.XIII.

Royal Palace, City of Cherayth, Kingdom of Chisholm, Empire of Charis

“So what do you think of Archbishop Ulys?” Mahrak Sahndyrs asked. “Now that you’ve had time to watch him and Archbishop Maikel together, I mean?”

Empress Sharleyan cocked her head to give the Baron of Green Mountain a moderately exasperated look.

“I’ve been home in Cherayth less than twenty-six hours, Mother’s visiting with her granddaughter for the first time in months, and you’re retired. Don’t you think we could spend, oh, twenty or thirty whole minutes just visiting with one another?”

“And it’s very good to see you, too, Sharleyan,” he said with a flicker of a familiar smile. “Did you have a nice voyage? Was Alahnah less seasick this time? And what do you think of Archbishop Ulys?”

Sharleyan made a face and struck him—very gently—on top of his head with a small fist. He winced theatrically, and she laughed.

“There were times I wanted to do that so badly—and a lot harder!—when I was a little girl. You have no idea how lucky you were to have Mairah around to protect you!”

“Why do you think I gave in and let you have her as your lady-in-waiting? I knew I’d need a friend at court eventually.”

She laughed again and bent beside his chair to put her arm around him. She hugged him a bit more tightly than she’d really intended to, trying to stifle a fresh pang as she felt how frail his robust frame had become. She’d known how badly wounded he’d been in the terrorist attack which had almost killed him, but there was a difference between intellectual knowledge, even backed up by the direct visual evidence through Owl’s remotes, and actually hugging her second father. He’d lost his right arm between elbow and shoulder and his right leg below the knee, and if he wore the black eye patch over what had been his left eye with a certain debonair style, his face was still badly scarred … and far, far thinner than she remembered.

Well, of course he feels frail. It’s been barely six months since the attack! It takes time to come back from something like that—if you ever do—and he’s not a young man anymore.

“You,” she told him, straightening and trying to hide her concern, “are incorrigible.”

“Agreed. And my question?”

“All right, I surrender!” She threw up both hands dramatically. Then her expression sobered. “Actually, I think I like him a lot. I miss Archbishop Pawal, and I hate the way he was killed.” Her eyes turned bleak as she remembered watching the imagery of Pawal Braynair’s death when the archbishop personally tackled the grenade-armed assassin in his own cathedral and smothered the explosion with his body. “He seems to be smart,” she went on, “and I have to say he seems to have … I don’t know, maybe what Cayleb would call more ‘fire in his belly’ than Archbishop Pawal did.”

“I think you’re right,” Green Mountain agreed. “Pawal was a good man, and no one on the face of this world was ever more determined to do the right things, but I always thought of him as a man who’d been driven by principle to do something his heart found almost too hard to bear. Young Ulys is a Reformist to his toenails, though.” He shook his head with a smile that held more than a trace of regret. “He hates the Group of Four with a passion and fire I think he sometimes finds hard to reconcile with his priestly calling. And I think—maybe I’m even afraid—he’s going to be much more … apt to your needs then Pawal was.”

“Afraid, Mahrak?”

She looked down at him, eyes questioning, and he shrugged.

“Pawal was like me, Sharley. He was driven into resisting Mother Church because she’d fallen into the grasp of men like Clyntahn, but in his heart of hearts, he was still her son. He was never comfortable as a rebel; he’d simply been left no choice but to become one. Ulys is younger than Pawal was—and considerably younger than I am now—and his opposition to Mother Church stems from outrage over her failings, not grief at the failings of men who captured her and caused her to fail. He’s embraced that opposition in a way Pawal and I never could. And that means that when the schism is finally formalized, he’ll be one of the Church of Charis’ strongest pillars. You’ll need that.”

“And you, Mahrak?” she asked softly, finally willing to ask the question out loud now that he was free of the crushing responsibilities of his office.

“And I was never a willing rebel, either,” he told her with a twisted smile. “But, like Pawal, Mother Church left me no choice.” He reached up and touched her cheek with his remaining hand. “And neither did you. So young, so fiery! So determined … and so right. In the end, I cared too much about you and too little about God, perhaps. You left me no choice but to look at what men like Clyntahn had made of the Church I loved. I couldn’t do anything but support you after my eyes had been opened, Sharley, but there were always tears in them.”

“Oh, Mahrak.”

The words were barely a sigh as she bent once more, this time putting her cheek against his, and wrapped both arms around him. He returned her embrace, and they stayed that way for several seconds before she straightened once more.

“I always suspected you felt that way,” she said, realizing there were tears in her own eyes, “and I felt guilty for dragging you behind me.”

“Don’t be silly!” he scolded her. “Didn’t I always teach you a queen does what she must in the service of her people and of God?” He held her gaze until she nodded. “Well, that’s exactly what you did. Because the truth, however hard I found it, is that there really is a difference between God and any mortal edifice, even one ordained by His own archangels. God would never—could never—condone the acts of a Zhaspahr Clyntahn or the rest of his murderous clique. That much I know, without question. And because you had the courage to face that squarely, and do it before I did, you proved you were worthy of your crown. I was never prouder of you, Sharley, however much I regretted what you’d been forced to do.”

She looked down at him for a moment, and then nodded again. This time it was a nod of acceptance.

“I wish you’d never had to be put into that position,” she told him, resting her hand on his shoulder. “But, you know, if I turned out ‘worthy’ of my crown, it was because I had such good teachers. Like you. Always like you, Mahrak.”

“You were your father’s daughter, and your mother’s,” he replied, looking up and smiling as he put his hand over hers. “And you were my Queen, with the courage to do what you knew was right and damn the consequences before you were tall enough to see over the council table. It was easy to give you my love with all of that going for you.”

*   *   *

“—why I’m concerned, Your Majesty. Concerned, not worried. Not yet, at any rate.”

“I understand, My Lord,” Sharleyan said, looking across the council chamber table at Sir Dynzayl Hyntyn, the Earl of Saint Howan and the Kingdom of Chisholm’s Chancellor of the Treasury.

Saint Howan was young for his position, only in his midforties. Fair-haired and gray-eyed, he was also smart, and his earldom’s coastal position made him a strong supporter of the Imperial Navy, with a keen appreciation for the possibilities of maritime trade. At the moment, those gray eyes showed the concern he’d just mentioned, and she understood his position.

“We here in Chisholm were never as devoted to manufactories as Charis,” she said. “And Charis had to begin preparing for war sooner than we did. That meant they had to expand their foundries, their shipyards, their textile mills and sail lofts—all the things that go into supporting a war—which is why so much of the Empire’s manufactories are concentrated in Old Charis now. It is, however, Emperor Cayleb’s and my policy to encourage and sustain such enterprises here in Chisholm, as well, to the very best of our ability. It was my impression that policy was clearly understood.”

“The policy is clearly understood, Your Majesty,” Saint Howan replied. “It’s its implementation that concerns me.”

“My Lord?” Sharleyan turned to Braisyn Byrns, Earl White Crag, the former lord justice who’d replaced Mahrak Sahndyrs as her first councilor.

“Dynzail’s talking about certain of our fellow peers, I’m afraid, Your Majesty.”

White Crag was twenty years older than Saint Howan, with white hair and shoulders which were a bit stooped. He looked rather frail, but he had an underlying toughness, like well-cured leather, and he was possibly even smarter than the chancellor. His blue eyes were beginning to turn cloudy with cataracts, and his vision was so bad he had most of his correspondence read to him by his secretaries rather than reading it himself. Sharleyan always felt vaguely guilty over her inability to do anything about that without revealing far too many difficult truths, but he was far more cheerful about it than she was, claiming that his present duties actually required less reading than those of the kingdom’s highest jurist had imposed.

“I’m afraid we’ve been facing some obstruction,” he continued. “I don’t think it’s that anyone actively wants to oppose the introduction of Charisian manufactories, but some of the nobility want to make certain they get their share of the profits from them. And, frankly, their idea of a fair share isn’t mine.”

“Oh, go ahead and be honest, Braisyn!” Sylvyst Mhardyr snapped.

The Baron of Stoneheart, who’d replaced White Crag as lord justice, was as bald as Bynzhamyn Raice, but scrubbed, scented, and manicured, without the Charisian’s air of weathered toughness. His brain was no flabbier than Wave Thunder’s, however, and he waved one elegant hand when White Crag looked at him.

“There is so ‘active opposition,’ and you know it! And the real reason the ones doing the opposing are such pains in the—” He paused and glanced at Sharleyan. “The real reason they’re being so difficult,” he continued, “is that they’re worried that bringing in Charisian techniques is going to bring in Charisian attitudes! They already think commoners’re too uppity, and half of them are afraid they’ll get even more uppity, especially when they start having employment opportunities the nobles can’t control.” He snorted. “They were pis—angry enough when we adopted Old Charis’ new child labor laws. They resent the Shan-wei out of that, and they’re smart enough—barely, I admit, but smart enough—to realize that’s only the tip of an iceberg.” His expression was as disgusted as his tone. “If you think for one moment they haven’t heard all the horror stories about how Howsmyn treats his workers, you’re not nearly so clever as I always thought you were!”

Sharleyan raised one hand to hide a smile as the lord justice gave the first councilor something remarkably like a glare. She wasn’t a bit surprised a Chisholmian noble would find the notion of a crew of common-born rabble actually being permitted to send representatives to sit down and discuss labor conditions and wages with the owner of the manufactory which employed them … distasteful. And the notion of paying them bonuses keyed to exceeding production quotas rather than docking their pay if they didn’t meet those quotas would be equally alien to them.

Her smile faded as she considered the rest of what Stoneheart had just said, however, because it cut to the heart of the difference between Chisholm and Old Charis. The majority of Cayleb’s nobles had been infected with the same drive to expand and explore new possibilities as the rest of their society, which meant accepting the legitimacy of trade and joining forces with the less nobly born in pursuit of their common goal. The Chisholmian nobility still cherished a landowner’s contempt for mere tradesmen and wasn’t prepared to give up its economic primacy without a fight, especially since her father, King Sailys, had used the commons’ support to break the great nobles’ political stranglehold. They were afraid of what would happen to their power and positions when the sinews of wealth slipped irrevocably towards the Charisian model, in which men of no blood—like, say, Ehdwyrd Howsmyn—could rise to the most dizzying heights. And it wasn’t simply blind reactionism, either. Oh, it was reactionism, but it wasn’t blind, for they were right about what would happen.

It would also happen to the guilds, which were far more powerful in Chisholm than in Old Charis, although the guild masters didn’t seem to have scented the change in the wind quite as quickly as the nobility. The guilds had operated in large part as a mutual-protection society for master craftsmen for centuries; the discovery that their treasured apprenticeship structure was about to be overturned might well bring them into opposition as well, once it penetrated. That could prove even more of a problem than the aristocracy, especially if they decided to ally with the nobles.

“Don’t mistake me, Your Majesty,” Saint Howan said now. “The Charisians you and His Majesty have sent are finding places to locate manufactories. The problem is that they aren’t finding them quickly and that too many of them aren’t in the best places from the perspective of efficiency and are concentrated in … certain areas. For example, there’s plenty of coal and some rich iron deposits in Lantern Walk, and the Lantern River’s navigable most of the way to Saint Howan’s Bay. We’d have to put in locks in two or three places, but that’s not an insurmountable problem, and I assure you that I personally would love to see Sherytyn turn into a major seaport! But Duke Lantern Walk wants ten percent of any coal or iron mined in his duchy. And the Earl of Swayle”—his eyes met Sharleyan’s—“has thrown up every conceivable roadblock to improving the Lantern where it flows through his lands. Under the circumstances,” he raised his hands, palms uppermost, “I can’t really blame any Charisian investors for … hesitating to even try to develop those possibilities.”

Sharleyan didn’t allow herself to grimace, but she was tempted. Barkah Rahskail, the previous Earl of Swayle, had been executed for plotting with the previous Grand Duke Zebediah and the Northern Conspiracy in Corisande. Once a confidant of her own uncle, the Duke of Halbrook Hollow, he’d followed Halbrook Hollow into treason against the Crown out of loyalty to the Church. His widow Rebkah’s religious convictions were at least as strong as his had been, to which she’d added bitter hatred for her husband’s execution, and the situation wasn’t helped by her choice of chaplains. Father Zhordyn Rydach was Temple Loyalist to the bone. He was also charismatic, physically striking, and preached a potent sermon. Officially he was an under-priest of the Order of Chihiro; actually, he was an upper-priest of that order—almost certainly affiliated with the Order of the Sword, not the Quill, as he claimed—and one of the Inquisition’s more energetic apologists. Wave Thunder and the rest of the inner circle suspected he’d also been the conduit through which Barkah had initially reached out to the Corisandian conspirators. Unfortunately, not even Owl’s remotes had been able to catch him in any overtly treasonous act, which meant they couldn’t arrest him without violating their own policy of religious tolerance.

Wahlys Rahskail, the new Earl of Swayle, was only seventeen and thoroughly under his mother’s thumb. He was also even more thoroughly cowed by Rydach than by Rebkah, for the priest had convinced him his soul hovered on the lip of hell, ready to slip over the brink the moment he gave his allegiance to the Church of Charis.

Sir Ahlber Zhustyn, Sharleyan’s own spymaster, was watching the situation closely—aided, though he wasn’t aware of it, by Wave Thunder via Owl’s remotes—because in addition to her own enmity, Rebkah was related by blood to a great many of western Chisholm’s nobles. In particular, to Zhasyn Seafarer, the Duke of Rock Coast; Payt Stywyrt, the Duke of Black Horse; and Edwyrd Ahlbair, the Earl of Dragon Hill. The three of them were firm allies, all with seats in the Imperial Parliament as well as the Chisholmian House of Lords, and all of them were mulishly opposed to anything which might further enhance the Crown’s authority. They formed a potentially potent bloc of opposition in the west, and Sharleyan was uncomfortably aware that Duke Eastshare’s Expeditionary Force had been forced to pull troops out of the garrisons and bases usually maintained in and around the Western Crown Demesne. There was no sign so far that Rock Coast and the others might contemplate taking advantage of those troops’ absence, but he and Black Horse were stupid enough to try something like that if they thought they saw an opportunity. Rebkah Rahskail probably wasn’t, and neither was her cousin, Dragon Hill, but they might find themselves pulled into an adventure if the others got the bit between their teeth.

And then there was the other part of what Saint Howan had just said. The handful of spots where Old Charisian investors had so far found places to put manufactories were in places already firmly behind the Crown, like Eastshare, her own Duchy of Tayt, and the eastern territories between Maikelsberg and Port Royal. It was good to see her and Cayleb’s core supporters embracing prosperity, but if that created affluence in those areas and poverty in others, the Crown’s opponents might find themselves with a potent economic weapon to rally disaffection behind them.

And one thing they won’t do is admit they’re the reason for the poverty, either! They’ll just point to the way we’re unjustly favoring our toadies— obviously the only reason for their prosperity!—and scream that all they want is “fairness” and “justice”!

The thought made her want to spit, but she couldn’t do that, so instead, she smiled.

“I wish I could say I was surprised to hear about the Earl of Swayle’s position. Unfortunately, I’m not.” She looked at White Crag. “I imagine you’ve tried … reasoning with him, My Lord?”

“I’ve tried reasoning with him with everything short of a baseball bat, Your Majesty,” White Crag said tartly. “I’ve even gotten him to agree—twice!—to lease that stretch of river to the consortium and let them pay for the improvements. But that was when I had him here in Cherayth. And, unfortunately, he refuses to actually sign anything without discussing it with his mother.” He rolled his eyes ever so slightly. “Somehow, whenever he goes home to discuss it with her, he goes back to his original position. We might have more success with him if we could, ah … adjust his household slightly.”

“‘Get thee behind me, Shan-wei,’ “Sharleyan quoted dryly, shaking her head at him. “I’m not particularly pleased by the reports of Father Zhordyn, either, but if the Crown started trying to remove a peer of the realm’s chaplain just because we don’t like him, it would only justify even greater opposition. And”—she added grudgingly—“rightly so, unless we have overt proof of treason.”

“We’re looking, Your Majesty,” Zhustyn said. “Unfortunately, he’s either very, very careful, very, very lucky, or very, very disinclined to act on his own advice about opposing the ‘heretical tyranny’ of the ‘monstrous’ Church of Charis.” He shook his head in exasperation. “We haven’t been able to find a single piece of hard evidence.”

“All you can do is keep looking, Sir Ahlber,” Sharleyan commiserated, and looked back at Saint Howan.

“I believe it would be possible for us to … lean on Lantern Walk a bit about that demand of his,” she said. “Perhaps the thought of seeing someone next door making the profit instead of him would induce him to lower his demands. Duke Lake Land’s proven surprisingly reasonable, for example. In fact, he’s emerged as one of the leaders of the Crown party in the Imperial House of Lords. Unless I’m mistaken, his duchy also has extensive iron deposits, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does,” the chancellor agreed. “But they’d have to be shipped through Mountain Heart, and I’m pretty sure the Grand Duke would want a hefty toll. Not only that, but the Shelakyl River’s shallower than the Lantern, and if memory serves it has at least three sets of cataracts. That would require a lot more improvement than the Lantern before we could ship large quantities of ore down it. And Lake Land doesn’t have coal to go with it.”

“I think I could bring Grand Duke Mountain Heart to see reason,” Sharleyan said with a thin smile. “He and I have crossed swords in the past, and I don’t think he wants to lose any more blood. Besides, what if we were to sweeten the pot by offering to subsidize the improvement of the Shelakyl out of Crown funds? We offer to save him the cost of making the improvements in return for his charging a minimal toll on the rest of the river once the improvements are in.”

“That might work, Your Majesty, but with all due respect, the Treasury isn’t brimming over with marks at the moment. I’ve gone over Baron Ironhill’s numbers since your arrival, and to meet our share of the imperial expenses for next year, especially after what Duke Eastshare’s already committed us to pay to support the Expeditionary Force, we’re going to have to dip deep into our reserves. Frankly, part of the problem is that more and more of our own revenues are flowing into Old Charis.”

Sharleyan sensed the internal tightening of several of the other councilors. It didn’t come as much of a surprise, and she understood it fully. Not only that, she knew the situation was likely to get worse over the next few years. Unless they did something about it, that was.

“I understand what you’re saying, Sir Dynzail. But I also understand why it’s happening, and I think there’s only one solution to it. The problem, put most simply, is that Charis—Old Charis—had the most efficient manufactories in the world even prior to the Group of Four’s attack on it. Since then, the Old Charisians’ve done nothing but improve their efficiency and output, and the result is that the cost of their goods has actually dropped steadily, despite the war. As the cost went down, they sold more and more of those goods, both here in Chisholm and, despite Clyntahn’s embargo, on the mainland. What’s happening in Siddarmark is going to disrupt that cash flow from the mainland, of course, but they’re compensating for that to a large extent by opening additional markets here, in Emerald, in Tarot, and even in Corisande. Which means, equally of course, that money’s flowing from customers in Chisholm to manufactories in Charis in ever greater amounts.”

Heads nodded. Chisholmians were less accustomed than Old Charisians to thinking in mercantile terms, but they could understand simple mathematics. What they might not yet grasp, Sharleyan reflected, was the extent to which the availability of cheap, manufactured goods was going to get behind the entire Charisian Empire’s economy and push. Just the output of Rhaiyan Mychail’s textile mills was already having a huge effect as the price of clothing plummeted. It meant a Chisholmian workman could afford to buy an imported Old Charisian shirt, for example, for less than a quarter of what the same shirt would have cost from a Chisholmian tailor, and the price was still falling. In fact, it was dropping so rapidly it would soon be almost as cheap to buy a far better sewing machine-produced shirt from Old Charis than to have his wife make it for him out of homespun. And that was only one area in which the expanding flood of Old Charisian goods was hammering traditional economic arrangements. Had it not been for the absolute need to focus on military requirements—had not so much of Old Charis’ output, especially its heavy industry, been required for the navy and the army rather than available for release to the civilian economy—the situation would have been even worse, and it was only a matter of time before it got worse.

“We can’t blame our people for buying goods as cheaply as possible,” she went on somberly. “We not only can’t, but we shouldn’t. Anything that improves their lives should be encouraged, not discouraged. At the same time, we’re looking at a significant imbalance in trade between us and Old Charis, and it’s going to get worse if we don’t do something about it.”

“Your Majesty,” one of the councilors sitting well down the table from her began, “in that regard—”

“A moment, My Lord,” she said. “I wasn’t quite finished.”

Her tone was courteous but firm, and Vyrgyl Fahstyr, the Earl of Gold Wyvern, closed his mouth. He sat back in his chair, his expression one of patience, but there was a stubborn look in his eyes.

“I know some members of this Council”—Sharleyan said, meeting that stubborn look squarely as she grasped the dilemma by the horns—“favor the imposition of duties on Old Charisian imports to ‘level the playing field.’ The idea is tempting from several perspectives, including the boost to tax revenues. It would, however, hurt the Empire’s economy as a whole, it would drive up the prices our own people here in Chisholm must pay just to live, and it would arouse great resentment in Old Charis. Not only that, the Crown’s position is that internal trade barriers within the Empire would constitute a dangerous precedent We”—the entire Council sat just a bit straighter as it heard the royal we in that unwavering voice—“have no intention of allowing to arise. Understand Us, My Lords,” she let her eyes sweep around the table, “We and Emperor Cayleb are as one in Our understanding that Our Empire’s very survival—and that of every member of it—depends upon Our ability to build and pay for the weapons of war We require. And building those weapons, and raising and paying the men to wield them, will require money, and that money can come only from encouraging the growth of Our own economy in every way possible. The Group of Four is finding it progressively more difficult to pay for their own armies and navies, yet at this time their absolute resources remain far greater than Ours. We can change that only by increasing those available to Us, and internal imposts that discourage free trade and the most vibrant economy We can sustain are not the way to do that.”

Gold Wyvern’s face had gone completely expressionless as her measured words flowed around the table. Most of the men in that room had heard that tone from her before. They knew what it meant, and they hadn’t forgotten during her absence in Old Charis.

“So,” she continued, still firmly yet speaking once more in the voice of a young woman and not the avatar of an empire, “the official policy of the Crown is not to impose duties upon commerce, but to deliberately encourage the expansion of manufactories to other portions of our combined realm. That’s the reason Master Howsmyn and other Old Charisian manufactory owners are seeking investment opportunities and partners here in Chisholm. It’s our intention to offer not increased protective duties, but a reduction in duties, with the understanding that Old Charisian suppliers will build additional manufactories in Chisholm, financed in no small part by the profit they show on their Chisholmian trade. And”—she looked at Saint Howan again—“the Crown will also grant a reduction of taxation on new manufactories here in Chisholm, for a period of fifteen years, equal to the proportion of Chisholmian ownership in the enterprise. That is, if fifty percent of the cost of a new manufactory is borne by a Chisholmian partner or partnership, the taxes paid by that manufactory for the first fifteen years of its operation will be fifty percent of what they would otherwise have been.”

Saint Howan winced visibly, but her voice continued levelly.

“If our noble landowners are wise, they’ll find partnerships with Old Charisian investors. I feel certain that if they’re willing to contribute land, resources, and labor to the construction of new manufactories, they’ll readily find Old Charisians prepared to provide the marks, and both they and their Old Charisian partners will profit thereby. At the same time, we’ll provide employ for those in the guilds who find manufactured goods depriving them of customers, and that same opportunity will keep a higher percentage of our own people’s money at home, buying from their fellow Chisholmians. It will, admittedly, mean that for a period of fifteen or twenty years, the Crown’s tax revenues from the manufactories themselves will be lower than they might otherwise have been. However, the revenues we’ll receive off the greater flow of goods will more than compensate, and it will help to prevent Chisholm from becoming an economic appendage of Old Charis. In the long run, that will be in the interest of both kingdoms, whereas a battle of protectionism within the Empire will serve only our enemies.”

Saint Howan’s expression changed, becoming much more thoughtful. He gazed at her for several seconds, then nodded slowly, and she nodded back.

“As for the need to improve navigation on our rivers,” she said, “while I agree it’s something we need to look at accomplishing, there may be an alternative.”

A stir went through the councilors, and she suppressed a smile. Some of them were still moderately in shock from her previous proposal, given how it flew in the face of their own economic models. What she’d just said, however, was clearly nonsense. Chisholm and Charis had canal networks, but nothing to compare with the mainland’s centuries-long development of inland water transportation. They’d been settled later, their populations were sparser, and—in Charis’ case, at least—Howell Bay had been an even broader highway than any canal. Given its existing infrastructure and economy, the lack of water transport in Chisholm hadn’t been a crippling disadvantage, but no one could possibly supply the quantities of iron ore, limestone, and coal a complex on the order of Howsmyn’s Delthak Works required without it.

“I’m sure all of you have read the attestation by Father Paityr, as Intendant of Charis, approving the ‘steam engine’ devised by Master Howsmyn’s artisans,” she said. “I suspect, however, that you haven’t had the attestation long enough to fully grasp its implications.”

She saw White Crag raise one hand to cover the smile her tactful choice of words had evoked, given that the attestation in question had arrived in Chisholm long before she had.

“One of those implications, My Lords,” she continued serenely, ignoring her first councilor’s unseemly mirth, “is that waterwheels will no longer be necessary to power manufactories, which means, of course, that they can be located anywhere, not simply where a river or waterfall makes it convenient. Still, the problem of transport, especially of raw materials, remains. However, allow me to tell you about a new mechanism one of Master Howsmyn’s artisans is in the process of developing and which is likely to bring about a very significant change in our transportation system. He calls it a ‘steam automotive,’ since it moves under its own power, and—”