as he walked, dangling on a thick golden chain.
“She’s raised the minimum tithe from two percent to five percent,” he growled. “She passed an edict last week. All the usual holiday staples, like maple buns on the Feast of Saint Edric or perfume on Saint Alba’s Jubilee? We’re not allowed to mark up the prices on holy weeks anymore, on pain of excommunication.”
“So she’s interrupting your price gouging,” Rhys said.
Byvan frowned. “You told me having an Itrescan pope would be good for business, Rhys. I sold the banking and artisan cartels on it. Now it’s
my
name that’s covered in mud. We’re all losing money hand over fist out there, so she can…I don’t know, feed the poor or some damn fool thing like that.
Fix
this, or you’re going to be feeling the pinch come winter.”
“Clarify,” Rhys said, “and choose your words carefully. I’m still your king.”
“
Gold
is king,” Byvan said. “And come the cold season, well…if Itresca’s merchants keep losing their income to this new pope’s whims, we might not have enough to pay our taxes.”
Merrion moved close to Rhys’s shoulder.
“Sire,” he said softly, “an idea presents itself.”
Rhys didn’t look at him. His eyes locked with Byvan, the two men staring each other down. “Let’s hear it.”
“It seems to me that House Argall’s complaint isn’t really with you at all.
Livia
was the one who signed the order of inquisition. And no proof connects you to it. None but her own word.”
“And if Livia goes away…” Rhys trailed off.
Merrion nodded. “There’s a good chance House Argall will come to the treaty table and end these attacks.”
“So,” Yates said, “we
all
have an interest in seeing a change in Church leadership.”
Rhys drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. Then he shrugged.
“All right. I’m open to suggestions.”
“The principle of an Itrescan Church is still sound,” Yates said. “We can survive this schism and come out on top, which is good for everyone. We just need a better leader at the helm. One who understands the realities of the situation.”
“Yes, yes, you want to be pope,” Rhys said. “Thank you for stating the obvious.”
Yates shook his head. “No, what I mean is we have to be delicate about
how
Livia is removed. The peasantry, for reasons I cannot fathom, utterly adores her. We need to keep that groundswell, that momentum, if we’re going to outshine Pope Carlo’s best efforts.”
“She can’t go out in disgrace is what you’re saying.” Byvan stroked his beard. “The first Itrescan pope has to be remembered as a saint.”
“Better yet,” Yates said, “a martyr.”
Merrion reached across the strategy table. He picked up one of the polished markers, a chess knight in red marble about the size of his fist, and stroked it with his thumb.
“Sire,” he said, “returning House Argall’s land is still out of the question?”
“Returning
my
family’s land, which they stole first, you mean. And yes.”
“I was just thinking how calamitous it would be if Argall rebels, lashing out against the Holy Church, murdered our beloved pope. Of course, the entire clan would be declared outlaw and hunted to the last man. Exterminated, with righteous cause.”
Merrion set the marker back down, squarely on the map of the Argall-held highlands. With the flat of his hand, he brushed it aside.
“Clean sweep.”
Rhys stared at the map, a slow smile rising to his lips.
“We keep our shiny new Church, we get a new pope who dances to the right tune, the Argalls are nothing but a hated memory…everyone wins. If my wife is declared outlaw, I can even get my marriage annulled.” He glanced at Yates. “I
can
, correct?”
Yates nodded quickly. “I’ll see to the paperwork.”
Merrion held up a finger. “The only difficulty is getting them to do the deed.”
“What d’you mean?” Rhys squinted at him. “Just hire some assassins and dress them in Argall
“She’s raised the minimum tithe from two percent to five percent,” he growled. “She passed an edict last week. All the usual holiday staples, like maple buns on the Feast of Saint Edric or perfume on Saint Alba’s Jubilee? We’re not allowed to mark up the prices on holy weeks anymore, on pain of excommunication.”
“So she’s interrupting your price gouging,” Rhys said.
Byvan frowned. “You told me having an Itrescan pope would be good for business, Rhys. I sold the banking and artisan cartels on it. Now it’s
my
name that’s covered in mud. We’re all losing money hand over fist out there, so she can…I don’t know, feed the poor or some damn fool thing like that.
Fix
this, or you’re going to be feeling the pinch come winter.”
“Clarify,” Rhys said, “and choose your words carefully. I’m still your king.”
“
Gold
is king,” Byvan said. “And come the cold season, well…if Itresca’s merchants keep losing their income to this new pope’s whims, we might not have enough to pay our taxes.”
Merrion moved close to Rhys’s shoulder.
“Sire,” he said softly, “an idea presents itself.”
Rhys didn’t look at him. His eyes locked with Byvan, the two men staring each other down. “Let’s hear it.”
“It seems to me that House Argall’s complaint isn’t really with you at all.
Livia
was the one who signed the order of inquisition. And no proof connects you to it. None but her own word.”
“And if Livia goes away…” Rhys trailed off.
Merrion nodded. “There’s a good chance House Argall will come to the treaty table and end these attacks.”
“So,” Yates said, “we
all
have an interest in seeing a change in Church leadership.”
Rhys drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. Then he shrugged.
“All right. I’m open to suggestions.”
“The principle of an Itrescan Church is still sound,” Yates said. “We can survive this schism and come out on top, which is good for everyone. We just need a better leader at the helm. One who understands the realities of the situation.”
“Yes, yes, you want to be pope,” Rhys said. “Thank you for stating the obvious.”
Yates shook his head. “No, what I mean is we have to be delicate about
how
Livia is removed. The peasantry, for reasons I cannot fathom, utterly adores her. We need to keep that groundswell, that momentum, if we’re going to outshine Pope Carlo’s best efforts.”
“She can’t go out in disgrace is what you’re saying.” Byvan stroked his beard. “The first Itrescan pope has to be remembered as a saint.”
“Better yet,” Yates said, “a martyr.”
Merrion reached across the strategy table. He picked up one of the polished markers, a chess knight in red marble about the size of his fist, and stroked it with his thumb.
“Sire,” he said, “returning House Argall’s land is still out of the question?”
“Returning
my
family’s land, which they stole first, you mean. And yes.”
“I was just thinking how calamitous it would be if Argall rebels, lashing out against the Holy Church, murdered our beloved pope. Of course, the entire clan would be declared outlaw and hunted to the last man. Exterminated, with righteous cause.”
Merrion set the marker back down, squarely on the map of the Argall-held highlands. With the flat of his hand, he brushed it aside.
“Clean sweep.”
Rhys stared at the map, a slow smile rising to his lips.
“We keep our shiny new Church, we get a new pope who dances to the right tune, the Argalls are nothing but a hated memory…everyone wins. If my wife is declared outlaw, I can even get my marriage annulled.” He glanced at Yates. “I
can
, correct?”
Yates nodded quickly. “I’ll see to the paperwork.”
Merrion held up a finger. “The only difficulty is getting them to do the deed.”
“What d’you mean?” Rhys squinted at him. “Just hire some assassins and dress them in Argall
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