stupidity.”

“Or there is exile,” offered Rubine. “A little mercy makes you look just, virtuous and powerful.”

“And I could do with a touch of all three, eh?” She thought about it for a moment. “Fine them heavily, publish their names, parade them naked before the Senate House, then … set them free.”

“Free?” Rubine raised his thick white eyebrows.

“Free?” Vitari raised her thin orange ones.

“How just, virtuous and powerful does that make me? Punish them harshly, we give their friends a wrong to avenge. Spare them, we make resistance seem absurd. Watch them. You said yourself they're stupid. If they plan more treason they'll lead us to it. We can hang them then.”

Rubine cleared his throat. “As your Excellency commands. I will have bills printed detailing your mercy to these men. The Serpent of Talins forbears to use her fangs.”

“For now. How are the markets?”

A hard smile crossed Scavier's soft face. “Busy, busy, morning until night. Traders have come to us fleeing the chaos in Sipani, in Ospria, in Affoia, all more than willing to pay our dues if they can bring in their cargoes unmolested.”

“The granaries?”

“The harvest was good enough to see us through the winter without riots, I hope.” Grulo clicked his tongue. “But much of the land towards Musselia still lies fallow. Farmers driven out when Rogont's conquering forces moved through, foraging. Then the Thousand Swords left a sweep of devastation almost all the way to the banks of the Etris. The farmers are always the first to suffer in hard times.”

A lesson Monza hardly needed to be taught. “The city is full of beggars, yes?”

“Beggars and refugees.” Rubine tugged his beard again. He'd tug the bastard out if he told many more sad tales. “A sign of the times—”

“Give the land away, then, to anyone who can yield a crop, and pay us tax. Farmland without farmers is nothing more than mud.”

Grulo inclined his head. “I will see to it.”

“You're quiet, Volfier.” The old veteran stood there, glaring at the map and grinding his teeth.

“Fucking Etrisani!” he burst out, bashing his sword-hilt with one big fist. “I mean, sorry, that is, my apologies, your Excellency, but … those bastards!”

Monza grinned. “More trouble on the border?”

“Three farms burned out.” Her grin faded. “The farmers missing. Then the patrol who went looking for them was shot at from the woods, one man killed, two wounded. The rest pursued, but mindful of your orders left off at the border.”

“They're testing you,” said Vitari. “Angry because they were Orso's first allies.”

Grulo nodded. “They gave up everything in his cause and hoped to reap a golden harvest when he became king.”

Volfier slapped angrily at the table's edge. “Bastards think we're too weak to stop 'em!”

“Are we?” asked Monza.

“We've three thousand foot and a thousand horse, all armed, drilled, all good men seen action before.”

“Ready to fight?”

“Only give the word, they'll prove it!”

“What about the Etrisanese?”

“All bluster,” sneered Vitari. “A second-rate power at the best of times, and their best was long ago.”

“We have the advantage in numbers and quality,” growled Volfier.

“Undeniably, we have just cause,” said Rubine. “A brief sortie across the border to teach a sharp lesson—”

“We have the funds for a more significant campaign,” said Scavier. “I already have some ideas for financial demands that might leave us considerably enriched—”

“The people will support you,” cut in Grulo. “And indemnities will more than cover the expense!”

Monza frowned at the map, frowned in particular at those spots of blood in the corner. Benna would have counselled caution. Would have asked for time to think out a plan … but Benna was a long time dead, and Monza's taste had always been to move fast, strike hard and worry about the plans afterwards. “Get your men ready to march, Colonel Volfier. I've a mind to take Etrisani under siege.”

“Siege?” muttered Rubine.

Vitari grinned sideways. “It's when you surround a city and force its surrender.”

“I am aware of the definition!” snapped the old man. “But caution, your Excellency, Talins has but lately come through the most painful of upheavals—”

“I have only the greatest respect for your knowledge of the law, Rubine,” said Monza, “but war is my department, and believe me, once you go to war, there is nothing worse than half measures.”

“But what of making allies—”

“No one wants an ally who can't protect what's theirs. We need to demonstrate our resolve, or the wolves will all be sniffing round our carcass. We need to bring these dogs in Etrisani to heel.”

“Make them pay,” hissed Scavier.

“Crush them,” growled Grulo.

Volfier was grinning wide as he saluted. “I'll have the men mustered and ready within the week.”

“I'll polish up my armour,” she said, though she kept it polished anyway. “Anything else?” The five of them stayed silent. “My thanks, then.”

“Your Excellency.” They bowed each in their own ways, Rubine with the frown of weighty doubts, Vitari with the slightest, lingering smirk.

Monza watched them file out. She might have liked to put aside the sword and make things grow. The way she'd wanted to long ago, after her father died. Before the Years of Blood began. But she'd seen enough to know that no battle is ever the last, whatever people might want to believe. Life goes on. Every war carries within it the seeds of the next, and she planned to be good and ready for the harvest.

Get out your plough, by all means, Farans wrote, but keep a dagger handy, just in case.

She frowned at the map, left hand straying down to rest on her stomach. It was starting to swell. Three months, now, since her blood had come. That meant it was Rogont's child. Or maybe Shivers'. A dead man's child or a killer's, a king's or a beggar's. All that really mattered was that it was hers.

She walked slowly to the desk, dropped into the chair, pulled the chain from her shirt and turned the key in the lock. She took out Orso's crown, the reassuring weight between her palms, the reassuring pain in her right hand as she lifted it and placed it carefully on the papers scattered across the scuffed leather top. Gold gleamed in the winter sun. The jewels she'd had prised out, sold to pay for weapons. Gold, to steel, to more gold, just as Orso always told her. Yet she found she couldn't part with the crown itself.

Rogont had died unmarried, without heirs. His child, even his bastard, would have a good claim on his titles. Grand Duke of Ospria. King of Styria, even. Rogont had worn the crown, after all, even if it had been a poisoned one, and only for a vainglorious instant. She felt the slightest smile at the corner of her mouth. When you lose all you have, you can always seek revenge. But if you get it, what then? Orso had spoken that much truth. Life goes on. You need new dreams to look to.

She shook herself, snatched the crown up and slid it back inside the desk. Staring at it wasn't much better than staring at her husk-pipe, wondering whether or not to put the fire to it. She was just turning the key in the lock as the doors were swung open and her chamberlain grazed the floor again with his face.

“And this time?”

“A representative of the Banking House of Valint and Balk, your Excellency.”

Monza had known they were coming, of course, but they were no more welcome for that. “Send him in.”

For a man from an institution that could buy and sell nations, he didn't look like much. Younger than she'd expected, with a curly head of hair, a pleasant manner and an easy grin. That worried her more than ever.

The bitterest enemies come with the sweetest smiles. Verturio. Who else?

“Your Excellency.” He bowed almost as low as her chamberlain, which took some doing.

“Master … ?”

“Sulfur. Yoru Sulfur, at your service.” He had different-coloured eyes, she noticed as he drew closer to the desk—one blue, one green.

“From the Banking House of Valint and Balk.”

“I have the honour of representing that proud institution.”

“Lucky you.” She glanced around the great chamber. “I'm afraid a lot of damage was done in the assault. Things are more … functional than they were in Orso's day.”

His smile only widened. “I noticed a little damage to the walls on my way in. But functional suits me perfectly, your Excellency. I am here to discuss business. To offer you, in fact, the full backing of my employers.”

“I understand you came often to my predecessor, Grand Duke Orso, to offer him your full backing.”

“Quite so.”

“And now I have murdered him and stolen his place, you come to me.”

Sulfur did not even blink. “Quite so.”

“Your backing moulds easily to new situations.”

“We are a bank. Every change must be an opportunity.”

“And what do you offer?”

“Money,” he said brightly. “Money to fund armies. Money to fund public works. Money to return glory to Talins, and to Styria. Perhaps even money to render your palace less … functional.”

Monza had left a fortune in gold buried near the farm where she was born. She preferred to leave it there still. Just in case. “And if I like it sparse?”

“I feel confident that we could lend political assistance also. Good neighbours, you know, are the surest shelter in a storm.” She did not like his choice of words, so soon after she'd used them herself, but he went smoothly on. “Valint and Balk have deep roots in the Union. Extremely deep. I do not doubt we could arrange an alliance between you and their High King.”

“An alliance?” She didn't mention that she'd very nearly consummated an alliance of a different kind with the King of the Union, in a gaudy bedchamber at Cardotti's House of Leisure. “Even though he's married to Orso's daughter? Even though his sons may have a claim on my dukedom? A better claim than mine, many would say.”

“We strive always to work with what we find, before we strive to change it. For the right leader, with the right backing, Styria is there for the taking. Valint and Balk wish to stand with the victor.”

“Even though I broke into your offices in Westport and murdered your man Mauthis?”

“Your success in that venture only demonstrates your great resourcefulness.” Sulfur shrugged. “Men are easily replaced. The world is full of them.”

She tapped thoughtfully at the top of her desk. “Strange that you should come here, making such an offer.”

“How so?”

“Only yesterday I had a very similar visit from a representative of the Prophet of Gurkhul, offering his … backing.”

That gave him a moment's pause. “Whom did he send?”

“A woman called Ishri.”

Sulfur's eyes narrowed by the smallest fraction. “You cannot trust her.”

“But I can trust you, because you smile so sweetly? So did my brother, and he lied with every breath.”

Sulfur only smiled the more. “The truth, then. Perhaps you are aware that the Prophet and my employers stand on opposite sides of a great struggle.”

“I've heard it mentioned.”

“Believe me when I say you would not wish to find yourself on the wrong side.”

“I'm not sure I wish to find myself on either side.” She slowly settled back into her chair, faking comfort when she felt like a fraud at a stolen desk. “But never fear. I told Ishri the price of her support was too high. Tell me, Master Sulfur, what price will Valint and Balk ask for their help?”

“No more than what is fair. Interest on their loans. Preference in their business dealings and those of their partners and associates. That you refuse to deal with the Gurkish and their allies. That you act, when my employers request, in concert with the forces of the Union—”

“Only whenever your employers request?”

“Perhaps once or twice in your lifetime.”

“Or perhaps more, as you see fit. You want me to sell Talins to you and thank you for the privilege. You want me to kneel at your vault door and beg for favours.”

“You over-dramatise—”

“I do not kneel, Master Sulfur.”

It was his turn to pause at her choice of words. But only for a moment. “May I be candid, your Excellency?”

“I'd like to see you try.”

“You are new to the ways of power. Everyone must kneel to someone. If you are too proud to take our hand of friendship, others will.”

Monza snorted, though behind her scorn her heart was pounding. “Good luck, to them and to you. May your hand of friendship bring them happier results than it brought to Orso. I believe Ishri was going to start looking for friends in Puranti. Perhaps you should go to Ospria first, or Sipani, or Affoia. I'm sure you'll find someone in Styria to take your money. We're famous for our whores.”

Sulfur's grin twitched even wider. “Talins owes great debts to my employers.”

“Orso owes great debts to them, you can ask him for your money back. I believe he was thrown out with the kitchen waste, but you should find him if you dig, down there at the bottom of the cliff. I'll happily lend you a trowel for the purpose.”

Still he smiled, but there was no missing his threat. “It would be a shame if you left us no choice but to yield to the rage of Queen Terez, and let her seek vengeance for her father's death.”

“Ah, vengeance, vengeance.” Monza gave him a smile of her own. “I don't startle at shadows, Master Sulfur. I'm sure Terez talks a grand war, but the Union is spread thin. They have enemies both North and South and inside their borders too. If your High King's wife wants my little chair, well, she can come and fight me for it. But I rather suspect his August Majesty has other worries.”

“I do not think you realise the dangers that fill the dark corners of the world.” There was no good humour in Sulfur's huge grin now. “Why, even as we speak you sit here … alone.” It had become a hungry leer, filled with sharp, white teeth. “So very, very fragile.”

She blinked, as if baffled. “Alone?”

“You are mistaken.” Shenkt had walked up in utter silence until he stood, unobserved, right at Sulfur's shoulder, close as his shadow. Valint and Balk's representative spun about, took a shocked step back and stood frozen, as though he'd turned to see the dead breathing in his ear.

“You,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“I thought—”

“No.”

“Then … this is your doing?”

“I have had my hand in it.” Shenkt shrugged. “But chaos is the natural state of things, for men pull always in their own directions. It is those who want the world to march all the same way that give themselves the challenge.”

The different-coloured eyes swivelled to Monza, and back. “Our master will not—”

“Your master,” said Shenkt. “I have none, anymore, remember? I told him I was done. I always give a warning when I can, and here is yours. Get you gone. Return, you will not find me in a warning mood. Go back, and tell him you serve. Tell him I used to serve. We do not kneel.”

Sulfur slowly nodded, then his mouth slipped back into the smirk he wore when he came in. “Die standing, then.” He turned to Monza, gave his graceful bow once more. “You will hear from us.” And he strutted easily from the room.

Shenkt raised his brows as Sulfur disappeared from sight. “He took it well.”

She didn't feel like laughing. “There's a lot you're not telling me.”

“Yes.”

“Who are you, really?”

“I have been many things. An apprentice. An ambassador. A solver of stubborn problems, and a maker of them. Today, it seems, I am a man who settles other people's scores.”

“Cryptic shit. If I want riddles I can visit a fortune-teller.”

“You're a grand duchess. You could probably get one to come to you.”

She nodded towards the doors. “You knew him.”

“I did.”

“You had the same master?”

“Once. Long ago.”

“You worked for a bank?”

He gave his empty smile. “In a manner of speaking. They do far more than count coins.”

“So I'm beginning to see. And now?”

“Now, I do not kneel.”

“Why have you helped me?”

“Because they made Orso, and I break whatever they have made.”

“Revenge,” she murmured.

“Not the best of motives, but good outcomes can flow from evil motives, still.”

“And the other way about.”

“Of course. You brought the Duke of Talins all his victories, and so I had been watching you, thinking to weaken him by killing you. As it happened, Orso tried to do it himself. So I mended you instead, thinking to persuade you to kill Orso and take his place. But I underestimated your determination, and you slipped away. As it happened, you set about trying to kill Orso …”

She shifted, somewhat uncomfortably, in her ex-employer's chair. “And took his place.”

“Why dam a river that already flows your way? Let us say we have helped each other.” And he gave his skull's grin one more time. “We all of us have our scores to settle.”

“In settling yours, it seems you have made me some powerful enemies.”

“In settling yours, it seems you have plunged Styria into chaos.”

That was true enough. “Not quite my intention.”

“Once you choose to open the box, your intentions mean nothing. And the box is yawning wide as a grave now. I wonder what will spill from it? Will righteous leaders rise from the madness to light the way to a brighter, fairer Styria, a beacon for all the world? Or will we get ruthless shadows of old tyrants, treading circles in the bloody footsteps of the past?” Shenkt's bright eyes did not leave hers. “Which will you be?”

“I suppose we'll see.”

“I suppose we will.” He turned, his footfalls making not the slightest sound, and pulled the doors silently shut behind him, leaving her alone.