Midst Toil and Tribulation by David Weber
“All you can do is keep looking, Sir Ahlber,” Sharleyan commiserated, and looked back at Saint Howan.
“I believe it would be possible for us to … lean on Lantern Walk a bit about that demand of his,” she said. “Perhaps the thought of seeing someone next door making the profit instead of him would induce him to lower his demands. Duke Lake Land’s proven surprisingly reasonable, for example. In fact, he’s emerged as one of the leaders of the Crown party in the Imperial House of Lords. Unless I’m mistaken, his duchy also has extensive iron deposits, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does,” the chancellor agreed. “But they’d have to be shipped through Mountain Heart, and I’m pretty sure the Grand Duke would want a hefty toll. Not only that, but the Shelakyl River’s shallower than the Lantern, and if memory serves it has at least three sets of cataracts. That would require a lot more improvement than the Lantern before we could ship large quantities of ore down it. And Lake Land doesn’t have coal to go with it.”
“I think I could bring Grand Duke Mountain Heart to see reason,” Sharleyan said with a thin smile. “He and I have crossed swords in the past, and I don’t think he wants to lose any more blood. Besides, what if we were to sweeten the pot by offering to subsidize the improvement of the Shelakyl out of Crown funds? We offer to save him the cost of making the improvements in return for his charging a minimal toll on the rest of the river once the improvements are in.”
“That might work, Your Majesty, but with all due respect, the Treasury isn’t brimming over with marks at the moment. I’ve gone over Baron Ironhill’s numbers since your arrival, and to meet our share of the imperial expenses for next year, especially after what Duke Eastshare’s already committed us to pay to support the Expeditionary Force, we’re going to have to dip deep into our reserves. Frankly, part of the problem is that more and more of our own revenues are flowing into Old Charis.”
Sharleyan sensed the internal tightening of several of the other councilors. It didn’t come as much of a surprise, and she understood it fully. Not only that, she knew the situation was likely to get worse over the next few years. Unless they did something about it, that was.
“I understand what you’re saying, Sir Dynzail. But I also understand why it’s happening, and I think there’s only one solution to it. The problem, put most simply, is that Charis—Old Charis—had the most efficient manufactories in the world even prior to the Group of Four’s attack on it. Since then, the Old Charisians’ve done nothing but improve their efficiency and output, and the result is that the cost of their goods has actually dropped steadily, despite the war. As the cost went down, they sold more and more of those goods, both here in Chisholm and, despite Clyntahn’s embargo, on the mainland. What’s happening in Siddarmark is going to disrupt that cash flow from the mainland, of course, but they’re compensating for that to a large extent by opening additional markets here, in Emerald, in Tarot, and even in Corisande. Which means, equally of course, that money’s flowing from customers in Chisholm to manufactories in Charis in ever greater amounts.”
Heads nodded. Chisholmians were less accustomed than Old Charisians to thinking in mercantile terms, but they could understand simple mathematics. What they might not yet grasp, Sharleyan reflected, was the extent to which the availability of cheap, manufactured goods was going to get behind the entire Charisian Empire’s economy and push. Just the output of Rhaiyan Mychail’s textile mills was already having a huge effect as the price of clothing plummeted. It meant a Chisholmian workman could afford to buy an imported Old Charisian shirt, for example, for less than a quarter of what the same shirt would have cost from a Chisholmian tailor, and the price was still falling. In fact, it was dropping so rapidly it would soon be almost as cheap to buy a far better sewing machine-produced shirt from Old Charis than to have his wife make it for him out of homespun. And that was only one area in which the expanding flood of Old Charisian goods was hammering traditional economic arrangements. Had it not been for the absolute need to focus on military requirements—had not so much of Old Charis’ output, especially its heavy industry, been required for the navy and the army rather than available for release to the civilian economy—the situation would have been even worse, and it was only a matter of time before it got worse.
“We can’t blame our people for buying goods as cheaply as possible,” she went on somberly. “We not only can’t, but we shouldn’t. Anything that improves their lives should be encouraged, not discouraged. At the same time, we’re looking at a significant imbalance in trade between us and Old Charis, and it’s going to get worse if we don’t do something about it.”
“Your Majesty,” one of the councilors sitting well down the table from her began, “in that regard—”
“A moment, My Lord,” she said. “I wasn’t quite finished.”
Her tone was courteous but firm, and Vyrgyl Fahstyr, the Earl of Gold Wyvern, closed his mouth. He sat back in his chair, his expression one of patience, but there was a stubborn look in his eyes.
“I know some members of this Council”—Sharleyan said, meeting that stubborn look squarely as she grasped the dilemma by the horns—“favor the imposition of duties on Old Charisian imports to ‘level the playing field.’ The idea is tempting from several perspectives, including the boost to tax revenues. It would, however, hurt the Empire’s economy as a whole, it would drive up the prices our own people here in Chisholm must pay just to live, and it would arouse great resentment in Old Charis. Not only that, the Crown’s position is that internal trade barriers within the Empire would constitute a dangerous precedent We”—the entire Council sat just a bit straighter as it heard the royal we in that unwavering voice—“have no intention of allowing to arise. Understand Us, My Lords,” she let her eyes sweep around the table, “We and Emperor Cayleb are as one in Our understanding that Our Empire’s very survival—and that of every member of it—depends upon Our ability to build and pay for the weapons of war We require. And building those weapons, and raising and paying the men to wield them, will require money, and that money can come only from encouraging the growth of Our own economy in every way possible. The Group of Four is finding it progressively more difficult to pay for their own armies and navies, yet at this time their absolute resources remain far greater than Ours. We can change that only by increasing those available to Us, and internal imposts that discourage free trade and the most vibrant economy We can sustain are not the way to do that.”
Gold Wyvern’s face had gone completely expressionless as her measured words flowed around the table. Most of the men in that room had heard that tone from her before. They knew what it meant, and they hadn’t forgotten during her absence in Old Charis.
“So,” she continued, still firmly yet speaking once more in the voice of a young woman and not the avatar of an empire, “the official policy of the Crown is not to impose duties upon commerce, but to deliberately encourage the expansion of manufactories to other portions of our combined realm. That’s the reason Master Howsmyn and other Old Charisian manufactory owners are seeking investment opportunities and partners here in Chisholm. It’s our intention to offer not increased protective duties, but a reduction in duties, with the understanding that Old Charisian suppliers will build additional manufactories in Chisholm, financed in no small part by the profit they show on their Chisholmian trade. And”—she looked at Saint Howan again—“the Crown will also grant a reduction of taxation on new manufactories here in Chisholm, for a period of fifteen years, equal to the proportion of Chisholmian ownership in the enterprise. That is, if fifty percent of the cost of a new manufactory is borne by a Chisholmian partner or partnership, the taxes paid by that manufactory for the first fifteen years of its operation will be fifty percent of what they would otherwise have been.”
Saint Howan winced visibly, but her voice continued levelly.
“If our noble landowners are wise, they’ll find partnerships with Old Charisian investors. I feel certain that if they’re willing
Saint Howan’s expression changed, becoming much more thoughtful. He gazed at her for several seconds, then nodded slowly, and she nodded back.
“As for the need to improve navigation on our rivers,” she said, “while I agree it’s something we need to look at accomplishing, there may be an alternative.”
A stir went through the councilors, and she suppressed a smile. Some of them were still moderately in shock from her previous proposal, given how it flew in the face of their own economic models. What she’d just said, however, was clearly nonsense. Chisholm and Charis had canal networks, but nothing to compare with the mainland’s centuries-long development of inland water transportation. They’d been settled later, their populations were sparser, and—in Charis’ case, at least—Howell Bay had been an even broader highway than any canal. Given its existing infrastructure and economy, the lack of water transport in Chisholm hadn’t been a crippling disadvantage, but no one could possibly supply the quantities of iron ore, limestone, and coal a complex on the order of Howsmyn’s Delthak Works required without it.
“I’m sure all of you have read the attestation by Father Paityr, as Intendant of Charis, approving the ‘steam engine’ devised by Master Howsmyn’s artisans,” she said. “I suspect, however, that you haven’t had the attestation long enough to fully grasp its implications.”
She saw White Crag raise one hand to cover the smile her tactful choice of words had evoked, given that the attestation in question had arrived in Chisholm long before she had.
“One of those implications, My Lords,” she continued serenely, ignoring her first councilor’s unseemly mirth, “is that waterwheels will no longer be necessary to power manufactories, which means, of course, that they can be located anywhere, not simply where a river or waterfall makes it convenient. Still, the problem of transport, especially of raw materials, remains. However, allow me to tell you about a new mechanism one of Master Howsmyn’s artisans is in the process of developing and which is likely to bring about a very significant change in our transportation system. He calls it a ‘steam automotive,’ since it moves under its own power, and—”
.XIV.
Charisian Embassy, Siddar City, Republic of Siddarmark, and, Royal Palace, Eraystor, Princedom of Emerald, Empire of Charis
The Charisian standard atop the embassy’s roof snapped briskly on the evening breeze. The city was calmer, although there was a sense of unease stemming from the departure of so much of the army strength which had been concentrated in and around it. Confident of the arrival of Duke Eastshare, Lord Protector Greyghor and Lord Daryus had sent almost half the forty-six thousand regulars in Old Province off to help defend the loyal portion of Shiloh. It wasn’t that the citizens of Siddar City distrusted their leaders’ judgment; it was simply that so many terrible things had happened since the previous fall that they were waiting to see what new disaster was headed their way.
Cayleb Ahrmahk could understand that as he stood on the rooftop balcony which had become his favorite vantage point and gazed out across the city. The sun was settling steadily in the west, and he’d just finished a late-night conversation with Sharleyan in distant Cherayth.
“You do realize,” a deep voice said musingly from behind him, “that there are rifles in Temple Loyalist hands now, don’t you?”
“And your point is?” he asked without turning.
“That it wouldn’t be so very difficult, with you standing up here like a target in a gallery, for one of those rifles in the hands of some ill-intentioned soul to hit you from any one of several firing points I can think of right offhand.”
“At which point my ‘antiballistic undies,’ as Sharley’s taken to calling them, will save my no doubt reckless life, right?”
“As long as you’re not unfortunate enough to get hit in, oh, the head, for instance. Not beyond the realm of possibility, I’d think. And you might remember just how battered and bruised Sharley got from a pistol ball. Don’t you think it’s remotely possible a rifle bullet might be even more painful? For that matter, a bit of splintered rib driven into a lung or, say, an aorta would probably come under the heading of A Really Bad Thing, too, now that I think about it.”
“My, you are in a pessimistic mood.” Cayleb turned. “Is there a particular reason you’re so intent on raining on my parade?”
“I just worry sometimes,” Merlin Athrawes said in a much more serious tone. “I don’t want to try to wrap you up in cotton wool and protect you from every bump and bruise, Cayleb. But … all you flesh-and-bloods are so damned fragile. I just … don’t want to lose any more of you.”
The seijin’s sapphire eyes were darker than the evening light could account for, and Cayleb reached out and rested his hands on the taller man’s shoulders.
“What brought that on?” he asked more gently. “Watching Sharley and Mahrak?”
“Partly, I suppose.” Merlin twitched a shrug. “That and watching her with Archbishop Ulys and thinking about Archbishop Pawal and everybody else Clyntahn’s butchers killed. It shouldn’t bother me that much, I suppose. I mean, all the deaths of all the ‘Rakurai’ combined are such a tiny, insignificant number compared to the people he’s killed by proxy here in the Republic. But it does bother me, damn it!” His face tightened. “I knew too many of those people, Cayleb. I cared about them. And now they’re gone.”
“It happens.” The words might have been flip; the tone was not, and Cayleb smiled sadly. “And it doesn’t happen just to you theoretically immortal seijin PICAs, either. But with the embassy so crowded, this is the only place I can be sure of the privacy to talk to Sharleyan out loud, and that’s worth a little risk. It really is.”
He shook Merlin gently, and the seijin chuckled.
“Well, I don’t suppose I can argue with that. But since the only reason you can be sure of that privacy, even up here, is that the deadly, mysterious Seijin Merlin is standing menacingly at the bottom of the stairs to keep anyone from disturbing you, I hope you’ve already enjoyed a satisfactory conversation.”
“Why?” Cayleb cocked his head. “Did you have an appointment somewhere?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Cayleb’s eyes narrowed. He looked at Merlin very intently for a moment.
“Is this more of whatever took you off so mysteriously last month?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Merlin met the emperor’s gaze with level eyes. He offered no further explanation, however, and Cayleb held his gaze for another second or two, then drew a deep breath.
“All right,” he said simply. “Do you know when we should expect you back? I only ask because Paityr, Ahndrai, and the rest of the detachment have to cover for you if anyone asks any questions. They’d probably appreciate any little hint I might be able to give them about just how long that will be.”
“I should be back well before dawn,” Merlin assured him.
“In that case,” Cayleb released his shoulders, “go. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
Merlin bowed with rather more formality than usual when
* * *
Ohlyvya Baytz sat on the balcony above her garden, gazing down onto its lantern-lit paths and listening to the night wyverns’ soft whistles, and smiled gently. She doubted Prince Zhan had realized she was up here—he was a very … direct young man, rather like his older brother—but she knew her daughter had. It was probably just as well. Young Zhan would be fifteen in another few months, and Princess Mahrya was a very attractive twenty-one. She was also betrothed to him, and in the three and a half years since that marriage had been arranged he’d gone from a somewhat bemused little boy not at all certain about this entire marrying business to a very nice-looking and well-grown young man with all a young man’s curiosity about the opposite sex. True, it was a marriage of state, arranged for the most cold-blooded of political reasons. The two of them had spent much of the time since in one another’s company, however, and it was obvious more than hormones were involved in their attitudes.
Not that Zhan’s hormones aren’t roaring along quite nicely. It’s a good thing he’s basically such a nice young man. And that Haarahld and Cayleb both had such strong views on the subject of proper restraint. At least he’s thankfully free of the notion that just because he’s a prince, the rules don’t apply to him! And, of course, having said that, it probably was a good thing Mahrya knew I was up here. Not that anything remotely improper would’ve happened if I hadn’t been, of course. Oh, of course not!
She snorted in amusement. The truth was that betrothals were serious things on Safehold. Mother Church had seen to that. They were legal contracts as binding in many ways as the marriage itself, although it had always been possible for the wealthy and powerful to acquire the proper indulgence to slip out of one or have it annulled if that seemed desirable. It wasn’t all that unusual for a bride to appear at the altar pregnant, or even accompanied by a young child, without anyone looking particularly askance, however, as long as the betrothal period had been long enough to account for it. It wasn’t considered the very best form, but no scandal usually attached to it. Princes and princesses, however, were just a bit more visible than most young couples, and she rather hoped the two of them would bear that in mind for the next couple of years. She wasn’t foolish enough to think such an intelligent and resourceful pair hadn’t managed to evade their various keepers and bodyguards long enough for at least a little discreet experimentation, but she was philosophical about it. Far better for them to come to know and care for one another, complete with the aforesaid discreet experimentation, than for Mahrya to never even have met her proposed husband before her wedding.