Cymru - Chapter 20

GWILYM

"Well," Gwilym distantly heard himself say as he stood up possibly slightly too quickly. "Thank you for coming." And now he was going to have to say it, but he so, so didn't want to... "Feel free to stay in Aberystwyth as long as you wish."

Please leave, he thought, as the squatly muscular Rider in front of him rose and bowed happily, the imminent promise of a regrettably destructive night lacing the movement. Somehow, Gwilym managed to break his grimace into a smile.

"Thank you, Sovereign," the Rider boomed merrily, straightening his broad back and gesturing to the rest of the Llangefni Wing. They sort of ambled out, looking vague and already half-drunk. "We'll probably stay overnight; looks like there's a bit of a squall coming in off the sea. But that's fine! We always enjoy the night-life here!"

I'll bet, Gwilym thought balefully, but somehow he managed to keep the smile in place. It was almost astonishing, actually; he'd never had this kind of facial self-control before, had he? He blamed Watkins. Nothing guarded the expression better than a taciturnly disapproving kettle man, and that wasn't a sentence one commonly got to say. Or think.

"Excellent," Gwilym said blandly. "Well, thank you again, Rider, and don't let me keep you."

"Ah, call me Emrys!" the Rider all but yelled. Was it polite to rub your ears when confronted by a wall of noise dressed as a ninja screaming at your eardrums? Marged would have. Oh, to be crazy. "'Rider' is so formal, I think. Will you be joining us later?"

Good gods, no! "Maybe," Gwilym said vaguely. "Lots to do..."

"Excellent!" Emrys clapped him on the shoulder so hard he nearly got pitched face forward back onto the meeting table. "We'll see you later, then!"

"Maybe," Gwilym agreed, trying to keep the note of alarm out of his voice. They most emphatically would not. Even if he had to be suddenly called away to Caerleuad on state business, there was no way Gwilym would be setting foot in any pub that contained the Llangefni Wing. Maybe he could swap with Marged for the night? She'd happily drink with them until she passed out and call them all scamps. And in exchange Gwilym could have a look over some of Caerleuad's accounts. He liked accounts. Numbers were good.

As they left the meeting room with a cheery wave from Emrys and a tight smile from Gwilym Watkins materialised at his elbow, a sheaf of papers in one hand and a file in the other.

"My Lord," he intoned boringly. Gods he was boring. Gwilym was bored. "I have the finance details here; do you wish -?"

"I do wish," Gwilym told him. "Right now. In my office."

"Very well, my Lord," Watkins said, but Gwilym heard the tiny note of disapproval in his voice. Mentally, he flailed spastically at his automatic instinct to slink away with a muttered 'Whatever you think is best, Watkins' and strode away down the corridor to his office.

Striding was important. Even if you were striding in the wrong direction, it was better than shuffling in the right one. People just sort of assumed you had Reason, and Purpose, and other things that could be unnecessarily capitalised to make them follow you, and the only real price was having to think on your feet quickly enough to explain why you were now striding halfway through the kitchens when you meant to be in the vegetable garden on the other side of the Residence.

He opened the door to his office just as the revoltingly ornamental yet sadly traditional grandfather clock clanged out nine o'clock. Gwilym glared at it, but rounded his desk and sat down. Its days were numbered, he told himself. Just focus on other things first. Baby steps, Gwilym. Baby steps.

"Right," he said firmly as Watkins clicked the door shut fastidiously. Start the talking first. Don't let him derail you. "I'm going to simply assume that the finances you're holding are every formal budget we've had for last two or three years, with particular reference to specific income and outcome?"

To Gwilym he sounded like a thirteen-year-old playing at being a grown-up, but something must have hit home, because rather than edging his response with a slightly imperious sniff Watkins actually blinked. Like a kettle, somehow, but blinked nonetheless.

"Indeed, sire," he said cautiously. He moved forward and sat with clerk-y stiffness on the edge of his seat as he placed the sheaf of papers delicately on the revoltingly ornamental yet sadly traditional desk, all corners neatly lined up. "My lord - might I ask why you've requested these?"

"You might," Gwilym said dismissively as he pulled the papers towards him. Mentally his inner child giggled like a loon, and for the briefest of seconds he saw Awen's face in front of his eyes, professionally neutral but eyes sparkling as Lady Blodwen choked on her mead before the arrow was inches away from his chest. A good point, that, and not just the arrow. Last time he was that imperial he nearly died. Best not tempt fate. "I want to see what we're currently spending our money on, Watkins. And then I want to see where we can cut back, so we can spend on new things."

There was a loaded pause, in which only the sound of revoltingly ornamental yet sadly traditional ticking was heard. Gwilym turned the top page and glared at the tiny writing. Did clerks have telescopes in their gods damned eyes?

"My lord," Watkins said finally, caution riddled through every syllable, "the budget is - "

"Tiny," Gwilym interrupted. "Why is the writing so tiny? Is that deliberate? Do you want me to get a migraine?"

"Of course not, my lord!" Watkins exclaimed, apparently genuinely shocked. "It's traditional to -"

"Yes," Gwilym mused. "Yes, I realised that. You know what you lack, Watkins? Humour. Get humour, Watkins, right away."

Watkins coughed nervously, his peculiar whistling cough instantly making Gwilym ache for tea, and it became abruptly clear that Watkins was genuinely wrong-footed in this conversation. Gwilym tried not to grin.

"Er," he said now. "Yes, my lord."

"Good man!" Gwilym nodded approvingly. Well, this was fun. He and Watkins had never gotten along so well. Not that he had much faith in Watkins developing the ability to laugh any time soon; it was fairly clear such things were removed from clerks around the age of three, much like the sense of self-worth from Riders. "Good man. This really is tiny writing, mind."

"If I may, my lord?" Watkins said hesitantly. "If you'll just look in the bottom right drawer of your desk - "

"Ah, my Grand Vizier!" Gwilym said merrily. He pulled open the drawer and carefully extracted the revoltingly ornamental yet sadly traditional magnifier. "Good call, Watkins."

"Quite so, sire." There was something vaguely alarmed in Watkins' voice, and Gwilym sighed.

"It's not really my Grand Vizier, Watkins," he said patiently as he started absorbing the budget. "I give myself at least three years before I get that insane. Work faster on the humour, please."

"Yes sire."

"Good good."

There was another pause. A small gust of wind blew a splatter of rain against the window behind him while the ticking mingled with the soft, muted sounds of Watkins fidgetting slightly to provide a gentle backdrop in the room. The stove burned merrily in the corner. In the street below people called to each other; probably the Llangefni Wing starting their evening, so it was a good job he was looking at the budget now. Gwilym relaxed in the numbers.

"We seem to be importing rather a lot of Carthiginian raisin wine," he commented after a while. Watkins tensed slightly.

"Indeed, sire," he said, his voice back to its standard bland tone. "For the Nobles you dine."

"Hmm." He said nothing else to that. Normally he'd have tried to argue the point, but... that wasn't the way to do it. That gave Watkins the edge.

His lack of antagonism seemed to antagonise Watkins all the more, however. The man shifted in his seat slightly. Gwilym ignored him.

"Actually," he said after a moment, "an awful lot of this budget is on luxury items for the Court."

"Indeed, sire," Watkins repeated. Apparently he was catching on, because he said nothing more to explain or justify it. Gwilym stroked a finger down the page looking at each item.

"Silks," he murmured. "And murex dye, goodness. How very lavish. And monkey meat?"

Gwilym looked up at the kettle that was Watkins' impassive face.

"We're importing monkey meat? Really?"

"For dining Nobles, sire." Watkins cleared his throat. "You need to be able to impress visiting dignitaries; especially since, my lord, many of your family who may visit are Erinnish."

"Hmm." It was a brilliant sound to make in place of actual words. Watkins pursed his lips even. "Take a memo, by the way, Watkins; I wish to speak with my chefs tomorrow."

"Very well, sire." There was the slight scratching of pen on paper. Gwilym didn't look up.

"Pottery," he said, more or less to himself. "There's a lot of samien ware about this place, I must admit."

"It's -"

"Yes, yes." Gwilym waved a hand dismissively, and Watkins lapsed into silence. Gwilym could almost feel the man's surprise. "So all in all, a lot of luxuries."

"This is a Court, sire," Watkins intoned. Gwilym nodded thoughtfully.

"Indeed," he said. "Mine, in fact. I prefer green, too."

"My lord?"

"Nothing, nothing." Gwilym hid his smile by turning another page. "Just thinking aloud. Let's see; the school is paid for privately by the parents of those attending, yes?"

"That's correct, sire," Watkins said smoothly. "The money goes straight to the bards."

"I thought the same was true of healthcare." Gwilym paused, his finger hovering over a line of Watkins' even text. "But I notice here that we do, in fact, have an allowance for both supplies and services going to the Urdd."

"Indeed sire." Watkins' voice became slightly guarded. They'd discussed healthcare before; Gwilym could see him trying to assess the situation, divine where it was going. "For employees of the Court, and of course yourself."

"Riders?"

"The Union pays for them seperately."

That made sense; otherwise the Border Cities wouldn't have stood a prayer at getting a working economy.

"All employees?" Gwilym thought to ask. Watkins nodded.

"Indeed sire. Every person who draws a salary from our coffers, at any rate."

"Hmm."

They fell into silence again, acutely uncomfortable. Outside the window the rain finally became steadily audible, a quiet hiss onto the streets below as the light filtering in turned grey. It wasn't just what they were buying, Gwilym thought as he scanned the rows and rows of silent information. It was where from. The amount of trade they seemed to be giving the Phoenicians was faintly ridiculous; half of the grain they'd imported in the last Half had been from Egypt, almost all of their fleece had been Greek, the oils they used seemed to be exclusively olive, and even most of their honey was non-Cymric. It was as though someone had sat down with Aberystwyth's shopping list and gone mental in the 'Imports' box on the general assumption that 'Phoenician' meant 'higher quality'. Well; certainly it meant 'richer', but that wouldn't be the case for long. Particularly the amount of bloody murex dye they were buying. And Gwilym didn't even like purple.

Carefully, he seperated the expenditures lists from the income lists and started to look at those.

It was worth doing. Gwilym laughed until his sides hurt.

"My lord?" Watkins asked when he'd abated somewhat, the slight edge of alarmed suspicion that his Sovereign was a madman firmly back in place. "Is something wrong?"

"Wrong?" Gwilym giggled, wiping a tear from his eye. "Do people around you regularly laugh when things go wrong? Actually, don't answer that."

He grinned, and chuckled a bit more, and somehow managed to straighten up enough to look Watkins in the eye as he carefully sobered his face.

"We sell purple wool," he said, and promptly dissolved again. He even nearly fell off the revoltingly ornamental yet sadly traditional chair. Watkins stared at him.

Oh, it was genius. They were importing some off the most expensive commodities in the known world - the most expensive, in fact, if you counted the murex dye and discounted merod, who were literally priceless on the grounds of never being sold - but they were offsetting it by using tertiary industries. Add to that the jewellery, dinner sets and miscellaneous other metal work, the various dyes of their own, the medicines and the fish, and they were actually doing fairly well. Making a profit, even; a small one, but a profit regardless.

And it was almost fool-proof. The City could easily feed and clothe itself if need be because of the fish and sheep they caught and farmed themselves. If the supply of incoming commodities failed, no, they couldn't keep supplying the purple wool - gods, don't think of it, Watkins will think you're mad - but there were other things they could sell, and more to the point, they saved so much money by not buying the bloody murex that they could live like kings for a good ten years just by using their normal outgoings for themselves.

It was supurb. It had no room to manoeuvre without being completely restarted. It in no way helped anyone but the Court.

It took an effort, but he willed himself calm and then sat back in the chair, linking his fingers behind his head and looking thoughtfully at the ceiling. Revoltingly ornamental it may have been, Gwilym mused, but it was certainly a comfortable chair. Across the desk Watkins watched him with the sort of horrified fascination one reserved for horrendous carriage accidents. It was an odd expression to see on a kettle. But then, all expressions were odd on kettles.

"Watkins," Gwilym said solemnly. Watkins straightened.

"My lord?" he said. Gwilym grinned.

"I'm going to change it all," he stated. Watkins stared. "The budget," Gwilym added helpfully. "It's all going to change."

And just like that, Watkins was back to his normal self, the ever-so-slight disdainful air back in place for him to ever-so-slightly imply that Gwilym was a jumped-up teenager. Gwilym could have sworn his nose turned up even higher.

"If I may, my lord," Watkins began. Gwilym nodded. He continued. "Sire, the bugdet as it stands is a system that has been carefully designed and honed over a number of years. Since your father's tenure, in fact. As it stands it's incredibly strong; very little can happen to disrupt it. There's very little that's safe in politics, but this is the closest thing to it."

"For whom?" Gwilym asked, keeping his tone conversational. Watkins' brow furrowed.

"My lord?" he asked.

"Safe, you said," Gwilym clarified. "Safe for whom? Be specific."

"For the City, my lord," Watkins said. He'd gone very still, although whether it was because he could suddenly see the distressing end game of the conversation or simple shock at Gwilym not folding in on himself after the political sermon he wasn't sure. "The whole City-state; now, we prosper -"

"Ah." Gwilym held up one hand and Watkins stared at it. "There. That. Who prospers, exactly?"

Well, that was eloquent. Maybe he should have Watkins take a memo about buying a dictionary.

"We - all do, my lord -" Watkins began uncertainly, and Gwilym sat abruptly forward, steepling his fingers as he rested his elbows on the desk. Watkins shrank back slightly. Apparently he wasn't much of a man for pub quizzes.

"No," Gwilym said, and his own voice sounded damned impressive there, all quiet but firm. His inner child clapped before going back to its finger painting, or whatever the hell it did in its copious amounts of free time. "No, we all don't. The Court does, I'll give you that. Everyone here gets free healthcare and purple silk and monkey meat on half Egyptian toast, but we aren't really all of the City-state, are we?"

"Sire," Watkins began carefully, but Gwilym cut him off.

"About fifteen per cent, I'd say," he mused. "At absolute maximum. Actually, probably closer to twelve maximum. Let me ask you another, Watkins; what's the point of this Court?"

He watched as Watkins' expression went nervous again.

"Sire - " he said, and suddenly Gwilym found himself being irrationally angry.

"No," he snapped. "I'll explain it to you. The point of all of those people down there, on the streets outside this big fancy house, having us to lead them is that we look after them, Watkins. We make their lives better. We do everything we can for them to make them happy, and healthy, and valuable members of this society. We do not make sure they're basically fed and then wander off to treat ourselves to a nice glass of raisin wine on a purple table cloth so that my Mental Uncle Dara will admire how rich we are should he ever come visitng, do you see where I'm going with this?"

"My lord," Watkins said, his tone suddenly pleadingly placatory, "stability is strength. This -"

"If I suddenly shout 'Duck!' in the middle of this conversation, Watkins," Gwilym all but snarled, "I strongly suggest you do. It means I can no longer control my urge to punch you in the face."

Watkins' jaw actually dropped. Dizzily Gwilym wondered how many other Sovereigns threatened their advisors with physical bodily harm over budget revisions. Probably not many; except Flyn, who clearly had them tortured. Right before burning down old ladies' homes and having kinky sex with bears or something. Bastard.

"We are failing those people, Watkins," Gwilym said forcefully. "I am failing as a Sovereign, and they are paying the price. And I will not let that continue. Understand?"

"My lord." Watkins looked thoughtful for a second, and then pulled a clean sheet of paper out of one of the files at his feet and balanced it daintily on the wooden clerk's writing board on his knees, covering Gwilym's chef memo. That done he readied his quill and looked up, all clerk-y efficiency restored. "Very well then. I suggest we start with any broader areas you wish changed and work on details after that, sire, unless you object?"

There was a pause as Gwilym stared at him.

"That's it?" he said at last. "No insinuations? No supercillious implications to shut up and leave it to the experts? You don't want to try to explain my erroneous decisions some more?"

"I believe my appetite for such has been quite sated, my lord," Watkins returned neutrally. Gwilym raised an eyebrow.

"Really?" He scratched his chin distractedly. "I should have threatened to punch you before. Honestly, it just hadn't occured to me."

"I should hope not, sire," Watkins answered serenely. "It's not proper behaviour for a Sovereign."

"No," Gwilym agreed. "I'll work on that. It wouldn't do to try it on Lord Flyn at the Archwiliad. We're sourcing far more of our imports locally, that's the first point. Grass roots ecomony and all that." He looked at Watkins, now studiously scribbling. "Seriously? You're just going along with my crazy schemes now?"

"You are the Sovereign, my lord," Watkins said blandly, and Gwilym understood. Watkins was very specifically traditional and set in his ways. He'd blindly follow a Sovereign as long as they acted like a Sovereign; it didn't matter what Gwilym suggested, as long as he insisted. The worst he'd ever get would be a brief explanation of why replacing all their cows with elephants may not work out in the long run.

"Excellent," Gwilym smiled. "Well: the allowance for luxury things for the Court is getting cut by at least half, probably more. No more monkey meat. This country produces plenty of meat; it's up to the chefs to work out how to make it amazing. The world can look at our food and say it's brilliant, not the other way around. No more murex dye. Why do people buy purple wool from us, by the way? Why don't the Carthiginians make their own?"

"Our dying techniques, my lord," Watkins said, looking up briefly from his absolutely miniscule writing. "The colours last longer without fading, thus making commodities treated with murex all the more valuable."

"Ah. Keep the... dying factories open then, or whatever they are. We'll do other colours. Particularly green, Marged lets me have it cheap."

"Very good, my lord. A suggestion, however?"

Gwilym glanced at him, but there truly was no air of superiority there. He nodded.

"The murex dyes could be purchased independently of the Court luxury budget," Watkins said, pulling out an important-looking document from his file and studying it briefly. "If we switch it over to the industrial section we can continue making purple wool - albeit Cymric now - and selling that. It makes a very good profit with the Phoenicians. Any that we want for the Court we can simply save up for."

"Good thinking," Gwilym said, impressed. It was, too. If they were using local fleece for the wool they would make a sizable profit there, and it created a lot of jobs. "Do it. The green is happening too, though."

"Of course, sire." Watkins resumed his tiny scribbling that Gwilym could only guess was writing. "The wine?"

The wine was useful. Gwilym paused.

"Yes," he said at last. "If it fits within the luxury budget constraints. Anyway; the money left over from the tax goes on free healthcare, we'll pay the Urdd. I'll have to look into schooling as well. Take a memo: I need to poke some bards."

"Of course, my lord." Watkins carefully wrote the memo on the original paper under the one for the chefs, and looked up. "Might I ask, sire? The Archwiliad is fast approaching. We can work out the details of this within the next few days, but you haven't explained any of it to any of the Wings who have already visited."

Bugger. No, he hadn't. Technically he didn't need to, either, since it was simply a reworking of Aberystwyth's internal budget and nothing to do with him declaring war on anyone, but that didn't matter. In reality, the Union had to be told. They ran the country really, in everything but name.

"True." Gwilym stood and stretched, and wandered to the window. The wind was picking up now too, the shapes of the last fishing boats returning to harbour just visible on the choppy, grey expanse of the sea between Aberystwyth and Caerleuad. "What's the procedure here, then? Can I recall them, or have I missed my chance before this Archwiliad?"

"You could put in a request to the Union, sire," Watkins said thoughtfully. "After that it's their decision. You've yet to do anything unpopular in their eyes, of course, so there's a good chance of them allowing you to speak to the High Council seperately before the Archwiliad."

"I'll do that, then," Gwilym said, and was rewarded by the sound of Watkins' pen scratching again. It was lovely having a clerk on your side. "I'd like to have a small percentage of the tax we get put aside as well," he murmured at the window. "We can save it up for various projects each Half. Repairing buildings or improving roads or whatever. Things like that."

"Certainly, sire."

"Are the Phoenicians likely to forgive us? We seem to provide half their yearly income."

"Probably, sire." Watkins sniffed. "We'll still be doing a lot of business with them, especially with the murex trading. If we're providing free healthcare to our people we'll almost certainly need a way to verify who they are. Should I commission a census?"

"Probably." Oh, there were so many twists and turns to this. Maybe it would be easier if he just took up sneaking out at night to be a Secret Doctor again. Although that would probably put him back to square one with Watkins. It wasn't worth the stress.

"This is going to take a lot of planning, isn't it?" Gwilym sighed, glancing back at the clerk. A hint of a smile washed over Watkins' mouth as he looked up.

"Indeed, sire," he agreed. "All night, I should think. Unless you wish to -"

"No." Gwilym grinned. "I'm trying to avoid the Llangefni Wing. All night sounds supurb. Order in some food, Watkins; it's time we planned."