Harold and Morgan: Not a Romance
Chapter 7, Hoard of Bankers, Part 2
In which there is ritualized combat among Bankers
Thanks so very, very much to all of you who commented and came back and everything. I would not have continued otherwise.
The wind blew so hard against the office windows, Edmund felt a change in the pressure. The brace of candles flickered slightly. He heard the bell toll the eighth hour.
"What do you say, Morgan? Perhaps a spot of light supper? Some wine for me, ale for you? Perhaps some music for us that is reminiscent of summer? Maybe a walk under the moon? A late night swim?"
He spoke this to the room, for Morgan was behind the closed door to her office, pouring over her case study calling for the creation of creative terms under which a farming cooperative and flour millers' guild would agree to purchase wheat at harvest.
Jina lifted her head. "I do not believe Banker Morgan heard you, my King."
Edmund rose from his secretary's desk and stretched from the cramped position he had been in since the noon hour. "I know, Jina. A humour."
Confirming the sums and analyses to the ninth hour was not going to change what he had derived at the seventh. Edmund stoppered the ink and left the last pages from the Seven Isles Guilds' accountings open to dry. Before meeting his doom, he knocked on Morgan's door.
"Go away unless you are Harold or don't have hands to knock!"
He pushed open her office. "Then I may come in?"
With a pile of reference material and ledgers on her desk blocking her view, Morgan looked around them and smiled wearily at him. "Did you finish the Guilds?"
"I did. You were right. Once you have done one Island Guild, you have done them all."
"Except that you still have to actually do them," Morgan added.
"True," Edmund conceded. "Do you need anything?"
"Coffee?" she asked hopefully.
"You do not really mean that, do you?"
Bankers drank a darkly roasted Calormene coffee the way that Dwarfs and Satyrs drank Lightning – excessively. Though, unlike those sane Narnians who usually imbibed only at night, unless still drinking in the morning from the night before, Bankers consumed coffee constantly and at any hour of day or night.
"Well, yes," Morgan said. "Unless you happen to carry additional hours in your pockets?"
"Morgan, my dear, you with too much coffee is very like a Narnian Hummingbird with too much nectar."
A winsome grin crossed her face.
"What?" Edmund asked, looking over his shoulder and suspecting a Rat was mocking him behind his back.
She shook her head. "Nothing. And I don't swear nearly as well as a Hummingbird."
"Also true. You come to my home to learn curses and I come to your home to learn accounting."
"They are not so different."
"True again." Edmund sighed dramatically. "And winsome banter aside, I must now trudge up the stairs to the Director so that he might inspect the work and, I do hope, sign off on it. If he makes me redo them, I fear I shall commit ritualized self-injury on the handball court."
Morgan cupped her hand in her chin. "You did so well even without any training that you attracted my attention. And others, too. You're even better at it now. It will be fine. "
Edmund crossed the threshold into the room and joined Morgan at her desk. Wrapping an arm about her shoulders, he kissed the top of her head. She leaned against him, returning the embrace with a delicate touch of her own. His imagination was too startled by this sudden, and increasingly rare, moment of intimacy to do more than hum with pleasure.
"Thank you."
He was not nervous about this upcoming confrontation with the Director … well, perhaps a little.
She tilted her head back to look, askance, at him. "I'm trying, Harold."
He would have rather heard his real name in moments of candor such as this, but to her credit, Morgan was being more forthcoming. It reminded him of when Jalur was learning to be his Guard and erred in favor of over-inclusion until he developed the judgment to know what Edmund needed to and wanted to know. Morgan was saying more and it was always well-intentioned, if not quite right.
"I know," he replied and once his imagination stomped on his foot, he added, "And it is helping and I appreciate it."
She smiled in return and his imagination was lobbying for clearing off her desk and a quick, tactile refresher in Morgan's figure.
Everything else sighed and they untangled themselves. It was time for the reckoning.
"Wish me luck," he told her.
"I do, even if you don't need it."
Morgan bent again over her work and Edmund returned to the anteroom, shutting her door behind him. Edmund gathered up the ledgers and notes from his desk.
"Jina, I am off to the Director's office. Sallowpad and Willa are there, so you may stay here. Any risk to me before Director Linch is not physical."
The Hound lifted her nose and deeply inhaled. "The House doors are closed for the evening. It is very quiet, but also very tense."
"It will be that way for some time yet. Until the Conclave."
She stared at him, nostrils flaring slightly. "You are very weary, King Edmund. You must rest when you return or you will be impaired tomorrow."
Edmund disliked being reminded of this, but would not vent his frustration upon his concerned subject. He nodded. "I will."
Tucking the accounts for the Shipwrights, Ropemakers, and Metalworkers under his arm, Edmund began his journey and climb to the Director of Linch. On his way he saw, marked on tree-shaped boards throughout the House, the counting down of the days to Conclave and lists of the client accounts to be audited and passed on to other Houses for review. That list was slowly being filled in; the list of accounts coming in from the other Houses for the verifying "second look" was still distressingly short.
Jina was right.
As busy as they were, he needed to be more moderate now so that he would be able to tackle the tasks still to come when they had to review what came in and pass judgment upon the work of the other Houses. It was a very delicate process. A House did not want to be excessively critical for it invited reciprocally harsh criticism of the House's own work. A House wanted to give enough time for adequate review of its work, but not too much. There was a keen competition to catch another House in errors and no House wanted to pass on something another House later found was error. And, most important, these results and findings would guide all their investment decisions for the following year – misjudge the stability of an entity and the financial repercussions could be severe for everyone. It was hard and stressful with inherent redundancies. Edmund could also see why the system had worked so long and so well.
In Cair Paravel, it was unthinkable to routinely conduct official business this late. Here, it was expected and, indeed, was a House Rule that completed accounts were to be reviewed by the Director as soon as possible so that they could then be passed on to other Houses. Edmund knocked on the heavy green door, thinking he heard voices within.
"Come in!" the Linch's voice boomed.
Edmund entered the bright office.
Linch was seated at a table with an older woman, her blonde hair dulling to gray. She was in the blue which identified her as a member of Meryl House. In a normal place, given the hour and intimacy, Edmund might have been concerned he had interrupted something personal. Such a thing was unthinkable here and now. The Bankers both rose from their seats and Edmund nodded.
"Good evening, Sir, Banker." Banker was the polite catchall until he learned her appropriate title.
"You have finished the Seven Isles Guilds?" the Director asked.
"Yes, Sir."
Linch nodded. "I will review them in a moment. Harold of Abdon, have you met my sister, Gertrude, the Director of Meryl House?"
"No, Sir." Edmund juggled the ledgers and set them on the Director's massive desk, then put out his hand. "Director Meryl, it is a pleasure to meet you."
Meryl was as blonde as Linch was dark so Edmund assumed the connection must have been through marriage –Morgan and Pierce's missing mother, he assumed. Like the others with a Meryl connection, he could see the Northern, Archenland influence.
She shook his hand, without the bone crushing intensity of the other Bankers, men and women both.
"Abdon," Director Meryl mused. "Of the Winding Arrow basin, I presume? Upper or lower?"
"The Upper River," Edmund replied, again grateful Morgan had insisted on a credible story.
"Oh, but of course," she replied. "My son has mentioned that you have joined his handball foursome. Alan says you have picked up the game very quickly."
Linch guffawed; he knew the truth of the matter.
"Vice Director Alan is very kind, both in his instruction and his praise," Edmund replied. He had learned firsthand, and painfully, just how brutally competitive Bankers' sport was. Really, Ettins were more merciful than a Hoard of Bankers on the handball court.
"Are you here at the behest of King Lune?" she asked, with the bluntness he had also come to expect. The Calormenes thought the Narnians painfully direct in their manners; what did they think of their Bankers? Perhaps Bankers were the tolerated exception.
"I am."
"One of these days, I'll take Archenland back from you, Linch," Director Meryl said in her brother's direction. "And bring her back to Meryl where she belongs."
"Not until we close Morgan's joint venture with Alan," Linch replied with a glance Edmund was determined to ignore.
Odd. In Narnia, he would have felt at ease to lean back on the desk during a conversation, or even sit. Here, he unquestionably had to remain straight and standing. Edmund did not think he would ever again forget to ask someone in his most royal presence to please take a seat. He tried to discreetly withdraw from the conversation.
Meryl, however, did not let him make the graceful withdrawal. She stared at him with a quizzical frown. "Have we met before?"
Edmund had no memory of ever meeting Gertrude of Meryl – he was certain the Narnian Monarchs had never been introduced to any Lone Island Banker except by reputation, or he would have been far more cautious in coming here.
"No, Director, I am sure I have not had the pleasure."
Her eyes traveled to the ledgers Edmund had carried, which completed the appearance of lowly clerk, bag carrier and Linch lackey. He was the junior apprentice accountant and rubbish at handball. Edmund did not think of how he was studying under Morgan as that led to inappropriate smiling at inappropriate moments.
Sallowpad, sitting silently on a roost Linch had provided for him, irritably rustled his wings, drawing attention to himself.
"You do not know everyone in the wide world, Meryl," Linch said with joviality also intended as a distraction.
They were both working to maintain Edmund's continuing anonymity. If exposed, Edmund knew he would gain the appearance of authority but lose the access, freedom, and information of this insider's view. For purely selfish reasons, he also knew that an impartial Monarch should not be literally in bed with a House's AD. Director Linch certainly could not afford the distraction of a visiting Monarch during shut in. Hosting an official Narnia presence triggered rules and disclosures that would have to be made at Conclave, and Edmund suspected Linch probably did not want to explain why a Monarch was in bed with one of his ADs, either. These official and unofficial designations were important, though Linch was pushing the full limits of that blurry distinction.
"Are we done for the night?" Linch asked his sister, with a hint of finality.
"You and I are, yes. There is, of course, more yet to be done this evening." Meryl tilted her head to the books Edmund had brought. "If you finish those tonight, send them over with the courier in the morning and we can start the review. Or, have Harold deliver them when he comes for handball."
Meryl gathered a blue-bound ledger from the table and stuffed it into her own satchel. "Thank you for agreeing to increase Linch's share of the tribute to Narnia. Perhaps the addition will keep them out of our business a while longer."
"Unlikely," Linch said with a resigned humph. "We will not hold Narnia back much longer. I think Florian will be gone by summer. They would be stupid to do anything but install one of their own in the Governor's House and by all accounts, the Narnians are not stupid."
"If you had kept Morgan from going there…" she began, then waved a hand and corrected herself. "Oh, never mind. Linch is certainly to be congratulated for Morgan seeing the opportunity in Narnia before the rest of us did."
"And as we profit, so do you, my sister. Eventually."
Meryl adjusted her satchel and Linch helped her into a heavy cloak. "Yes, but for all that, my concerns with Narnia remain," she said.
Edmund tried to pretend that he was not listening avidly. Sallowpad cocked his head to the side, attending as carefully. There was a faint rustle above.
"You say they are not stupid, but they fall out of the sky with no training, no background, no history, and we are to just accept they are capable of stable governance?" Meryl said. "Do they even know what it is? Never mind that as intelligent as some of the Narnians are, can a rabbit really understand a capitalization agreement?"
As happened whenever his country and subjects were maligned, Edmund had to fight the urge to leap to their defence. He glanced at Sallowpad but the Raven was sitting impassively on his roost, pretending to be a dumb bird. It was an example the King would do well to emulate. Edmund looked down and pretended a disinterested study of his notes on the Ropemakers' Guild.
"Ten years will not undo the two hundred that preceded it," Meryl finished when her brother did not join in her condemnation.
"You are impossible to please," Linch retorted gruffly. "You want guarantees of stability in Narnia before investing, but expect things to stay as they have here? Adapt or lose, Meryl."
Edmund wondered how much Linch was posturing because of his audience. The Director sounded sincere, but without Jina there, he could not be certain.
"I'm always cautious about start up ventures and so are you and Morgan is the only reason we are there at all," Meryl said.
"So it is we again, Meryl."
"Eventually," Director Meryl replied, proving to Edmund she could deliver rejoinders as well as receive them. "After Morgan and Alan marry and she brings Archenland and Narnia to Meryl House." She paused at the door. "I shall be presenting the new numbers to the Governor on behalf of the Bankers tomorrow. Do you wish to come?"
"Making love to politicians has always been Stanleh's role. And yours." Linch held the door open for her.
"Unfortunately, Stanleh is not going. I understand he is unwell, again. Seth and Maeve gave me the Narnia tribute numbers for their House."
"You waited until you are out the door to tell me this?"
"I learned only this morning." She arched an eyebrow. "Surely you heard through Pierce?"
There was a sigh of disgust. "On that subject, Pierce and I have agreed to disagree and so do not discuss it."
"You can be so conventional, my brother."
Linch crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at his sister. He was a substantially larger person, but Meryl's confident bearing was such that she seemed taller than she was. She was the sort of person Susan would want to grown into, Edmund thought.
"It is a case study I learned from you, my sister. If I forbid it, I encourage them. Pierce knows his duty and will come to his senses eventually. Regardless, what news of Stanleh?"
"Ill, so Maeve and Seth say. Which yes, is strange, but the man is over eighty years old."
"It would be like him to spite us and die during Conclave."
Normal brothers and sisters would embrace or kiss. Linch and Meryl shook hands. "Good evening, Director Meryl," Edmund called.
"I shall see myself out," she replied. "Good evening."
This was just the sort of conversation Edmund would have dissected with Susan, with Lucy's insight, and then the three of them would make a report to Peter. Instead…
Linch turned away from the door and crossed the room in two strides.
"Rabbits really are very stupid," Willa's voice came from the top of the bookcase.
Edmund choked back on a laugh. The rivalry between Rabbits and Rats was nearly as contentious as between Canine and Feline.
The Director looked up. "Had my sister insulted Rats, I could not have let the affront pass on your behalf."
"Very unwise, Director," Sallowpad said.
It was even more difficult to refrain from laughing at hearing the Narnian Raven criticise the Linch Director for potential indiscretion.
Not giving Linch the opportunity to respond, Sallowpad turned away from the Director and spoke directly to him. "Have you met Meryl before?"
"Not that I recall," Edmund said. "I do not remember meeting any person who identified as a Lone Island Banker before Morgan."
"The Houses have obviously made a point of avoiding anything that would draw Narnia's attention," Willa said. She scrambled, head first, down the bookcase and landed on the desk. "Regular payment of substantial tributes, resolving any disputes internally, keeping Florian under your control. Very clever of you, Director."
"Thank you," the Director responded dryly.
"You're welcome," Willa replied. The Rat tended to ignore sarcasm, for she was very serious and forthright. "I do like your family, Director. Your sister is a very clever woman. My Queen Susan would get on with her very well. I will recommend she come here for training at Meryl House next year."
Linch nodded, accepting the compliment, opened his mouth, and Sallowpad interrupted.
"Director Meryl is of the late Queen Iris' family?" the Raven asked. "From Stormness Head?"
"Why do I continue to be surprised at the depth of your experience and knowledge, Sallowpad?" Linch replied. "But yes, Gertrude is a cousin of Lune's deceased wife."
It was very useful that the Director of Linch would accept impertinent conversation with a Rat and a Raven. Edmund needed to say nothing at all – he would like to show that he was as capable of probing questions and scintillating analyses as his subjects but, to maintain this plausible deniability, it was better for him to say as little as possible. Harold the Clerk, Secretary, and Bag Carrier was not a man with whom a Lone Island Director would or should exchange many words other than "Yes, Sir," "No, Sir," "Thank you, Sir," and "I understand, Sir, and will remedy that shortcoming immediately."
"What about Stanleh?" Sallowpad asked, raising a point very much on Edmund's mind. "This illness?"
Linch was opening his mouth, but Willa interrupted. "Teddy's still over there. He'll report in and we might learn more."
"Who succeeds if Stanleh dies?" Sallowpad asked.
The Director was finally able to speak but that was only because Willa was now looking over Edmund's accountings of the Seven Isles' Guilds. "Last year, the Conclave voted for Maeve, followed by Seth, to assume the Directorship," Linch said.
"Interesting that the younger daughter follows, rather than the elder son," Edmund said.
"Why?" Linch replied coolly. "We advance on merit, not blood alone. This is not Calormen. Or an enlightened Northern land of hereditary Kings."
Edmund managed to reign in the retort already forming as Sallowpad snapped his beak irritably. The Raven had no patience for this sort of argument.
"Aren't you worried about how Maeve feels about Morgan?" Willa asked, struggling to turn a page on the Shipwrights' accountings. Edmund turned the page for her.
"The Conclave thought that rivalry beneficial. Each works harder with the other to push her," the Director said dismissively.
"Jina says Maeve bitterly hates Morgan," Edmund injected.
"So what if she does? Linch countered. "Maeve and Morgan have been pitted against one another since before they could count. Stanleh and I have hated each other all our careers. It is no different. Competition produces spectacular results."
Edmund appreciated competition as well as the next person; his own relationship with Leszi was very combative. But, he had seen how anxious Morgan was whenever Maeve was involved. And Jina was concerned, so there was reason for worry.
"It is an enmity that could lead to violence," Edmund said.
The Director laughed. "We are Bankers, Harold of Abdon. Not Knights or soldiers." He caught himself before adding, Kings. "We fight our wars with clever words and well applied coin."
Edmund tried to make the obvious rejoinder, but it was better that Sallowpad spoke for him. "Humans kill for money, Director. A Human would certainly kill for a House Directorship."
Into the heavy, scowling silence that followed, Willa finally brought them back to the matter at hand. "Shipwrights accounting looks fine, Director," Willa piped in. "Do you want me to look at the other two?"
"Yes, Willa."
Edmund opened the Metalworkers ledger for Willa. That Guild's accounting had been difficult due to the valuation of all the equipment and inventory. Depreciation tables.
"Please, sit, Harold of Abdon," the Director said. "We will be here a long time."
The only reason Edmund was able to leave the Director before the eleventh bell was because Pierce arrived with an armful of Calormene accounts received from Stanleh. So, he staggered back to Morgan's office and, ominously, found an empty coffee urn on his desk. Morgan had, therefore, disregarded their discussion and obtained enough stimulant to keep her churning for a few more hours.
He knocked on her door.
"I'm not tired! Go away!" He heard a crunch, a muffled curse, and then, "Wait! No! Don't go!"
Edmund opened the door just as Morgan nearly lurched through it. He caught her. "Steady there."
She swayed a little. "Sorry. I got up too fast and got dizzy. I didn't mean to send you away."
"No?" He plucked a writing quill out from behind her ear.
She looked over his shoulder and took in the ledgers on his desk. Her tired smile warmed something in him that, though very weary, was proud, too. "He approved your work?"
"He did, and told me, quote, 'I find no fault in it.'"
Morgan drew her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. "Congratulations. That's high praise from him. "
"The highest," Edmund agreed, returning her embrace. "He made me suffer through the indignity of watching Willa carefully inspect my sums and had Sallowpad confirming my analysis that the Metalworkers had overvalued their goodwill." It was cheeky, to be sure. Linch never missed an opportunity to reinforce just how much Edmund still had to master.
"He does that," she said. "Keeps us all in our place."
"And him at the top," Edmund added.
"Would you rather get empty flattery for shoddy work?" Morgan challenged, pushing away from him.
"Do not take that tone with me," he snapped.
"Banker Morgan! King Edmund!"
"Even Kings have to do the work," Morgan raged, ignoring Jina's interruption. "Same as everyone else!"
"I am working as hard as you are!" He was nearly shouting. "Have I complained, even once, about the work you all dismiss as beneath you?"
"Please!" Jina barked. "Stop this at once!"
"And you're going to do the work without learning the basics?"
"I am learning!"
Morgan threw up her hands. "Never mind. I don't have time for this. I've got to present this in the morning and you can bet crowns to crows I won't get any mercy there." She turned around and stomped back to her desk.
He slammed the door, too exhausted to cope with Morgan's rude behavior.
"Jina! If Teddy returns tonight with anything important, wake me! I am to bed!"
Edmund said it loud enough that Morgan would hear him and stormed to his own cold room. The effect was spoiled because most of his things were in Morgan's room, so he had to slink in there to get them and then return to his own room for a good sulk.
There was a scritch at his door that his sleeping mind knew was not the natural sound of wind and storm. Edmund jolted awake, knife flying into his hand.
"King Edmund?" Jina called softly. All Narnians knew to wake a sleeping Monarch gently.
"Yes, Jina, what is it?" he asked, setting the knife down again at the desk.
"It's Banker Morgan," Jina said. "She is in need of you."
He had fallen asleep at the desk over a Rat and Crow ranting letter to Susan. He stared at the letter, not even remembering why he had been angry. Even in his groggy state, it was embarrassing to see his poor control there on the page.
"Yes, I imagine so," Edmund replied. He rose and, feeling how cold the floor was, snared a wrap from the bed. "Jina, I apologize for my behavior of earlier."
"I am glad to accept it, course, my King," Jina said, gently gracious. "Banker Morgan has made her apology as well."
The candles and lamps were burning low in the office, but all that meant was that Morgan would be bent even more closely over her work. Willa silently saluted him and Sallowpad bobbed his head. Hound, Rat and Crow had been keeping Morgan company in the dark of the night after the twelfth bell.
"Any news from Teddy?" he asked Willa quietly.
"He returned a short while ago and is with Keme in the nest. He says whatever Director Stanleh suffered seems to have passed. This evening he was well enough to yell at Maeve and Seth and to eat supper. Teddy said the fish soup was very good but needed more seasoning."
Edmund smiled at the so very Rat-like report. "Thank you both."
He pushed open the door to Morgan's office; she was slumped over her work. She would have charcoals and lead smears on her face.
He quietly went over to her desk and gently slid her notes and ledger out from under her arms. She preferred organization in reverse chronological order. He studied her work and found two minor errors probably due to fatigue that did not change her analyses, but would be embarrassing if not corrected.
Edmund made the corrections, placed the work in her satchel and set it on top of the ledger. When all was organized to her satisfaction, he put a hand on her shoulder and shook her gently awake.
"Morgan? Time for bed."
"Whaaaa?" she mumbled, jerking her head up from the desk. She blinked like an Owl roused too early. Her hands fumbled about the desk. "My notes! I…"
"I have taken care of that, Morgan. They are all organized and ready for you." Edmund put the wrap over her shoulders and steered her out of the office.
"Did you check my work? I…"
"Of course. Now, time for bed."
"Thank you, Harold."
Blearily, like drunken Satyrs, they wove their way back to her room, woolen wraps trailing behind them like a King's ceremonial robe, which this definitely was not. Morgan fell into the bed and raising her legs, he was able to remove her slippers. Edmund tossed them far enough away that Morgan would not trip over them in the morning. The manoeuvre had the feel of old habit which, after so many days run together, it definitely was.
Edmund crawled in next to her. It was too much effort to remove her gown at this point. Morgan, like the other Bankers, slept wherever, whenever, and in whatever, at that moment when crushing fatigue could no longer be ignored. The only things comparable in his experience were the long, muddy soldiers' marches to battlefields and sieges. As seasoned as he was in that regard, no engagement had ever lasted so long as this. And there was still the Conclave to come.
He leaned back against the pillows and Morgan curled next to him and completed the domestic scene by yawning in his ear.
"Thank you," she repeated. "Pierce used to put me to bed when I'd fall asleep over the Guild reports. It's nicer when you do it."
"I should hope," Edmund replied, loosening the ties on her gown so she could sleep more comfortably.
"You are Harold," Morgan said, wrapping her arm possessively over his chest. "Not father, brother, or Peter."
"And a very good thing that is for both of us," Edmund said, with a chuff of laughter that reminded him poignantly of Jalur. Poor Tiger. He must be in quite the state with no one to manage.
With her gown sagging and sliding, Morgan shivered in the winter chill and Edmund pulled the blanket up around her. She was losing weight. By the time of the Conclave, they would all be pale thin ghosts of themselves.
"I'm sorry," Morgan said.
"I should not have snapped so at you."
When his imagination hit him over the head with a Guild ledger, Edmund remembered to add, "And I apologize as well."
He eased them both more deeply into the warming bed. If he had not lost his temper, he would have been sleeping in it already and it would not be so chilly.
"Are you prepared for tomorrow?" he asked. Morgan always needed to talk through and empty her thoughts before she could sleep.
"I think so. Did you look at it?"
"You are proposing a futures contract and then breaking it into pieces and selling and reselling the contracts to spread the risk of a bad harvest?"
Morgan nodded into his shoulder. "I hope Maeve does not propose the same thing."
"What does Maeve have to do this?" Edmund asked, seeing anew the rivalry between the two women.
"Didn't I explain about the Ladies Lunch?"
"You mentioned the women Bankers meet. And, by the by, I met Director Meryl this evening."
"Oh, well, she's the one who sponsors the Lunch," Morgan said. "Meryl gives us a case study and then each woman presents her proposal and everyone criticizes it."
"So, Ladies Lunch implies a veneer of gentility I can presume is not actually present?" If Maeve and Morgan were both present, with Meryl presiding, it sounded positively cutthroat.
"Yes," Morgan said softly. "This case study was hard, too. I don't think Maeve would try to split and share the risk the way I did. I think she'll focus on a capital infusion to upgrade the harvesting capability."
Yet more evidence of their competitiveness, which undoubtedly reached quite a height during the Ladies Lunch, and was probably further spurred on by Director Meryl. "Yours is obviously the more elegant solution," Edmund told her. "But if you do not sleep now, you will be too fatigued to present it."
She snuggled closer and kissed his cheek. "You're just saying that to be nice."
"I am saying it to get you to sleep."
"You sound like you don't approve?"
He would not argue about this debilitating competition with Maeve and how the two women had, it seemed, been manipulated into it. These were precious, dark hours before dawn. He brushed his fingers over her eyes and they closed. "Sleep now."
She did. Edmund thought he was able to nod off, but it was all a haze when he heard the first bell ring. He wearily rolled out of the bed. It was time, again, for his humiliation at the brutal hands of a Hoard of male Bankers on the handball court.
He dressed in his House of Linch-provided kit and left Morgan to sleep. Coming out of the bedroom, Jina looked up from her nest of bedding at the end of the hallway. "Good morning," Jina said quietly.
He nodded. "Good morning, Jina, and thank you for waking me and getting Morgan to bed. Are you rested?"
"More than you, King Edmund."
"I will be fine, Lady Hound." He squatted down to confer with her, eye to eye. "What is your preference for this morning?"
"Willa is in the Kitchens now and will return to make sure Morgan awakes by the second bell. They have meetings with the Director this morning."
"And then Morgan will be off to a Ladies Lunch at Meryl House."
"Do you play at Meryl House this morning, King Edmund?"
"I do."
The Hound rose and shook herself. "I will escort you there for your sport and remain with Morgan during the Lunch. Will you breakfast?"
"No." Edmund had attempted that once and nearly vomited during the handball game.
"Very well, Jina. I thank you. Will you be warm enough outside?"
"I will be fine, my King, but thank you for asking."
Filling out his ever expanding roster of titles – Just King, Knight of the Table, Count, Duke, Bag Carrier, Clerk, Secretary, Lackey, Junior Accountant – he now added Delivery Boy and collected the Guild accounts to bring them to Meryl House. There was a courier service who every morning would pick up the previous day's accountings from the Houses and see them delivered to the other Houses. Edmund decided to bring the ledgers himself – he was feeling proprietary of his handiwork and the Meryl had assumed he would do so regardless. It would continue to maintain his disguise, for a King would neither deign to do Guild accounting nor deliver the books himself.
The walk was short but very cold, under gray skies, and everything was slick from where drizzle had fallen and frozen. The Narrowhaven Banking Houses sprinkled sand on the ice-coated paths and each undertook to remove the heaviest crusting. House retainers were out with picks and shovels to remove the worst of it. Edmund could not help thinking that properly proportioned Narnian Dwarf made tools would have done a better job of it. Fortunately, by the time Morgan would make the walk one street away to Meryl House, the weather would have warmed enough for the ice to melt, so she would not risk a fall.
He was shown into a Meryl House receiving room where rich blues and ocean themes of the House's wave insignia dominated. Like Linch, the House had a strong Archenland influence. Edmund knew he was early but when they played here, Alan Meryl would let him practice and provide some helpful tips before the others arrived for the bloodletting. He set the ledgers down on a sideboard decorated with inlays of shells and blue Calormene tiles; the backboard of the fine piece had intricate carvings of the Meryl wave and dolphins.
Jina turned her head to the inner door and her ears pricked up; her tail gave a resounding thump. Whoever approached was not Alan Meryl who, for reasons Edmund could not fathom at all, none of the Narnians liked.
"Constance?" he whispered to the Hound.
Jina's tail thumped again.
The door swung open to fair Constance Meryl.
"Good morning, Harold. Alan is still breakfasting with the Director, so you must settle for me as your escort to the courts."
"Not settling at all," Edmund replied, always warmed to see Constance. She reminded him very much of some sweet combination of Lucy's easy way with people and Susan's graciousness, but with the round, rosy, blonde looks and manners of the lower Archenland minor nobility from which she had come. "It is a pleasure, as always, Constance."
"And I'm so glad you brought Jina!" She immediately got down on her knees to greet Jina, who trotted forward to greet her, tail wagging happily.
Constance did not know that she was greeting a Narnian Talking Hound as a common dog, but Jina liked the woman so well, she willingly accepted the head stroking and petting.
"Are you sure, Harold, that Jina has no Narnian in her? Somewhere?"
Constance was very perceptive. She cupped Jina's head in her hands. "Because Jina has a very knowing look to her, don't you think?"
"She is a Hound," Edmund replied, not quite answering. "They are extraordinarily sensitive Dogs."
"Oh, I know! Jina simply seems even more so! So, Jina, don't think I don't notice how you curl your lip every time you see Alan!" Constance scolded gently. "He is a lovely person, if you just give him a chance."
Edmund could see it was only with effort that Jina managed to keep her tooth in her mouth. For distraction he held out a hand out and helped Constance rise. "Have you been preparing for the Ladies' Lunch?"
She sighed and her countenance drooped as she gained her feet. "I was up most the night trying to assess and manage the risk of weather losses and the scenario has the most productive lands situated between two quarreling war lords. I found a good almanac in the library, but…" Constance rubbed her eyes and Edmund could see the ink marks on her fingers. "I found Director Meryl's case study very hard."
He leaned forward and whispered a confidence. "Morgan thought it difficult as well, Constance, and went to bed but a short time ago."
That small revelation of a burdened shared lifted her immeasurably. "Truly?"
"Truly."
Constance let out a deep breath. "Thank you for saying so. Not that it matters, over much, of course." She sighed again, so deeply, Jina pushed her nose into Constance's hand.
"I am sure you will do very well," Edmund replied, as encouragingly as he could. It was easy though to see the way of it. As brutal as the play was on the handball court, the Ladies Lunch obviously had its own sort of savagery.
"You are kind to say so, however, with both Maeve and Morgan present, it is unlikely. She smiled wanly. "They are both brilliant …"
"But can be a bit daunting for us common folk?" Edmund said.
Constance smiled and nodded. "Precisely." Shall we be off then?"
"I should see these delivered," Edmund said, indicating the ledgers.
Constance reached for the top ledger, for the Metalworkers, and paged through it carefully. "The Guilds!"
She was the first to express any enthusiasm for Guild accounting at all.
"Indeed. Shipwrights, Metalworkers and Ropemakers, all Seven Isles. My first audits," he added, still feeling ridiculously proud of the effort and that a Rat, a Crow, and a Lone Island Director had found no errors and agreed with his analyses.
"Congratulations!" Constance replied warmly. "And thank you for bringing them." Constance took the Metalworkers and he hefted the other two. "We will just take these to my office and I can start them after the Lunch."
"You seem to relish the prospect."
She flushed prettily. "I know they are not glamorous, like the enterprises of Calormen and Telmar, or the accountings for a whole nation or city. But, yes, I quite like the Guild work."
"Why is that?" He and Jina followed Constance out of the receiving room and down a wide, bright hallway dressed in warm blues. As with Linch House, Meryl House spent a fortune in lamp oil and beeswax candles.
"These Guilds make things, do things. It is very real, if you understand what I mean. I have been following a number of them for several years now and when you delve into these accountings, you can read their stories. It's very gratifying."
"You can see the people behind the numbers?"
"Precisely!" Constance exclaimed. She settled the ledger on her hip and pushed open a door. Constance's office was small, far smaller even than his anteroom chamber. A person's status in a House was reflected in the size and location of her office and her window views. There was barely enough room for the two of them to turn around and the only natural light came from a high, grimy, narrow window.
A portrait of Alan Meryl dominated a wall, all gleaming blues, flowing blonde hair, and white teeth. This kind, generous, well-meaning and slightly dim man was Constance's present and Morgan's future.
Edmund looked quickly at Jina. Her hair was standing stiffly on her back.
"That is an excellent likeness of Alan," Edmund said politely.
She beamed. "It is. He was so embarrassed by it." She glanced at Jina who had turned her back to the portrait.
"And is that the love of my life!" a hale voice called from the hallway.
Constance blushed deeply. "Yes, Alan! I'm in here!"
The portrait made flesh appeared in the doorway. As Alan Meryl was crafted from the same stonesmiths who wrought the Tombs of Tashbaan and Mount Pire, he blocked the light behind him from the hall. The brilliance of his smiling countenance, however, illuminated Constance's office.
"Hello, my darling!" Alan swooped down and kissed Constance lightly on the cheek. "Harold! Thank you for coming! Wonderful to see you! And Jina, too! What a good dog you are!"
Poor Jina. She managed to tolerate the absent pat and condescending address. She would be deserving of a special commendation and Knighting into his own Order on the return to Narnia for her service.
Edmund shook Alan's hand. "Good morning, Sir." Alan had a firm, hard grip but it was not as crushing as that of the Linch Director, or the Stanlehs.
"Harold delivered his first signed-off accountings!" Constance spoke with such glowing confidence, it made Edmund flush himself. She was as generous and sincere as Alan, though her praise was better informed.
"Congratulations, Harold!" Alan replied, awarding him a thwack that was very hearty but not as hard as Peter's knock-you-off-your-feet-into-the-river backslaps.
"Thank you," Edmund replied. "I apologize for being early, but thought to get in some drilling before Seth and Pierce arrive." He winced inwardly at the slip – practice was the appropriate word to describe handball, not drilling.
"Excellent! I was heading down to the court myself for a warm up! Would you like a partner?"
"Partnering implies near-equality, which I do not even approximate," Edmund told the Banker. "Coaching, however, I always appreciate."
"You are being too modest, Harold. For someone who had never played the sport, you are doing extremely well. If you would partner with me, I think we'll give Seth and Pierce a real battle today."
Having seen real battles, Edmund knew very well what they were. Regrettably, the comparison between Bankers' handball and pitched fighting with Ettins, Pirates or Hags, was not as strained as might be expected.
"I would be honoured, Sir, though if you think me too modest, I think you too generous."
"Harold is always so well spoken, isn't he?" Alan said, addressing Constance. "I could get quite the swelled head listening to him!"
"You would never, and Harold is quite right and an excellent judge of character!" Constance said firmly. "But yes, Harold, I do agree with Alan and please know I mean this as the highest compliment in saying that your kindly way seems very Narnian." She glanced at Jina who was now listening attentively. "Indeed, you seem as Narnian to me as Jina."
It was the first time anyone in the Lone Islands had identified him as Narnian in manner. If Constance thought Jina as having a knowing look to her, he was coming to think the same of Constance. He would have to exercise greater care around her, but really, what was he to do? Become vile to a charming, intelligent, kindly young woman of whom his subjects thought highly and who reminded him of his own deeply missed sisters?
"I certainly take your praise in the spirit it was given. Thank you, Constance."
Alan put his hands on Constance's shoulders and kissed her forehead. "We're off now and you go finish preparing for the Lunch. Don't be nervous. You'll be wonderful no matter what."
Seeing that as his cue for a tactful exit, Edmund squeezed by them to wait in the hallway while Constance and Alan made their good bye. Through the ajar door, he could hear the tone though not the words of Constance's worry and Alan's reassurance. Alan's stalwart support for Constance made him think he should have done something more for Morgan and he felt regret afresh at having argued with her last night.
Edmund crouched down to speak to Jina whose brows were knit with worry. She was certainly hearing the conversation in the office, was very sensitive, probably feeling conflicted in her duties, and it was her nature to respond empathetically. He whispered, "Willa and Sallowpad are with Morgan so I think she has good company. Perhaps though you would like to stay with Constance?"
He was glad Constance was not there for, from her expression, Jina was obviously considering her options. The intelligence in her countenance was not that of an ordinary dog. The Hound nodded and when Alan came out of the office, Jina brushed by him and took a place next to Constance.
"Jina! Whatever are you doing?" Constance said, again getting on her knee. "You should go with Harold!" She pointed toward the door. "Go!"
Jina looked up at Constance and lay down.
Edmund held out his hands in helpless denial. "You try telling a Hound No! Perhaps you might be more persuasive than I!"
"Oh dear," Constance said with a laugh. "She's not Narnian dog, but Narnian mule."
Ten, now nearly eleven, years, of relentless drilling with Sir Hairy the Horrid and a taller, stronger, older brother, and Edmund was more than skilled at arms. He was clever and he was fast, he had excellent footwork and could see, think and exploit under pressure while Peter would often just wear the opponent down. Edmund had been trained with dagger, dirk, and short, curved, and long sword (and could fight both right and left handed and both at once, at need). He could competently handle a few rounds even with Dryads using a quarterstaff. He could run to the upmost towers of a castle, in full armor, three times in a row in hot weather, and seven in cool. He could, and had, skewered a Werewolf from a galloping horse with a lance. He could shoot long and cross bows – not as accurately as his sisters, but certainly proficiently enough to blind an Ettin – which he had done in several Northern skirmishes. He had broken the Wand of the Witch.
He had won tourneys. He could wade into a brawl and come out with nothing worse than a bruised knuckle. There was that time with the black eye, but that was because Peter had not been watching where his elbows flew.
Edmund had killed. Many times.
Tournaments, jousting, battles, fisticuffs, skirmishes, ambushes, and even Sir Leszi's insane training regimens, all had been endured. He had prevailed in all these contests – some for the honour and prestige of Narnia, some for their and his very survival.
Nothing compared to the sheer savagery of a Hoard of male Bankers on the handball court.
He was flat on his back, gasping for air. He pried open an eye and blinked back stinging sweat. Three men, two dark, one shockingly blonde, were staring down at him, concerned looks on their faces.
His mouth was moving, but Edmund was not sure if any words came out. The blood roaring in his ears blocked the sound.
"What's that, Harold?" Seth asked.
Harold. Who is Harold?
Oh, right, then. That's my name.
"The point?" Edmund gasped. "Did we make the point?"
"You did!" Pierce exclaimed with appalling enthusiasm. "Brilliantly played, too. I've never seen so acrobatic a return before!"
Edmund rolled over, hoping he would not spoil the hard-won victory by retching on the waxed, wooden floor.
"Easy there," Alan said. He knelt and gently helped Edmund sit up, Seth supporting him on the other side.
"Not only did you make the point, you chest-blocked the return," Seth said, all admiration.
"Brilliant!" Pierce said again. "I've never seen anyone do that and not break a rib. You didn't break a rib, did you?"
Edmund had, in fact, broken ribs before – a crushing blow from a Troll's mace. He shook his head. "No, not broken." Bruised, certainly. OWWWW.
"Chest block is good for the extra point," Alan said.
"We won then?" Edmund asked weakly.
Alan grinned and nodded. "A winning day for you, Harold. Your first accountings signed off and our first handball win!"
"Congratulations! On both counts!" Seth said. "Celebrating by spending a day in the infirmary is not called for. Can you stand?"
Edmund held up a hand. "In a moment." Really, the floor was very comfortable and he did not want to try becoming vertical until the court stopped spinning.
"I thought it had to be below the waist to get the extra point," Pierce said.
"No," Seth countered. "You block a shot below the waist and you carry the game."
"That's right. It's because you might not ever father children," Pierce said, then going on to add more detail than Edmund wanted to know about the first reported incidence of that injury in the game.
The thought of taking in the groin a hit from a wooden ball moving as fast as an arrow was really not something he ever wanted to hear of, think of, or experience, ever.
As always would happen, Seth and Pierce began arguing nuances of handball rule interpretations. The Handball Guidebook was nearly as long as, and more impenetrable than, Subtitle C of the Tax Code.
"Every game, they do that," Alan said, shaking his head at the arguing Bankers, amused. "Well played, Harold." With his supporting hand, Edmund was able to peel himself off the court floor.
The four of them left the court, three swaggering, one staggering. Pride dictated that he would rather not have been propped up between Seth and Alan when they ran into Director Meryl and the women Bankers arriving for the Ladies Luncheon in the entrance foyer of Meryl House. They were all stinking, sweaty messes. The men, that is. Not the women.
As he was still having difficulty standing upright and speaking at the same time, Edmund clung to the doorway, wishing with all his heart for willow bark pain reliever and feeling very peevish about the whole thing.
Alan, of course, was effusive and hearty. "Ladies! Welcome to Meryl House!"
The men all made their courtesies and mingled easily with the women – Alan speaking briefly to Morgan and more intimately with Constance; Pierce greeting Director Meryl, Morgan and then Maeve; Seth speaking to Director Meryl, Maeve and then to Morgan, and Constance, and more closely with a sharp looking woman in House of Sterns yellow that Edmund did not know.
As Lord, Knight, King, and brother to the two most marriageable rulers in the Known Lands, Edmund had certainly seen his share of Human courtship rituals. He even knew how to conduct a proper flirtation himself. He did nod to Morgan, but followed her lead and as she was not acknowledging their relationship here, he would not do so, either.
Alan, Seth, and Pierce were Bankers. Bankers. They were not Kings. Or Knights. Or Lords. Or Counts. Or Dukes. They did not ride horses, wield swords, or carry concealed knives. They had never killed a Giant. Or led an Army or a charge. They had never swung aboard a burning pirate ship to rescue the captives. And here they were, wading into a bevy of very intelligent, highly competitive, mostly attractive women, who were impressed with them! Impressed! There was not even any of that irritating hair twirling so common among silly women! There was chatting! Laughter! Flirting!
Edmund sighed, and then winced with the exertion of the stinging exhalation. He tried slumping against the doorjamb, but caught the disapproving eye of Director Meryl who frowned at his poor posture and was probably worried he would leave a sweat mark on the tapestry. This was humiliating.
King Edmund the Just of Narnia.
Duke of the Lantern Waste.
Count of the Western March.
Breaker of the Wand of Jadis.
Accounting clerk.
Bag carrier.
Secretary.
Lackey.
Courier.
Doorstop.
And, possessing none of the sexual appeal of a Lone Island Banker.
To follow, Chapter 8, Two Hearts Day
Thanks so much to Snacky and Clio for their recent support and good wishes. Against my better judgment, I've posted. This chapter grew to over 17,000 words, so I'm stopping here and will post the next one soon. I'm feeling very, very protective and emotional about Jina at the moment, given the dogs in my life.
Also, the Remix challenge concluded and is posted on Archive of Our Own. I've described the story I did, a remix of Metonomia's wonderful She Maintained This Estate, in my Live Journal.
Thank you again to those who reviewed. It was enormously inspiring and helpful.
