The Dark Lord's Handbook (38 page)

Penbury picked up one of the papers off the desk in front of him. It was a loan for a considerable amount to Baron Romney of Kirkland and secured against the Baron’s castle. The unfortunate thing was that Penbury had known the Baron personally. He had hunted with him on his estates, and had been saddened to hear of the squabble the Baron had got into with a neighbour that not only resulted in the poor Baron’s death but reduced the castle to rubble. Not only was the loan never going to be repaid but the castle it was held against was now distributed across a dozen different villages in the form of swanky new cottages.

While Penbury could appreciate the cunning of what Birkenfeldt had described, he could also see potential issues. Now that he understood the underlying mechanism it didn’t take him long to make the leap to what was in front of him now.

Birkenfeldt opened his mouth to continue but the Chancellor raised a finger to silence him.

“Let me,” said Penbury. “This seemingly simple idea worked fantastically well at the start and a few got very rich.”

Birkenfeldt nodded.

“But then, as with all good things, more stupid people, who never really understood the underlying ideas, got involved and cocked it up?”

“Indeed,” said Birkenfeldt.

“It rapidly got out of hand. This system of holding these traded securities was invented and soon a meta market in box trading evolved, whereby people traded boxes, that notionally represented who knows what, for enormous sums of money. Only it didn’t matter.”

Penbury’s mind galloped to the conclusion and he was horrified.

“It didn’t matter, because as long as no one opened a box, and merely went by what was on the box, and they had confidence in what was in those boxes, everything was fine. Fine until…” Even to Penbury, the enormity of what had happened was staggering. He could barely utter the words. “…until someone opened a box to see what was in it.”

It all made sense now.

“And that was you, wasn’t it, Birkenfeldt? Because you are a man of details. You couldn’t trust in what some book said was in the box and a number scribbled on a slate. You had to see for yourself.”

Birkenfeldt looked stricken. All blood had drained from him. “I’m sorry, Chancellor. Truly I am.”

For a moment, Penbury thought the most powerful banker in the world, and probably the second most powerful man after himself, was about to cry.

“It’s not your fault, Birkenfeldt,” said Penbury. “It was a disaster waiting to happen.”

And it was. As soon as one box was open and the real value of what was inside could be seen, then that was it. Penbury had no idea how much of what was contained was recoverable, but he suspected it was not a lot. Even if there were good loans in there, confidence would now be shattered. The box market would collapse. No one would want to trade them. They’d be forced to look at what they held and account for it. Penbury shuddered at the losses that some would make. As a major stakeholder in about every major business institution known, it would hurt him as well.

Birkenfeldt coughed.

“How many people know about this?” asked Penbury. It was going to take a huge amount of effort to limit the damage. With the recent surge in borrowing from the ruling classes there must be a lot of bad debt out there.

“Just you,” said Birkenfeldt. “And myself, of course.”

“Say again?” Penbury had heard correctly but couldn’t quite believe it.

“The only ones who know are yourself and me,” said Birkenfeldt.

Penbury didn’t believe in miracles. He thought the only thing that was divine was good food and drink. He also did not believe in luck. It was a commodity he believed to be conjured in the minds of irrational and weak people, or the falsely modest.

So the news that Birkenfeldt had given, which was essentially that the greatest economic disaster that the world would ever suffer was privy only to himself and his banker friend, was no miracle or good fortune, it was an opportunity. Quite what that opportunity was he was not completely clear on, but he would work it out.

“Not a word,” said Penbury.

“I’m sorry?”

“You are to tell no one what you have found out.”

Birkenfeldt looked stunned. “But what happens if someone else opens a box? They are bound to sooner or later. This can’t go on forever.”

“You’re right, it can’t. But it will have to until I can work out how to fix it.”

Penbury could feel the relief flowing from Birkenfeldt. Understandably. He’d been let off the hook. It wasn’t his problem any more.

“Leave these with me. I assume they are yours?”

Birkenfeldt nodded. “They are a few of the boxes from our warehouse.”

“Warehouse?”

“Yes,” said Birkenfeldt. “We have a warehouse full of them.”

“And presumably, other banks have similar?”

“Actually no. The box system was centralised, for convenience, so that the actual boxes didn’t have to move. While there are several warehouses spread around an estate, to save on costs, the banks and insurers maintain a shared box marketplace.”

“Box marketplace?”

“The warehouses where boxes are traded. Seemed to make sense.”

“Of course it did.”

Penbury started to think. It had been a long while since he’d been faced with such a challenge. Even this business with the Dark Lord Morden was a mere light entertainment compared to the true disaster that had been placed before him. It was going to take all his wits to sort this mess out.

After some time, Penbury realised that Birkenfeldt was still sitting there, hands on his lap, waiting patiently.

“I’m sorry, Birkenfeldt,” said Penbury. “You can go now. And remember, not a word. And don’t dump your boxes in the market. It may cause a panic. Sit tight.”

“Of course, Chancellor,” said Birkenfeldt, standing. The banker clicked his heels and left.

After Birkenfeldt had left, Chidwick came in to see if there was anything to be done. Penbury had him tidy the boxes. He ordered a beef and radish sandwich and a cup of tea. A glass of wine would have been nice to go with the beef, but he had thinking to do.

Two hours later he was no nearer a solution and it was time to check the Snort reports. He took the pads out of a locked desk drawer with a minute to spare and laid them on the desk. He polished his magnifying glass and bent over the paper. He reread the previous report to bring himself back up to speed and awaited news. To the second, writing started to appear on both pads. It was spooky how they did that, but then the Snort brothers were spooks of the spookiest kind.

News from the west was brief. Bostokov had been secured. The army was marching east to the next city. Count Vladovitch was still having secret meetings with a mysterious woman who went by the name Black Orchid and was in fact Lady Deathwing. These dragons certainly seemed to be coming out of the closet. Was she Morden’s mother? It would make some sense, but then why would she be supporting the Count and Edwin against Morden?

And Sir Edwin had disappeared. It was thought he had a falling out with the Count and had either gone home or was headed east after Morden and his love, Griselda, that he banged on about continuously. Penbury thought the latter more likely given Edwin was almost certainly a hero. It would take him a while to reach Morden, but it would be a meeting that would be more than interesting.

Penbury scribbled instructions regarding the Count. He was glad to see the first contact had been so well received. Given the fiasco that Birkenfeldt had revealed, Penbury now needed to know how the Count and his army fitted into all of it. He assumed much of the borrowing was to finance such a big army, but there had to be more. He suspected Black Orchid had more to do with this.

News from the east was curious. Morden had been seen flying off and had not returned. In the meantime, the fleet had continued and been picked up by a smaller orcish fleet. This second fleet was crewed by orcs that Snort had not seen before. They were apparently eastern orcs from a little known empire.

Penbury of course knew of them as they were the source of many interesting herbs, spices and culinary dishes, as well as traders in rarer things like exploding black powder.

The two fleets of orcs had greeted each other like long lost cousins and they were currently anchored off an orcish city. They would be going ashore shortly. An orc, Stonearm, had assumed control and was to meet the city’s leader.

Penbury stopped and rubbed his eye. He must have misread. He brought the glass back over the paper and read again.

They were going ashore to meet the city’s leader, Zoon the Reviled.

Now this changed everything. Zoon? Was it
the
Zoon of legend, in which case the Chancellor’s fence sitting would have to stop and, whether he liked it or not, he would have to back the Count and Edwin, or was it merely Morden role playing?

One of the qualities that Penbury attributed to himself was a keen sense of timing and of history. It was as though he could see the whole world turning and the pieces upon it. Now and then he would reach down and make his presence felt but mostly he worked from above.

Now, he felt, was one of those times. He needed to get moving and fast. Events were speeding and it was not a time for lackeys.

Chapter 41 Dungeon

Tyranny is government for the weak.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

Morden had lost track of time. It was impossible to judge how long he slept or how long he was awake. Time passed. Slime dripped. Guards came to deliver food that Morden ate mechanically. It seemed being mostly dead meant he had no appetite. Apart from that, he was no nearer understanding his condition. As for his situation, desperate was the only thing that came to mind. He could see no reason that he wouldn’t be stuck in his cell until mostly dead became completely dead. He’d known depressed people in his life but had never counted himself in their company. Now, however, he sensed a cloud in his mind, lurking, that was growing slowly, but growing.

The bolts on the door grated and Morden turned expecting to see orcs dumping a plate of slop onto the floor. Instead, Zoon strode in. Morden hadn’t seen his rival since he’d been left in the cell.

The cloud in Morden’s mind shrank, burned away by anger at seeing Zoon in the robe that Morden had claimed as his own.

“You disappoint me, Morden,” said Zoon, staring first at Morden and then casting an eye socket around the room.

“And you stink,” said Morden. It wasn’t a classy retort but it was all he had. If he’d still been able to breathe fire he would have burned the walking corpse in front of him in an instant.

Zoon made a rasping, wheezing sound that could have been a laugh or an attempt to cough up something disgusting.

“What’s so funny?” asked Morden.

Zoon continued to wheeze. “The irony,” managed the Dark Lord, regaining his composure. “You’ll be glad to know your fleet has arrived. I thank you for raising such a fine army. It will make my conquests so much easier.”

“My fleet is here?” said Morden.

Zoon cleared his throat and spat. A cockroach scurried off from where it landed.

“Technically, it’s now my fleet,” said Zoon. The lich coughed again; it was a gurgling, phlegm ridden cough that sounded like his lungs, if he had any, would shortly be on the floor with the rest of the slime. “Anyway, enough of that. I’ve brought you company. I’ll say goodbye and leave you to get reacquainted.

“Not staying for a gloat?” asked Morden.

Zoon stopped at the door.

“You know, I’d love to hear all your plans,” continued Morden.

“I know what you are trying to do,” said Zoon without bothering to turn around.

“What? Can’t one Dark Lord take an interest in another?”

“I’ve read the book, young Morden. It was
my
book after all.”

“So you have been reading it after all?”

Zoon’s left hand went to where Morden knew the book would be under the robe, but instead of answering, Zoon left. There were noises outside. A woman’s raised voice, a thump, and then the door was thrown open.

Stonearm was immediately recognisable. He came through the door horizontally, about three feet off the ground. He landed on the slime covered floor and slid. He came to a stop, face down, at Morden’s feet.

He was closely followed by a woman, her arms and legs flailing as she was hauled in by her waist by a large undead orc. A man was pushed in behind her. He stumbled but kept his feet. It was Kristoff. That meant the woman was…

“Griselda?”

The orc who was carrying her dumped her into the muck and left. The door crashed shut and the bolts slid home.

“Lord Morden!” said Stonearm from Morden’s feet.

Griselda ignored Morden and assaulted the door.

“You undead piece of shit!” she screamed, pounding the door. “You’re going to pay for this.”

“Griselda!” said Morden. He couldn’t believe she was here.

“Lord Morden,” said Stonearm getting to his feet. He brushed off goo and wrapped his huge arms around Morden. “It’s good to see you boss.”