Dream, Gérard

by ShadowLurker13

And then everyone went off to the Patternfall War and the big climax at the end of book five of the series... but what happened to Gérard during his regency? Did they just hand him the keys and say 'be good with our world? I think not. And maybe - just maybe - there's a lot more to the 'big guy' than he usually lets on... (In-canon extension set during Courts of Chaos)

3. The Winter of our Discontent

Chapter 3 – The Winter of Our Discontent

It had been a difficult cold season. The ngan of Maga of the Amberite year 2390.7 d'L, while no icier than usual, was marked by the first real privation that the citizens of the True City had weathered since the days of Dworkin Overlord and the Great Settlement, before the opening of the trade-routes across the shadowy seas. Prince Gérard did absent himself from Amber secretly just once more for a little over three days, riding north alone with what was now a familiar level of head-splitting concentration as he forced open a short land route to a dairy village called Murn that he practically willed into existence. There was enough gold in his purse to convince the local farmers he talked to there that it was definitely in their best interests to try the new strange road that led south to a kingdom none had so much as heard whisper of before, the size and culture of which was simply staggering to such a simple, provincial people! Even with a completed list of guaranteed shelf staples for Amberite larders, their 'out-of-season' vegetables and fruit were completely cut off because they had been imported from a few semi-tropical shadowlands that had not been accessed in the stark recutting of the Golden Circle, the worlds having been deemed by that hasty council of prince, captain and pilot as not in need from any of the others and non-essential to any. Their ancestors had survived on what roots and dried fruit they put by for the bitter Amberite winter; so could they. The situation simply couldn't be helped, until…

Gérard did a few more reps on the plate-loaded machine before moving on to the bench press. The gymnasium in Castle Amber had originally been conceived of as chiefly a fencing room, but Rilga's strongest son had left quite a mark here, importing weight training equipment from out of Shadow (most of the newer pieces were purchased from Earth and its immediate sisters), helping to haul the heaviest components up the three flights of stairs himself, assisting and directing the assembly of certain pieces where necessary. While the thought might've been tempting to think to look at him, even near-immortals didn't achieve a physique like the prince's without regular effort. His morning regimen was also an excellent way to blow off steam without accidentally causing damage to anyone or anything. Goodness knows he'd had to deal with far more aggravation than usual over the past season…

The trouble had all begun within days of his return to Amber from his long sojourn at sea, late one evening after the public audiences had been concluded for the day. In fact, he had just finished his dinner, which he was accustomed to taking with the Lady Vialle in one of the smaller sitting rooms (Lord Rein being less willing to spend much time with the prince anymore for fear of assuming yet another unwanted position of authority), and was just on his way up to the king's old chambers to dig through documents pertaining to the realm's neo-medieval trade guilds (some of whom weren't very happy with him for how he had simplified the rerouting of the Golden Circle) when a young female servant caught him on the stairs and informed him that he had a 'visitor' waiting to meet with him in the lower drawing room, and that the old man would not be put off. Gérard heaved a great sigh and told the servant to keep the soldiers from forcibly evicting the stranger from the premises (for they had been on the verge of doing so, only awaiting the prince's permission), saying that he would be there directly in a few minutes, but to have them keep an eye on the troublemaker until then.

How did Father ever manage to find time for all those secret affairs and liaisons? he briefly wondered, running a quick comb through his hair (the level of outward decorum he was expected to keep up in both habit and mode-of-dress was already wearing on his nerves), taking a swallow of wine and heading back down to the guest waiting rooms adjacent to the Yellow Room that his sister Flora had designated, designed and decorated during Eric's brief reign; admittedly the chambers did come in handy. Upon his entrance, the ancient-looking, richly-robed sage who had been sitting on one of the modern couches rose slowly to his feet out of respect; the door closed from the outside.

"I will let you know that I am only allowing you audience at this time of night on account of your age since you are already here," the prince addressed the stranger frankly, seating himself on the couch opposite; the grey-haired, elderly man remained standing. If he was a native to Amber (and his demeanor and clothing would suggest this), he might've been almost as old as the late Oberon himself, merely wearing his millennia for the worse due to his 'untainted' shadow-blood. His faded grey eyes were bright, clear, and very sharp, however.

"And I appreciate both the imposition and the opportunity, my lord prince," the man swept a low courtly bow – then retrieved a scroll from one of his billowing Arden-green sleeves, holding it out for him; the document carried the king's own seal, stamped in gold wax with the head of the Unicorn! Gérard's eyes involuntarily widened at the sight of it and took it, breaking the seal to open what was likely one of the last documents the old king had ever written… and was further astounded to discover that it was a letter of introduction!

"He felt that it might be necessary, given the continued secrecy of my position," the old stranger added offhandedly. "I understand that that piece of parchment may hold a little sentimental value for you now, but I was urged to tell you to throw it on the fire after you have finished reading it, so that I may remain a secret."

The prince could scarcely believe what he was reading: this quiet, unassuming well-to-do man from the merchant classes before him was the Minister of Shadow-trade to the realm! And he came highly recommended – and trusted!

Emrys Mansel has been one of my most important advisors since before Castle Amber herself was completed, the missive admitted, and so long as he lives he must be considered as integral to the realm as the very stones of the walls that currently surround you. Heed his council well, and it shall be well for Amber. Tell no one of his identity, nor of the post's existence, for there are many who would covet his power should the possibility of it be made generally known. I go now to do what I must to repair the Pattern and the worlds. Know that I would not leave you thus alone without access to the wisdom necessary for your own task, though I could not tell you beforehand for you would have had far too many questions and there was neither privacy nor time, which even now I feel burning my very skin as I write you these lines. I have never expected much of you but your loyalty and service; unlike your brothers, you have never once let me down in this regard, and so the regency is yours for so long as it lasts, for in truth some of my own plans have gone awry, and he for whom throne, queen and heir were all provided will no longer accept the crown. The succession is up to your Grandmother the Unicorn now. You have my blessing, both upon your life and your endeavors. Continue to make me proud, my son, so that the name of Barimen will continue to be praised in Amber and in Shadow to come.

And it was signed in a hurriedly sloppy flourish:

~ Oberon, King of the Healed Pattern

(your loving Father)

In spite of the company Gérard got a bit misty at the end, but he shoved his feelings down hard; without a word he quickly folded the parchment at the line where the confidential-seeming information ended, tore it cleanly in half, and, rising, set the top portion of the missive alight from one of the large candles affixed to the wall, letting it crumple and blacken upon a clear section of the marble floor before stamping it out the ashes with his boot, the acrid smell of the smoke pervading the room.

"Satisfactory?" the prince asked, folding and pocketing the remainder of the letter before seating himself again, gesturing for Mansel to sit also; the offer was politely refused again with a curt headshake.

"All of Amber shares in your grief, my lord," Mansel commented with a note of pity. "I would have come forward sooner, but I was forbidden by his late majesty until such time as my services were actually warranted. Would that I had broken troth at the last and approached you sooner," he sighed, pacing a couple steps away. "I had held no objections to your accessing Begma alone, but had I known the rest… ah well, you did what you had to, and we are likely alive due to your well-meaning efforts. But your chosen course of action now necessitates my own."

"What is it exactly that you do?" Gérard put to the man guardedly yet bluntly.

The shadow-minister smiled upon hearing the honest question, turning back.

"You would hardly remember me, but I met you once as a boy, my lord prince; it does my heart good to see that you have not changed much in certain ways. Well," he seated himself across from him at last. "Allow me to start by asking you a question. Have you even wondered why an apple in Amber costs a fifth of an obol?"

Gérard frowned slightly. "No. That is what it is worth."

"Why?"

"The cost of employing the farm-hands to care for the trees in the growing season. The cost of paying the extra laborers in harvesttime. The cost of the feed for the draft animals and maintenance for the carts to carry the fruit to market."

"Those things do have value," Mansel nodded patiently, "but you have not yet answered my question," he gave the prince a little knowing smile, his grey eyes glittering.

Gérard was not smiling. "I like not where your thoughts seem to lead."

"Peace, my lord prince; I was merely curious as to whether the incongruity had ever occurred to you. It is well that the current state-of-affairs in the True City should seem so natural to one of even your own rank," he sat back comfortably in the well-cushioned couch. "The truth of the matter still feels a little like a long-standing joke to me, one of Dworkin Overlord's finest illusions: that certain metals are perceived to have such immense intrinsic value. The true reason that an apple has the price, the worth, that it has – or indeed any other commodity in the True City – is because your grandsire determined it to be so when he first brought the idea of coinage to Amber from out of Shadow. Of all of your siblings only his highness Prince Benedict might remember a time in his early childhood when our country still ran on a purely trade-and-barter economy, dealing in raw goods randomly from distant Shadows. Some of Dworkin's first minted drachms were put into the young prince's hands to spend as he would in the fledgling market on treats and small toys, to show that the system was trustworthy, and that the Crown would support it."

"Even without a background in complex economic theory, you must appreciate that there must always be a high level of fiscal stability in Amber, my lord prince, both for her own sake as well as for the sake of the Shadow that emanates therefrom. For us that has always meant a certain modicum of exerted control when it comes to everything from what goods at market 'cost' both here and abroad, to which shadows are allowed to benefit from transacting with us and for which goods. If the situation was allowed to follow a freer course, our society would experience far greater monetary fluctuations, both good and bad. You are more familiar with the sea and its attendant phenomena, I believe: think of me as a 'breakwater' of sorts, my chief function to ensure that no truly calamitous 'waves' ever reach the shores of the True World. Without that barrier…" he allowed the thought to hang a moment for emphasis before continuing on.

"To come to the point, my lord, we have not experienced an economic flux like the one you have unknowingly induced recently since almost the beginnings of the Golden Circle itself. Before, each new addition to the route was carefully planned out so that we could prepare the markets for them, quietly making subtle adjustments to the values of commodities far off in Shadow so that by the time the newcomers dealt with us their native pricing was already nearly par with our own; from there it was a simple enough business to convince them that we were right by dint of cultural and evolutionary superiority, and to get them to accept our minted metals and finished goods in exchange for things we genuinely needed."

"I argued in vain for many long centuries with Dworkin Overlord's son about cultivating more of his own land against the precise conditions we are now experiencing, but neither he nor his father could bear to despoil so much as an acre of the Arden, of the Valley of Garnath, fearing that it would lead to deforestation further out in Shadow, 'walking' to find even the deadwood to burn in their fireplaces at first. You have finally set this matter to rights; better late than never in matters of our own self-sufficiency, and for this I must salute you. But in taking Amber out of the position of the hub into which all the spokes of Shadow had to flow in order to trade with both us and each other, putting us on equal footing with two of our neighbors while allowing a handful of the others to trade freely without us instead, you have severely hampered our economy by removing the overhead which the Crown has always benefited from by being the mediator of this very trade, to say nothing of the resale markup our own merchant fleet captures when we redistribute certain goods elsewhere in Shadow! There will barely be enough funds coming in to keep the palace functional without indenturing the servants and raising taxes to historic amounts if we do not act soon to correct this! And that does not even begin to consider the predicament that some of your craftworkers are currently in, with most of their traditional markets not only inaccessible directly, but receiving stiff competition from out in Shadow where the values are not being upheld as they are here, without our presence to regulate them! Many may be facing personal ruin before the coming spring!"

"Then we must help them!" the prince sat forward, honest concern clear in his blue eyes, his expression. "But how?"

Emrys Mansel calmly produced another scroll from a long front pocket in his robes, along with a capped fountain pen, passing both to Gérard.

"I took the liberty of drawing this up myself in order to save time; we have not a moment to waste," the shadow-minister uttered direly. "All you must do is sign it, my lord prince, and enough of the damage should be adequately defrayed for the time being. Life will continue on almost normally for both your house and your subjects until further notice."

If there was one thing Gérard had learned very well during the long centuries of dealing with his family, it was to always, always read the tiny print; he was struggling through a veritable bramble-thicket of it right now, almost having to squint for it to be legible. The shadow-minister's penmanship was remarkably clean for the 'font size', likely from millennia of practice if the man was as old as he claimed to be, but the specific style of lettering was almost too strongly reminiscent of Oberon's own hand, which the prince had literally just read…

Or was it? He glanced above the long parchment momentarily to give Mansel a hard stare. "You have made a study of the king's penmanship," he noted darkly before laboring on.

"I told you you did not have to trouble yourself over the contents, my lord. Do not worry about the obscure wording; it is a mere traditional formality in such documents."

But the prince was frowning harder. "It seems to me that what you propose would be to levy what amounts to a very heavy import tax on those shadow-traders who would yet do business with us in the current arrangement, to obtain the money that way and see it distributed generally according to status and income as before, with the Castle taking the top cut. But won't that simply drive the merchants off altogether? Amber chiefly produces 'luxury' items, mostly things the outside worlds can do without if push comes to shove, as far as I know. Wouldn't it make more sense for me to ride off into Shadow and simply bring back more gold to help the people for now and to entice the traders to stay and do business with us?"

Mansel's quiet sigh and almost ingratiatingly parental smile irritated Gérard even more than the document; he looked as if he were trying to reason with a slow child. "If you begin to pay people for nothing, that is soon what your so-called 'precious' metals will be worth," he gently lectured the prince. "Are you aware, my lord, that there is already a fund for failing businesses set up in Amber City? A portion of your nobles' taxes is supposed to go toward it once a season… but that percentage is no longer anywhere near what the general public believes it is, and it hasn't been for a little over 300 years, ever since the late king struck a bargain with a small handful of lords to keep some of his private 'business' private, the initial intelligence which brought the king to this point leaked to the nobility by a man who later lost his life in a fishing accident. But the legal precedent remains to this day. To put it plainly, the Crown is the Fund; it has already seen use a small handful of times, to either help an important businessman through a bad season, or to help rebuild a business after a calamity such as a fire, or to start a new business when a previous career has failed outright for any number of reasons. Each time fresh ore is brought to the mint in secret; each time the citizens of Amber praise our seemingly generous noblesse for their 'progressive' values and long-term vision of the country. And each time, I have had to work on the Shadows, to get the inflation of the stater lowered back to regular amounts as quickly and as quietly as possible. If you were to do as you suggest instead of the steady course which I have taken great pains to ensure is the correct one, how long do you think it will take your people to realize the truth? That the reason they labor and toil all their lives is because Dworkin Overlord decreed that for as long as Order should last, that Amber City must be the pattern for all of civilized life in Order – and that it is a conscious choice that your forebear made, and not the immutable Order of Existence? Had he wished it, Amber could have been a decadent paradise to rival any in the Courts of Chaos: ultimately pleasurable, but bereft of purpose, of meaning! How many of your common subjects would be so expansively-minded, given the choice, the option? Many of your people are simple peasants, my lord, but they are hardly stupid; a few of them approach your own venerable age and experience. How long do you think it would take for them to figure out that there is no reason for the Crown to even collect taxes, if the Castle can be completely self-sufficient without anyone's help? Do you truly desire an angry mob beating down your gates and demanding your head if you will not meet their demands while choosing to stay in the True City?! For that is what you are going to have, my lord prince, should the real nature of our economic and social system ever come to light! I swore to both Dworkin Overlord and his mighty son King Oberon with my own blood that I would always act in accordance with my loyalty to both the Crown and to Amber – in that order. I swore not to your brother Prince Eric, for I deemed him a usurper, nor did I make myself known to Prince Corwin, though the nature of his rule was more noble, possibly even sanctioned. As the rightfully appointed regent in a time of ultimate war, I am prepared to so swear to you also, my lord prince, if this is what it will take to convince you of my seriousness, of my well-meaning and loyalty," the minister produced a small penknife and held the tip unflinchingly to the meat of his right palm-

"Stop!" Gérard commanded him, beginning to reach out his own hand, moving to intervene! "Do not harm yourself to make your point! I doubt not your sincerity, but it still seems to me that there must be a better way for us to go about our business than to penalize those who would still come to our markets." The prince sat back again, glanced away, worrying his beard with his front teeth. "How much time would you say we have, at longest, to do something, before the situation gets worse?"

"Perhaps only until the end of the ngan; not even the full winter," Mansel answered quietly. "My heart goes out to you, my lord, for yours is clearly in the right place, but this is not a problem that you can solve on your own," he added almost tenderly. "I have already solved it for you. Just sign."

Gérard momentarily closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a few deep breaths. It was not this old man's fault that the prince had been treated like this his entire life – talked down to like he was stupid – but for perhaps the first time in that incredibly long life, Gérard had finally had enough of it. When he reopened his eyes again, the hapless shadow-minister actually involuntarily flinched back at the smoldering ire he read there.

"I will give his matter the serious consideration that it deserves," the prince pronounced powerfully, rising from the couch, forcing the other man to stand also on protocol, "and I will rule on the decision in no more than six days. Does this suffice?"

"It does, my lord," Mansel managed to hold his ground, "but I would beg you to reconsider my proposal as it stands. I am intimately familiar with not only Amber's law but also the law pertaining to trade and many other matters in each of the Golden Circle shadows. You are free to draw upon my many years of experience, whenever you so desire. Which reminds me…" He reached into yet another pocket and extracted a single trump, passing it facedown to the fuming prince. "Your father had this painted of me so that he would not have need of anyone in retrieving me when he wished to consult with me on any number of matters. You may do likewise; I am at your disposal, my lord, at any time, day or night. I am a bachelor with little family, and I live alone in a private house not far from the eastern side of the City."

The prince wordlessly grunted terse acknowledgement, removing his still-warm trump pack from his silken jerkin and adding the single card; apart from his own, it was the only other one that was yet cool to the touch.

"Should you need anything at all…" the minister offered charitably – but the sentiment fell on ears of stone. The blue fire of the prince's eyes made him take a step back, but Gérard's voice was eerily calm.

"What I require, no one has ever granted me. If there is nothing further necessary for you to tell me, you may withdraw."

"Yes, my lord," the old man executed another courtly bow and saw himself to the door, pausing for a moment at the lintel as if he were on the verge of saying something, then thought better of it, mentally collected himself and shuffled back out where the guard was waiting to escort him off the premises.

Gérard paced for a long time in that room like a caged bear before returning to his quarters that night, implications upon implications tumbling forth in his mind in waves.

Does he know of the Primal Pattern? he suddenly wondered after a few minutes had passed, abruptly stopping in his tracks. If the minister did, it might very well explain how a mere shadow-man could work to directly influence the flow of events through a whole series of worlds without ever having to set foot in any of them! Which would suggest that either Oberon or Dworkin had taught him how to do this… and not seen fit to trust any of them with the same knowledge! It was infuriating to be placed in this position, of having the mantle of power but with the expectation that someone else would be wielding it, as if he were not capable, not fit!

The prince suddenly thought of Lord Rein's impotently hollow 'stewardship' and sighed, deflating a bit, finally exiting the room and going upstairs to the king's chambers to look for more information. Regardless of how anyone treated him, he still had the final say on legislation – and six days in which to decide this time. He would show them all: any son of Barimen blood, even were he last, was never least.

But, alas, as is often the case with problems we wish would simply unravel from sufficient willpower expended, the carefully controlled economy of the Golden Circle was so tightly interwoven into itself that each strand which might've been loosened to succor Gérard's subjects was hopelessly twined about at least three others which would pull at themselves even worse than before if disturbed, and cutting any of them further was simply out of the question no matter how insignificant some might've appeared at first glance. The more the prince studied that web of interdependence and almost incredulous blind faith, the less it looked like the deliberate construct of any man – even a madman, as his grandfather was purported to be – and more like an organic biological thing, perhaps akin to a planned garden that had been allowed to go wildly to seed for a few centuries, bearing little resemblance to what it had started out as. The hours burned late, then early, and he awoke at midday with his face planted on his father's desk in a pile of papers, the candles gone in a pool of spent wax. Stiffly standing, stretching his back, he glanced out the lattice-paned window, over the white-blanketed dormant palace gardens, beyond to the northern border of the Forest that had been partially cleared for a few acres before the weather turned; if the snow ever let up, the task might be completed in time for spring planting. Of course, the work would have gone a bit more quickly with a few dozen stronger able bodies to perform it. Nineteen out of twenty mature faces in Amber City were yet female on average, and among many other challenges that they had faced so far many had taken to this one with a hardy gusto that was commendable: working women, some who had never held an ax in their lives, taking to the proscribed plots of land with unshakable determination and drive. The full removal of the tree stumps was going to be even harder with many of the stronger, healthier horses gone to the War as well, but at least the project was well underway.

Heading down to the kitchens to raid the pantry (too hungry to wait for luncheon), the prince briefly chuckled at the memory of the last time Rein had eaten here: the man's mildly bigoted views on the sexes had finally circulated among the castle staff, and an old soldier who didn't know the first thing about cooking was put exclusively in charge of the minstrel's portion! Fletcher had quickly taken the hint, but not in the way that might've been hoped, taking to eating in restaurants along the Concourse instead (which he could technically afford, given his stipend from the Crown, but still…) If the man was stubborn when it came to certain things, he certainly wasn't alone, but the number of dissenters to their current social order was definitely low, and dropping as time went by…

Gérard switched machines in the gymnasium again, heading for the rower, the tension set as high as it would go. In Amber, the king had never needed anyone's permission to pass laws or draft legislation, yet in the past Oberon had employed an impromptu 'cabinet' of sorts, mostly staffed with the local nobility, although one or two wealthy merchants eventually broke into the old ranks. Of course most of these had also gone off to the War: Lords Chantris, Feldane, and Karm were all riding in the company of the royal retinue right at this moment, granted that they were still alive. That left only Lords Redwyn and Urien from the original set, two ancient and very self-absorbed men that the prince could hardly imagine being impartial, decent council, along a handful of venerable ladies, many of whom knew precious little of their lords' businesses and associated dealings, coming as they did from a sector of society where such involvement was considered 'unfashionable'. Perhaps one or two could be relied upon for information, but their collective number was hardly inspiring, either. The prince finally stopped rowing, catching his breath as he stood, stretching his legs, wiping the sweat from his face and body with fresh towels, which had just been delivered. Five days had elapsed since that clandestine meeting, which felt more and more like a personal reckoning with each passing hour in which Gérard could not come up with a solution.

Really, he should've been wrestling Hazkhar Garabek – the only remaining Avernian in Amber left from Corwin and Bleys' doomed assault on the True City five years hence – this morning, as was his usual routine once every five days. Upon the death of Prince Eric, whom the shadow-man had been taught since birth was the lord of all evil, the others Barimens had managed to convince him that they were the 'good gods', although he seemed to harbor some resentment against a few of them, namely Caine and Julian (and it was not difficult to imagine why.) Hazkhar eventually took to Gérard as if the prince were some deity like Thor in the flesh, revering him for both his superhuman strength and his open and upright nature, going so far as to petition him through the 'warrior-god' Lord Corwin, Avenger of Evil, to teach such a lowly being as himself to wrestle, to honorably grapple man-to-man, for the art was completely foreign in his country and he had heard Lord Corwin mention once in passing that this was part of the 'god's' strength regimen. There was not much spare time to be had in the years leading up to the Patternfall War, but Gérard had conceded to instruct the man as he could in good humor, the first time tussling with him very gently for fear of injuring the tall, lithe alien… only to find himself tripped on his backside, the bright-red shadow-man reverently waiting for him to get back up, assuming he had won the round! It took some time to teach him the full rules of the sport, but he was gradually improving (although his physique was still far too long and skinny for true wrestling no matter how much he worked out; it had to be the genetics of his species.)

Gérard thought of Hazkhar… then thought better of it. In spite of the breathing techniques Benedict had tried to teach the prince to help him to control his temper, it had only ever worked so far, and he genuinely did not wish to spar with his most loyal devotee when his cortisol and adrenaline were already elevated like this: it made it harder for him to control his movements. Upon leaving the gym, he ordered the servant girl who had come for the towels to pass word along to the Avernian that his session was cancelled today and the real reason why; the prince received a return message in the Yellow Room not twenty minutes later – just before he began the day's few cases a couple hours early – conveying Hazkhar's profuse reverence of Gérard's continuing concern for his mortal flesh and bones, cordially hoping that his favorite god would have the opportunity to spend his ire properly upon those foolish enough to incite his righteous anger thus, ending with a restatement of his undying loyalty as always (along with the half-jesting hope of properly besting him one day in a bout, if the aspiration was not blasphemous.)

If only this were as easy as bashing a few deserving heads, Gérard sighed with a rueful little smile, signing for the stenographer to allow in the first petitioner of the day, taking his elevated seat at the end of the short hall that had nearly been the Throne Room (and for all practical purposes was treated as one anyway.)

Later that day during luncheon (which had gradually morphed into an early dinner when he was busy like this), Lady Vialle addressed his terse silence in spite of the auroch roast, one of his favorite meals.

"Gérard, what is going on?" she had gently yet bluntly put to him.

"What makes you think something new is wrong?" he rejoindered a bit too quickly, his deep voice filled with tension.

"You have only said three words to me in twenty minutes; I am not complaining, I merely noted the irregularity and thought perhaps that there might be something behind it," she quietly observed.

Gerard made a brief humming noise in the back of his throat. For being blind, Random's lady was almost unnervingly perceptive sometimes; it would've been downright scary in anyone less kindhearted.

But how much could he tell her?

"You are right, as always," he measuredly admitted, listlessly stabbing at a roasted potato with his fork, "but it is a delicate private matter, having to do with our current trade problems. It's a tricky thing, and I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do about it yet. And I have to decide soon."

"I am sorry; I won't pry any further," Vialle demurely backed down.

"I'm not stiff-arming you, Vialle – it's just…"

"I understand," she reiterated, nodding encouragingly in his direction. "It is all right."

The prince gave an irritated huff, loudly dropping his fork to his plate, lightly surprising her. "No, it's not," he folded his arms, resting his elbows on the table. "I wish I had someone I could talk to about this, but it's such secret information…" he muttered, trailing off.

Vialle put down her own eating implements more delicately. "Does it have to do with the security of the kingdom?" she cautiously queried, taking a small sip of wine to clear her throat.

"I don't really know. Maybe, in part. What is bothering me is a peculiar piece of legislation, that I'm… being pressured to enact, and I don't know what it will do."

"Pressured by the nobility?"

"I think not," he answered after a moment's serious consideration.

A look of dawning recognition came over the lady's face, into her white-pupilled brown eyes. "A secret advisor to the king… of course; King Oberon would've had at least one, someone protected from both bribery and threat by enforced anonymity. I think the practice must be common, for Queen Moire often seemed to know things that there was no way for her to know either by normal means, even the spy networks. This person approached you privately recently, telling you to do something you find personally repugnant, stating it is for the good of the country?"

The prince was simply floored. "Queen Moire didn't force you to marry into our family in order to better spy on us, did she?" he only half-jokingly asked, dubiously eying the slight lady.

"No; I merely had few prospects at the time and she wished to assure my future independence, even if that entailed a considerable monetary settlement from a royal divorce," Vialle stated candidly. "I am here honestly, never fear, and I honestly wish I could help. But if you cannot talk about it without endangering someone's life, I couldn't possibly ask you to divulge anything further."

Gérard furrowed his dark brows, thinking. "It might be possible; I don't think I have to tell you anything about them personally to tell you of their proposition. Would you like to hear the document?"

Vialle smiled a small secretive smile. "You wish for me to council you as well?"

"It is terribly complicated and wordy, and I am not sure just what all of it means, only parts. I could certainly use a second pair of eyes- oh, forgive me," he immediately apologized, "I did not mean to belittle your disability."

But the lady was still smiling. "There is no need to apologize; I understand your meaning, Gérard. By all means, let us put our heads together, then, and see if we can unriddle it. Would it be convenient to do this sometime later in the afternoon, or perhaps in the evening?"

"Stay here," he rose from the table, audibly pushing back his chair. "No, don't stand on my account; continue your meal. I'll be right back."

The big man jogged down the long hall, up the three flights of the grand staircase to the king's chambers, retrieved the drafted document from where he'd hidden it in the back of a wardrobe (one could never be too careful with servants coming around to tidy things up periodically), dashing back down to the sitting room with it.

It took them the better part of twenty minutes just to dissect the almost doubletalk-sounding wall of painstakingly calligraphied legalese, with the prince slowly and carefully reading it aloud first all the way through; once he had done so, they started over again. As Vialle began to explain some of the more obtuse portions of it to him in plain, straightforward Thari, Gérard began to realize that this wasn't half as much any sort of normal tariff act as it was a very official-sounding hostage letter, basically threatening (very vaguely) to shut down the shadow-trade again if the various merchants did not take pains to come to Amber as regularly as they had before with the old routes open – and imposing stiff fines on them when they complied! There was absolutely nothing morally defensible about the legislation as far as the prince could tell: the remaining member states of the Golden Circle were to be punished for staying in it! There was absolutely nothing that could possibly induce him to sign it into law now, and he was sorely tempted to throw it on the toasty fireplace they had been sitting next to whilst working on this, but the lack of a truly viable alternative held back his hand.

"Couldn't you just talk to them directly?" Vialle finally suggested. "To the rulers, to the merchants? I know little of the others, but from your own account of the king of Deiga, he seems a very reasonable man, and open to negotiation besides. Perhaps you could simply bargain for a more sturdy position in the new configuration of the shadow-market, with Amber's finished goods and housewares as leverage."

"But that's a part of it, too! Amber control-" The prince barely managed to check himself, and not quite in time. "I mean, Amber has never 'bargained' with anyone."

"And that might be just what she needs," the lady astutely refrained from reacting outwardly to the leaked intelligence. "It would be good for her allies, Gérard. It might even be good for your people. That would be my advice: to try to come to an understanding rather than to bully or coerce our neighbors. Will you at least take it under consideration?"

Gérard had begun to slowly smile in spite of himself, feeling a little of the tension leave his frame. There was no rational reason that the parties involved could not reason out their differences like mature adults in this instance. The move might've been politically unprecedented in Amber – to treat her neighbors more like equals, whether they were in truth or not – but the idea felt right to him, in the way that reopening the trade-routes had felt right in the first place. The prince might have not always been able to completely trust his intellect when it came to things he was personally unfamiliar with, but he was beginning to learn to trust his gut instead. Later that day, a proclamation of intent was made at the docks to the handful of foreign tradesmen there, distributed widely along with a bunch of scrolls containing a simple handwritten invitation to any and all the shadow-merchants who conducted business with Amber, along with the appropriate representatives of their respective governments, to come to the True City for a massive economic conference so that the foibles of the new order of things could be properly addressed to the benefit of all (along with their Amberite counterparts, of course.) The measure was bound to be unpopular in certain quarters of the local nobility, but it seemed a far fairer and more beneficial solution all the way around. This action was to be repeated for as long as it took the traders from the shadows who had not been present that day to arrive. While it might take a full ngan to properly schedule such a meeting so that as many as concerned could be in attendance for it, Gérard felt certain that Amber's 'rainy day' fund would be well-supplied, even if he had to disappear in the middle of the night to 'supply' it himself. It reminded him of an old Shadow Earth myth for children that he had heard of while in college there, some harmless nonsense about a magical old man named Santa Claus…

The prince was, therefore, rather understandably surprised when the first complaints started to trickle in barely three days later. They were disconcertingly curious cases all, respectfully referencing a measure he had quietly signed into law not two days prior, obviously for the good of the country, but having rather deleterious results. It took quite a bit of detailed inquiry for Gérard to discover that the business people involved – mostly women – were referring not to the general proclamation, but rather to the very bill that he himself had privately watched dissolve into the flames of the king's own fireplace over a glass of Oberon's private reserve whiskey that he had discovered in the back of a false drawer!

Which could only mean…

There were quite a lot of envisioned waves rolling rhythmically upon smooth beaches and immovable rocks in cool, quiet streams occupying Gérard's head intermittently for much of the afternoon; he had opted to dine alone and in haste for his midday meal, not caring to afford Random's wife any more fodder for the time being for all her good intentions, feeling the need to keep his full attention upon what he knew must come. The very moment the last case was finished for the day before supper, Gérard trod with dire purpose in his blue eyes up to one of the unfinished bedrooms on the mostly unused fourth floor of the Castle – where no one would hear or observe him – a handful of lodged domestic complaints from earlier in the day filling his hands. Fetching the master set of keys and an oil lamp from the king's suite on his way up, the prince reached the cold, partially unfinished top floor and, coming down the thin center hall, let himself into the unused room, which currently only sported a rough wooden table from the dungeons below that clearly no one else had use or space for down there. Setting down both the paperwork and the lamp, Gérard locked the heavy wooden door from the inside, then extracted the shadow-trade minister's trump from his deck, noticing for the first time upon closer inspection that the edges of the card were somewhat worn, likely from frequent use. As distracting as the thought potentially was, he forced himself to concentrate on the man instead; this trump truly was from one of the old packs, for it took even the prince about two minutes' intense concentration to make it come live. When it did, the image morphed around until Gérard was looking at Emrys Mansel, sitting down at an early supper of fish stew, the stiff smell wafting through the portal; the shadow-minister looked up and saw him.

"Good evening, my lord prince," he addressed the prince's magical intrusion into his meal with almost unnerving calm. "I have been expecting you for a day or two now. Would you care to join me for a simple yet honest repast, or should I come through to you?" he graciously inquired, slowly rising to his feet.

The prince actually considered the old man's offer for half-a-second, yet swiftly declined, for he would have had no discreet way of traveling back to the Castle (unlike his shapeshifting father). And he had chosen his own location for a reason.

"Come to me. Now," Gérard brusquely gave answer, reaching out his great right hand through the card toward him; dry, thin wrinkled fingers grasped his own, and the prince quickly stepped back, hauling the ancient sage into his physical presence. Quickly dropping his hand, he grabbed a fistful of cases, shaking the papers in his face. "What is the meaning of this treason?!" he roared, forcing the slight man back a step. "I could have you publicly hanged for forging royal documents, with my own signature on a law I never allowed!"

But Mansel was completely unfazed by the outburst. "Calm yourself, my lord prince; anger has yet to truly solve anything. As for my recent actions, if you would but study your own long-standing laws of the realm, you would quickly discover that they are far from treasonous. Concerning Amber's multiplicity of dealings in Other Shadows, the law clearly states that in the event of any member of the royal family performing an unusual action which may directly or indirectly hurt the local economy, indeed the status of the realm – how we appear as a nation to those in Shadow – either the king or the Minister of Shadow-trade may act as they see fit to right the situation as discreetly as possible. There are no limits or provisos to this which I have ever been made aware. Taking it upon myself to publish that law under the given authority of the late king when you would not is perfectly legal, my lord. Go and read the Code for yourself if you doubt my word – your father took no pains to hide this: article twenty-six, paragraph five, line nineteen if I am not mistaken, and in matters of my own expertise I rarely am. In the past I have performed every service for his majesty from devaluing foreign currencies to stopping small wars before they could begin without royal oversight. I take it that certain aspects of this newly-signed measure are distasteful to you, my lord-"

"You are sticking up the entire Golden Circle like a common highway bandit!"

"My concern is the continued supremacy of the True World, the Right Order as we know it! You put everything on the line without thinking of the consequences!" he suddenly snapped passionately. "My job is to protect Amber and her interests – the physical welfare of her people – as much as it has been your job to guard her against marauding demons!"

Gérard had to work very, very hard to restrain himself; the thick muscles of his neck visibly clenched and unclenched several times before he could speak again.

"If you care as much for Amber as you claim," he began quietly, tersely, "then perhaps you would care to explain this." And at that he thrust the stack of papers into the old shadow-minister's hands, pacing away, trying to walk out some of his hyped-up tension.

Emrys Mansel glanced through the briefs by the lamplight with muted interest, gleaning their contents, setting aside page after page upon the crude table as he read through them.

"Well?" the prince irritatedly paced toward him again, muscular arms crossed, when Mansel was on the final page.

The shadow-minister set it down with a sigh.

"I am given to understand that you and a handful of your brothers and sisters have developed a kind of partiality to different types of government in recent years – democracies, certain breeds of socialism – but the land of your birth always has been and always will be an 'old-fashioned' monarchy. It must be. Sometimes unpopular and difficult decisions must be made for the good of the system; sometimes they are only uncomfortable for some at first. It is the pain of wearing in a new pair of boots that are too small for one's feet: eventually the leather stretches and they fit a bit better. This is only the discomfort of such stretching economically, my lord; the foreign merchants will adjust to it and the dissention will pass. Now, have I adequately addressed your immediate concerns, my lord prince? I should like to return home before my supper is completely cool, if it is not too impertinent to ask."

Gérard was simply flabbergasted – he didn't know what to think! "I may call upon you at a different time then, to speak with you further upon other such matters."

"Of course, my lord prince. Good night's rest to you."

Mansel produced a trump from one of the many pockets in his green robes, barely glanced at it, and disappeared in a flash! The prince had never seen a phase-out like that, that quick of a transport! The trump of the shadow-minister's home had to have been made special-order by Dworkin himself! The man was considered that important… important in a way that neither the prince nor any of his siblings had ever been. The more he thought on it, the situation was as infuriating as it was confounding – and he was helpless to change it! And how insulting and belittling the old geezer had been, as if Gérard were a mere child! How he hated being treated like he was stupid! Like he had no understanding!

Suddenly consciously noting his level of rage – realizing that it was rising beyond the point where he knew he could reliably control himself, that those around him would not come to bodily harm – the prince made a quick executive decision that still fell within his jurisdiction, and, careful to place the oil lamp and the documents on the far side of the room by the door first, proceeded to take his fury out on the crudely made forgotten piece of furniture instead in the partially walled off anterior portion of the musty apartment, not leaving the rooms himself until all that was left was a considerable scattering of wood shards about the floor in the dim light, the front of his jerkin and pants covered in slivers and sawdust.

Spent and weary at last, lamp and papers in hand, Gérard trudged down to his room for a fresh change of clothing; there were teensy bits of wood in his beard also, he discovered upon a quick glance at himself in the glass, shaking his head at his own reflection, meticulously rinsing them out.

Looking (and feeling) a trifle more decent again, he dutifully visited the king's quarters to look for the section of the Code of Amber which verified the shadow-minister's dubious claim to power.

It turned out to be almost appallingly easy to find, only one line's difference from the position the old man had incorrectly remembered. The rest, unfortunately, appeared to perfectly corroborate his story, even if the wording was a bit more vague than had been implied: the text read 'the ruler's appointed financial advisor', not specifically the Minister of Shadow-trade by title, yet the rest of the passage was analogous enough to hold up in court, the position legally defensible. The prince poured himself a badly-needed drink, downing it like a shot, giving a sigh of disgust, settling into the high-backed chair by the hearth – the one with the Crown of Amber skillfully carved into the top of the back. He hadn't had the heart to so much as move the positions of any of the furniture in this room, though as appointed regent he was perfectly free to do so. The chair which he currently occupied whilst staring into the crackling embers during the falling of the early winter dusk had previously been positioned facing another lower chair and a leather couch in a conference formation in the front room of the suite, and had occupied that position as faithfully as if it had been bolted to the floor there for as long as Gérard could remember. The conscious change spoke eloquently of Oberon's frame of mind near the end, that he also had had some brooding to do, and had wished for a sturdy chair in which to do it.

The prince dined alone again late that evening, having missed the main meal of the Castle and in no hurry to speak to his remaining companions of the abysmal turn of events, taking his venison dinner in the king's chambers, sifting through the formidable Code of the Realm for any other telltale signs of the meddling minister's subtle presence. Now that he was in a cooler frame-of-mind, the full implications of Emrys Mansel's standing and actions in relation to the Crown began to gradually blossom in Gérard's mind, layer after layer. The man's level of inherent power was more than a little scary, actually. How many laws and edicts had been passed over the long years since his appointment that none of them had even been aware of, statues that had never born the king's signature and signet stamp? He spent much of the night searching… and came up with three such, all centuries apart, the most recent dating from the reign of Eric, stating how the trade alliances were to operate in the case of a royal deposition!

Sleep did not come easily to the prince that night…

The wheel of the long Amberite year turned slowly through the harsh, barren ngan of Wadra, toward the cusp of Kanam – early spring – and while a downturn in the shipping schedules in and out of Shadow always happened a bit in the season due to inclement weather patterns and the dangers of weighty ice accumulation on rigging and sailcloth alike, there was no denying that the drop was far greater than usual in spite of the draconian edict which had been in effect for over twenty-four days.

Or because of it, the prince thought tersely, listening to the morning's briefings from the actual foreign affairs minister; slated on the day's schedule were also urgent hearings on behalf of the city's steelworking and weaving guilds, convening with the Crown in hopes of addressing a rising number of problems ultimately stemming from the selfsame law, issues ranging from their legal inability to compete with lower-priced foreign goods by altering prices themselves (which the markets had become awash in 'overseas' of late) to the fact that it was growing difficult for many of them to obtain the raw materials necessary to operate their businesses, again, but this time for a completely different reason: many shadow-merchants were refusing to do business with them out-of-hand… like a mass boycott on an 'international' level in protest. Almost as if daring Amber and her current ruler to do their worst, to try to make good on the threat embedded in the new edict. To call their bluff, openly exerting their new economic clout – or perhaps they had had it all along and were only realizing it just now…

One thing was becoming imminently obvious: Gérard couldn't leave things as they were, even with spring planting on the horizon, but what could he do?! He had initially been ruefully relieved with the shadow-minister's lack of further overt involvement since that fateful night the prince had bodily dragged the man through to an unused section of the castle for various purposes, but neither had the dubious 'advisor' been present to offer any further help with the new process, seemingly assuming that he had already done what was necessary. With the way things were starting to go, it made Gérard wonder just how competent the old bugger really was anymore… or if he had done this with a very different motive and end in mind altogether. Life had made the prince unwontedly suspicious; the mindset proved difficult to turn off even in the absence of his family.

What if…

The morning session was about as depressing and unsatisfactory as could be expected, with him giving many reassurances and precious little to back them up but vain hope and the trust his people still had in him simply by dint of who he was. But how long could that currency last in the face of a growing widespread shutout? It wasn't affecting the food supply too badly, yet, but if this trend continued it would start to, well before even the early harvest could be gathered…

"I didn't even sign it," Gérard muttered quietly through gritted teeth, grabbing a roll and savagely ripping it in half before using it to sop up the capered wine sauce from the haddock he and Vialle had been served for dinner; this made the third night in a row. At least the Castle cook was putting a brave face on their situation, going all out to dress up identical cuts of fish.

"Sign what, Gérard?"

The prince looked at her gently concerned features, his pride put to shame. "I can't lie to you anymore!" he scooted his chair closer so that he wouldn't have to raise his voice to be able to be heard. "That damned minister managed to pass that edict behind my back without my knowledge! And I learned after the fact that it's perfectly legal for him to pull stunts like this; there's a clear section of our law written to accommodate him! If I exposed him… but I can't expose him!"

Vialle quietly gasped, her right hand covering her mouth. "If anyone knew, he wouldn't live through the night! He'd be run through or burned alive in his house before any of your soldiers could stop it! Are you saying there is truly a man in Amber who has been given legal right to alter the Code of the Realm?"

"Not exactly; his jurisdiction would appear to only extend to the financial welfare of the state and our economic dealings in Shadow, but the wording is very vague, the position of a protective nature. That's an awful lot of power even by itself. Apparently he was even planning on Eric's monarchy failing! And I can't help wondering if he's planning on the same for me!"

"Well… are you or are you not the rightfully appointed regent of Amber?"

"I'm beginning to wonder," the prince ruminated, leaning back slightly in his chair – testing the legs first to ensure it was sturdy enough to support his frame and weight this way. "Maybe this is why my father felt safe leaving someone like me 'in charge' in the first place: because he already had someone appointed to keep me from doing anything foolish by his reckoning, to keep me in line; I can just see him doing this! But Oberon had been away and out of communication with Amber for so long that there is no telling just what all really happened in his absence, if this man has been working at anything other than his job! And I got to thinking: what if he has connections to other official secret personnel we don't know about? Oberon always had at least one old professional hitman on his payroll, and any number of spies at any given time. Maybe this man has been waiting all these years for just this opportunity, this set of circumstances, to make his move, his bid for even greater power! And I may not be able to legally stop him!"

"Slow down, Gérard; don't let your fears run away with your reason. Perhaps we can unravel this one a bit at a time. You say there is legal precedent for this man's power to make and pass laws? Would it be too presumptuous to ask you to read it to me?"

The prince needed no second-bidding at the offer of real help; he promptly excused himself and retrieved the section of the Code which contained the proviso. Much of Amber's legal documentation had started out as individual decrees and edicts on single pieces of vellum and later parchment, but eventually there were enough of them that either Dworkin or Oberon had had them bound into huge, heavy tomes so that none of them would get lost. Bringing back the correct book with him to the sitting room in which they had taken to dining, he slowly set it down with a low thunk which lightly reverberated through the more delicate table in spite of the effort to be careful. Thumbing through the crusty pages, Gérard quickly located the passage again and read her not only the concerned paragraph in full, but the parts that came immediately before and after it, taking pains to pronounce it clearly and distinctly, even an antiquated word or two whose meaning currently eluded his memory.

"He's merely taking advantage of a poorly-worded loophole," his delicate companion pronounced at length, "but his actions fail to illuminate any possible ulterior motive with clear intent, however. Perhaps he does think that he is in the right, whether he is or not. I wouldn't worry overmuch about him at the moment in any event, if for no other reason than it might be politically profitable for you to not treat him as an overt enemy unless positively proven otherwise. Are there any passages which would prohibit a rightfully-appointed regent from directly changing pre-existing law himself?"

"Unfortunately yes," Gérard sighed, "and they're well-known. All of my brothers had shown interest in the point, and so learned not to get their hopes up that way – and Dad wasn't ever absent long enough to appoint a regent anyway. Only the king as ever held that power."

"And, apparently, the king's financial advisor," the lady shrewdly pointed out. "Wait… read it to me again: it starts 'ruler', not king, does it not?" she suddenly asked, her sightless eyes widening.

Gérard's own breath quickened slightly, the idea sparking then catching fire in his brain; scanning back, he saw that she was right! "Yes!"

"And perhaps," Random's lady continued, a slow smile creeping into the corners of her small mouth, "you cannot do this thing on your own volition alone, your highness, but you do have a willing party who would gladly act as your secret advisor, in finance and anything else you might need, if you would but appoint me; all that would be necessary is a little paperwork, just a simple signed statement of intent – no witness is needed, I should think. Would you command me, Gérard?" she turned in his direction, reaching out for one of his hands.

The prince let her find him – and she instantly bowed where she sat, daintily kissing the back of his knuckles in show of fealty.

It was a strange feeling…

"I would gladly accept your service, Vialle, and I will never think less of you for stooping to this position."

"Ah, but it can hardly be considered stooping when I have an ability which is denied even to you, though I would never be fool enough to use it on my own without your knowledge," she let go of him, turning back to her own place, searching for her own wine glass, quickly locating it and taking a sip. "As your new advisor, my lord, my first advice to you of course concerns our current state-of-affairs. Did you ever officially recant or otherwise nullify your previous invitation to the other shadow-kingdoms and their ambassadors and merchants to convene in Amber to discuss trade?"

"No – I think they must've simply assumed it when the second edict went into effect; I never heard back from anyone."

"If I were you, I would send out an official apology for the 'communication mix-up' tomorrow, stating that the second order had been accepted on council – you need not mention whose or how – but that you had only meant for the measure to be temporary until this inter-shadow summit could be completed, to protect Amber's interests in the meantime. We cannot possibly be the only ones struggling to cope under the new system, if for no other reason than Shadow is indirectly affected by all that befalls Amber; you should find at least a few pairs of sympathetic ears who are familiar with our plight. Do not try to overturn the other ruling for the moment; it will keep your other advisor from growing unduly suspicious, and doing it in this manner and order will back up your own story."

It really was superb advice. Before the evening was out the prince had led the lady up to the king's chambers, to add her signature to a hastily drafted document the prince drew up on the spot, indicating her change in status until further notice, notarizing and sealing it himself, placing the scroll in the false-backed drawer with the Glenlivit, feeling confident that if any of his brothers had known of this hiding place that the whiskey would've been long gone.

And for once things fell out exactly as arranged: the emended invites went out quietly 'under the radar'. The prince opened up the 'nobility emergency fund's' coffers, distributing to the worst in need, gradually letting out that life in Amber was about to become quite a deal better sooner than later and not to lose hope: the Crown, such as it was, would always care for her subjects. It took thirteen days more for the official replies to start trickling into the Castle: there was near-universal resentment and confusion from those contacted (and even a few notable holdouts, rather rudely wishing the prince good luck without them), but for the most part all of the major parties involved in the shadow-trade with Amber were still onboard, and the general time that had been speculated was agreed to since a specific date would've been impossible: early Kanam, once the sea ice was melted from the harbor, although the sooner they could arrive in the True City the better. The prince held conference after open conference with all of Amber's trade guilds and her remaining representative nobility with business interests in the days leading up to the summit, hearing their concerns and requests, with copious notes taken for his later use by the aging royal scribe (one would not know it from his impeccable penmanship, however.) Gérard even managed to arrange for the inter-shadow conference to be held in a room in the Castle which had a hidden panel, behind which his advisor Vialle could hide in the dark, taking notes in her own fashion, on small tablets of wood covered in sheets of melted and hardened wax and a sharp stylus, from where the prince could brief her during recesses for subtle information which might have eluded him the first time around, everything from quiet personal or national vendettas in the form of unfair trade practices, to certain players trying to pull a fast one on 'slow' Gérard in any number of ways. As a result, Amber's regent would appear to them to be far shrewder and deep-thinking than any of the reports about him that had been circulated had ever suspected or anticipated; with any luck, it would keep the other agents more honest and paint a far better picture of him both at home and abroad. Between him and the Lady Vialle, they were prepared for everything.

But that left one meeting more, which the prince was not looking forward to, but knew had to happen before all those ambassadors, dignitaries, merchants, and a foreign royal (or two or three) descended upon the City and the Castle for all and sundry to see, with goods and coinage to spare on the locals. And he had to handle this one alone.

Gérard chose one of the 'smaller' first-floor sitting rooms for his third run-in with the renegade shadow-minister, just off the main hallway – the only one with a single door, which could be locked – once again in the evening, this time deliberately timed to be after the old man's main meal so as to rob him of any excuse to be curt or disrespectful. Fortified with a good dinner himself and not too much wine – and Vialle's encouragement – the prince felt ready for him for once. Two drinks were already poured, sitting on a small circular table between two stuffed leather chairs beside a cozy fire. All the paperwork was in order, sitting in a neat little stack between the two brandy glasses (the only hard liquor actually made in the country, courtesy of Baron Bayle, of course.) The door was locked, the nicely furnished room adequately lit with oil lamps and candles, bathing the place in an invitingly warm glow.

There was no point in putting it off any longer. Gérard withdrew his trump pack and removed the ancient trade-minister's equally ancient card, concentrating on it, wishing this trump worked with the same acuity as the one in the old man's possession (which upon a moment's further side reflection, was likely only a concession by Dworkin to the man's lesser physiological and mental nature.) The thought increased the prince's own confidence… and suddenly he was through, the contact flaring live.

Emrys Mansel was seated in a rustic study of sorts crowded with bookshelves, hunched over in a comfortably worn-in padded chair, reading by candlelight in front of a tiny crackling hearth; Gérard could see fat flakes of snow falling just outside a thick-paned sandglass window. The minister looked up rather nonchalantly.

"Good evening, my lord prince," he sighed, as if Gérard were just any old visitor wishing to drag him away from his night's entertainment as he set his novel aside on the armrest. "What is it that you wish of me?"

His manner reminded the prince eerily of his father for a moment, but he quickly shook the impression. "We need to talk," Gérard answered bluntly. "Tonight. Is there anything that you would wish to do before I pull you through? We will be some hours."

"If you would indulge an old man and give me but ten minutes, my lord, I will be at your disposal for as long as you may need me," he was already rising.

"I'll call back then. Be ready," the prince ordered simply, passing his right hand over the card to deactivate it, placing it facedown upon the table. He casually paced away, thumbing through the rest of his deck yet again – all warm, too warm, save his own which grinned up at him with the lusty jauntiness of his brash youth. The image began to stir, but Gérard covered it, knowing what he would see: impeccably combed dark-brown hair and a neatly trimmed fringe-beard, a stiff 'Elizabethan'– style lace collared jacket in deep royal blue, with dove grey silk showing through the elaborately slashed sleeves; he wore dark blue pants to match, and his big black leather belt and boots were polished to a perfect high shine, no scuffs. Playing with the theatricality of his own position still felt forced and strictly artificial, but Gérard was beginning to appreciate its use as a kind of psychological armor, as effeminate as the 'high fashion' of the realm could run. It always forced people to remember the extreme level of power that stood behind such lavish personal adornment, commanding an inbred knee-jerk sort of respect without the prince having to do or say anything at all except to look confident. His intended audience was likely well-aware of all that from long experience with the previous monarch, but no matter; it helped him to feel confident anyway. Or, at least, to better act the part.

Ten minutes clicked by on the tall polished darkwood antique grandfather clock which stood on the other side of the room, between a 'classical' marble statue of a beautiful draped woman and an intricately carved bookcase stuffed with light reading materials in a small variety of languages (though most were in Thari.) At the appointed time, Gérard reactivated the trump: its subject was standing with a leather file folder cradled in his thin arms, eying the prince expectantly.

"Ready when you are, my lord prince."

He reached out one wrinkled hand toward him and Gérard grasped it firmly, hauling him through in a single stride. To the shadow-minister's surprise, the prince proceeded to relieve him of his burden without a word, placing it also upon the table before taking up stately residence in the hefty chair to the left.

"I will confess, my lord, to being somewhat puzzled that you saw fit to call upon me at all," Mensal began a bit peevishly. "You seem confident in running the empire to suit yourself regardless of-"

"Sit," the prince ground out forcefully, pointing to the other chair, watching the old man take an involuntary gulp, knocking him off his proverbial perch, "and listen." Gérard's blue eyes bored holes into the shadow-minister as he took his seat with what dignity he could still muster. The prince took a steadying breath – seeing his guest relax slightly in response – and leaned forward, taking the brandy in front of him, inclining his head slightly in a rather courtly cue; his companion quickly raised his own glass in suit. "Your health," he muttered, taking only a polite sip before replacing it before him on the table, catching Mansel in a swift surreptitious glance at the stiffened frills at the prince's wrists. Whichever of his brothers became king next, Gérard hoped they would outlaw certain clothing trends in the True City as general crimes against humanity. He closed his eyes for a second, centering himself; when he opened them again, he saw the shadow-minister was sitting at attention, likely wondering what the prince had in store for him… if not a swift trip to the dungeon. Gérard had been choosing his words all afternoon in preparation for this. The time had come to speak them.

"I do not doubt your learning, your tutelage under Dworkin and later my father. I do not doubt that you have at least a few millennia's experience under your belt, that were you not the best of the best when it came to the old scheme of running Amber's commerce that the old king would've quietly disposed of you long ago. I am even willing to believe, in absence of convincing argument to the contrary, that your motives in doing what you have recently done were well-meaning, that you risked facing my wrath for the good of the True City. But, regardless of what either of us thinks about each other, it has become far too apparent even to the likes of me that we are no longer playing the game that you were taught. For better or worse, the old rules do not work anymore; the still-worsening results of your preemptory edict should be enough to convince you of that much. And I am sure you are aware by now that in two-to-three days' time I intend to attempt a different, more friendly style of negotiation with our neighbors and allies in Shadow which will be of benefit to us all – equally. We cannot pretend that we are the center of the worlds when it comes to goods and services which those worlds might need or want, that, humiliating as it might be for some here, the reality is just the opposite – and we have none other than Dworkin and Oberon to thank for it. We can no longer refuse to act – or to continue bullying the others – in a vain attempt to save face and our notorious national pride. Which is why I have called upon you, before the conference."

The shadow-minister looked both depressed and bewildered. "I am still at my lord's command. But what could you possibly command of me that would do any good, if you plan on throwing out the book? If I openly oppose you again, you would have my head, I am certain of it! I would have sacrificed myself for nothing."

The old man's tendency toward martyrdom grated on the prince's nerves, but he deliberately chose to ignore it, pressing ahead. "Our outlook isn't as bad as all that," Gérard took his glass, taking a larger swig from it this time. "In fact, from the bits of it that I have observed over the past ngan, the game seems to have shifted toward a style of play which I am very familiar with personally: a sport where people of different talents and abilities must come together and cooperate as a team, to reach a common goal," he unexpectedly smiled a little. "I know where my talents lie; economic planning is not one of them. Regardless of how I feel about you personally, you are our realm's expert in these matters, and, if I don't miss my mark, you have been for almost as long as there has been a realm. The position is worth protecting in the short and long term, even if the specialized player in it blows a game or two."

"While I appreciate your highness' candor in letting me know where I stand," Mansel began with the same level of care he would take in treading barefoot over broken glass, "I still do not understand how you wish for me to operate in this. You do realize that what you are proposing amounts to a complete democratization of our trading principles, an open marketplace, which would also open the realm up to a potential level of instability which we as a nation have not endured since the Death Storm?"

"I am," stated the prince firmly, "and I realize that the idea would be considered too radical for our allies at large as well, although I think some of them may already be experimenting with it closer to home in their local shadow-groups. We do not have to give away our full power, I should think, just spread it around a little better so that the others feel they can trust us again. But we're all going to be floundering like fresh haddock in the bottom of a fishing boat without a playbook. You seem good at making up rules, from some of your other work that I have discovered," he pulled a couple of old documents out of his own pile and made a show of looking at them without showing the minister – and met his eyes over them. "You figure it out. I have brought you good examples of our local needs," he pointed to the stack of steno'ed notes to the right, "and from what you have told me of yourself, you have an intimate working knowledge of what the other parties are bringing to the field. Neither of us is resting tonight until I have something sound and definite to present to them. How would you suggest we begin?"

Emrys Mansel seemed stunned, completely disarmed by the prince's open and sincere concern – and his trust!

"On a better foot, it would seem. I believe I was too hasty in my judgment of you, my lord prince, and for this I must beg your forgiveness. Do not take this the wrong way, but I do not think I have ever met a man like you," the shadow-minister began to slowly smile, taking another sip of his own drink, extracting a small stack of clean parchment and a fountain pen from the side pocket of his 'briefcase', settling down to what promised to be a long night's work.