Cymru - Chapter 29

GWILYM

The group of five Carthaginians sitting across from him were Displeased. Gwilym could tell. There were subtle clues, like the way they were all sitting, the slight frowns they had even as they tried to smile politely, the way they told him they were displeased. He almost wished he'd waited for Alaw to come back. She'd never seemed to like him overmuch either, but she didn't seem to like anyone; and anyway, she was his Alpha Wingleader. She had to protect him regardless of her personal feelings. The Union said so.

"We simply feel, Lord Sovereign, that such a long-standing trade agreement should be considered for a while before being dissolved," one of the Phoenicians said. He was a plump little man, with skin like burnt honey and a fastidiously clipped beard, the kind that looked as though he probably measured every hair. His voice was unpleasantly oily. "After all, this is a contract that has been extremely beneficial to both of us. Would it not be prudent to give it some thought?"

"Of course!" Gwilym said merrily. "Except I have been giving it some thought, you see. This is why I'm changing it."

"Lord Sovereign," said an elaborately painted woman from the end of the table. "We realise that, as a new ruler, you may have a need to... to make your mark upon your society, as it were. But our trading is surely a positive thing for your economy?"

"It was our understanding that overall Aberystwyth prospered from our relationship," the first nodded. Gwilym forced his smile to stay on. It wasn't their fault; they didn't know how the internal structures of Aberystwyth worked, and they were about to lose an extremely lucrative contract. And Phoenicians lived and breathed trading. It was central to their entire culture.

"In a sense," Gwilym said carefully. "Yes, it did. But I'm changing a lot of Aberystwyth's infrastructure and I'm afraid our trading patterns will be part of it. I must stress that we'll still be trading with you, though."

"Yes," the plump man said, unhappily. "But -"

"Murex dye is still on your list," another woman said down the table. On closer inspection she looked about sixteen, still slightly gangly limbs and large eyes, sitting next to a boy of about the same age; between them they had the sheets containing the new import and export lists spread out on the table while she scribbled furiously onto a pad of paper, the boy whizzing the beads on a small abacus with frenetic fury. "And you're planning on increasing your coloured wool production?"

"Jezanat," the man said, closing his eyes in a universal gesture of 'Daughter, please don't embarrass me...'. Gwilym grinned.

"It's fine," he said. "Yes, we are. Colours other than purple, too."

"Blue in Indo-Greece," the boy muttered, apparently to Jezanat, who nodded and scribbled something down. The adults looked glum.

"Will you do blue, my lord?" Jezanat asked. "I understand you have woad dyes?"

"Yes," Gwilym said. "We're going to start experimenting with other textiles, too."

"Silk," the boy said.

"Silk?" Jezanat asked.

"Yes," Gwilym said.

"Cotton," the boy said.

"Cotton?" Jezanat asked.

"Yes," said Gwilym, and blinked. "Er... do you realise I can hear you?"

"Forgive my children," the plump man said mornfully. "They have no social finesse. Hadagon does not talk to people. Twins."

He said it as though twins were a regular menace among Phoenician society. Gwilym wondered if identical sets of people ran naked through the streets of Carthage at night, knocking on doors and running away.

"I see," Gwilym said gravely.

"The Indo-Greeks have a caste system," Jezanat said, making another note and pulling out another sheet. "Their top caste use blue. They prefer silks. And pay a lot for it, in gold. We could, perhaps, have an arragement here? We'll give you two percent over market value if you use our company exclusively."

"Ten and I'll consider it," Gwilym heard himself say, and struggled not to let his own jaw drop at his own temerity. "Since I'd be limiting how much I could sell."

"Yes, good," the boy said, pulling extra papers out of his own robes. "That gives twenty four."

"Perhaps we should go for lunch," the plump man said gloomily as the painted woman beside him sighed. "Clearly we are extraneous."

"They're rather good, aren't they?" Gwilym marvelled. "Congratulations! Although I sympathise. Pushy aides are no fun."

"Already they have reworked our wage and tax system," the painted woman said. "And we thought, 'It will not work!' And then it worked. By now we merely take them to meetings, it seems."

"Produce down," Hadagon muttered. Jezanat smiled.

"Ah!" she said. "Then we'll offer twelve over market price."

"Why?" Gwilym asked. He may or may not have been even remotely competent as a Sovereign, but he was relatively certain that merchants were as likely to start offering additional money for nothing as Flyn to start tongue-kissing Marged and offering free daisies. And good gods that wasn't an image he wanted.

"You are buying much less produce," Jezanat said. "Textile-only ships can operate different routes."

And potentially they could send more ships, therefore, and have a higher turnover.

"Fifteen and I'll consider it," he said. Hadagon nodded. Jezanat beamed.

"We accept, my lord," she said. "Very well."

There was a brief pause in which the twins started writing and muttering things like 'Raisin wine' and 'olive oil' and 'Oops, too many zeroes' while the adults looked slightly bored. Gwilym took the opportunity to twiddle his thumbs. Sovereigns were meant to twiddle their thumbs, he felt. You had to embrace some stereotypes.

Finally both twins paused, looking at the same piece of paper, and then Hadagon slid it across to the plump man, who looked at it for a moment before sighing.

"Very well," he said wearily. "Thank you, Lord Sovereign. We accept your decision to change the trade agreement, and will happily work with a representative to create the new one with our generous offer here. But," his voice smoothed carefully back out into the neutral again. "Might I take this moment to discuss another possible commodity with you?"

The sudden change in focus in the room was so vast the tide had probably changed in the vacuum. The twins both left their papers alone and looked at Gwilym eagerly, almost vibrating with hopeful anticipation. The adults had lost their morose edge and were sitting up straight, polite and professional smiles adorning their faces. Five pairs of eyes watched him carefully. Gwilym fought the urge to squirm and look behind him to see if they were looking at something else.

"Yes?" he said. The plump man steepled his fingers, carefully.

"Before you answer," he said, his tone friendly but very slightly hungry, "I will assure you, I will pay more money than you can imagine having. I assume your reordering of your City-state is for social benefit?"

"Yes," Gwilym said, warily. What the hell were they going to ask for? Had Phoenicians developed a massive and arcane love of beeswax?

"All social plans require money," the plump man smiled, slightly oily again. "If you agree we will provide you with enough money to reform every City-state in your country. The good you can do!"

"Right," Gwilym said. It was at times like this he thought he might have an inkling of how Riders felt; some sort of primal instinct was prodding his hind-brain and suggesting that he might, in future, like to have a trapdoor installed below the chairs opposite his desk with a nice spiky pit beneath for occasions just such as these. "Er... what exactly do you want?"

"We would treat them well," the painted woman said. "I assure you. They would not be treated like slaves."

Gwilym went cold.

"Riders," the plump man said. "We don't ask for your best. Only those who are not needed. Perhaps any Wings the Union feels are not equal to their required standard. Even the children, although we would pay less for these."

"Riders are not for sale," Gwilym said. Somehow, inexplicably, his voice was completely steady and authoritative, which was very impressive since his mind was screaming in horror.

"Precedents count for much," the painted woman said. "And, as we say, we want none you would miss. We ask for no senior Riders, none of your active Riders -"

"Although if you did give us an Alpha Rider," Hadagon said, fingering his abacus lovingly. "The rewards we would give you. We could all retire, right then..."

It actually fractured his mind, trying to imagine selling Awen. The very idea of sending a Rider away from Cymru was so alien it was enough to make Gwilym want to chew through his own tongue.

"I don't - " Gwilym broke off and sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. "I don't think you realise what you're asking."

"We realise you would have to approach your Union," the plump man nodded. "But -"

"No," Gwilym said firmly. "You really don't understand. The Union couldn't sanction this, because Riders don't actually belong to the Union. They belong to Cymru."

There was a polite pause in which five people stared at him politely.

"The country itself," Gwilym said, thinking fleetingly of what Awen's response would be to the suggestion of being sold to another country, and he fought down the hysteria. "They can only fight for Cymru. I'm not sure they can even leave. And anyway; we don't condone slavery, however they're treated."

Other than Riders on our behalf, his hind-brain whispered treacherously. Gwilym mentally put his fingers in his ears and ignored it.

"Lord Sovereign," the man wheedled, leaning forward slightly. "We are talking of so much money you could very literally pave your streets with gold -"

"Enough," Gwilym said, and even he was slightly afraid of himself. Some of them actually leaned back slightly. Gwilym was one.

"Anyway," he said brightly. "Who's for tea?"

**************

The kitchens went better. As it turned out the cooks were headed by the jolliest husband and wife team Gwilym had ever encountered, a lively and round couple called Dai and Gwladys who had started when Gwilym's grandmother had been Sovereign back in the Wars, since which they'd become so firmly ensconced as part of the Residence kitchens that they'd been handed down to him with the crockery and the grandfather clock. Although unlike both of the latter they weren't revoltingly ornamental or sadly traditional. Instead they were merry and spherical and kept laughing at things, and almost everything seemed to be reminding them of his family. And Gwilym himself, apparently. As a child.

"And over here now," Gwladys was saying happily as she waddled over to the enormous brass flour bins, "are our enormous brass flour bins, see? See 'em?"

"I could hardly fail to," Gwilym nodded, who could hardly have failed to. Dai chuckled, his round cheeks red.

"I remember your dad falling in one!" he said, waddling up to and nudging his wife, who unabashedly nudged back, causing a minor nudging war that had several outlying areas of Dai and Gwladys see-sawing in front of Gwilym's eyes. "Eh? Eh? Remember that? Ooh, right panic we were in, weren't we? Didn't know where he'd gone!"

"No!" Gwladys agreed. "And the best part was - then we thought he'd suffocated! Ha!"

"What a jape!" Gwilym said merrily. "How did you find him?"

"Oh, well, your grandmother - Sovereign then, gods rest her, fearsome woman - knew your uncle had done it, so she hung him upside down by his ankles and beat him with the poker!" Gwladys wiped a tear of mirth from her eye. "Bless him. What happened to him?"

"Who? Aunty Sioned?" Gwilym shrugged. "He's living in Erinn. Although I didn't realise he'd pushed Dad into -"

"Oh, he hadn't," Dai said, grinning broadly enough to decapitate himself. "She was wrong. We found your dad after we tried to make the bread for the warriors; pretty much drained the bin in one go, and he managed to push a foot out of the spout. Good times. Good times. Although not for your uncle, eh? Eh?"

"Ha!"

"I'd imagine not," Gwilym murmured. What a lot it explained about Aunty Sioned, too. Thank gods Grandmother Eurlys been long gone by the time he'd been sneaking about among fishermen with a box of bandages and a needle; she'd probably have made him eat them.

"And these very long tables here," said Gwladys, indicating the very long tables there, "are for the Court employees who don't eat in the main hall. And Riders of course; feel more comfortable back here, poor dabs. I remember you trying to sleep under one with a duck as a boy, our lord! Only came out after we tempted out the duck!"

"And over here," Dai continued, waddling on, "are the doors to the meat larders; in here, in here! Venison at the minute, look! I remember showing this to your uncle - other uncle, the crazy Erinnish one, what -?"

"Mental Uncle Dara," Gwilym supplied helpfully.

"The very same!" said Gwladys. "Had a full brace of hares hanging up at the time, he named them all and sang them a song. And then he put a scarf on a cow!"

"And then he tricked your mam into eating a sheep's eye!"

"Dead cow, like, hanging up there, it was."

"And then he pushed your dad into a flour bin!"

"Happened a lot, that, actually. Come to think, like."

"Anyway, back through here!"

They moved into another cold storeroom that smelled of salt and fish at a pace that might have felt like 'sweeping' to Dai and Gwladys, but was definitely no more than a gentle waddle.

"This is for the fish!" Dai said unnecessarily. "All sorts we've got."

"Cockles there, from Abertawe and thereabouts," Gwladys said, pointing with a chubby arm. "Fish here, mackeral, herring, bit of salmon - ooh, and there's the laverbread over there. Oh, and oysters. Crabs. I remember your brother chasing you through here with the crabs! Six, you were! Ooh, your sister was angry!"

"So angry! There was a girl who could boil a crab at twenty paces, eh? Eh?"

"Ha!"

The ghosts of memory ran past Gwilym, barefoot and carefree and racing for the safety of the main kitchens, of his mother beyond. He swallowed, staring at the crabs in their vat, shifting lazily against each other.

"She could have at that," he smiled quietly. "It's possibly a silver lining to be thankful for that she never made it to being Sovereign. I imagine she'd have hung her children upside down and beaten them with metal bars too."

"Ah, stern woman, your grandmother," Gwladys nodded in a cloud of happy nostalgia. "During the Wars, of course, see, so she was a tough old bird. Well; until an assassin threw her out of that window. Then she went quite soft."

"Had to scrape her up to bury her," Dai said knowingly. "There was a job! And there were Northlanders hammering at the Gate as we did! Back we go!"

They waddled back into the bustle of the kitchens.

"And here are our giant grain bins!" Gwladys said, extending her pudgy arm at the giant grain bins along the wall. "Along the wall, there!"

"So I see," Gwilym nodded. "Dad ever fall in one of those?"

"No, but your Mental Uncle Dara dropped your sister in, once!" Dai chuckled, starting the nudging war with Gwladys again. They swayed back and forth. "Before you were born. Ha, we found her faster than your Dad! Screamed the place down, she did! Eh? Eh?"

"Ha!"

"Good gods," Gwilym said alarmed. "Did she set fire to the grain? Or, come to think of it, Mental Uncle Dara?"

"Nearly did! Your mam had to peel her off his face!"

"And that's about it for the tour," Dai said happily. He and Gwladys both turned to Gwilym, standing identically with their hands clasped over their massive stomachs, identical smiles in place.

"Will you have a cup of tea and a slice of cake, our lord?" Gwladys asked. "Lovely cake, it is! Honey. Lovely."

"I'd like that very much," Gwilym nodded, grinning. "I have something I want to talk to you both about, anyway."

"Ooh, how exciting!" Dai said, clapping his fat hands. "I'll get the kettle on!"

"I'll get the cake!"

"Sit there, our lord! Won't be a tick!"

He had expected to sit on one of the very long tables, but instead they directed him to a small area near the main ovens and the fire that seemed to be the domain of the head cooks as they kept an eye on the cooking food. Four or five armchairs were there arranged in a loose circle, with a low table in the middle that bore the tea-ring scars of many a paned. Unsurprisingly the chairs were very comfy. Gwilym relaxed happily.

"Here we are, our lord!" Gwladys said merrily, arriving with cake, plates and a handful of cuttlery. "Here, have a big slice! Growing lad, see? And here's Dai with the tea!"

"Aye, quick I am!" Dai placed a teapot on the table, smothered it with a tea cosy that clumsily bore the message 'D loves G 4eva!' and, if Gwilym was any judge, Marged's stich-work, and followed it up with a stack of saucers. A junior cook had followed him over to contribute the cups and a milk jug. Dai didn't so much sink as plummet into a chair which screamed weakly beneath him, and then rubbed his hands as Gwladys took over pouring the tea. It was a time-honoured gesture. Mentally Gwilym took a bet as to what his next words would be.

"Well, isn't this nice?" he said enthusiastically. Mentally, Gwilym cheered.

"Lovely!" he said. "Right; I've come to give you both a new menu challenge."

"Ooh, a challenge, Dai!" Gwladys said, so excitedly she dropped her teaspoon. "I'm so excited I dropped my teaspoon!"

"Dropped her teaspoon!" Dai cackled. "She were that excited! What will I do with you, girl? So what's this challenge, our lord?"

"Well, I'm changing both the budget and the sources for our food," Gwilym said. "Which means we're going to be using far fewer foreign imports and far more local foods. I'm hoping to push up our sheep farming for one thing, so -"

"Lamb!" Gwladys said, a woman apparently transported to a blissful Annwfn. "Oh, the things I used to do with a bit of lamb, and Dai's ever so good with mutton and a slow pot!"

"Happy, you've made us," Dai said solemnly, misty-eyed. "To tell you the truth, our lord, in some ways we're quite traditional. We like making fancy food, but the monkey's never sat well with us."

"Makes a rubbish bubble-and-squeak," Gwladys sniffed. "And don't get me started on monkey in a cawl."

"Well, we're having no more monkey meat," Gwilym nodded. "Basically, I want you to show off Cymric food. Show everyone that our food can be at the same standard as theirs. We've drawn up a first list of all the foods we'll be buying now; have a look, and if you want anything else on there, or anything taken off, I'll have a clerk come down later today. Let them know."

"Oh, our lord," Dai said, taking the list reverentially. "You honour us, sire."

"But we'll have to experiment?" Gwladys said hopefully. "Try out some possibilities, isn't it? You'll want to approve of the new menu?"

"Absolutely!" Gwilym said merrily. "Sadly I may not have time for a tasting before the Archwiliad, but certainly afterwards. And you must feel free to try it yourselves in that time."

Gwladys almost squealed with joy, bouncing in her seat, which cried in protest. Dai held her hand tightly, his eyes definitely filled with tears.

"An honour, our lord," he said fervently. "An honour. We shall not let you down!"

And if everyone were that easily pleased, Gwilym reflected, the Archwiliad would be a breeze.

*************

The Alpha Wing arrived back around mid-afternoon, so Gwilym took a break from Doing His Job to welcome them back and Be Nosy. The Landing Tower bustled with activity in a manner that reminded him of bees around flowers; it was a cheery sort of commotion in which everyone was diligently performing their set tasks while chatting away, apparently not overly bothered about being formal in his presense. Which was, Gwilym felt, the advantage of not being forced into hideous brocade cloaks all the time. Now that he'd learnt the trick life with Watkins was considerably improved.

The Wing landed neatly on the runway outside and walked in sedately. Alaw was already pulling off her flying leathers, the reins hanging loose around her meraden's neck for the stable hands who stepped smartly forward to catch them. To look at, she actually wasn't immediately terrifying, Gwilym reflected. She was short, only an inch or two taller than Aerona, although her build was stockier. Her hair was short and layered between her chin and collarbones, a tone somewhere between blonde and brown, and it framed a heart-shaped face that almost looked dainty until you saw her eyes. Which were blue, and looked through you, and plainly registered that they disliked what they saw. It was a disquieting expression on a Rider.

"Riders!" Gwilym said, smiling broadly as Alaw dismounted and pulled off her gloves. "Welcome back! Did you kill anyone?"

"None at all, my lord," Alaw said, dropping gracefully to one knee in the full Rider-to-Sovereign bow. Gwilym wasn't quite fast enough to stop her.

"Rise-" he said, too late. "Oh, damn. You know that upsets me."

"Yes, my lord," Alaw said expressionlessly, rising back to her feet. Her iron-hard gaze seemed to be fixed on a point some three metres directly through the back of his skull via his eyes. "But I'm afraid it's still protocol. Do you want a report now or later?"

"It's in no way urgent if you want to rest a bit first," Gwilym assured her, but Alaw's chin rose a fraction, her gaze steady.

"Not necessary, my lord," she said. "We haven't travelled far today. I'm ready now."

"Well, take twenty minutes," said Gwilym, who felt like a heel. Alaw had this effect on him even more than Watkins. "I'll see you in my study."

She barely took fifteen before the fanfare heralding her made him spill a bottle of ink on his desk and a faceless clerk intoned the 'Rider Alaw, Alpha Wingleader' title unnecessarily, as though Gwilym would have been unaware of the identity of a woman dressed in blades and leather and decorated with Aberystwyth livery. Watkins moved the papers serenely out of the way of the ink as Alaw entered and stood on the other side of the desk.

"You know it upsets me when you don't just sit down, too," Gwilym accused mournfully. Alaw looked at him, her eyes somehow suggesting disdain through their bland mask.

"My apologies, my lord," she said politely. "But I'm afraid it is still protocol."

"Oh." Gwilym sighed as Watkins efficiently mopped up the ink. "Well, please sit. Can I change it? I'm getting good at changing established things, just ask Watkins."

"Indeed, sire," Watkins droned, passing the ink-soaked towel to an underling, who scurried away with it. "However, Rider-Sovereign protocol is not entirely under your control."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Gwilym mused as the clerks finished and left the room. "Fine. Hello, Rider. Who wants what?"

"Well." Alaw crossed her legs elegantly, balancing a file on her knee with freakish supernatural Rider grace and running a finger down it. "Starting at the top: there's only one proposal for changes to the Senedd, from Casnewydd, but it's what we call an OFP - Open Floor Proposal. It's not an officially worked out suggestion ready for immediate vote. Therefore we've been given no details on it."

I have, Gwilym thought glumly. Bloody Flyn.

"Just from Casnewydd?" he asked aloud, and Alaw nodded.

"Yes, my lord," she said. "There are several proposals for activity between City-states, however. The border Cities all want some form of agreement whereby they either pay less tax or are given extra money for things like land trade and local businesses; it's to give people an incentive to live there in spite of Saxon raiding. Wrecsam in particular are aiming for making themselves an ideal place to start a business up, so that even when they move away the City will constantly be replacing them and thus maintaining the economy. In fact, one of Lord Iestyn's internal proposals is to offer tax incentives; they agree to stay for a certain amount of time, he lowers their tax."

"That's very clever," Gwilym marvelled. It really was. The border Cities had fluctuating populations - it was, after all, fairly difficult to do things like raising a family or buying food while searching for your kneecaps and watching the charred remains of your house blow away. People who lived there, therefore, tended to either be fiercely patriotic to the area, obsessively confident in Riders or a bit simple. Entrepreneurs were an ideal fourth category - if there was a chance for money business-people would raze entire cities with more glee and thoroughness than Saxons wishfully dreamed of. "But, what happens if everyone else does the same thing?"

"Part of their request is a ban to stop everyone doing just that," Alaw said, delicately turning a page. "Next - ah. Milford Haven. Lady Erys has created a scheme to promote the production and exportation of Cymric products, again through lowering trade rates and taxes and such. She's spotted a gap in the market overseas for our cosmetics, too, and so wants to expand that industry; I got the feeling that she's looking to Port Talbot to make the pots, but needs others to provide the beeswax. Oh, and honey. Honey keeps, and we have unusually good bees, it seems."

"Excellent!" Lady Erys seemed to be a woman after his own heart. Gwilym wondered if they could form a Local Produce club and wear badges and have sleepovers and things. "That's what I want to do here."

"Indeed?" Alaw looked up at him, her face completely neutral. "I thought we had no proposals this year."

"Ah," said Gwilym. Well, best to get it over with. "Yes, about that. I threatened to punch Watkins. Do you need to arrest me?"

Alaw stared at him.

"No, my lord," she said after a moment. Her face hadn't moved a milimetre, but her voice had a very, very subtle edge to it that suggested she might, possibly, maybe, be trying not to laugh. "No, I'll waive it. Might... I ask why?"

"I went mad with power in your absence and murdered every servant with their hair parted on the wrong side," Gwilym said. "But his is parted in the middle, so..."

Alaw looked down, her face still immobile, and Gwilym decided she was definitely trying not to smile, there.

"And he was being obstinate," Gwilym admitted. "He wouldn't let me change anything. And he looks like a kettle."

"Logic I can only fail to argue with," Alaw said, looking placidly back up. Somehow, the disapproving look in her eyes seemed softer. "I take it, then, that we are now addressing the Archwiliad?"

"If I'm allowed," Gwilym nodded. "In between ducking in my presense Watkins tells me I need to ask the High Council?"

"Yes, my lord," Alaw nodded. "And I would be astounded if they declined. Very well. Next... ah. Aberhonddu want Llangors, Caerdydd and Abertawe to join efforts on a bear cull, since there have been more attacks than usual. Caerdydd want to use the Wings to do it."

She flipped carefully through the pages and pulled out another.

"And on the subject of which," Alaw continued, "there are a few requests for using Riders. That one, and the Archipelago. Several Sovereigns - including Lady Marged, actually - are wanting the Wings to spread their patrols out over a wider area to keep the trade ships safe until they reach Erinnish waters. They want to encourage sea trade with both Erinn and Dál Riada. And, indeed, the rest of Alba."

"Marged wants that?" Gwilym asked, surprised. Somehow he hadn't really expected that kind of snappy thinking from her. But then, that was definitely unfair; dappy as a brush Marged may have been, but she was a successful Sovereign most of the time. And this was a suggestion that Helped Others.

"Yes, my lord," Alaw nodded. "Although I should add that she's also asking for another holiday."

And the world was back to normal again.

"I see," he grinned. "Okay. Anything else?"

"One more in that category," Alaw said. "Lord Flyn would like the Union to consider the idea of allowing Messengers to carry external messages. To Erinn, for example."

Gwilym blinked. "Really?" he asked, more or less to himself. Technically it was a good idea, he supposed, but it could mean nothing good when requested by Flyn. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, my lord." Alaw looked up from the papers, her hands going still in her lap.

"What do you make of Lord Flyn?" Gwilym asked.

"He's an effective Sovereign," Alaw said after a pause only just about big enough to be noticeable. "He's a gifted politician. Skilled at getting what he needs."

"Arrogant?"

"Certainly. Not entirely without reason, though. He's an intelligent man."

"Yes," Gwilym mused, thoughtfully. He wondered if he was supposed to be talking to Alaw about this. There was a good chance he was about to lose an eye. "I wonder what he might need long range communication for."

"It's a question, my lord," Alaw nodded carefully, and hesitated. "My lord - would you mind if I spoke freely?"

"Good gods, no," Gwilym said mildly. "Unless it's about me. You're only allowed to tell me that I have brilliant ideas and am dazzlingly attractive."

"I'll bear that in mind, my lord," Alaw said neutrally, but the disapproval softened again. For Alaw it was the equivalent of screaming with laughter, so Gwilym congratulated himself. "But I was going to talk about Lord Flyn."

"Ooh, brilliant!" Gwilym beamed. "I hate him, how about you?"

"I don't trust him," Alaw said flatly, which for her meant she loathed him. Her eyes were disapproving again. "He's intelligent, yes, but he's also ambitious, manipulative and amoral. He knows how to work the system. I'd almost be tempted to advise you to vote against anything innocuous he suggests, protocol or no, except that my doing so could well be part of a plan. He's that clever. And I don't like how he treats the people who work for him."

"Yes," Gwilym said glumly. "That was my take as well, damn his eyes. What about Gwenda?"

"Similar, but subtly different," Alaw said. "I think - same results, different motivations. She does like being in power, and she's got an iron grip on that torque, but the things she does are ultimately for her City. Her City, mind, not her country," she added, the disapproval almost poisonous. Typical Rider, Gwilym thought with a grin. "Whereas Lord Flyn's actions on behalf of his City ultimately serve the purpose of keeping himself in charge."

"So together they form a horrifying multi-headed beast," Gwilym nodded, and Alaw very nearly smiled. "I see. I shall make a note to spit in Flyn's tea at the Archwiliad, then."

"My lord?" Alaw's eyes had hardened over again, as stern as flint. "I understand there was an assassination attempt on you two days ago."

Word got around, it seemed.

"Yes," Gwilym said, and his admittedly limited experience of Riders threw up a flag. "Right, I'm banning you right now from feeling guilty about not being there or something," he said sternly. "I mean it. I know what you people are like. It could not have been your fault any less."

Alaw sighed. "I appreciate the thought, my lord," she said. "Sadly I don't have that much emotional control over myself. Do we still have the assassin?"

"No," Gwilym said, shaking his head. Bloody Riders. "He - I wonder how much of this you know yet? - he was forced into doing it by the ex-Deputy of the Casnewydd Alpha Wing, so Leader Awen sent him to the Union partly to keep him alive and partly as a witness."

He hadn't thought it was possible for her eyes to go harder, but somehow Alaw upgraded from 'flint' to 'diamond'.

"If it isn't Awen who finds him he'll be lucky," she said darkly. "Do we know why he wanted you dead?"

"Well," Gwilym said, scratching his head, "apparently it's because I'm pervasively influential. I know!" he added to her raised eyebrow. "I only get to rule when I threaten advisors with physical pain! It's not what I'd class as pervasive. Although I suppose it is fairly influential."

"I think," Alaw said carefully, "that we can probably discount the theory that he was riding to the defence of Watkins."

"Well, okay," Gwilym allowed. "But only because that happened afterwards. Oh, by the by, you're sitting on the Top Table at mealtimes for the rest of my life."

"You're as generous as you are dazzlingly attractive, my lord," Alaw said neutrally. From her, it was possibly the funniest thing he'd ever heard. He laughed, and Alaw pulled out the next sheet of paper. "Very well. I suggest then, my lord, that we finish going through these, you give me an overview of our new proposals and then we fly for the Union. It'll be best to see the High Council as soon as possible."

Which basically translated to Gwilym going to the Archwiliad a day and a bit early and thus getting to run around the Union like a child. He grinned.

"Good idea," he said.

*********

It turned out, though, that the procedure of getting to the Archwiliad was quite possibly the most hasslesome of Gwilym's life to date. It couldn't just be him; he had to go in the State Carriage, with a small entourage of clerks and aides and such, an Announcer whose sole function seemed to be to just walk around announcing his name in a monotone at every corner and his full Alpha Wing, all wearing the uniform that Gwilym mentally labelled 'The Really Really Smart One' and looking generally resplendent. And, of course, the bloody sodding trumpeters. He really, really hated the trumpeters.

The actual landing was the worst part. The High Council all turned up to oficially welcome him and Look Bloody Intimidating, which put Gwilym at a distinct disadvantage given that he then had to endure the shriek of the trumpets behind his head and maintain his composure. As he walked toward the Council, Councillor Gwenllian's red-and-black image moving forward to greet him, two merod moved alongside him, Alaw and her Deputy. They all halted, and Gwenllian bowed.

"Sovereign," she said warmly. "Welcome to the Union. I hope your stay will be productive and enjoyable."

"Thank you, Councillor," Gwilym smiled, bowing back. They were the only Riders you were allowed to bow to; he wondered if he could bow to them all. "I hope so too."

She flashed him a grin, and Saluted formally to Alaw.

"Welcome home, Rider," she said. Alaw Saluted back.

"Councillor," she said, and Gwenllian turned back to Gwilym and officially Lowered The Tone.

"Well, if you're ready, Sovereign, I'll show you to the tavern," she said brightly, instantly dissolving the formality and causing Gwilym to burst out laughing. Behind her Councillor Rhydian sighed.

"I'm so sorry, Sovereign," he said wearily. "This is why we don't normally let Gwenllian do the greeting. We're actually quite a professional outfit."

"First time to the Union, I'm sorry, but the man needs a drink," Gwenllian declared. "He'll need to know where the taverns are. It's important information."

And that seemed to be that. In spite of all of Councillors Rhydian and Dyfan's protests Gwilym found himself marched away to the Spiral Stairs and given about twenty seconds to marvel at them while being towed down and along a lower corridor before arriving at a fully stocked and functioning tavern, right in the middle of the Union. It was pleasantly full; two bards were playing a duet in the corner while tradespeople of all kinds relaxed at the tables, the low chatter not changing as he walked in. There were Riders too, Guards and Messengers mostly but with the odd Tutor here and there, unwinding between shifts. Otherwise, the room had been carefully decorated to look as much like a normal tavern as possible, with wooden beams crossing the ceiling between the sunpipes holding bunches of dried herbs to add to the atmosphere.

"Good, isn't it?" Gwenllian asked jovially as they pushed their way to the bar. "Not my favourite, but it's sound. What are you having?"

"Just a mead for now," Gwilym said, looking around himself. "How many taverns are there here?"

"Loads," Gwenllian nodded. "More than thirty. We're a bit like the Archipelago, since there's no way out unless you fly. Means people like their leisure time. Oh, you wanted to add to your proposals?"

"Yes," Gwilym said, pulling out a bar stool as Gwenllian did the same. "Sorry. It's only an internal thing -"

"Oh, that's fine then," Gwenllian said dismissively, waving a hand. "Yeah, you can have that. Rhydian will be going over it with Alaw with a fine-toothed comb as we speak, so if you're trying to steal the country, tough."

"Well, I considered it," Gwilym grinned. "But I decided it wouldn't be worth the effort. I'm a lazy megalomaniac."

"My favourite kind, oddly enough!" Gwenllian grinned, and passed him a tankard. "You'll probably just have to present it all to the Alpha Wingleaders once they get here, and they'll be fine with it. Know any good drinking games?"

"You know, I never really saw my father very much," Gwilym said. "So he never gave me much advice. But 'Never Try To Out-Drink A Rider' was, funnily enough, one piece he did give me."

"Ha!" Gwenllian raised her tankard. "No spirit, boy! The trick isn't to out-drink me, it's to keep up through entertainment! Know any good ones?"

"Yes," Gwilym said, fumbling in a pocket for a pack of cards. "Fine. And might I say, Councillor, you're a terrible influence?"

"You're not the first man to say so, Sovereign," she answered, her eyes sparkling. "Cards? Sound! What is it? How do we play?"

"We always just called it Gareth's Game," Gwilym shrugged, and smiled. "Right. First card: red or black?"

He didn't remember the rest of the evening that well.