The Clerk and the Chamberlain

"Don't you ever sleep?" Chamberlain Jay Melicter stood in the doorway to his office, stroking his immaculate goatee with a knowing smirk. The darkness obscured the orderliness of the the Chamberlain’s office, leaving the impression that the entire office operated under the same scattered chaos as the one lamp-lit desk.

The single lamp’s soft glow reminded him of the shadowy chamber he had left just moments ago. He could still smell her perfume. Lady Anne Melicter, his sister-in-law, had summoned him in the late hours of the evening. That was not unusual in and of itself, but the discussion had been about everything but the usual. The time is now, my dear, with or without Edward’s goblin mercenaries. Our hand has been forced. If they have not yet seen the girl, they will soon. So many secrets, and now so little time… Even in her panic, she had been stunning. He sighed softly at the thought of her soft touch.

Jay's eyes passed over the books on the clerk's small oaken shelf. Two stood out. "How to Spot a Doppleganger" and "The Secrets of the Stars and Sands: a Diviner's Tale". So his young clerk was taken with the arcane, divinations in particular. That was slightly disturbing, but ultimately, the chamberlain thought, of little consequence on a night like tonight.

The pale Courbon clerk looked up from a stack of loan notes, his bleary eyes peaking out from behind a lock of auburn hair. "Sleep? He stretched, looking vaguely annoyed by the interruption. He gave the chamberlain a dark look, "My dreams are too dark. I hate sleep."

He did indeed. Philippe de Molliens was frequently at his desk well into the morning hours. It occurred to him that perhaps Philippe might have heard something the night Sir Victor died. He decided not to mention that, though.

"And the girl? Does she hate sleep as well?"

The clerk stared back, his eyes saying nothing. "Girl?"

"The mousy one I saw rushing down the hall just now with a smile on her face. Lady Melodia Gryne." The clerk stayed quiet. "Philippe, are you a complete fool? I say this to you as a friend and mentor, be careful with that one. She is a noble, and a daughter of an important duke. Do you think he will allow her to marry a commoner? It doesn't matter who your father is. That simply does not happen in Prendor."

The chamberlain sighed at his clerk's stony stare. "That was not why I came here tonight. Philippe, you know I have been pleasantly surprised by your aptitude in the time you have been my clerk. Your skill at finding coin where none exists is unmatched in Larrae. And there will always be a place for such a person in the King's Court if... if... you can keep your head low and out of sight. Especially in the next few days."

"The next few days? What..." Philippe began carefully.

"What did I just say. Is asking questions keeping your head low? No. As I have said, I am fond of you, and find you quite useful... to the realm. When the time comes to choose sides, and it will come, I would suggest you be nowhere to be found. For a clerk of such skill, your stupidity astounds me! I would hate to lose an asset such as you because you rushed headlong into politics." The chamberlain turned to leave, "Stay out of sight, Philippe. There are dark times ahead in Larrae."

As he walked away, the chamberlain thought to himself that Philippe was far too intelligent and competent to be as naive as he seemed. Perhaps the Queen had already gotten to him. Or perhaps Prince Edward. He dismissed the notion, and his mind moved on to other, more pressing matters.

As soon as the chamberlain was gone, Philippe darted from the room, voices shouting at him in his mind. His friends… his sword… his money… Melodia…

The Proposition

“But by selling your raw wool to the Simbelese brokers, you leave most of the profit laying on the table for the dyers and the weavers guild. What the Aggregate needs here is a complete vertical operation—sheep, dye manufacture, spinning combine, weaving, and manufacture and then our merchants and ships can clothe the peoples of the Long Sea and extract the entire profit from the end users. Isn’t it obvious and self-evident!?” exclaimed the skinny but royally clothed teen cripple in a final crescendo of logic.

The blank faces of most representatives of the Benthian Wool Aggregate said it all. Martyk, the oldest of the group and its unofficial leader, however, had heard enough. “But you know the dyes needed to compete in the market are to be found only in Simbelin, and that there is no more closely guarded secret in all of Simbelin than the formulas for those dyes. You could sooner access the maps of the many portals of Ranoc’s Tower than get your hands on the secrets of the Simbelese Dyers Guild. We are shepherds, not magicians, we know sheep and the shearing, not the ways of the vat, wheel, and loom. Look at yourself, young popinjay, in your fashionable court garb in the latest cuts and frills and colors, you would not be caught dead in the locally crafted dross available to those of lesser means, you are a walking advertisement for the Simbelese monopolists”. The leader of the Aggregate concluded his remarks and began to rise along with his more silent fellows from the plain wooden table in the backroom of the wool warehouse in the docks district of Larrae.

The teen smiled and seemed flattered by the compliments on his dress. “Martyk, you like?”, he asked, awkwardly twirling with his staff in hand to show off the long tails in back which fluttered behind as he spun. “That’s great—because I made these here in Larrae, with wool I purchased at this very warehouse, spun into yarn by my own hand, dyed in my own bathtub, and woven on the loom in my bedroom. I must confess, I had some help with the tailoring. This is merely a copy of a Simbelese original from the House of Dontre, purchased three weeks ago from Hillbottle Clothiers for nearly 200 crowns.“ Reaching into the well-worn Haversack on the table next to him, he pulled out the original outfit and held it up for inspection and comparison. “Can you tell the difference?”

Martyk and his grizzled fellows crowded around the youth, rubbing their fingers across the materials of both the original and the copy, pulling him closer to the small lone window to get a look at the colors in the natural light. “It’s good, Martyk”, said one member who sheep farmed 300 acres below the Castle of the Star in central Benth. “I can’t tell the difference in the feel—and I’ll swear the colors are BETTER in the copy—look at the sheen on that purple and the blood red on the sleeve”.

After everyone had gotten a feel and a look, and satisfied themselves that the copy was at least as high quality as the original, everyone returned to their seats. Martyk looked at the boy appraisingly, and said “My young prince, you are not the first to buy smuggled dye out of Simbelin, but unless you manage to get a wagonload, there is just no commercial application to this idea.”

“That is the beauty of my idea”, beamed the now smug looking Simon Bale. “I did not buy this dye—I MADE it!” And reaching into the bad, he pulled out a handful of small blocks of sharp color, each stamped with Simon’s personal seal of a stylized loom. “And I can make more.”

The group of rough shepherds exploded in talk all at once at that. “Young Simon”, warned the grizzled Martyk, “you have just made yourself some powerful enemies, Duke Melicter at the head of the list. You know he get a tithe of all profits from the whole of the Simbelese textile trade for his “protection”, not to mention the Hillbottles and the textile guilds of Simbelin.”

Simon sighed resignedly and said “that rival merchants would be offended is inevitable whenever a monopoly is threatened is inevitable. As for Duke Melicter…. I’m afraid that die was already cast four years ago and he was already no friend of me or mine. Perhaps in this way though I’ll acquire the means to…well..no matter, let’s talk terms!”

--by Kelly