The Imperial Capital, Rigour: Salano District, Archades Palace, Duke Arcadia’s StudyAs an ornate clock on the western wall of the study – really, just an extension of the library it led off from, with the addition of a desk and some comfortable and not-so-comfortable chairs – chimed seven, His Grace the Duke of Arcadia – and, not incidentally, Chancellor of the Serene Empire - turned away from his contemplation of the capital, sprawling in monumental glory beyond the broad windows that broke up the expanse of bookshelves.
At this time of year, seven o’clock marked the dawn in Rigour, and the skies were filled with lemon-yellow light as the sun began to peek over the horizon. There’d been one of the frequent thunderstorms in the night, and raindrops still beaded the mullioned glass as the Duke stood in contemplation.
In his home city, dreaming on its thousand isles, there was at least
some lull in the activity – even if it was only in the Golden Triangle, for he knew as well as anyone that the docks hummed with activity twenty-four seven and it could be no other way.
Here, though…in Rigour, it never stopped, never faltered, never wavered, no matter the district and no matter the time. The lights
always blazed, newer, brighter, better, a kaleidoscope of colours cast upon the buildings to make an earthbound sun, and all through the shining streets there flowed a neverending torrent of humanity.
Stevedores and shopkeepers, lamplighters and engineers, binmen and servants, deliverymen and steelworkers, inventors and charlatans, criminals and musicians, dancers and ladies of the night…every conceivable profession was represented on Rigour’s shining streets and drawn from all corners of the Empire – and beyond, too.
The imperial merchant marine was the cause of that – or part of it, anyway. For centuries, Taran merchant seamen had criss-crossed the globe, seeking fame, fortune and females in every conceivable port; many of them had found at least one of the three, and most had brought at least
some of their wives and children home, too. The Home Duchies’ tropical climate, culture, stunning scenery and, naturally, the glorious history of the Serene Empire brought in tourists by the great gross, too, soaking up the sunshine and spending their money.
With a sigh, Peregrine lowered himself into the high, scroll-backed armchair that stood, solid and dependable, behind his desk, another battle-scarred veteran of the ages. Generations of Montclair dukes had used it, and all had left their own particular marks. Larsus Montclair, for example, the sixth Duke of Arcadia; his penchant for purple ink had stained the dark wood in places. Michael Montclair, for another, the ninth Duke with his hobby of knife-throwing with his letter-opener, others.
Absently, Perry’s long, thin fingers trailed along the carved wood and crimson leather. It stood for history, and permanence, much like Archades Palace, having survived, in various forms, over eight hundred years on the same spot, a rock in the ever-changing Imperial Capital.
There came a soft knock on the double doors and then a few seconds later his butler shimmered in, resplendent in the formal dress appropriate to his office and carrying a heavy silver tea-tray, laden with all the paraphernalia of that drink – steaming silver teapot shaped like a bird-of-paradise, elegant Vallefay china cups, a pile of lemon slices and more. “
Your tea, sir.”
Automatically, his body went through the motions of preparing tea – pouring out the dark, richly fragrant liquid, brewed to perfection with hints of orange and bergamot rising in the steam – and then adding a slice of lemon. The ring of the silver spoon against the cup was the only sound in the comfortably bookish study apart from the steady ticking of the clock.
This was a precious time, the hour or so before the day had to start in earnest. Oh, technically Parliament didn’t sit and debate before half eleven, but Perry Montclair was in government, and government never slept. It couldn’t afford to: the empire had grown rich and powerful on the back of diligent, unceasing effort, and no-one wanted to be the one to see it slip between their plumply well-fed hands.
The Imperial Capital, Rigour: Salano District, Imperial Chancellery, The Cabinet RoomAlas, all good things had to come to an end, and an hour and a half later the Duke of Arcadia found himself in the Cabinet Room of the Chancellery. It was rich, impressive, the epitome of the fanciful
belle epoque style that had gripped the empire the last time the place had been refurbished, chandeliers gleaming overhead and with gilt shimmering from elaborate moulding and painting-frames.
The great table between the caryatids holding up the ceiling dome, forty feet long, was a massive slab of Moray mahogany from the cloud forests of that mountainous duchy, and industriously buffed to a mirror-shine by the Chancellery’s legion of servants. The chairs were spacious and comfortable, ranged around the enormous table’s expanse, with plenty of space for papers and Government boxes and even invited briefers, and Perry sank into his own - the centrepiece of the whole affair - with a sigh.
Papers rustled and shifted as he opened a box – a black-and-silver affair stamped with the gryphon-and-batons crest of the Chancellery – and refreshed his memory for the upcoming meeting, his eyes dancing across the exquisite copperplate and his mind racing as he devoured the meaning behind the acres of words.
The antique grandfather clock in the corner, all ebony and silver marquetry in patterns that teased the eye, ticked away softly and, as it chimed the hour, the doors clicked open and in filed Her Majesty’s Cabinet. Richly dressed, as befitted their aristocratic origins and high standing within the empire, the warm gaslights glimmered on curling arabesque decorations, on gems, cufflinks and gleaming golden watch-chains, and the air filled with the susurrus of their low conversations as they filed in and took their seats.
Perry waited with a smile until the last of them was seated and then gently tapped the silver bell in front of him with a small hammer, its sweet peal silencing the last of the talk and drawing their attention.
“
Good morning, gentlemen. I trust you all had a relaxing weekend?” A low murmur of agreement swept up and down the sides of the table, and he smiled. There would be time enough for a proper catch-up after Cabinet. His eyes lingered momentarily on Nathaniel Ruthven – the man was the oldest person there, his silver hair glowing in the abundant light, but Perry happened to know that he’d spent the weekend enjoying (and vigorously so) the attentions of two of the Bliss Alliance’s finest young ladies.
They were, Perry mused with tolerant amusement, something of a comfort to the old man in his declining years – and also something of an embarrassment to Earl Summervale’s painfully earnest heir.
“
Excellent. Now, to business, everybody; we’ve got a busy agenda today and I know we’d all like to be finished before the Triphine Cup races this afternoon, if at all possible.” Yachts and yachting were something on the order of a national pastime, and the Triphine Cup was
the prize for a Rigour yachtsman. Nonetheless, government took precedence.
“
Martyn? If you’d give us a brief summary?” The Secretary of State for Industry was a slender man with a pianist’s fingers, his warm sloe-brown eyes hiding a sharp intellect and political reflexes honed in the Parliament and the Court both. He nodded to the Chancellor and cleared his throat.
“
As I’m sure we all know, Tara’s industry is enormous. Our industrial base is also still growing, and m’staff and their colleagues at the Treasury are certain this trend is not only going to continue, but actually accelerate. In many ways, this is a good thing – more goods to help our balance of trade, improved standards of living for our citizens, and, of course, more in the way of tax and tariff, helping to keep our coffers full. Unfortunately, it does have its downsides, and one of them is that we only have so much in the way of exploitable resources.” He sighed, spreading those elegant hands with a shrug and tapping the paper in front of him for emphasis. “
Historically, it was never a problem; country blacksmiths and subsistence farmers were never going to make much of a dent in our reserves. Given the explosion in population and the frankly unstoppable rise of the factories we all depend on now, though, we’re getting close to a crunch point.” He paused again, trying to impress on his colleagues the seriousness of the problem.
“
If we do nothing, in a very short period of time, the fires are going to start going out all over Tara. Even our greatest industrial magnates will be unable – physically unable, from lack of raw materials – to keep up with even domestic demand, never mind the export trade! The Serene Empire will come to a crashing halt, and I for one don’t want to be the one carrying the can in the wreckage.”
At this, there were murmurs of agreement from several ministers. Perry noted them absently – the Usual Suspects of the Expansionist Party, of course, supporting their colleague, key amongst them his Foreign Secretary, but also Baron Daubeny and Earl Summervale.
Unsurprising, really – Daubeny was the Chairman of the Imperial Board of Trade, and anything which might impact on the torrent of goods was anathema to him and his department both, whilst Summervale was the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and the Treasury derived vast revenues from Tara’s industry.
“
Thank you, Martyn. Concise as always. We’re all aware of the problem, now, potential solutions? Gabriel, I know you chaired the subcommittee on this – what were the conclusions?”
Mellifluous and measured, a potent weapon in his diplomatic and political arsenal, Gabriel de Marin’s rich voice washed over the Cabinet chamber, a tide of silk. “
The imperial heartlands – the Home Duchies, Sairland, the Cinnamon Isles and so on – may well be approaching breaking point, but we are an empire, and hardly unpractised at spreading the light of civilisation. Look to our colonies – I believe Olivier’s plan also hinges on them – as an example. I – and my staff, of course – see the primary way forward as being a policy of careful expansion to, ah, acquire new resources and head off the shortages before they start to bite. My recommendation to Cabinet, therefore, is to allow me to instruct my Friends-” the government euphemism for the Imperial Eyes, the realm’s shadowy Secret Service, when they were referred to at all “
-to begin operations with this in mind.”
A cough drew attention down the table. “
Recommendation, Foreign Secretary, as this comes into my bailiwick?” that was the First Lord of the Admiralty, trim and dapper and positively humming with energy. He continued almost without waiting for assent – but that was just his way, a quick mind and a quicker mouth that
hated to wait. “
Stick to places close to our colonies. That would give us a logistical base from which to operate, and my fleets already know the waters thereabouts.”
“
So noted, William,” Gabriel replied with a smile and a nod, making a brief note.
“
Our other option,” interjected Daubeny “
Is in the colonies we’ve already got. Most of them we founded or acquired precisely because of their resources, but there’s a limit to how hard we can squeeze them before we start getting protests and resistance movements and all the sorts of wretched insurgencies we’ve fought for years to keep from forming. Carrot being undeniably better than stick, we all know that, but it does mean we can’t just double up on quotas without an awful lot of problems we’re simply not equipped to deal with. We’d be sunk without the colonials in the Civil Service, for one, and if the colonies started getting fractious and blowing up in our faces, then the resource problems we’re seeing on the horizon right now? Nothing compared t’the catastrophe we’ll have then. So!” he clapped his hands, suddenly, making at least half the cabinet jump and frown at him.
“
So,” he continued, slightly quieter. “
We can’t squeeze the colonies – not enough to make a difference, anyway, not without causing ourselves all sorts of worse problems – so, if we can’t take a bigger slice of the pie, the solution is to make the pie bigger. We surveyed the colonies when we acquired them, of course, and I daresay the local Services have maintained their own maps, but when was the last time any government did a really wide-ranging assessment of our own natural resources?” Daubeny laughed, slightly sardonically. “
I’ll tell you – a hundred and fifty years ago, gentlemen, in the reign of Louis the Young. One and a half centuries! Just imagine what those people might have missed, or thought unimportant – and never mind that they certainly didn’t have modern prospecting equipment or a proper understanding of geology! I’m proposing we ask the Surveyor-General to undertake a General Survey fit for the modern age we find ourselves in. I don’t expect him to find anything new in the Home Duchies – we’ve been here for thousands of years and been over the place with a fine tooth-comb, but the colonies? Properly kitted out, I’m sure surveying teams will find a whole wealth of things we missed on the first pass.”
Solomon Holmes-Selkirk, the Secretary of State for Home Affairs, snorted. “
Lot of ‘hopes’ in there, Daubeny,” he noted sceptically. “
You want us to pin the future of th’Empire on a wish that some surveyors faffin’ around with mappery and theodolites will find piles of iron and coal? Hmph. Better to civilise some wretched barbarian fiefdom we already know to have what we need. More souls under Her Majesty’s banner, more resources to feed the machines here at home.”
Daubeny, for his part, wagged an admonishing finger at his cabinet colleague. “
More responsibilities for the Army and Navy! Costs of infrastructure, education, the whole establishment of the imperial system – and a population unused to the civilised way of doing things, to boot!”
Perry stepped in, tapping the silver bell with his hammer again, letting its plangent note sing his fractious ministers back to calm. “
Both suggestions have merits, and I see no reason not to pursue both. The Surveyor-General isn’t likely to cost us too much, and besides, I’m sure the Marshal would love updated cartography of our own holdings, at least, even if we get absolutely nothing else out of it. Gabriel’s proposal – thank you – is also eminently sensible. He is recommending gathering intelligence, not conducting a civilising action immediately. Knowing what we have to work with, what our options are in more detail, is a fine thing.”
There was more discussion – of
course there was more discussion; no cabinet would just acquiesce without debate – but in the end the courses of action were clear. The looming economic crisis was a vital problem on the horizon, and heading it off before it became a real headache was top priority.
Both of the more reasonable courses ahead of them were to be actioned post-haste; the Foreign Secretary contacting his officially-unofficial Friends, and Daubeny instructing the Surveyor-General.
Peregrine Montclair hoped that at least one would provide the answer, or else he’d find himself making some…painful…decisions in the near future. For now, though, the essential business of government discharged for another day, there was the Triphine Cup to watch.
“
To the good order of the Empire, gentlemen,” he intoned, leading them in the traditional phrase that had become almost a talisman to generations of Tarans “
And the safety of her citizens.”
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