The Duke's Decision

Gelle yawned at her brother Simon as she stirred honey into her morning tea. “I'm sure York isn't a tenth as exciting as London,” she said. “The old duke was frightfully old fashioned and it's a smaller city.”

“Yes, but the high society scene isn't quite as dangerous,” Simon said, waving a piece of toast in the air. “You remember my duel with George?”

Gelle groaned. What she remembered was that Simon had made a fool of himself over a tradesman's daughter – the daughter of one of the engineers at the firm her father had contracted with to design the locks for the new canal. The poor girl had ended up getting drained and left in an alleyway on her way back from a party, and Simon had blamed George in front of several witnesses.

George had reportedly survived being stabbed through the eye socket with Simon’s sword, but the damage to his brain had not left him the sense to get out of the light of the rising sun. George being well-connected, this resulted in considerably more social reprobation than the death of a mere tradesman’s daughter.

“Yes. I am never forgetting your duel with George. You ruined our trip to London just two weeks in. I'd barely gotten to see any of the sights,” Gelle said. “And Father said that's why we're not going back to London. Ever.”

“We were there two weeks and we knew three people near our age who died,” Simon said, shaking a finger. “Four if we include George, but I think George was a lot older than he looked. York should be perfectly safe once the succession dispute is settled, and anyone who is anyone north of the Humber River will be flocking in to see the new duke. Father will be able to make new business deals, and I might be able to find a suitable wife, one who isn’t a second cousin. Our mother is related to something like half the gentry in the north part of Lincolnshire.”

Gelle rolled her eyes. “Or an unsuitable wife,” she grumbled. “You're twenty-eight, Simon. It’s high time.”

“Doesn't mean I should settle for an unsuitable woman,” Simon said. “You're old enough to be looking to marry yourself now, for that matter, so if you don't want to have to share a roof with me any longer, go find yourself someone to marry and move in with.” He didn’t mean it. What man would be worthy of his precious little sister? Especially with so many of the ones in their social circles little better than bloodsucking monsters? He’d killed monsters in the shape of men before; he’d readily kill a true man if that was what it took to keep his sister’s heart safe.

Gelle buttered her toast with more force than was strictly necessary, the bread tearing under the pressure of the blunt butterknife. “Maybe I would have met someone in London,” she said. “If you hadn’t interfered.”

Simon snorted and sipped his own tea. “I was looking out for your best interests,” he said. “Maybe you’ll understand when you’re older.”

Gelle chewed her toast angrily as she glared at her older brother, letting her silence speak for her.

Simon raised his mug, meeting the Baron of Greystoke's with a clink. “Well met! To the triumph of water over bone,” he said. “The bloodsuckers have grown wealthy enough. The future belongs to water and steam.”

Henry grinned. “To might over magic,” he added, and raised his mug a second time. They stood together at a window overlooking the site that was to be a new cloth manufactory. “It's perfectly sited on the river, and the investors are getting skittish because of the new duke. If he clamps down on the bone trade, they won't be able to bring it up to operation cheaply enough, and they know that. Between your father and I, we might be able to buy out a controlling share cheaply and change the plans.”

“You'll have to make sure that the new duke doesn't roll back the old laws.” Simon frowned. “Richard was much more friendly to wizards, but the new duke could still decide the old laws were too strict. He's young, and it's hard to know who may bend his ear.”

The baron nodded soberly. “Rumor has it that he's looking to get married. I aim to get his ear with Ivette if I can. She's not very political herself,” he said. “Her mother wasn't a fisher, and she gets along so poorly with her stepmother that initiation would have been unwise. But she's quite comely, and if she can charm the duke, she'll be my trumpet in his ear.”

The baron's cryptic statement would not have raised any alarms in an ignorant onlooker, though the idea of a nobleman marrying a fisherwoman might have been entertaining to those who didn't understand his coded language. Simon sighed. Ivette was quite comely indeed, but if the baron had his sights set higher, Simon would have to look elsewhere in his own search for a bride. For him to marry a baron’s daughter was a reach, but not an unimaginable one, and he’d been imagining it optimistically.

“My father's not a fisher, either, so not a word to him about fishing. I've brought him around to believing in the steam loom project, but he has no deep moral opposition to necroindustry. I learned to fish from my mother. My sister isn't initiated, either. My mother never thought she could keep a secret when she was younger, and then we were worried she might have become tainted in London. By the time we could be sure, we were already here in York, and she’s been quite the social butterfly. Made fast friends with your daughter. It hardly seemed the time to try to pin her down for a series of serious conversations.” Simon paused thoughtfully.

Gelle, like Ivette, was a comely young woman of good breeding. Perhaps, in spite of her lower rank, Gelle also had a chance to catch the eye of the duke. If she did so, that would leave the Baron of Greystoke still looking for a husband for Ivette. And, as Greystoke himself was a fisher, he might be willing to let his daughter marry down to a fellow fisher if he could not marry her all the way up to a duke. For the first time in his adult life, Simon found himself possessed of the desire to bind his little sister in marriage to a man, one he’d never even met.

Henry shook his head. “Time will tell,” he said. “If Ivette can hook the duke, then it may be a sign I should make her a fisher of men.”

Simon nodded. “An imprudent young girl may become a prudent woman in time,” he said. “I will pray that such happens.”

Simon glanced over at the wizard collegium before ducking into the alleyway. That seems close enough to be worrisome, he thought to himself. The baron's directions had been precise, though, and it was less than a hundred paces until he found what he sought: A modest door with a fish carved discreetly into a small sliding hatch. He knocked, and then stepped back. The hatch slid to the side, and a pair of eyes peered out.

“I don't recognize you. Are you here to deliver nails?” asked the person on the other side of the door.

“I have three,” Simon said, holding up a trio of nails tied together with a bit of string. “I understand that is enough.”

The hatch shut and the door opened, revealing a thickset bald man dressed in cheap sackcloth. “Enter, then,” he said.

Simon handed him the bundle of nails. The man took them and set them down next to a small pile of similar objects. He gestured towards the far wall. “Sit, please," he said.

Simon sat.

Then the man poured wine from a jug into a wooden cup and passed it to him. “Drink.”

Simon sipped the drink, grimacing slightly as the man stared at him intently. It tasted like warm vinegar. “What's this?” he asked, wiping his mouth.

“A sign of good faith,” the man said. “Blessed be. My name here is Zephyr. Who told you of this place?”

“Greystoke,” Simon said.

“Ah. Yes, he's a cautious sort. He didn't tell me anything about you, however,” the man said. “Who are you?”

“Simon, after the zealot. Sir Simon, outside these walls.” Simon puffed out his chest proudly. “I am new here in town,” he added. “Is it safe to have this house so close to the new wizards’ collegium?”

“In a big city like York, there is little attention to one's close neighbors out of sight,” the bald man said. He pulled out a cracker and handed it to Simon. “Eat. It's fresh.”

Had the man never left the duchy? York was quite small in comparison to London. “Have you lived your whole life here?” Simon asked, holding the cracker.

“Yes,” Zephyr said. “The old duke’s guards and hounds keep the city well enough that imperial knights rarely have cause to visit. York is a very good place for fishing; I suspect we have more fishers here than any place else.”

Simon held up a finger. “You may be surprised. There are whole districts of London where imperial inspectors do not bother to patrol. Once they have turned a blind eye to the bloodsuckers for a generation, well, one can sometimes find fishponds in the oddest places, though they do run great risk.”

Simon popped the cracker in his mouth. For a moment, he chewed in silence, and then swallowed. “Thank you, brother.”

Zephyr smiled. “You are very welcome, Sir Simon, and I hope to see more of you in your time in York. The streets are safer than they used to be, now that the trouble with the succession is over. Take care with your holy work, but I hope it has not drawn attention from the authorities. The ducal guard are skilled at investigation, and the hounds are uncanny.”

“I need only my righteous honor,” Simon said, clapping his hand against his chest. Then he grinned. “A death in a duel between gentlemen is no murder in the eyes of the law. I have not yet violated imperial law.”