The Duke's Decision

“Are we fated for disaster? The York Textile Company, that is?” Alric took a polite sip of his tea, waiting for a reply.

Archmage Warin shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve looked over the financial accounts you sent me and the projections. The former suggest that unless you can scrounge up at least a thousand pounds from somewhere, you’re likely to run out of operating cash before any revenues materialize. The latter seem to optimistically assume that nobody in Oxford will be able to undercut your paper-bleaching process on costs for at least three years, that your reclusive master alchemist won’t abuse the secrecy of his formula to hike the price of his whitening agent, and don’t seem to include any accounting for costs of necromantic maintenance or replacement skeletons.”

“It’s true that we’re in need of more cash, and that’s one reason why I’ve approached you as a possible investor.” Alric sipped his tea. “I share your concerns about Master Wallace, especially given his reluctance to move to York and work here instead of in his tower. While it’s not on the company’s balance sheets, the local collegium as a group is buying his whitening agent as quickly as he can produce it. It may be dangerous and difficult to store, but we’ve got protected alchemical storage on site at the collegium already. We’ll sell it to the company at the expected price when the time comes. By the time the paper mill is up to full production volume, the collegium should have a reserve large enough to limit Master Wallace’s leverage.”

“I see. And the necromantic maintenance?”

“Part of why the collegium has its investment at a two to one advantage is that the other investors expect us to help provide basic magical support.” Alric smiled. “We can’t compel our members to work for free, but we’re planning on offering regular practicums utilizing the mill. I anticipate that student tuition for the practicums will effectively fund all the necessary necromantic maintenance.”

Warin quirked an eyebrow. “In Cambridge, most necromancy students can easily find well-paying apprenticeships in local industry; there’s little demand for practicums in necromancy, as there is ample demand for basic necromantic services.”

“Things are quite different in York. After all, there’s little local industry here in York thus far,” Alric said. “With the supply of corpses being tight, few people want to entrust valuable necromantic resources to a half-trained apprentice. Employers all want experience, and the only way to get that experience is through employment. I know of a local field necromancer specialized in agricultural work who takes on unpaid assistants regularly.”

“Interesting.” Warin took a final sip of his tea, peering for a brief moment at the bottom of his empty cup. “While I appreciate your prompt responsiveness to my requests, I’m afraid I’m not ready to invest in the York Textile Company just yet.”

“Are you sure? I’m pretty sure that if you acted now, we could establish your share of investment at the favorable rate the collegium’s investment has received,” Alric said. “After all, as you say, we’re in a bit of a tight spot as far as short-term cash flow is concerned, and I appreciate the fact that you are a diviner archmage who could provide exceptionally valuable advice to the company on a continuing basis. You’d get twice the dividend relative to your cash investment as Edward Taylor, who is the main investor. But once we solve those near-term cash flow problems, my partners might not be as amenable to such advantageous terms of investment.”

“I understand.” Warin set his teacup down. “However, most of my attention has been focused on my research, and I will need to reconsider my personal financial accounts and projections after dealing with certain probable near-term expenditures.”

“Unfortunate, but also understandable.” Alric sighed heavily and set down his own teacup as the archmage stood to take his leave. “Will you be interested in giving any further lectures at the collegium?”

“Perhaps in a few weeks.” Warin said, nodding thoughtfully. “Well, I must be off. My ward has seen fit to make a rather expensive purchase at one of the local shops, and I feel obligated to check to make sure the money was well-spent.”

Alric waved as the archmage departed the tea shop, then turned back to his half-full teacup. Perhaps some biscuits were in order, and another pot of tea. The diviner had given him several things to think about.

Alric glared at the taller of the two stacks of papers on his desk. And I’m not even halfway done. This is the last time I invite essays from students. The next time one of them says something stupid, I’ll just mock them and move on.

Thus far, three essays had been completely illegible, two had done little more than badly rehearse the first half of his lecture, and two others had echoed the impertinent student’s argument in favor of substituting divination for proper recording and mathematical projection of population figures. The paradox of prophecy had clearly gone right over their heads, blown away by the detailed images that the visiting archmage had conjured of the legendary Pendragon during his lecture on his recent research.

“The future changes. History doesn’t,” Alric growled under his breath at the blithe ignorance set down on the page in front of him. The words on the page blurred as his eyes unfocused and his thoughts turned inwards.

To be fair to his overawed students, the archmage could easily have ranked as a master illusionist with the vivid images he’d drawn in the air. The golden skin and violet eyes of the Pendragon had sparkled as if in bright sunlight, and the figure of legend looked as alive and real as the Silver Duke. And, unfortunately, in spite of strikingly different coloration, shared the duke’s lanky figure, slit-pupiled eyes, and pointed ears, which explained Archmage Warin’s sudden interest in England’s most backwards duchy.

The obvious explanation was that the diviner had his head stuck in the past, and was hoping to study the duke in person, using him as a material focus to divine some clue related to the legend of the Pendragon. Meanwhile, Alric was trying to teach his students to look to the future, not the past. History and divination were distractions from more practical studies – necromancy, alchemy, and – last but not least – economics, including the proper mathematical accounting of human-derived resources.

There was a knock on his door and his head jerked up, embarrassed. Had he been loud enough to be heard when he’d spoken aloud in anger? “Come in,” he called out.

The figure revealed by the opening door was too youthful to be the archmage, with a face far too familiar to Alric. Master William Taylor was a credentialed necromancer with full membership in the collegium in spite of the fact that his occasional lectures were never well-attended. His cousin Edward had enough money and influence that William’s shortcomings as a teacher could be overlooked.

“William, what brings you to my office?” Alric set the page full of student idiocy back onto the taller pile, pushing it several inches away in a polite gesture of attention.

“A letter addressed to the board of the collegium,” William said, nervously running his hands through his wispy hair and uncovering his bald spot. “The Baron de Greystoke has offered to buy out the site for the mill, with the building as it stands, for eight hundred pounds sterling.”

“That seems insultingly low,” Alric said. “It must be a negotiating strategy.”

“The board of the collegium is nervous, Alric. Our costs have been outrunning projections; the duke has not eased his archaic restrictions; then not just an archmage but a diviner archmage shows up and turns down the opportunity to join the company on advantageous terms. Then, the very next day, this letter. Half the board now suspects our enterprise is destined to fail.”

Alric shook his head. “Nothing is truly destined. It’s the basic paradox of prophecy. To the degree that divination of the future can be understood, it is conversely limited in accuracy. To predict something exactly is to know how to prevent it.”

William crossed his arms unhappily as Alric spoke. “Well, the board is worried about what the diviner knows that we don’t. And now, what Henry de Greystoke knows that we don’t.”

“Or what he’s going to do,” Alric said, rubbing his nose. “I have a bad feeling about that baron.”

Baron Henry de Greystoke lifted his mug high. “To your duke’s health! Long may he live!”

A chorus of joyful noise answered him, filling the taproom of the Golden Fleece. Alric joined the toast with a degree of enthusiasm that fell short even of his own lackluster repetition of the phrase. He was dressed in a faded blue and red doublet with matching faded blue hose rather than his usual dignified robes and wearing a face that had once belonged to a lover’s older brother, and ale – even good ale – wasn’t much to his taste. Wine was preferable, wine or brandy.

So far, he’d learned that the Cumbrian baron was staying at the Golden Fleece (York’s newest inn), had an invitation to meet the duke in three days, the day after Isolde’s upcoming ball, was good friends with a knight named Sir Simon, had three daughters, and had a wife who looked to be the same age as one of his daughters. Finally, Henry de Greystoke was not a wizard of any notable capability.

Given that the appearance of youth was entirely achievable by magical if expensive means and the duchy of Cumbria was nowhere near as backwards as York, that suggested to Alric that the baron was wealthy enough to afford to make a real offer on the site of the manufactory. Quite possibly wealthy enough to buy out the York Textile Company honestly.

And yet the man was waiting for Alric and his partners to become desperate enough to sell off its main material asset of the company out of desperation or frustration. The simplest explanation was that the Baron Greystoke had made arrangements with the duke to force the York Textile Company out of business. After buying the property on the cheap, Henry de Greystoke would then bring in his own Cumbrian skeletons and put the facility into operation under sole ownership.

Alric choked down another swallow of ale as the cheerful baron slapped his startled wife’s derriere and squeezed Simon’s shoulder. The crude men around the baron laughed and shouted encouragements to their new favorite buyer of drinks.

“Aristocratic blood is wasted on an ale-drinker,” Alric grumbled in a low voice.

The man next to him turned, lurching to a vertical position. Chin-length brown and gray hair framed emerald eyes that focused on him with indignation and anger. “If your father kept his purse from you, you’d struggle to find other than ale to drink, baron’s son or no,” the man said. “And ale’s a fine thing. Does the job.”

“Sorry,” Alric said. “I wasn’t talking about you. I didn’t mean to insult you, I don’t even know who you are.”

“Joseph Matthew,” the man said, standing up proudly with one hand grasping the bar for stability and the other clapped over his chest. “Like my father the baron. I’ll defend my honor, sir, whoever you are.”

“Please, no insult was meant,” Alric said quickly, holding up his hands as the man behind the bar warily looked in the direction of the angered nobleman. “You deserve a cup, no, a glass of brandy.”

“Shilling extra for the glass,” the innkeeper said. “As I’m not liable to get it back in one piece.”

Alric reluctantly fished three shillings out of his pocket and placed them on the bar. “Two glasses of brandy, and I promise I won’t break my glass.”

“You will if you get in a fight with him,” the innkeeper said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“A fight, is it?” Joseph flexed his right hand into a fist.

Alric hastily added a fourth shilling. “No fight, just buying you a glass of brandy. Because you deserve one.” And so do I, he thought to himself, glaring over at the cheerful ale-slurping, butt-slapping, drink-buying public embarrassment of a baron who wanted to destroy Alric’s dreams.

The innkeeper returned with two glasses, measuring three fingers of an amber liquid into each. Having already paid for the glass and settled on a dislike of the atmosphere of York’s newest inn, Alric took the brandy and walked briskly out, ignoring the innkeeper’s shouted objection. He headed downhill and didn’t stop until he reached the bridge over the Ouse; he sipped the brandy as he stared at the dark nighttime waters of the Ouse flowing beneath his feet.

That felt right. The waters were as dark as his thoughts and his mood.