Chương 155: Chapter 150 - Royal traps

The king had always believed that the best traps were polite ones. Cruel traps had their place, of course. There were wars, sieges, rebellions, road bandits, and all the other ugly necessities that made bards necessary afterward so everyone could pretend it had been heroic somehow. But polite traps had a beauty to them that violence never managed. They were set with good chairs, proper wine, warm food, and enough courtesy that the man stepping into one would thank you for the honour.

And Count Loren had thanked him three times already. The private dining room had been arranged with care. Not too grand, grandeur made nobles cautious, and not too plain, because then they got offended. The table was polished and the hearth had been lit high enough to soften the cold. The queen sat beside the king rather than opposite him tonight, a small arrangement that made the dinner feel less like an audience and more like a favour. The port stood in a covered silver jug near the centre of the table.

That was the important part. The jug was one of the largest they had. Count Loren lifted his cup again, smiling with the first warm confidence of a man who believed the evening had begun well and would continue. He was a thickset man with thinning hair, combed over to hide a receding hairline. His coat was clearly expensive, and his manner was that of a noble who had spent years discovering that most problems could be fed to clerks before they reached him.

The king liked clerks for the same reason, so he had employed many of them. They were invaluable people, provided one remembered that clerks were often too well informed.

"My thanks again for the invitation, Your Majesty," Count Loren said, touching the stem of his cup as he settled against the chair.

"It is no small honour."

"It is good to have pleasant company before winter makes everyone miserable," the king said, lifting his own cup and sipping the port carefully. The queen's eyes moved briefly toward his cup. She had learned about the brewer's port with him. She had not forgiven the port. She had, however, forgiven its usefulness. Count Loren had not yet reached either stage.

"The season will be difficult, I fear," Count Loren said tilting his forward, turning his goblet and slowly shaking his head.

"There is already greater demand for clean-burning oils. Town lanterns, scribes' halls…" The king smiled at him over the rim of his cup.

"Tomorrow," the king said interrupting him and setting his cup down with care.

"Tonight is just dinner." Count Loren eyebrows lifted but then recovered quickly.

"Of course, Your Majesty," he said, inclining his head.

"I meant only that winter does not wait for any man."

"No," the queen said, smoothing one finger along the edge of her napkin.

"Ve but can wait for tonight at least." Count Loren smile, perhaps half a heartbeat too late, but warmly enough.

"Wise as always, Your Majesty," he said, raising his cup toward her. The queen smiled with the calm of a woman who had once planned the social destruction of three duchesses before breakfast. She lifted her own goblet and had a measured sip. The king gestured to the servant nearest the jug. The servant stepped forward and filled Count Loren's cup again. Not quit to the brim but close enough. Just enough to suggest generosity and attentiveness. Count Loren looked down at the dark wine and smiled.

"That wine is great," he said, lifting the cup and breathing it in.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I do not think I have tasted its like."

"It is new," the king said, leaning back slightly as if the matter were only a small pleasure.

"A source I have recently become rather fond of."

"It is sweet," Count Loren said, taking another drink.

"Smooth too. Most wines announce themselves rather loudly, but this one is almost gentle. Everyone knows sweet wines are not very strong." The queen's eyes lowered to her cup and took a sip to hide her smirk. The king nearly laughed at her expression, but did not. That would have been unsporting. By the end of the evening, Loren's cheeks had warmed, his laugh had grown easier, and he had begun telling a story about a parish priest who had once confused lamp oil deliveries with a shipment of tallow.

It was not a good story. The queen listened with perfect grace. The king watched Count Loren finish fourth cup. The king had rose early the next morning. That had required some discipline, not because he had drunk too much, but because a part of him still distrusted mornings after his first true encounter with the port. He had dressed carefully, eaten lightly, and taken tea with enough seriousness that his servants had begun to look concerned.

By the time Count Loren was announced, the king was seated in his office with Lord Calven standing near the side table and three neat stacks of papers arranged before him. The stacks were important as a prop, they made people uncomfortable if information was close at hand. Count Loren entered late. He had not entered badly and the king respected his fortitude at least. Some men surrendered to suffering and called it illness. Loren had clearly fought.

His coat was loose, his boots shone, his hair however was all over the place. His expression however was telling, he had the fragile dignity of a man holding several pieces of himself together through noble blood and spite. His clerk followed close behind, carrying a leather case. The clerk was younger than the count by twenty years, thin-faced, sharp-eyed, and awake enough that the king immediately noted him as a potential threat.

"Your Majesty," Count Loren said, bowing with great care and one hand briefly touching the side of his coat.

"I must apologise for my delay."

"No matter," the king said, gesturing toward the chair before his desk.

"Please, sit. But we can delay no further we should begin." Count Loren sat nodding slowly. He did it slowly and still winced. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. His clerk took the smaller chair beside him and opened the leather case with quick, precise movements. Blank paper came out first, then ink, then a small box for sand, then the signet case. The clerk looked at his lord again. Loren missed it entirely.

The king placed one hand on the first stack of papers.

"As you mentioned last night, walnut oil has become a matter of some interest before winter." Count Loren's eyes sharpened slightly, or tried to, he grunted a little.

"Indeed, Your Majesty," he said, shifting one hand from his knee to the arm of the chair.

"Demand has grown..."

"So I understand," the king said, sliding the top paper forward.

"Clean light is no small thing. The palace uses more lamps than anyone admits, and my officers tell me the forts would prefer oil that smokes less in closed rooms. Clerks want it, churches want it, we all do." Count Loren nodded with a cautious smile.

"Walnut oil has certain advantages, Your Majesty," he said, rubbing one thumb slowly against the chair arm.

"My estates have been fortunate this year."

"Fortunate and industrious," the king said, tapping the paper with two fingers." The clerk looked at the paper. That was the first moment, the king watched the clerks eyes. The clerk's eyes moved across the numbers, stopped, then moved back with careful discipline. His mouth did not open but his shoulders changed by the smallest degree, and suddenly the man was no longer merely attending a meeting. He was looking for where the blade had been hidden. Count Loren was still several paces behind him.

"The figures are accurate, of course," Count Loren said, lifting his chin a little and keeping his eyes half closed.

"Of course," the king said, giving him a small smile. Calven looked down. The clerk did not.

"We want to purchase walnut oil directly from you," the king explained, drawing a second paper from the stack.

"A royal supply. Palace, forts, and some reserves for winter movement. I am sure a loyal count can offer his king a favourable price." The clerk's head turned slightly toward Loren. Count Loren smiled, then winced and rubbed his temples for a moment "Of course, Your Majesty, for a large enough order, I would be honoured to offer ten percent below my usual rate." The king let his face droop to look disappointed. Count Loren saw it. He was too sore-headed to measure it.

"Twenty," Count Loren said quickly, lifting one hand from the chair.

"Twenty percent, naturally, for the crown." The clerk's eyes widened. There was the second moment. The king smiled.

"That is most generous." Count Loren's answering smile was small, but relieved.

"My house is always eager to support the crown," he said, though the words came out slowly and carefully.

"Excellent," the king said, taking the prepared contract from the third stack.

"Then this should be simple." The clerk saw the contract and went still, his eyes closed. The king placed the contract on the desk and turned it so Loren could read.

"We will require forty barrels to begin." Count Loren's smile faded.

"Forty?" he said, leaning forward a little too sharply before he stopped himself.

"At least," the king said, keeping one hand lightly on the edge of the paper.

"The palace is not small, and forts are greedy creatures once winter closes the roads. I would rather over-supply clean oil." Count Loren swallowed.

"Your Majesty, with respect, winter demand has already committed much of my production," he said, raising one hand to the light so he could read.

"There are towns with existing orders."

"Yes," the king said, nodding as if all of that were helpful.

"But your reports show the same. They also show you have the volume." The clerk closed his eyes for one brief moment and glanced to the window before letting a deep breath out of his nose. Count Loren finally looked at him. The count then looked at the contract. The king watched him read, his fingers knitted on the table. It took longer than it should have, the contract had been made very simple and Merenholt had made sure of that. The numbers sat plainly, almost kindly, in the middle of the page.

Reported sale values, reported profit, royal rate calculated from those figures. Twenty percent below the price Count Loren's own documents had taught the crown to believe. The count read it once. Then again. His face changed in layers. First confusion, then irritation, then comprehension arriving late and unwelcome. The clerk looked as if he had aged three years since entering the room.

"This price," Count Loren said, placing one finger on the line while his other hand gripped the chair arm.

"This is based on reported trade value."

"Yes," the king said, leaning back with relaxed interest.

"Your reported trade value of course." Count Loren looked up. His eyes were clearer now. Pain and fear had managed what water had not. That was the trap in its purest form. The count could explain the truth, or he could remain respectable. He could say that the price was impossible only if he admitted that his reported figures were fiction. Not unusual, of course. The king was not a child. Every noble massaged tax reports like an old soldier rubbing a bad knee before rain. Harvests lost weight inexplicably.

Transport costs would swell and spoilage became heroic. Profits became shy and difficult to locate. But one did not say that aloud in the royal office while sitting in front of signed papers. Especially not with one's clerk present. Especially not while the king smiled.

"Your Majesty," Count Loren said, wetting his lips as he looked down at the contract again.

"Perhaps the quantity could be reduced for the first order?"

"It could," the king said, folding his hands over his stomach.

"But then the remaining orders would fall outside the generous rate you have offered me this morning, and I would hate to create extra work for your clerks." The clerk looked at the king with something close to betrayal, though not personal betrayal. Professional betrayal, the expression of a man watching paperwork used correctly for the wrong side.

"The timing then," Count Loren said, pressing two fingers briefly against his brow before lowering them.

"Forty barrels before the deepest winter may..."

"Your production records suggest otherwise," the king said, touching the first stack of papers.

"And my household can provide carts for the first movement if that eases matters." Count Loren stared at the documents. The room became very quiet. Outside the office, somewhere far away in the palace, a servant's shoes passed along stone and faded. The hearth gave a small pop. The clerk breathed through his nose with the care of a man trying not to become part of the disaster. At last Count Loren picked up the pen. His hand paused over the contract.

The king saw the last attempt at escape move through him and fail to find a door.

"A count's loyalty should never be in doubt," Count Loren said, signing his name with stiffness.

"Indeed," the king said, inclining his head. The clerk opened the signet case. He did it almost mournfully, as if the little seal inside had been asked to attend a funeral with no time to dress properly. He warmed the wax, pressed the signet, and lifted it away to leave the mark of House Loren beside the count's name. The king waited until the wax cooled. Then he drew the contract back.

"I appreciate your service," the king said with a pleasant smile, placing the paper atop the correct stack.

"Take the rest of the morning if you need it." Not long after the count had made his pleasantries and left did Calvern finally speak up.

"That was admirably handled, Your Majesty," Calven said, stepping closer with both hands folded behind his back.

"The port did most of the work," the king said, looking down at the sealed contract with a predatory grin.

"Still, Your Majesty," Calven said, allowing himself the smallest smile. The king handed Calvern another document and his smile faded as he read it. The king grinned smugly.

"That is what Loren charged the eastern shipyard last month." Calven read the numbers. His eyebrows rose.

"Ah," Calven said, holding the paper a little tighter.

"There is a big difference."

"Of course there is, I would be suspicious if there wasn't one," the king said, tapping the sealed contract once with his finger.

"Send for Merenholt. I want his people to compare Count Loren's reports to whoever he sold to." Calven nodded.

"Back taxes, Your Majesty?"

"If Merenholt finds what we know he will find, then back taxes, penalties, and a reminder," the king said, leaning back in his chair. Calven lowered the shipyard document.

"And if Loren complains?" The king looked toward the door through which the count had left.

"He will not complain loudly," the king said, folding his hands together.

"A man may object to being trapped. He is usually more cautious when the trap is made in his own handwriting." Calven bowed his head, but the corner of his mouth moved into a grin himself. The king let himself enjoy the moment. He had gained cheap, clean-burning oil for the palace and the forts. He had likely gained a path toward unpaid gold. It had been a good morning's work.

"At this rate," the king said, leaning back into the chair, "I may run out of port before winter ends." Calven put the document down on the table.

"Shall I request more from the brewer, Your Majesty?" Calven said, smoothing his expression with admirable effort. The king considered it.

"I would love to say yes," he said, shifting to one side.

"But I think he is mad enough at me as is."