The Duke's Decision

Alric tapped his gavel, the sound loud in the mostly-empty small lecture hall. “I hereby declare the meeting of the investors of the York Textile Company in session. I will, as is usual, represent the interests of the collegium’s share of the venture. Joining us today at the invitation of Edward Taylor is Guilbert de Lancaster, the Baron of Penrose, who has expressed an interest in investing in our venture. My apprentice Ulrich will be taking the notes for us.” The wizard gestured broadly at a young man wearing slightly shabby maroon robes seated to his left.

There were only five men seated at the table in total—the other two investors, Edward Taylor and Jacob Hebert, sat to Alric's right.

“Baron Penrose, you may begin,” Alric said.

“Thank you,” Guilbert said. “I have been reviewing the information provided by Edward Taylor, and I am prepared to offer a capital investment of four thousand pounds in exchange for half of the company.”

“What?” Jacob looked unhappy. “I put in two thousand pounds and hold only a single share! Half the company’s profits—that would be five whole shares at eight hundred pounds a share!”

Guilbert held up a hand. “I understand that the initial capital pooled for this project was nine thousand pounds sterling, with Alric promising the resources and backing of the collegium in order to make up the balance on what would have otherwise been a half-share, and Edward having a triple share as the main investor with six thousand pounds,” he said, calmly.

“That is right,” Jacob said. “And at market prices, the services from our partnership with Alric have been worth every penny. I don’t regret the collegium owning a full share at half rate. It may as well have been ten thousand pounds of initial capital.”

“Maybe. However, much of that initial investment has been squandered.” Guilbert shook his head. “The company has purchased corpses at well over twice the going market rate in Lancaster. Compounding this expense, seven were recently seized as evidence by the ducal guard in a criminal case—and an additional twenty-one skeletons were impounded pending documentation proving their legitimate acquisition. Documentation that is not likely to be forthcoming, from what I know. That's well over a thousand pounds sterling in capital losses right there, in addition to whatever your wizards may have been paid for related work on them. Much of the collegium’s necromantic contributions, in other words. You've also had significant expense overruns related to the delays in opening the manufactory.”

“Still, less than a thousand pounds a share?” Jacob shook his head in disbelief more than denial. “Four thousand is less than half of our initial capitalization! And you think that deserves half the company? I don’t think we have lost half of our capital to mismanagement.”

Guilbert nodded. “Not quite half, true. But close. By my reckoning, I think you have lost perhaps three thousand five hundred pounds to mismanagement so far. But, like Alric, I bring significant resources other than silver. I can assist you in purchasing skeletons from my uncle's duchy, for one. However, the worst difficulty your project has faced is not the high price of skeletons in York, it is the indifference—perhaps I dare say unfriendliness—of the duke to industry. My daughter Sabine is engaged to marry the duke, which is the only reason I stand willing to throw good money after bad—he cannot possibly wish to beggar his own father-in-law.”

Jacob laughed bitterly, turning to the others. “And is that worth an extra six thousand pounds?”

Edward sat silently, his lips tight. Alric nodded slowly. “Even if the duke were to come around on his own, we're still short on necromantic resources. Skeletons at Lancastrian prices alone could easily save us a thousand pounds in expenses in the first six months. Two thousand within three years, if we stick by our original plans.”

“Then why don't we simply go to Lancaster and buy them ourselves?” Jacob asked Alric.

“Because they are not going to sell to you,” Guilbert interjected with a smirk. “The main part of the Lancastrian skeleton supply is all tied up with existing contracts. However, I have a prior right of access and can step to the front of the queue.”

“You have what?” Alric asked. “Edward?”

Edward turned to Guilbert, gesturing. “Go on. Tell them what you told me.”

“My uncle rules Lancaster,” Guilbert said, dryly. “And I'm a baron in my own right. Rank has its privileges. You may have a few days to think on it, if you like.”

“I’d take him at his word, but I’ve business partners in Lancaster willing to vouch as much. Moreover, we simply do not have the cash to bring our project to completion at all,” Edward said. “Not after those last purchases carried out under my name. Worse, my family’s assets are presently illiquid by ducal decree. If we could obtain a loan in the name of the company, I would think us lucky to pay less than fifty percent in interest on the loans over three years.” Edward shook his head. “We need the money, we need Lancastrian corpses, and we need a voice in the duke’s ear. Guilbert is ready to give us what we need. I don't like handing over five whole shares to make that happen, but I'm ready to agree.”

“The money's as good as lost if we can't get the manufactory off the ground in the next year,” Alric said. “I say yes, but by charter, we require unanimity to move forward with this matter. Jacob?”

Jacob looked like he'd bitten into a lime. “It cuts the value of my share of the company in half, as far as I'm concerned, but half is better than losing it all. Let's draw up the contract.”

Lord Marcus, seneschal of York Castle, frowned down at the peasant woman grabbing at the reins of his horse. Under the upturned visor of his helmet, his piercing blue eyes gazed down at her upturned round, friendly, mud-spattered face; then widened in recognition.

“Mother, what’s the meaning of this? You are embarrassing me by accosting me like this,” Marcus whispered fiercely. He gestured back at the castle. “If you knew to find me in the castle, you could have come and waited there privately. Here, every gossip in the city is wondering who is accosting the seneschal and what her business is.”

Rosamund let go of the reins, stepping back and planting her hands on her hips. “Tried to visit you in the keep last night, but I got knocked clear off my broom. There’s a ward of some kind about the castle, a mighty powerful one the likes of which I’ve never seen. I’m lucky I landed in the water or I’d have died. Didn’t want to chance crossing the moat without permission in case the whole thing was warded top to bottom.”

Marcus sighed, holding up his hands. “Very well,” he said, then lowered his voice back down to a whisper. “What do you want? Other than a new broom?”

“My own son didn’t tell me he was a lord now,” Rosamund said. “Or is that just gossip? I figured I would come visit. And I heard the new duke was getting married. I wanted to see that, if my son, who seems now to be the Lord Seneschal of York Castle itself, could get me an invitation.”

“Yes, yes,” Marcus whispered back. “Fine. Keep your voice down. It’s not a good time to visit, there’s no room at all to be had in the inner keep.” He held up a hand to forestall her reply. “No, you don’t have to sleep on the street, I can find space in the bailey, I’m sure. Just go on in and tell them I sent you.”

“And get dunked in the moat again when I try to cross the bridge?” Rosamund shook her head. “You’ll come with me and catch me if I fall.”

Marcus looked around at the curious onlookers, then back at his mother. With a heavy sigh, he dismounted, offered his mother his arm, and silently tapped into the mental channel that connected him with his higher-ranked cousin. Your Grace, he sent. My mother has surprised me with a visit. I may be late to our meeting.

Halfway across the drawbridge into the bailey gatehouse, a thought crossed Marcus’s mind, and he spoke. “Mother, can you identify a zombie of the Scottish variety just by looking at it? There are none registered in York, but we’ve had a horrible crime. We suspected a Scottish zombie could have been the instrument of it before, but a diviner recently confirmed it.”

Rosamund shook her head. “Most diviners are halfway to being charlatans,” she said, clicking her tongue. “And hardly any of them know necromancy.”

“But you do,” Marcus said, quietly. “I know healing magic is a sort of necromancy, and healing magic is the bread and butter of your work.”

Rosamund glared. “Healing magic is a sort of necromancy? What kind of fool says a thing like that?”

Marcus swallowed, glancing up at the inner keep and imagining his mother falling off a broom. “The kind who warded the tower,” he said.