Chương 9: Tinker Tailor Soldier

For the past six months, my magic instructor has been working on specific techniques with me. We're past the point of exercises and building mental muscle, he says I'm a heavyweight as it is. Well, not that, the actual idiom is "a lion", but he meant that I'm a big wheel, a contender, a dynamo. My Intellect score is up to a 9, and we're still five years out from the beginning of the game. The spells themselves are pretty straightforward. Call, craft, curve, and convert.

To call a power is to bring some of its meaning to you, as either a mental or metaphorical element, or perhaps to reinforce the body somewhat. Calling ice may help deflect anger and panic, by "keeping cool", or it may give you frost-powered punches. To craft a power is to create from it: such as spinning ice out of thin air or jets of flame out of your hands. To curve an element is to shape it. Making ice move like a living thing, snuffing a candle out, bending wood into a new shape.

And converting, the hardest one: transforming your own body into the element. Like a flying phoenix. But there's a balance: the more affinity you have for an element, the more easily you can use the magics, and the more powerful magics you can use. You need a high degree of affinity to use curve, and even more to convert. But the higher your affinity, the more danger you are in from your own element.

A year after my parents took me to see the fireworks, that sorcerer who transformed into a flying phoenix changed himself one last time and flew away, and has never come back. He was more fire than man, and returning to the earth as flesh became unnatural to him. With a high affinity, you lose yourself, perhaps forever. I confessed to him that I could already sense my affinities, and I have several that are very high. Which is to say, I can call up my Status menu and see that I've got nine of them at 100%.

So we have been doing exercises to stabilize my self-image, and to fix my motivations to stay myself. This is partly meditation and mindfulness exercises, and partly plain old therapy. A lot of grounding, and consciously rooting my identity into my body, my mind, my breathing, my way of walking and speaking. That I should immerse myself in myself to a degree that most people never need to. Also, he warned, it was probably best if I never use conversion techniques, just to be safe.

Meanwhile, my Civics teacher is drilling me on aspects of Hearstwhile history, culture and political structure that even my parents don't know about. She's discovered that my memory is so well-developed by magic study that she can almost just throw books at me and watch knowledge absorb into my head. And what she doesn't give me to memorize by rote, I've gotten pretty good at inferring from the information I already do have. On the other hand, my science teacher. Natural philosophy. Whatever.

This guy and I are constantly either butting heads or ignoring each other. I am determined not to derail the social order of this world. Not before I turn twenty years old and finish out the story at least. Maybe after that I'll invent the steam engine and become the queen of trains. But now I'm spending two hours a day with a man who considers himself to be the world expert in every branch of science there is, and he is shocked when I show him Punnett squares and explain dominant and recessive traits.

I can't talk about atoms or molecules with him, or continental drift. He proudly refutes the idea of spontaneous generation and parthenogenesis, and seems disappointed when I agree that life only is generated from life. He is fascinated by germ theory, and I get him started on the process of vaccines. He knows that I have knowledge beyond mortal ken. He is not sure if it is granted by gods or by the magic in my blood. And he knows that I'm holding out on him.

But his network of contacts with universities and advisers around the kingdom is valuable to me. I have explained cowpox, mercury, and lead to him, and gotten him to believe in me. He is spreading the word like an evangelist in letters to his network of geniuses. Soon, we'll have mercury out of medicine and millineries, and pipes of galvanized steel.

He's really annoying to me, and he's constantly trying to trick me into giving him some of the really dangerous sciences, but if he can save millions of people from poisoning themselves, it's worth it. At a cousin's wedding a month ago, one of the guests remarked that she'd heard that I had one of the keenest minds in the whole world. Apparently, word has gotten out and it's a casual topic of discussion in parlors and carriage-houses all the way to Gritehollow.

Oh, did you hear that the Duke of Meadowtam's daughter may be the most remarkable intelligence of our generation? Obviously it's not true. This world lets people develop their stats with no hard upper limit, if they're willing to work for it. There's people out there who probably have the equivalent of an Intellect score of twenty or higher. But none of them had a score of nine before they were ten years old. And besides, the more highly-ranked a noble your parents are, the more attention you get.

So for a duke's daughter to have a remarkable feature means the story is blown way out of proportion. Besides, I might be a calculator and an encyclopedia, a whole reference library even- but Nathan is probably smarter than me. I have that "give answers I've read" kind of smart. He's the one that makes the right decision, every time. There's a huge difference between smart enough to quote a book, and smart enough to not make mistakes. I've got one, he's the other. His is more important.

One of Father's duties is to occasionally review the findings of the judges that have made contested rulings in Meadowtam. He receives big bundles of paper with evidence, testimony, and arguments. Lately he's been bringing Nathan into his study for these sessions. I walk past the study and see them poring over the scrolls, or animatedly arguing about the outcomes. I think that Nathan has swayed Father to his way of thinking more often than not.

Sometimes they call me in to provide information about relevant items of law, history, or demographics. I happily give them the information, but the way they can integrate this into moral arguments and legal extraction is blistering-fast even to me. They're both on another level. Father with decades of experience, Nathan as the protagonist of the story. We've only got a week to go until our next birthday. Ten years. My Status screen shows me at Level 0, with -1 XP. At the party I become a real sorceress.

But I have reason to worry. Character generation in this game has two factors. One is whether you wish to play as a warrior, mage, or rogue. Of those, warriors have the best stats and gain new abilities by equipping weapons and items. Mages have access to spells that change the game in fundamental ways. Rogues gain skills more easily than anyone and can unravel many challenges with guile and information. The other factor is the difficulty setting for the game.

At the easiest difficulty, the Warrior build has the knight. At medium difficulty, gladiator. At the hard setting, the warrior is a swashbuckler. The main distinction is how much gear they can equip: knights have more options for weapons and armor and favors and pennants and... well, they're very gear-oriented, so they can equip lots of magic items. Gladiators have a more limited selection of weapons, less armor pieces, and less accessories.

Swashbucklers basically just get boots and their choice of fencing swords and daggers. Mages at the easy setting are scriveners, who can make permanent magic items with runes and text. At medium difficulty, a mage player gets a wizard, who can mostly change the weather or demolish a few specific buildings at specific cutscenes. And at hard setting, the mage is a sorcerer, who has no powers until they are able to unlock certain locations and allies to give them access to elemental fonts.

Now, I've short-circuited the need for elemental fonts. I've got this goddess-granted condition, Untethered Essence, that lets me bind affinity to Essence by proximity. But, I'm still a sorceress. Which might mean that we're on the hard setting. And the hard mode in this game is no joke- things escalate really fast after we get to the Academy. I've got a week until the birthday party. If I'm getting my Level 1 class, maybe Nathan is too. And if he does, I am going to find out what setting we're on.

These are the things I worry about in the spare moments I have. Normally a tenth birthday party is not a huge deal. Not like the first birthday, or fifteen, or eighteen. At the birth, everyone celebrates the new life. I slept through that, because having babies at a state event is uncouth. At fifteen, we're usually shipped off to whatever training we're going to get, as an apprentice, or military corps, or the scholastic academies, or whatever. At eighteen, we're adults. After that, parties happen whenever.

But point is, it's unusual for our tenth birthday to be a big event that is going to pull allies from across the kingdom, with lots of speeches, and closed-door meetings, and secret intrigue, and coalition-building. But this is not normal times. The king and queen of Hearstwhile have just published a new proclamation that has huge changes to taxation policy. It is not simple or as straightforward as just "more", but it will in practice equate to more.

But it runs that money through the hands of the nobles first, and while it nominally lowers the taxes that the royal treasury takes from its vassals, by increasing our holdings it will in practice take more money to the royal coffers. Most of the nobles favor this because it enriches them more than it enriches the royal family. My father and others oppose it because it greatly raises the burden on the working and middle class.

To be clear, this is not entirely and singularly altruistic- as the breadbasket of the kingdom, Meadowtam has a much higher population of working-class people, and most of the taxes the duke takes in are circulated right back to the people- as dukes go, he has very little for holdings, trappings, or personal wealth. He tells Nathan and I that the real wealth of Meadowtam is the land, and the people. Not gold, wizards, or merchant-princes.

(Yes we do have party clothes with cloth-of-gold, miles of silk and baby pearls stitched in, and enough gemstones to choke on. Most of those gems are passed down from hundreds of years ago, the silk is torn out and stitched into new outfits, and the gold is melted when its done. My parents are weirdly frugal for being so close in line to the throne itself.) Anyway, this tax policy would require him to hold more of his income for his own household, would keep our people from having as much money to invest back into their own businesses and farms, and would siphon more money to the central palace, all by bribing the noble houses with a larger proportional cut.

And, if this time next year the king and queen were to pass even a basic levy to bolster the nation's army, we'd all be ruined and the crown would end up owning half of Meadowtam and most of the poorer Houses as well. So my father is adamantly opposing this tax proclamation, and he's got a lot of wheeling and dealing to do. It's a very tense time, with a lot to do, a lot going on. Forming a coalition to oppose the royal family is hard at the best of times, and doing so in the face of a big obvious bribe is harder.

He's busy, she's busy, we're busy. This birthday is going to be the event of the year. There's decorating, preparation, planning, stockpiling, strategizing, it's got everything. Nathan is so serious about all this. Me, I'm helping out and doing more than my fair share, but I'm not worried like everyone else is.

"You're not worried," Nathan pointed out.

"Not like everyone else is." He and I were making our way down to the pantry with a list of provender to check off.

"Nope," I said, smiling back at him.

"Why not?" he asked me. Lamplight caught his eyes, they flashed asymmetrically. Blue, gold.

"What can I say? I just love a party," I said with airy nonchalance.

"No you don't," he pointed out.

"No I don't," I agreed.

"Please tell me," he said. I let my smile slip a little. I let myself get a little more serious.

"Nathan," I said.

"What color are Filita's eyes?" His eyes got real wide. We hardly ever referenced the fact that I could sometimes see the future. My science teacher was practically frothing at the mouth over it, but Nathan and I kept it pretty chill. But this time, I could see him working it out.

"It's going to be fine," he said, nodding.

"Yes."

"You know this?"

"Yes."

"Do you know how?" I paused. I'm not a good liar, and trying would just get me called out.

"No." He nodded, stoic and purposeful.

"All right. So, we will have to do everything we can to make sure this works. Everything except worry. It will work out, that is foreseen, but we have to work as if it is not."

"You can't possibly just decide to stop worrying," I scoffed. He looked me right in the eyes. He had completely stopped worrying about the outcome. Just like that. Oh, fuck off.

"Damn," I sighed. What would it have been like, to just sink into his soul as a passenger, and to feel what he feels? To just experience his mind from the inside, instead of just standing next to him all the time? God, I almost displaced him, I almost got stuck trying to live his life as well as he's been living it. Oh fuck off. Ten years today. Finally. Both of us exactly four-foot-six, and clearly looking adolescence right in the eye.

He was going to wear built-up heels again to give him a little height over his sister. He hated that, complained that it seemed vain. My mother pointed out that if we did not impress upon people that he is the older sibling, some ambitious trouble-makers would try to promote a challenge for succession. Nathan and I were equally horrified by that. Me, because I did not want to inherit as duchess. Him, because he did not want a war fought in his name. So he wore the shoes.

Our house is not as drafty as Coltorn, it is much more nicely insulated, and organized with breeze-throughs so that it's easier to control the temperature inside. In early autumn it is still warm outside, but a well-controlled breeze and plenty of shade can make the manor nice and comfortable. We were just as glammed up as we were the day I "invented" baseball, or oddball, but at least there was less sweating and panting this time.

The decoration was difficult to organize: on the one hand, the entire purpose of this event was to make the noble guests think about something besides their own enrichment. But also we needed everyone to be impressed by the occasion, the more grand it felt the more open to suggestion they would be. So, to make them feel overwhelmed and impressed but without the gold and silk and silver and marble that they're used to being impressed by. We need spectacle and glamour, wealth and excess.

And we need to do it in a way that makes Father's political points in a salient unspoken way. Food. No party, no noble, no king in Hearstwhile history has thrown a feast of this magnitude. Nobody has ever set a table like this. Punch bowls full of spiced cider sat in tamped braziers of coals to keep them heated and fragrant. Sliced apples put a crisp air into the room. Smoked hams hung from racks lining the walls, and all who entered the dining hall were salivating. Honey-glazed poultry, hickory brisket.

Freshly-baked bread was carried around on trays, melting with butter. Some of them were spread with avocado- I insisted. I showed them how to make cranberry sauce, dusted with powdered sugar. Great pyramids of figs, persimmons, and tangerines. Pumpkin pie, butter-seared broccoli, brown-sugar carrots. Deviled eggs, roasted garlic, browned onions. And, after years of fighting, I got a decent oil fryer going and I taught these people all about French fries. We had to call them Harigold fries.

Stuffed mushroom caps, ducks fried in their own fat, bowls of ice cream. The centerpiece: A ten-tier lemon cake iced in red-and-white. You could smell the kitchens from the road leading up to the palace. They started prep two days in advance, and the cooking began in earnest at six in the morning for a party that did not officially start until noon. Harigold Manor had four full kitchens, and they were all in full swing. As soon as our guests were in the door they were entranced, vacant-eyed.

You could practically see them floating in the air, pulled by the smells like a cartoon character. Everyone was distracted by the sheer aura of savory delights. The menu leaned heavily on aromatics to fill the atmosphere with enticement. Gold is cold and unforgiving. Silver and diamonds clatter and jingle. But well-made food in abundance speaks to something we all learned even before we learn greed.

A whole sheep was being turned over a spit in the courtyard, manned by a witty chef that implored all walking past to grab a plate and take a slice of the meat with them, before he would add another splash of brandy that soaked the meat and made the flames roar up to the amazement and interest of all. A cadre of sommeliers carried selections of wines about, recommending pairings, sending guests to one station or another for the recommended accompaniment.

A large circular table featured a display of a wheel of cheese being rolled in a circle by a working model of a grain mill- it crushed almonds under it and embedded them into itself, and a kitchen helper would slice off thin segments of the wheel as it rolled past to offer plates of almond-embedded cheese to passers-by. I only had to nudge Mother a little bit to hire a troupe of jugglers and invent the entire art form of flair-bartending.

Their Graces, and their inner circle of allies, moved proudly through these spaces as the guests arrived, indulged, tried to resist, and went back for more portions than was good for them. Everywhere the eye turned was a new delight that one just could not resist. Nathan and I joined the delegations that circulated the room, discussing the taxation plan from the crown.

"Ligney?" I asked, musing as if I had to place it.

"Ah, west of Wallingwater. One of our better customers for the hickory-smoked beef. Have you tried it- ah, good," I smiled.

"Dozens of tons of that hickory-smoked beef are loaded into wagons and carts headed for Ligney every week. I understand that the secret is the lemon juice in the spice rub. Meadowtam is able to produce products like this because our farms are not struggling with subsistence. Every year, the freemen and serfs of the duchy get to keep more of their yield, and sell it afar to lands like Ligney and Wallingwater. They invest money back into their farms, and next year their yield is even greater.

The wealth of Meadowtam is not in purses and vaults, it is out under the sun and springing from the earth. It is wealth that grows each year. And those prosperous farmers invest in their own comforts. Ligney is logging country, yes? Fine crafted joinery and furniture, for sure. But as you rode through our lands, you saw that there are no old-growth forests, no high trees. A great many barns though, my lord, my lady. And every one of those barns uses a center-beam roof, which means a single massive log.

Every one of those center beams is brought in by wagons and carts, harvested in logging country. Meadowtam's wealth does not just grow- it travels." Every carriage that left went with a box of unbaked pies and some snacks "for the road". The pies they would bake when they got home, to make sure our message followed them. And we made sure they understood: when the people of Meadowtam are forced to give their goods to the royal treasury, they could not afford to build up their own farms any more.

They could not build smokehouses and new barns, or extravagances like mulled cider. They would eat their crop and try to hold enough to replant as seed next year. Smoked beef and glazed hams would not ride the roads from our lands to others, and your favorite ginger-spiced ale would not be for sale. Stack your gold, starve your table. I beamed the whole day, and snacked frequently. A bite or two from one platter, a small roll with avocado spread every couple of hours.

Guests were circulated through the room from noon to nine, and those that stayed on were allowed a seated portion, trestle tables were brought out and filled to groaning with more of the feast. Father made sure that these were in fact his greatest opponents, those most in favor of the crown's tax proclamation. Rather than fighting them, he feted them, while the servants and staff of the house broke down the furnishing and features.

And he made sure that these lords and ladies saw the maids and manservants who gathered up barrels and baskets of meat, fruit, cheese and wine, to carry back to their own homes. The leftovers from this banquet would be feeding the people and families of our town for the rest of the week.

"The gold that I take in taxes," Father explained at last, "does not stay in my coffers. It does not pay for Faneirian gemstones or golden picture-frames. I hire more staff, and more servants. The more of them I hire, the easier their work becomes. And in this way, young women are not pressured into early marriages, young men may take jobs without splitting their farm into multiple inheritances. Old spinsters are not reliant on their families, graybeards have a place to put their feet up.

They spend their money, and it flows. Meadowtam is already making so much surplus that I struggle to find ways to spend the money down. But if poverty strikes the breadbasket of Hearstwhile, poverty strikes you all. If the price of grain goes up, your people will be going to the poorhouses, and then it will be you who pays the higher prices for grain to feed those same citizens. Or we defy the crown, overturn the proclamation.

I can spread my wealth to my staff and peasants, and their wealth will travel the roads to your lands. You live a life that is good, but you risk it for a promise of better. As my daughter told me once: a bird in the hand, is worth two in the bush." Nathan surprised both Father and I by standing at that time.

"I vow," he said, "as the heir apparent, that on my reign these policies remain. The house of Harigold gives to the land, the land gives to the people, the people give to the kingdom. You support not only a good year nor the next, but I will see to the prosperity of your children, and their children." I was the first to applaud, but it picked up quickly. The last moochers packed their swag-bags and left, with promises to consider my father's position. When the door shut, Nathan turned to Mother, Father, and I.

"So, the House of Snairlin has been buying up spices to corner markets, but not the count; these orders seem to come from the merchant branch of the family, run by the Count's uncle and cousins. They're using the profits from cornered spice markets to buy staple grains from every other province, and their intention is to undersell our farmers starting in two weeks. Their propaganda line is that our opulence and indulgence has been driving up prices of food.

I believe we can fight back by taking the storehouses of dried spices and selling them to the merchants of Bumet House, and let them in turn undersell Snairlin. This will cut the flow of money that would undersell our grain exports."

"What, how did you learn all this?" my father asked, shocked. I was shocked too. Nathan smiled winningly.

"I paid attention to what questions people were asking. About price controls, about market saturation. How Harigold's fief clan relates to the mercantile kin. Bit by bit I was able to assemble the full picture, but it was only when you were speaking at the very last that I overheard enough conversation that I could put together the whole plan. Snairlin has many cadet houses, and their merchants influence many Houses." Mother had some sort of question for him, but I could not pay attention in that moment.

[You have earned 1 experience point. You have 0 experience points. You are now a Level 1 Sorceress.] I held my Status menu in my field of vision and centered my attention on my brother. [Nathan Harigold][Level 1 Spy][Protagonist]