Page 89 of Traitor Son

“A tariff by port, Your Grace,” said Bendir, indicating multiple black markers on the map. “You have a monopoly on the river; anyone wishing to use it for trade must use your ships and pay your price. You can charge fees for transport based on portage rather than miles, as that will be the greater constraint. We have done some calculations, to project volume, expenses, and profits…”

He ran through the list of expenses first, being a glass-half-empty sort of fellow, and made sure that Remin understood that there were other factors were likely to crop up that they hadn’t anticipated, as well as factors they could anticipate but not quantify: the other duchies were likely to lower their tariffs in response, for example, but who could say when, or by how much.

But when all was said and done, the profit wasstaggering.

“You’re quite sure?” Remin’s eyes narrowed as he skimmed the figures. He didn’t know much about trade, but he knew how much things cost. He knew exactly how much gold it had taken to arm and feed his army. He knew how much it was going to cost to build Tresingale, from the walls to the town to the manor house.

With the profits from the river trade, he could build another Tresingale every three years.

“Quite sure,” said Bendir, with the avaricious delight of a born merchant. “The Brede is the only river that feeds into the Sea of Eskai for a hundred miles. And no matter how low the other duchies set their tariffs, they will never match your speed. Travel on the Brede does not require horses or oxen, who must be fed, who might throw shoes, or who might be injured or sicken. The only other obstacle is the port cities. There isn’t enough room on the river for you to match a Sideriel or Alenre.”

“Then we’ll build on the sea,” Remin said instantly. His mind was already racing ahead, calculating the position of greatest advantage. He knew the place where the Brede ran out into the sea; on the north side,it was surmounted by the Cliffs of Marren, high and treacherous, stretching all the way from the Brede to the border of the neighboring country of K’ar Yez. There was a reason the Empire had never tried to invade by sea. “We’ll dig all the way down to the water and build our own port. Edemir—”

“I know.” The knight sighed, resigned, but his eyes gleamed at the prospect. “I’ll find out how long it would take and how much it would cost.”

“A port on this side of the Brede,” Bendir breathed. “Your Grace. I can say with some certainty that you would recoup your investment within a decade, and likely much sooner.”

It wasn’t even the prospect of money that excited Remin, though if everything went to plan, he would be wealthier than some nations. After a discussion like that, he left the office feeling so exhilarated, he hardly knew what to do with himself. He wanted to see those ships on the river. When the manor house was done, he would be able to watch them sailing by from his bedroom windows. The talk of building a port city of his own made him want to saddle his horse and race to the Cliffs of Marren to tear the earth out of his way with his bare hands.

And what of the world beyond the Brede, and the Sea of Eskai? K’ar Yez was right there, a poor country that was nonetheless rich in resources. They had remained understandably neutral during the last war with Valleth; their country was so rugged and inhospitable that the inhabitants scraped a meager living, and they had been cruelly chastised for supporting the Empire in the past. Every gem in those mountains had to be pried out by the fingernails. Remin was neither an invader nor a pirate, but soon, he would be positioned to make some serious investments. What could he do, if he worked with the clans of K’ar Yez, and gave them passage to his port city to trade the wealth of their lands?

He had barely gotten half a mile down the road, and he instantly turned his horse around and galloped back, bursting into Edemir’s office with this latest inspiration.

“We are not a sovereign nation,” Edemir reminded him, and not for the first time. “Such trade would have to go through the Court of Merchants, Rem.”

That dented his enthusiasm. Just a little.

He could be his own nation, though.

It was dangerous even to think that. It was greedy. And though nothing he had gained could ever replace what had been taken from him, Remin knew when to quit while he was ahead. Or at least pause, and think very, very carefully before he proceeded any further.

He was a young man with his whole life ahead of him, after all. And the Emperor was growing old.

The valley and all its cares sometimes felt so far removed from the rest of the Empire that it was easy to forget they existed. But Remin knew that even if he wasn’t thinking about the Emperor, the Emperor was almost definitely thinking about him.

That was the reason for another meeting in Edemir’s offices a few days later. Every few days, Remin called his knights together to discuss more sensitive topics.

“They call themselves the Clocksmen,” explained Bram, who had forged a lifetime of questionable connections and frequently made use of them on Remin’s behalf. Before them on the table was a copy of the tattoo they had found on the assassin in Granholme, the many-spoked clock and slit-pupiled eye. “They say they know the hour of your death.”

“Shouldn’t they say the minute, if they want to charge for a service?” drawled Miche, unimpressed.

“Go on, Bram,” Remin said, though he did appreciate Miche’s irreverence. Ever since he was a boy, Miche had been taking the terror out of terrible things.

“They’re originally out of Rendeva. Swords for hire who want to pretend they’re something more.” Bram shrugged one shoulder, contemptuous as always of such conceits. “They have been known to operate in the Empire, so it’s not likely they called one just for you, Rem. This fellow in Granholme was likely nearby on another job, and got tapped to do you at the last minute.”

“Were there any other deaths in Firkane, or the neighboring duchies?” Juste asked. He would be taking over the matter from Bram, now that they had something to go on.

“There was,” Bram confirmed. “Duke Firkane has been having trouble with one of his bannermen. Count Morbray had a hunting accident four days before we reached Granholme. He was forty-three and notoriously cautious, given his relations with his lord.”

There was no guarantee it was related. All of it was circumstantial evidence, but it threw the weight of circumstance onto the Duke of Firkane, who loved the Emperor, rather than the Princess Ophele, who had never laid eyes on him.

Something untwisted inside Remin at the thought. But…could she have been in league with him? Could he besurethat she had passed no messages, that afternoon in Granholme? Or even just acted to delay him in her bed? His jaw clenched as he looked at the picture of the spoked wheel and its angry red eye. He just couldn’t know.

“I’ll give this to Juste,” he said, as they had all known he would. “I would like proof, Juste. One way or the other.”

Juste nodded, his pale blue eyes as placid as ever.

“We’ll have to send someone,” he said. “Not me. The Knights of the Brede are too well known to be discreet. But we will need people in the Empire more generally, beyond this specific task. Our reach there is too tenuous, at present.”

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