The Justice of Kings, page 8
Vonvalt wanted to head for the courthouse and make himself known before too much time had passed, since already he was in danger of looking as though he was slighting the place. With our master so engaged, Bressinger decided that he and I would head to the wharf.
We picked our way through the frigid, slushy streets towards the forest of masts I had seen earlier. The air filled with the cries of sailors and dockworkers, and the streets thickened with merchant traffic. Watchmen and constables were aplenty here. They kept a careful eye on the town’s crowning jewel.
We rounded a large timber-framed warehouse. Beyond lay the harbour. It wasn’t the largest I’d seen – that honour belonged to the Imperial naval yard at Seaguard – but it was certainly the busiest. The water was jammed full of merchant cogs and the newer carracks, some as tall as a three-storey house. They creaked and groaned on the swell, ropes swollen and taut with water. Many of the ships bore the Autun colours, but there were plenty that didn’t, instead flying the peculiar flags of exotic, non-Imperial lands that I had little knowledge of.
The waters of the Gale harbour were as brown and unpleasant as the river that fed it, and appeared to serve as the outflow of the town’s sewers. Whereas the Seaguard harbour had smelled strongly of brine, here, despite the cold, the waters smelled like shit. We walked along the wharf’s edge, careful to keep out of the way of the workers as they loaded and unloaded ships.
There were a couple of public houses that fronted the water a little further down the wharf, and we ducked into the first one we saw. It bore little resemblance to the tavern we had just eaten in. The floor was covered in rush matting that reeked of stale beer, and the single hall was filled with long trestle tables of cheap wood. The place was packed, and beleaguered women, enduring endless harassments both physical and verbal, moved among the punters with trays of marsh ale.
“Madam,” Bressinger said to a passing barwoman, his Grozodan accent and features obvious among a sea of Hauners.
“Aye?” she asked, looking him up and down. She was probably working out how much she could feasibly overcharge him based on his smart clothes.
“I’m looking to speak to a merchant who deals in guaranteeing cargoes,” he said. He produced a groat from his purse. “Discreetly.”
The woman made to reach for the coin, but Bressinger withdrew it with an impressive sleight of hand. “After I’ve spoken with him.”
The woman looked put out. “Back table,” she said. “That is where business is conducted.” She squinted over to it, ignoring the punters calling out to her. She pointed to a man at the end of the trestle. “Mr Lorentz I know does something akin to what you mentioned. The specifics of it are lost on me.”
“Thank you,” Bressinger said, and handed her the coin despite what he had said.
We walked over to the man she had indicated. He was drinking alone, looking over some papers. Looking down the length of the table, I could see other merchants similarly sat, all on the same side. A couple were engaged in negotiations with ships’ captains. Along the back wall, a few larger men loitered, armed. They watched us warily.
“Mr Lorentz?” Bressinger asked.
“Aye?” the man replied affably enough. He had the swarthy look of a Grozodan, and wore an expensive wool doublet of yellow and red. His cap had a large feather in it from an exotic bird I didn’t recognise.
They spoke to one another in Grozodan for a minute or two, gabbling away and laughing as though they had known one another their entire lives, until eventually Bressinger produced his warrant of office. “I am an agent of the Crown,” he said, now in Old Saxan for my benefit. “I would ask you some questions.”
Lorentz studied the warrant. “Your master’s reputation precedes you,” he said, reciprocating in Saxan. “I can assure you my business is fully above board and all tax accounts are up to date. You may check the filings at the courthouse.”
Bressinger and I sat. “I’m not here to ask about that,” Bressinger said. “Nor am I here to conduct business. I want you to explain something to me, as though I were a simpleton.”
Lorentz raised an eyebrow. “I will do my best. I am a loyal subject of His Majesty.” I noticed that he subtly waved one of the big men off.
“You are not to speak of our conversation to anybody,” Bressinger warned.
Lorentz inclined his head sagely.
“Earlier today we spoke to Lord Bauer,” Bressinger said, his voice low. “The man spoke about the nature of his business. Guaranteeing cargoes in return for payment.”
“’Tis common enough in other parts of the world,” Lorentz said. “There is nothing unlawful in it.”
“I’m not interested in the legality of the practice,” Bressinger said impatiently. “I want to understand how it works.”
“As you wish,” Lorentz said. He looked about the table and collected a glass and a tankard, and arranged them in front of him. “Imagine that I am to ship a cargo of cloth from Leindau to Venland. How might I do it?”
“I’m not a merchant,” Bressinger said gruffly. “The geography of the Empire is not my concern.”
“So I see,” Lorentz remarked dourly. I stifled a smile. “I might ship it east past Lothgar, between the Gvòrod Steppe, and then on to the Jade Sea. I might take the River Treba past Hasse and the duchy of Kòvosk. If I was particularly heavily laden I might have to go out past Denholtz, south past Grozoda, and then up through the Grall Sea. Three very different routes, and each route presents different risks. Northmen, pirates, foundering in rocky waters, the sea in storm, running aground in a shallow river… you take the point.”
“Aye,” Bressinger said.
“Many ships will sail without incident, but some will not. So each voyage a ship makes may be its last.”
“Right.”
“Let us take our cargo of cloth from Leindau. It has cost the merchant twenty crowns to purchase.”
My eyes widened. Twenty crowns for a holdful of cloth! It was an extraordinary sum. It was no wonder the new merchant class had been able to construct their vast brick-and-timber town houses with glass windows and multiple hearths.
“If the ship sinks, the merchant has lost that sum,” Bressinger said. “I understand that.”
“Of course,” Lorentz said. “So, in order to… mitigate that loss, the merchant will pay a man to guarantee the cargo.”
“He will pay the man twenty crowns?” Bressinger asked.
“No!” Lorentz laughed. “Otherwise he would simply take the risk that the ship would sink. Either way, he has lost twenty crowns. No, he pays a proportion of the sum instead, which is calculated by taking into account all of the different risks: the season, the route, the cargo itself, the condition of the ship, whether it carries armed men, and so on.”
“So Sir Konrad was right; it is akin to gambling.”
“Aye, if that is what the Justice likened it to, then he is not far wrong. The guarantor is betting the ship will reach its destination intact, and therefore he keeps the sum paid. The merchant, provided he keeps to the terms of the contract – he must not, for example, deviate from the agreed route – has bought himself peace of mind, for if the ship is lost then he will claim its value from the guarantor. Some of the time the guarantor will actually send a man aboard the ship to act as his spy, to make sure the conditions of carriage are being met. I have known a fast chain of riders to do the job, too.”
“I see,” Bressinger said. “It seems like money for nothing to me.”
Lorentz winked. “It seems like that, friend, because much of the time it is. But it is a commercial arrangement like any other, made between businessmen who have their ears and eyes open. As I said, there is nothing unlawful in it.”
“And this is Lord Bauer’s practice?”
“It is. He is not the only man to offer the service, but I am given to understand he has made a considerable fortune from it in a short space of time.”
I noticed that one of the other merchants sitting at the table, within earshot despite our low conversation, was taking notice. I tapped Bressinger on the thigh.
“I know,” he muttered to me, then turned back to Lorentz. “Thank you for your time, Mr Lorentz. I shall not keep you from your business any longer.”
The merchant inclined his head. “I am pleased to assist the Emperor whenever I can.”
We made our way back out of the inn. Even the cold air of the wharf, with its noxious humours, was more agreeable than the foul atmosphere of the tavern. We walked quickly back the way we had come, pausing only so that Bressinger could take directions to Thread Street from a passer-by.
“What did you make of that, then?” he asked me as we strode through the slush.
“I suppose it makes sense,” I said. “Sir Konrad has spoken of complex banking schemes before, in Sova.”
“Aye,” Bressinger replied. “Seems like where there’s money to be made, men will come up with just about anything.” We passed a pair of liveried watchmen, and a wry look came over his face. “You must be looking forward to seeing your beau again?”
“He is not my beau!” I snapped, keenly aware that my reaction was precisely what he’d been aiming for.
“Aye, not yet,” Bressinger said. “I saw the way you looked at him the other day. I told you such a lad is beneath your station. You are in the Emperor’s service now.”
“I wish I wasn’t,” I muttered.
Bressinger stopped suddenly and whirled to face me. “Watch how you speak!” he hissed. “Foolish girl.” I was completely taken aback; Bressinger was often surly, but it was rare for his mood to turn so suddenly and sharply. I think he had surprised himself, for I could read quick regret in his features. He softened. “You cannot afford to have so loose a tongue,” he said, somewhat hypocritically. “Not this close to Guelich.”
“’Tis not a crime to criticise the Emperor,” I said.
“Aye, but it might as well be,” Bressinger said. “You have heard the man’s reputation.”
“Mm,” I grunted.
Bressinger straightened up, looking around. “We are his representatives,” he said. “You cannot say things like that, especially not in public. And besides, Helena, how would Sir Konrad feel to hear you say that?”
That, of course, was the real reason he had angered so quickly and so hotly. Bressinger did not care if I insulted the Emperor – Nema knew he did it himself often enough.
I sighed, my surliness cooling. “I know,” I said. I felt wretched, and must have looked it, for Bressinger approached me and put his hands on my shoulders. “I know what you are thinking, girl,” he said. “You are young and restless and you’ve had an upbringing Prince Kasivar of Hell would be proud of. But don’t let your impulses be your undoing. With Sir Konrad’s tutelage you have a future of wealth and privilege ahead of you.”
“And what if I’ve no love for our work?” I said. The words spilled out of me, my emotions brimming over like the head on a poorly poured pint. I felt a sudden urge to cry, in anger, frustration, shame.
Bressinger couldn’t conceal the alarm he felt. His face was too expressive. But given our close proximity over the course of the last two years, he would have had to have been blind, deaf and dumb not to notice that my mood had changed in the past few months.
“But you’ve taken to it like a duck to water,” he said earnestly. “Think about where you started.” He looked around, as though trying to conjure the right words out of the cold air around us. “I’m not meant to tell you this, but Sir Konrad sings your praises to me constantly. He is as proud of you as he would be a favourite daughter.”
I didn’t want to hear these words. He was not telling me anything I did not already know. I was well aware of how Vonvalt viewed me and how he felt about me. Those feelings – that pride, that patriarchal love, that urge to see me succeed and better myself – were the reason why I felt such anguish. I had already seen more of the Empire than most. I had seen the squalor most people lived in. Hell, I had lived it for years in Muldau, the cold, the uncertainty, the fear. Bressinger was right; all I had to do was keep doing what I was doing and I would be eventually sent to the Order to finish my training and become a Justice in my own right.
Yet I just could not see it in those terms. I found lawkeeping mostly drudge work. I was going to end up a stern figure like Vonvalt, haunted by his necromancy, dealing with men like Sir Radomir and Patria Claver, feared by the commonfolk. There was something sad about his itinerant life, devoid as it was of the love of a good woman and a house to call a home. The longer I was exposed to it, the more I wanted to be free of it. Vonvalt might have been wealthy and privileged, but neither seemed to bring him much joy.
“Come, Helena,” Bressinger said, trying to gauge where the source of my unhappiness lay like a man casting a fishing line into a murky lake. “The men of Sova are not like the men of the provinces. The Autun may be many things, but they treat women as equals. You will find many a decent suitor there. A man who will challenge and respect you.”
“Yes, Dubine,” I said, feeling resentful and wretched and eager to close off the conversation.
“You’ve not taken a tumble with this lad, have you?” Bressinger asked suddenly.
“Nema!” I swore. “In what time? We’ve been in the Vale all of five minutes!” Bressinger remained inscrutable. I gritted my teeth. “No, I have not, and it would not be your business if I had!”
“Well, see that you don’t,” Bressinger said sternly, unfazed by my reaction. “If he gets you with child, Sir Konrad will be forced to find another clerk no matter whether you want to stay or go.”
He turned and resumed walking towards Thread Street, and I was, with hindsight, grateful for that; if he had stayed, I would have said things that would have seen me out of Vonvalt’s service as surely as getting pregnant.
We found the shop on Thread Street on the third attempt, since the place was lousy with tailors and dressmakers and all manner of cloth merchants. The shopkeeper was a fussy, bespectacled man who had clearly made a good bet on Grozodan velvets, for he was doing a roaring trade. The shop was as jammed with wealthy merchants’ wives and their serving girls as the wharf-side tavern had been with punters.
The man was rushed off his feet and unimpressed with our Imperial credentials, and we spent far too long trying to get answers from him. The man had already been questioned by Sir Radomir’s men, and was only able to confirm that Lady Bauer had been in the shop with Hana, that they had been perusing the velvets and that Lady Bauer had bidden Hana leave before she herself left.
It was mid-afternoon by the time we exited back on to Thread Street. The sun was low enough so as to be completely obscured by the Tolsburg Marches, and some of the slush on the streets was already re-freezing. To make matters worse, the clouds had drawn in again, and more snowflakes tumbled through the air, driven by the biting wind.
We hurried back to Lord Sauter’s residence. Vonvalt was already inside. I had hoped that we could spend some time discussing the contents of Justice August’s letter further, but I could hear his voice and another man’s, which meant Lord Sauter was probably back. Bressinger and I decloaked and Bressinger removed his sword, and then we were led by one of the servants to the main reception chamber, a room of comfortable warmth and expensive furnishings.
“Ah,” Vonvalt said as we appeared in the doorway. My face was tingling as the heat returned to my blood.
“Welcome to my house,” a fat, bald man who could only have been the mayor said. “Sir Konrad has told me about you both. You must be Dubine and Helena.”
We bowed. “Sire,” Bressinger said.
“Come, sit,” Sauter said. He seemed a pleasant man, and not the stern figure I had expected. I could see instantly why men like Sir Radomir disliked him. For all his good humour he had the mannerisms of the perennially nervous, and it was easy to imagine him besieged by forceful merchants and lords each trying to bend him to their will.
We sat. Food and drink were offered. I saw that Vonvalt had wine, and so Bressinger and I both gratefully accepted some, which was hot and mulled with spices. Protocol forced me to refuse the fare despite my growling stomach, since neither Sauter nor Vonvalt were eating.
“We were about to discuss the murder of Lady Bauer,” Vonvalt said, and I realised that all Bressinger and I had missed were idle preliminaries.
“Yes, yes,” Lord Sauter said, wringing his pudgy hands. “A terrible business. The whole of the Vale is shocked. And not a suspect in sight.”
“You were right to bring it to my attention with such alacrity,” Vonvalt said, taking a sip of wine. “Though I have been impressed by Sheriff Radomir’s zeal for lawkeeping.”
The corners of Lord Sauter’s mouth turned downwards upon hearing the man’s name. “Zeal is the right word,” he said. He fidgeted for a moment. “Speaking candidly, Justice, I was pleased to hear of your arrival. Your reputation as a civilised and wise man precedes you. Sir Radomir has been ennobled by virtue of his position, but he is of a rough and unsavoury character.”
“It is clear that the pair of you are not friends.”
Lord Sauter sighed. “The truth of the matter is, Sir Radomir retains his position only by virtue of my patronage, not that he knows it. He is an effective lawman – too effective for some, if you’ll take my meaning.”
Vonvalt inclined his head.
“He is no friend of mine, that much is certain; but sometimes we must rise above such things for the common good. Criminal activity follows money like the tail on a dog, and Galen’s Vale has a lot of money. Keeping order in a place like this requires men of a certain character.”
Vonvalt was impressed. “To take such a selfless position is admirable,” he said. “I have not come across many who have done the same. Vanity too often overwhelms common sense.”
Sauter was pleased at the compliment, but he could only accept it with a weary shrug. “The Reichskrieg bred many villains, Sir Konrad, villains who have been since ennobled. But having a lordly title does not make one lordly.”
