NOVEL NEXT Chapter 702: Planning the budget(1)
Alpheo stood in silence, his eyes scanning the final lines of the treasury's accounting parchment, his expression unreadable, brow furrowed in quiet thought.
Around him, his advisors waited wordlessly, as the prince absorbed the figures compiled in the aftermath of war.
The first coalition war, as it would later be named, had drawn blood and iron across the land. But it had also brought wealth, vast, unexpected wealth.
By the end of the campaign, the royal treasury had swelled to a respectable 75,000 silverii, thanks in large part to the ransom of the Oizenian lords captured during their southern thrust for Aracina, a success largely attributed to Egil's ruthless efficiency, who killed those who did not surrender and captured those who did.
Of those gains, 35,000 silverii had already been allocated. A portion had been used to expand the prince's elite corps from 200 to 250 men, trained and equipped to the highest standard. Additional funds had reinforced the garrison at Salt Hold, the coastal bulwark holding the key for Yarzat' colonial expansion.
The remainder had been spent wisely, on stockpiles of grain and provisions for the coming year's campaign, to ensure the sword never outpaced the stomach.
Now, following the fall of Herculia, the spoils of conquest had returned in full procession. The campaign's total yield amounted to a staggering 105,000 silverii, of which 53,000 had been claimed by the crown as its lawful cut.
With those new funds counted, the royal coffers now stood at 93,000 silverii, more liquid assets than any Yarzat ruler had held in all history.
The silence stretched a moment longer before Alpheo gently set down the parchment.
With the treasury full, the sword sharper than ever , and the nobility subdued, there would be no shortage of means to shape the realm as he saw fit.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled before him, and addressed the room with a relaxed confidence.
"I thank you all for your patience. You know I've never been a fast reader, though I believe that slowness is forgiven when the sum at the end comes with five digits and a crown stamp." A few chuckled politely. Alpheo continued, his tone turning businesslike.
"It seems the gods, or our blades, have smiled on us. With 93,000 silverii in the royal coffers and a freshly balanced budget, one that is already bound to tilt greener still as tribute flows in from Herculia's humbled nobility and our new lands begin to produce; we may finally begin to think in years rather than seasons."
Those around the prince smiled,it was Shahab who however folded his hands and gently interjected. "That may be true, but we still lack formal codification for the Herculeian nobility. Their customs, levies, and tributes have yet to be compiled. Their previous regime allowed them unbridled autonomy.
We should prepare for the upcoming resistance."
"I must disagree with the second part of that, Lord Shahab," Jarza said smoothly, brushing an invisible crease from his sleeve, as five years among the nobles had taught him enough on talking etiquette.
"That autonomy was not born of culture but instead out of collapse. After the Battle of the Bleeding Plains, after the famine, after the great peasant rising… their prince could barely stand, let alone command.
Of course we made sure of it as it was in our interest to see it done. "
He leaned forward, as he continued . "But things have changed. The vanquished are not stupid. They will test boundaries, yes , but not recklessly. Not when the very mention of our prince's name sends their knees weak and their tongues stuttering.
Barely a season has passed since the fall of Herculia; we should try to enforce royal authority while that fear is still there..."
Alpheo gave no sign of encouragement, as he waited for other to make their points
"But still," Jarza continued with a shrug, "they will most probably see how much they can get away with. If not this season, then the next. And we must prepare our answers appropriately."
That was when Egil finally spoke, which much to the surprise of many, was not empty boasting.
"If they test us, then let them find their answer in ash.
There's no greater prevention for unrest than the memory of fire," Egil continued. "A torched field, a razed estate , those are letters written in flame, and every noble can read them even the blind ones.
Our current state relies on the fear that others have of us, along with the strength that we show.
And of course it must be renewed often enough that no one forgets it. All I need is an order, and in a matter of days I can have some poor bastard's estate up in flames..."
The room fell silent at that.
It wasn't often that Egil said more than a grunt in these meetings. His voice had been that of the sword arm, not the tongue. But now he sat composed, hands resting loosely on the end of his seat.
No one dared comment, out of surprise, or perhaps a quiet consensus that probing further might stir the dragon from its lair, and it was far better to deal with the current Egil than the usual one.
"You have all made excellent points," Alpheo said, his fingers drumming lightly against the table's polished surface. "But allow me to share what I believe is the greater danger—not immediate defiance, but patience."
He leaned forward slightly, voice calm and soothing
"For the next few years, yes, the Herculeian nobles will bow low, speak sweetly, and pretend to be loyal subjects. But they will not forget. They will nurse their wounds, count their losses, and rebuild their strength behind closed doors.
Our authority rests, as Egil rightly said, on the memory of fire. But even fire fades from memory with time. And when they believe us too distracted, too overextended, or too soft, they will test us , not with a blade, but with whispers and small trespasses.
Not one of them alone, but many. A slow corrosion."
He looked to the table. "And what do we do then? Only a fool draws a sword at every offense.
But delay too long, and rot sets in."
Jasmine tilted her head slightly, though her words came like a blade. "You're speaking of rebellion."
Though phrased as a question, it was anything but.
Shahab glanced at his granddaughter, eyes lingering briefly on her swelling stomach—uncertain if this was a discussion she should be part of in her condition.
A dismissive wave from Jasmine silenced his concern.
"Yes," Alpheo confirmed. "A rebellion, and not like the scattered risings of three years past, made dangerous only by the intervention of Herculia and Oizen.
If unrest rises again, it will be greater. More coordinated and geographically unified. And with us seen as outsiders by much of Herculia, the nobles will find it easier to sympathize with fellow lords turned rebels than with a foreign crown."
Jarza gave a humph "Where sympathy flows, gold and steel often follow."
"Precisely," Alpheo replied. "And should such unrest spark, do not be surprised if it draws the gaze of foreign powers. There are always vultures circling around a wounded beast"
"Foreign intervention?" Jasmine asked.
"A possibility," Shahab added cautiously.
"Not all would weep to see our union with Herculia undone," said Alpheo. "If I were a neighboring prince and saw my rival annex an entire realm, I would not sit idle either. I might not raise armies, no but I might feed unrest, fan sparks, fund dissidents. Who knows, perhaps when they rise,many will even take out that veil for direct intervention."
Asag chuckled dryly. "If my neighbor entered my other neighbor's house and robbed him blind, I'd start having a weapon on me. Maybe light a few torches in the robber's house, just in case."
Alpheo gave a small smile. "Exactly. Even our 'friends' in the north—bound to us by trade and treaties—aren't thrilled to see us rise so swiftly.
They won't challenge us directly, not when their economies lean on us and we buy much grain from them. But they may… permit certain mischief to bloom."
He stood slowly, letting the weight of his words settle.
"Which is why, above all, our first and most important policy must be prevention. We cannot allow the seed of rebellion to find fertile ground. Discord must never be given the air to breathe. If the realm is a garden, then we must be its vigilant gardeners , cutting rot before it spreads, and ensuring no outsider has a path to sow chaos in our soil."
"Nice metaphors, but how exactly are we to prevent that?" Jasmine asked, her arm's sleeve coming down as she laid her chin on the palm of our hand, "You've said yourself, drawing the sword at every slight would make us tyrants, yet if we let small grievances fester, they will become rot.
So where's the balance? How do we stop the pile from forming before we're forced to strike?"
A murmur of agreement passed through the room.
Alpheo gave a small smile, one that hinted he'd been waiting for the question.
"By striking before the pile even begins."
He stood slowly, pacing toward the high windows that overlooked the palace courtyard.
"Right now, Herculia is in a rare moment of stillness. Their nobles are disoriented, their hierarchy shattered. The crown they once bowed to lies broken, and its heirs are under us or out of the picture." He glanced briefly at Egil, who gave the smallest smirk but however shook his head.
Alpheo gave a snort with his nose
"There is no clear center. And that, Jasmine, is our opportunity."
He turned back to the table, tone sharpening.
"Most of the high lords—those with wealth, land, and ambition—are here. In this very capital. Neatly gathered under our roof, drinking our wine, dependent on our good graces."
He let the implication hang.
"Do I need to say more?" he added with a slight tilt of the head.