The gold-trimmed carriage of Lord Silas Crane came to a halt fifty paces outside the North Barbican, its iron-shod wheels crunching wildly against the fresh three-inch crown of the Macadam avenue.
Two footmen in scarlet livery leaped down from the rear carriage box, hurriedly unfolding a set of red-velvet padded stairs.
Stepping out into the freezing mountain wind was Lord Silas Crane, Chief Trade Envoy and High Tariff Scythe of the Imperial Board of Trade.
Crane was amazing in his outrage.
He wore a heavy cloak of purple Lyon velvet lined with snowy ermine fur, a towering powdered wig curled in the latest court fashion, and pointed red-heeled morocco slippers that sank right away into the road gravel. In his left hand, Crane clutched an ornate silver pomander filled with dried lavender to protect his delicate nostrils from what he called the barbarian stench of the north.
In his right hand, Crane flourished a massive roll of thick parchment sealed with five hanging disks of red royal beeswax.
Behind him, fifty knights in fluted plate armor sat upon barded warhorses, their iron broadswords sheathed but their hands resting arrogantly on their pommels. Four personal cooks and two junior clerks shivered in light woolen doublets beside the carriage, holding Crane’s silver tea kettle and a folding chair of gold-trimmed beech.
Kenneth Drake leaned against the table, watching the grand display with a cold, mocking eye.
“Crane earned his title in the South Marches,” Kenneth muttered to Giles. “Ten years ago, he assessed retroactive timber tariffs against three free baronies. He seized their mills, sold their livestock to crown syndicates. Then he drove five thousand people into the winter hills. He thinks the frontier is sheep waiting for shears.”
“He will find our wool contains high-carbon steel,” Giles replied calmly.
Kenneth glanced at the barded chargers of the royal knights. “Look at their horse-shoes. Flat iron plates with zero calkins. On this crushed screening aggregate, those heavy chargers will have stone bruises within two leagues. They don’t even know how to shoe for mountain gravel.”
Crane took three delicate, high-stepping paces across the gravel. His powdered wig shook with high-born anger. His red-heeled slippers slipped slightly on the loose screening stones, splashing grey road slurry across his silk stockings.
“Faugh,” Crane spat, dabbing his nose with the pomander. “Barbarous gravel. An insult to civilized footwear.”
Lady Millicent glanced up from her tally-book, her eyes narrowing as she noted the silver pomander.
“That silver pomander contains about twelve ounces of chased sterling,” Millicent observed quietly. “Under the Frontier Luxury Import Sumptuary City law, unpermitted personal display of precious metal by visiting crown envoys carries an ad valorem town levy of four silver per ounce. I have logged forty-eight silver against his account.”
Giles Croft stood behind a simple wooden frame stand table set across the entrance of Gate Two.
He wore his standard wool greatcoat, sheepskin gloves, and glasses. Beside him sat Lady Millicent Croft. She was wrapped in a thick wool mantle, her double-entry accounting ledger open before her, pen poised over an inkwell kept liquid by a small charcoal hand-warmer.
Behind them stood Captain Kenneth Drake and forty guard post legionaries, resting casually against their shields.
Crane halted before the table, drawing himself up to his full, frail height.
“Giles Croft,” Crane proclaimed, his high-pitched, reedy voice echoing off the granite stone retaining walls. “By royal writ of the Board of Trade and the High Exchequer of the Capital. You stand accused of forty years of secret territorial resource extraction, unpermitted settlement spreading, and high fiscal insubordination.”
Giles looked down at his clipboard, then looked up at Crane. “Good morning, Lord Crane. Watch your footing. That screening aggregate was rolled yesterday and hasn’t fully interlocked.”
Crane sneered, waving his perfumed pomander dismissively.
“Silence, frontier wretch,” Crane hissed, unrolling the thick parchment scroll with a sharp snap. “I hold here the Royal Special Tax Check Warrant. You have built roads, dug mines, and diverted waterways without royal concession. Total back levies assessed against Grey Crag: one million, five hundred thousand gold sovereigns.”
Crane stepped forward, thrusting the parchment toward the table.
“Pay this check right away in bullion,” Crane demanded, eyes gleaming with poisonous triumph. “Or my two thousand legionaries will raze this illegal camp to the bedrock, put your insolent smiths in irons, and haul you to the capital in a wooden cage.”
Lady Millicent didn’t even blink. She dipped her quill into the inkwell and made a neat, dry scratch in the margin.
“One million, five hundred thousand sovereigns,” Millicent noted aloud. “An amusing round number. I assume his Lordship has brought the itemized supporting vouchers, delivery manifests, and approved royal charter cross-references to substantiate such a claim?”
Crane turned purple under his white powder. “Vouchers? Itemized manifests? I’m the Imperial High Clerk. My word is the law of the exchequer.”
“Your word is legally non-binding without supporting documentation, Lord Crane,” Giles said mildly.
Giles reached beneath the table and produced a polished brass balance beam. He set it upon a leveled oak block.
“While we examine your claim, let’s calibrate your instruments,” Giles suggested. He pointed to the dangling steelyard weight Crane carried on his belt. “Under the Royal Weights and Measures Mandate of Year Three Hundred and Twelve, all tax checks based on stone tonnage must be conducted using approved standard balance weights.”
Crane blinked, his jaw dropping. “What has that to do with my writ?”
“Your balance weight pivot has a one-sixteenth-inch fine-tuning offset,” Giles showed. He measured the knife-edge pivot with his brass measuring tongs. “It over-reads weight by four point two percent. That constitutes lawful fiscal fraud under Crown Statute Section Sixty-Four. If you try to weigh our silver on an untuned steelyard, I’m legally needed to impound your scales.”
Crane sputtered, snatching his balance beam away. “Insolence. You mock the Crown.”
“Before we discuss your fictional tax writ,” Giles continued smoothly, pulling a printed blue form from beneath his clipboard, “we have several outstanding town rule-book matters regarding your arrival.”
Crane’s mouth fell open. “Town... Matters?”
“First,” Giles said, tapping the blue paper with his wooden ruler. “Axle-load violations. You rolled forty four-wheeled baggage wagons down our main Macadam turnpike. Each wagon carried about three tons of flour, salt beef, and iron siege gear, plus an empty vehicle weight of two thousand pounds. That exceeds four tons per axle on unbonded screening gravel.”
Crane blinked, his eyes darting from Giles to the roadbed. “What nonsense is this?”
“Town Transit City law Section Twelve: Heavy Vehicle Permitting,” Giles stated. “Any steel-tired vehicle exceeding three tons needs a stamped heavy transit waiver and a road upkeep locked deposit. Unpermitted transit incurs a fine of sixty silver pieces per wagon per day. Forty wagons over three days: seven thousand, two hundred silver.”
Crane began to shake, his jeweled rings clinking against his silver pomander. “You... You dare fine a royal envoy?”
“Second,” Giles said smoothly, turning the page. “Secret encampment of an armed force on town watershed land. Your two thousand legionaries pitched their tents directly over the underground water bed sneaking zone. They have already dug eleven unlined pit latrines within fifty yards of our backup drainage feeder. Sanitation Rule-break Code Eighty-Four: Groundwater Endangerment. Fine: twelve thousand silver pieces.”
Millicent looked up from her ledger, tapping the thick parchment.
“Plus, Lord Crane,” Millicent added, her voice calm and sharp as an icicle, “the five royal seals attached to your writ lack the counter-signed name of the Regional Land-mapper General. Under Crown Administrative Statute Chapter Fourteen, an unchecked check warrant can’t be served across country borders without thirty days of formal gazette pop-up alert. Your document is null and void on its face.”
Crane gasped for breath, clutching his chest. “Null and void? My writ?”
“Fully void,” Giles agreed.
Giles extended the blue fine ticket across the table.
“Total preliminary town citations: nineteen thousand, two hundred silver pieces,” Giles finished. “Payable to the town toll clerk within forty-eight hours. Cash or approved bullion only. We don’t accept promissory notes from insolvent country bureaus.”
A knight captain behind Crane drew his broadsword three inches from its sword sheath with an iron rasp. “Insolent serf. Lord Crane, give the word and we’ll ride this insolent clerk down.”
Kenneth Drake took half a step forward.
He didn’t draw his sword. He simply raised his ten-foot iron-shod pacing rod and tapped it against the stone low roof wall above.
CLINK.
Along the granite crenellations of Bastion Alpha and the North Barbican, seventy iron embrasures swung open at the same time.
Behind each embrasure stood a guard post crossbowman with a heavy steel crank winch heavy steel crossbow cocked and loaded. And mounted at the salient angles, four wide-mouthed blunderbore canister cannons swiveled on their bronze pivot mounts, their black snouts trained squarely upon Crane’s gold-trimmed carriage.
The knight captain froze. His knuckles went white on his handle.
“Forty paces to your front rank, captain,” Kenneth said calmly, leaning on his rod. “At this range, one blunderbore canister spreads seventy lead balls across an eight-yard arc. Four guns firing enfilade will sweep your horses and your knights into a red heap in two seconds. Sheathe the steel.”
The knight captain stared at the dark bronze muzzles, swallowed hard. Then he pushed his sword back into its sheath with a quiet click.
Crane looked up at the star-castle wall castle walls. His powdered wig seemed to sag on his skull.
The golden system box hovered in the freezing mountain air. It cast a sharp amber glow on Crane’s gold-stitched coat.
Giles laid the pen neatly beside the inkwell.
“You have forty-eight hours to settle the road upkeep check and relocate your latrines, Lord Crane,” Giles said calmly. “If you wish to discuss your one point five million sovereign tax claim, my comptroller and I’ll receive you tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
Crane snatched the blue fine ticket with trembling fingers. His eyes bulged with helpless, high-born rage.
“You’ll hang for this, Croft,” Crane hissed, his voice breaking into a wet squeak. “On a gibbet sixty arm-lengths high. The Emperor will flay you alive.”
Crane scrambled back into his gold-trimmed carriage, slamming the velvet door with a shuddering crash.
“Drive,” Crane screamed through the curtain. “Drive back to the lines.”
The carriage wheeled around with a violent screech of iron tires, spraying gravel as the knights spurred their horses into a wild retreat.
Millicent dipped her pen, making another neat line in the ledger. “A productive first interview. Now, brother, let’s prepare the counter-audit.”
Giles adjusted his glasses. “Toby, sweep the gravel off the approach. We don’t want scattered screening aggregate damaging the carriage frogs.”
Toby ran out with his broom, grinning from ear to ear. “Right away, Lord Giles.”