"Sign the book, Ieske," I say, handing her a quill. "And bring me some more of those potatoes. They are delicious."
She signs. Ieske Kroes.
"One more thing," I add, as she retreats to the kitchen. "The stable boys. Are they saving their wages?"
"They hide them in the hayloft," she admits.
"Get them Blue Bowls," I order. "We will send a crate on the return trip. No one I know hides money in the hay."
Kenric watches her go, then looks at me over his pheasant.
"You really never stop, do you?" he asks. "Even at lunch."
"Lunch is just a transaction with food, Kenric," I say, pouring more ale. "And I intend to own the table."
Jan Vermeersch has never held a sword. He has held quills, he has held abacuses, and he has held the weeping hands of widows, but he has never held a weapon. Yet, as he stands in the foyer of the Royal Fey Bank at two in the morning, watching the heavy oak doors shake under the pounding of armored fists, he feels like a soldier on the front line.
"Open up!" The wood muffles the voice, but it is unmistakable. It is high, slightly slurred, and imperious. King Oskar.
Jan looks at the man standing beside him. Captain Haldor. Haldor is not from Centis. He is a mercenary from the Southern Isles, hired by the Princess three weeks ago. He is wide, he is scarred, and he is currently eating an apple with infuriating calmness.
"Shall I let him in?" Haldor asks, chewing.
"It is the King," Jan squeaks.
"It is a liability," Haldor corrects. He swallows. "Open it, if you must. But just the main leaf."
Jan gives him a look.
Haldor shrugs, "He's the king of Centis, but this is Fey soil."
Jan unlocks the heavy iron bolts. He pulls the door open.
King Oskar stands there in the torchlight. He is flushed. His velvet doublet is stained with wine. Behind him stand six members of the Royal Guard, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.
"About time!" Oskar snaps, pushing past Jan into the lobby. "Do you know how cold it is? I need a withdrawal. Immediately."
"Your Majesty," Jan bows low, his heart hammering against his ribs. "The... the bank is closed."
"I am the King!" Oskar shouts, his voice echoing off the high marble ceiling. "The bank is never closed to me! I have a debt to settle with Duke De Boer, and I need... three thousand crowns. Gold."
Jan swallows. This is it. The moment the Princess warned him about.
"I... I cannot access the main vault, Your Majesty," Jan stammers. "The Princess initiated a security lockdown on the Strategic Reserves before she left. Clause 11. It is... badgers, Sire. Something she says her king insists upon."
"Badgers?" Oskar’s face turns a dangerous shade of purple. He turns to his Royal Guard. "Captain Hrolf! Seize the keys from this clerk. If he refuses, break down the vault door."
Captain Hrolf steps forward, but stops abruptly.
Because Captain Haldor steps in front of Jan. And from the shadows of the hallway, the other guards in Fey livery emerge, leveling crossbows directly at the Royal Guard.
"Jurisdiction, gentlemen," Haldor says, his voice like grinding stones. "This is Fey soil. Swords down."
Oskar vibrates with rage. He looks at the crossbows. He looks at Jan.
"You are refusing your King?" he hisses. "I need that gold. I will not be humiliated by De Boer!"
"I cannot open the Reserves," Jan says quickly, his hands shaking as he reaches under the counter. "However... Her Highness did anticipate that Your Majesty might have... urgent expenses."
Oskar freezes. "She did?"
"She left instructions for a specific financial instrument," Jan explains, pulling out a black folder sealed with red wax. "The Emergency Sovereign Liquidity Fund."
Oskar sniffs. "Well. At least she has some sense."
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"There are... terms," Jan warns, breaking the seal.
"I don't care about terms," Oskar snaps, holding out his hand. "Give me the quill."
"Your Majesty, I am required to read them," Jan insists, his voice trembling but his resolve holding. He finds the courage in the fact that Haldor is looming over him like a guardian gargoyle.
"The loan is capped at five thousand gold crowns," Jan reads.
"I only need three," Oskar waves a hand. "Fine. What else?"
"The interest rate," Jan says, looking at the number Víl? wrote in her sharp, angular script. "Is forty percent."
Silence descends on the lobby. Even Captain Hrolf looks up, startled.
"Forty percent?" Oskar laughs. "That is usury! That is criminal!"
"It is the 'High Risk Unsecured' rate, Your Majesty," Jan apologizes. "Since the Crown has no current deposits to secure the loan against, the Princess designated this as a 'Distressed Asset' transaction."
"Distressed Asset..." Oskar mutters, the insult flying right over his head. He looks at the contract. He looks at the door, where he knows Duke DeBoer is waiting at the card table, probably smirking, probably telling the other Dukes that the King is broke.
The humiliation of walking away is worse than the math. Oskar has never been good at math anyway.
"Forty percent," Oskar rationalizes aloud. "I will pay it back next week. When the tax collectors come in from the South, I'll have plenty of money. It will be nothing."
He grabs the quill. He signs with a flourish. Oskar Rex.
"Give me the gold," he demands.
Jan takes the contract. He blows on the ink. He files it carefully in the iron box. Then, he unlocks the small strongbox, the one Víl? told him to keep specifically for this moment.
He counts out three thousand gold crowns into heavy canvas bags.
"Your gold, Your Majesty," Jan says.
Oskar gestures for his guards to take the bags. He looks at Jan with a sneer.
"Tell the Princess," Oskar says, adjusting his cloak, "that her 'terms' are insulting. And that I will clear this debt before she even returns from Varpua."
"I will convey the message, Sire," Jan bows.
Oskar turns and marches out, his guards hauling the heavy bags of gold. The doors slam shut.
Jan collapses against the counter, exhaling a breath he feels he has been holding for ten minutes.
"Forty percent," Haldor whistles low, holstering his dagger. "He's never going to pay that back."
"No," Jan agrees, looking at the signed contract. "He isn't."
"So what happens when he defaults?" Haldor asks.
Jan looks at the fine print on the bottom of the document. Víl?’s handwriting is small, precise, and vicious.
Collateral upon default: The Royal Hunting Grounds of Blackwood, including timber rights and fauna.
"He thinks he bought a night of gambling," Jan whispers. "But I think he just sold a forest."
"Remind me never to borrow money from her," Haldor says, taking a bite of his apple.
"A wise policy, Captain," Jan says, extinguishing the candle. "A very wise policy."
Captain Hrolf watches the King stomp back toward the warmth of the palace, the heavy bags of gold swinging in the hands of the two junior guards following him. Oskar is muttering about "insolence" and "badgers," while mentally spending the money at Duke De Boer’s card table.
Hrolf does not follow him. His shift ended the moment the King entered the private residence.
"Dismissed," Hrolf grunts to the remaining men. "Go home. Keep your mouths shut about tonight."
"Aye, Captain," they murmur, looking relieved.
They do not head toward the damp, stone catacombs of the old castle barracks. Instead, they turn en masse and head toward the West Gate, toward the cluster of new row houses that rose up three months ago like mushrooms after rain.
Hrolf walks with them. The wind is biting, carrying the scent of snow from the mountains, but Hrolf pulls his Fey-funded cloak tighter. It is wool, lined with rabbit fur, and it is waterproof. It is the best piece of clothing he has ever owned. His feet are warm, even in this weather, because of his boots which Víl? also paid for.
He reaches his own front door, a sturdy oak slab with a brass knocker. He opens it and is immediately hit by a wall of warmth.
"Hrolf?" his wife, Marta, calls from the kitchen. "You're late. The stew is still hot."
Hrolf hangs up his cloak and sword. He walks into the kitchen. The floors are not cold stone; they are wood, polished and smooth. The windows are not drafty slits; they are glazed with clear glass that keeps the heat in.
He sits at the table. Marta puts a bowl of beef stew in front of him. Real beef.
"Did you get the letter?" Marta asks, sitting opposite him with her knitting.
"What letter?" Hrolf asks.
"From the landlord," she says. "Well, from the Fey Bank. They sent a notice today. They are upgrading the insulation in the attics next week. Something about 'winter efficiency standards.' And they are lowering the rent again."
Hrolf freezes, his spoon halfway to his mouth.
"Lowering it?"
"To zero," Marta smiles, looking around the cozy room. "The notice said that as long as the head of the household remains in 'Good Standing' with the security protocols of the Fey Embassy, the housing subsidy is one hundred percent."
Hrolf lowers the spoon.
He thinks about the crossbows at the bank. He thinks about Molt's unconcerned face.
The Princess didn't just hire mercenaries. She bought the mortgage on his life.
Technically, this row of houses sits on land purchased by the Fey Bank four months ago. It is, by deed and charter, private property of the Embassy. Fey Soil.
If Hrolf had ordered his men to storm the bank tonight... if he had drawn his sword against Jan Vermeersch... he wouldn't just be attacking a bank. He would be evicting his own family. He would be throwing Marta and their two sons out into the snow.
"Hrolf?" Marta asks, seeing his face. "Is something wrong?"
Hrolf takes a bite of the stew. It is rich and salty.
"No," he says quietly. "Nothing is wrong. The insulation is a good idea."
He realizes now why the other guards looked so relieved when he backed down. They all got the same letter. They all live on Fey soil.
King Oskar thinks he commands the loyalty of the Guard because he wears the crown. But the Princess commands their loyalty because she keeps their children warm.
The port city of Varpua smells of salt, tar, and dead fish. It is bracing.
I am standing on the end of the rotting wooden pier, the wind whipping my hair across my face. Kenric is beside me, holding a handkerchief to his nose.
"It is... pungent," he notes.
"It is the smell of opportunity," I correct him. "And neglect."
A gull screams overhead. I watch the grey waves batter the pylons. The wood shudders.
"Princess!"
I turn. A courier in the green and gold livery of the Bank is running down the dock, dodging fish guts and coils of rope. He looks exhausted. He must have ridden hard.
He skids to a halt and bows, handing me a sealed leather pouch.
"From Master Vermeersch, Your Highness. Urgent."
Kenric stiffens. "Trouble?"
"Inevitability," I say, breaking the seal.
OH. MY. STARS.
banquet of political comedy, stealth power grabs, and one of the funniest banking interactions I’ve ever witnessed in my centuries-long habit of listening at keyholes.
The princess goes on a business trip and Jan enters his villian phase.
- “Give the King pocket money, it keeps him quiet.”
- “If he tries to touch the big money, activate CLAUSE 11.”
- “Yes, CLAUSE 11. The badger clause.”
- “No, Jan, BADGERS ARE NOT A JOKE.”
Clause 11
Oskar tries a 2AM raid on the bank.
Then the standoff between the Royal Guard and the Fey Guard.
swooned.
Then we get into the loan terms.
FORTY. PERCENT. INTEREST.
- humiliated
- stubborn
- bad at math
The Royal Hunting Grounds of Blackwood.
We find out that the Fey Bank is housing the Royal Guard.
zero.
If you draw a sword against the Princess or her agents, you are voluntarily evicting your entire family.
The Princess and Kenric reach the port city.It smells like:
- fish rot
- seaweed
- broken dreams
But to the Princess, it smells like:
- money
- solvency
- strategic leverage
A courier arrives with news from Jan. Urgent news.
She calls it:
“Inevitability.”
And truly? It is.
- What do you think of her policy of aggressive kindness?