The wind did not abate with the full arrival of dawn. It scoured the high battlements of Blackcliff, a constant, keening accompaniment to the day's labors. William's orders, transcribed by Glenshaw's precise hand, had been dispatched by fast riders and swift courier doves before the sun cleared the mountains. Now, the kingdom awaited the ripple effects of his calculations.
He spent the late morning in the training yard, not as a spectator, but as a participant. He shrugged off his kingly surcoat, took up a blunted practice sword and a heavy oaken shield, and sparred with a rotating series of guardsmen. The physical exertion was a brutal, necessary calculus of its own—a balance of force, angle, and fatigue. The clash of wood on wood, the grunt of impact, the scramble in the mud—these were problems with immediate, tactile solutions. A poorly judged parry resulted in a stinging bruise to the shoulder. A missed step meant a stumble in the churned earth. The feedback was instant, the consequences contained.
Yet, even here, the arithmetic of kingship intruded. He noted which guardsmen met his eyes, which held back their strength, which fought with a desperate, hungry fervor. He was measuring the morale of his own household, the human variable in his defensive equations. As he paused, chest heaving, accepting a ladle of water, his gaze swept over the walls. Among the stable hands mucking out stalls and the maids airing linens, he saw the too-attentive loiterers, the ones whose work seemed designed to place them within earshot of anything. Daerlon's ears. Maurice's eyes. He had ordered the public reading of his council for noon. He wondered what they would make of it, what coded messages would be hurried from the castle by mid-afternoon.
The noon bell tolled, its somber note swallowed by the wind. In the main courtyard, a crowd gathered—a mix of curiosity and obligation. Smiths with soot-streaked faces, soldiers off watch, kitchen scullions, grooms, and the various functionaries of the keep stood in a rough semicircle before the steps to the Great Hall. Scribe Glenshaw emerged, looking profoundly uncomfortable in this open, unscripted setting. He held a sheaf of papers, his voice thin against the vastness of the sky.
He began to read. Word for word, as commanded. The Norsemen raids, the casualties, the contraction of defense. The polite defiance of Duke Ferdinand, the gift of hounds being prepared. The grim details of the Red Cough, the orders for quarantine and the hanging of profiteers. The stark emptiness of the treasury, the plea for loans from the wealthy. The monitored activities of the capital's distinguished 'guests'.
A deep, uneasy silence settled over the yard, broken only by the rustle of parchment and the eternal wind. William watched from a narrow arrow-slit in the gatehouse tower. He saw brows furrow at the news of the plague. Lips tightened at the mention of Ferdinand's reluctance. A few exchanged glances at the revelation of the treasury's state. But it was the final part, the cold, transactional request for money in exchange for honors, that caused the most subtle shift. There was no outrage, merely a collective, sobering absorption. This was not the stuff of bardic tales. This was the unvarnished ledger of a realm on the brink.
As Glenshaw finished and scurried away, the crowd dispersed not with chatter, but with a quiet, thoughtful urgency. The blacksmith returned to his forge with a heavier tread. The captain of the guard began barking orders for a wall inspection. The arithmetic of survival had been shared. Now, everyone had a variable to consider.
The responses began to trickle in by dusk, each a new entry in William's mental ledger.
From the coast, a rider brought word: the commander had contracted the line as ordered. Two distant watchtowers were abandoned, their garrisons pulled back. A sense of grim resentment festered there; it felt like retreat. The fast, shallow-draft scouts had been dispatched towards Mist Isle. As for contacting the Norsemen captains… the commander reported finding two men: a grizzled old sergeant who'd been captured and ransomed by Harald's father years ago, and a disreputable fur trader from Blackwater Town with a dubious reputation and a smattering of the Norse tongue. They had taken a small boat loaded with wool and fox pelts. No guarantee of return. William initialed the report. The first gamble was in play.
A sealed missive arrived from Lord Tavelin, the Treasurer. It was a masterpiece of anxious prose, but its core was a list: the Crown's forest leases, the silver mines in the western hills (currently producing at a third of capacity due to flooding), the right to collect tolls on the Stonebridge for five years, the royal fishery rights along the Whitefall River. All could be mortgaged. The accompanying draft of the loan proclamation was deferential but stark. A separate, smaller note, written in Tavelin's own shaky hand, added: "Your Majesty, initial whispers among the capital's merchants are… cautious. They speak of risk and uncertain returns. The lords, particularly those affiliated with the western dukes, have made no comment. Silence can be expensive."
William penned a reply: "Proceed. Add a clause: the first ten lenders, by verified date of pledge, will receive preferential status in future Crown trade contracts for a decade. Silence is a luxury we cannot afford. Make them hear the clock ticking."
The most unsettling news came not by parchment, but from the pale, strained face of Brother Alden, a young monk serving as Bishop John's messenger. He had ridden hard from the south.
"Your Majesty," the monk gasped, kneeling in the study. "The herbs… thanks be to God, they arrived. But the order… the order to hang profiteers. Prefect Corwin enacted it. This morning, before the city gates of Riverton."
William went still. "How many?"
"Three, sire. A grain merchant, his warehouse found packed while the public stocks dwindled. A hedge-witch selling vials of 'plague-proof' vinegar at a hundredfold mark-up. And…" the monk faltered.
"And?"
"And a carpenter, sire. He tried to sneak his feverish daughter out of the quarantine quarter. He was… he was caught and charged with profiteering from the transport of the infected. He pleaded… he pleaded it was only his child."
The cold arithmetic of the order met the hot, messy reality of its execution. A necessary deterrent to prevent panic and collapse. One life against the potential spread that could claim hundreds. The equation, on parchment, held. In the mud of Riverton, it screamed.
"What was the crowd's reaction?" William asked, his voice devoid of inflection.
"Terror, sire. Then silence. A terrible silence. The city is like a tomb now, save for the coughing. The quarantine holds, but… the prefect fears the silence more than the riot."
William dismissed the monk with orders for rest and a fresh horse. He sat alone as night fell, the peat fire doing nothing to dispel the chill that had settled in his bones. He opened his ledger. Under Southern plague, he added a sub-entry: Riverton. Three hangings. One arguably unjust. Outcome: compliance, but morale shattered. Potential for later backlash.
He stared at the words arguably unjust. Who was he arguing with? Himself? The dead carpenter? The abstract concept of a functioning kingdom? The arithmetic demanded the hangings. The king had to bear their weight. He closed the ledger. The moral calculus had no neat column for debts like these.
The next day brought a different kind of report. From his agent in Silver Vale, a message hidden in a shipment of iron ore: "Greyport envoys offered Ferdinand a guarantee of independence, backed by a sellsword company currently idle near their border. Price: exclusive trade rights for Silver Vale timber and a pledge of 'non-interference' with Greyport's expansion along the coast. Ferdinand has not agreed. Yet. He plays for time, and a better offer. Your hounds were received with polite bemusement."
So, it was not just grain or weapons, but the promise of sovereignty. A more expensive variable. William calculated. He could not match that offer without fracturing the kingdom further. He could only increase the cost of accepting it. He sent new orders: discreetly move five companies of his most loyal, ragged border troops—veterans of the northern wars—to camp just within the western edge of Silver Vale, under the pretext of training and hunting. A visible, if not overwhelming, reminder of the Crown's reach. Let Ferdinand do the math on how quickly Greyport's sellswords could really arrive.
The day of the loan proclamation's announcement arrived. William awaited the results in his stone study, wrestling with a different problem: the castle's own granaries. The steward's reports showed consumption rates exceeding intake. Blackcliff was full of mouths to feed—soldiers, servants, craftsmen, the refugees from the coastal raids who had trickled in. Another equation: how long could they last if the autumn harvest was poor, or if the Norsemen blocked coastal shipments?
A commotion at the door broke his concentration. Glenshaw entered, looking more animated than William had ever seen him.
"Your Majesty, a delegation. From the capital."
Not Daerlon or Maurice themselves, but their representatives? William braced for poised defiance, veiled threats.
But it was not lords who entered. Three men filed in, their clothes rich but practical wool and leather, not court silks. They bore the calm, assessing eyes of men who measured the world in balances and profits. The lead man, stout and clean-shaven, bowed with precise respect.
"Your Majesty. I am Jonas Hiller, of the Hiller Mercantile Concern. These are my associates, Master Brewer of the Riverlands Grain Guild, and Master Cutter of the Stonebridge Caravan Consortium."
Merchants. Not lords.
"We heard your proclamation," Hiller continued, his voice steady. "Read publicly, as is your… novel custom. We have discussed it amongst ourselves and with colleagues."
William remained seated, giving nothing away. "And?"
"The kingdom faces threats. Stability is good for trade. Chaos is not." Hiller stated it as a fundamental law. "The offer of future tariffs as collateral is… acceptable, given the circumstances. The preferential trade status for the first ten lenders is a significant incentive."
He paused, then placed a sealed scroll on William's table. "Herein is a pledge of funds from our combined interests, sufficient to cover the treasury's immediate needs for four months, not three. We do not require honorary titles."
William's eyes narrowed. "What do you require?"
Master Brewer, a man with flour-dusted wrinkles around his eyes, spoke. "A seat. Not at your high table, Majesty. But at the table where matters affecting trade, roads, and grain storage are decided. A council of advisors for commerce and provisioning. We have the expertise. The Crown, with respect, has often lacked it."
Master Cutter, lean and weathered, added. "And a guarantee. In writing. That the laws governing trade, tolls, and property will be applied consistently. No sudden seizures, no arbitrary fees levied by local lords to fill their own coffers. The King's law, evenly weighted, from one border to another."
William looked at them. They were not buying honors. They were buying influence and stability. They were investing in the kingdom as one would invest in a damaged but potentially profitable ship. Their motives were not love or loyalty, but calculation. It was a language he understood perfectly.
It was also a dangerous precedent. Granting formal power to the merchant class would enrage the old nobility. Daerlon and Maurice would seize on it as proof of the king's vulgar, uprooting nature. But the treasury was empty. These men had the gold. The old nobility had so far offered only silence.
The arithmetic was brutal, and clear.
"Your terms are noted,"William said, his voice low. "The funds will be received and logged. A charter for a Royal Council of Commerce and Provision will be drafted. You will have your seat, Master Hiller. And the guarantee of law you seek will be part of that charter." He met each of their gazes. "But understand this: your council will advise. I will decide. And your guarantee of even law applies to your dealings as well. No monopolies, no price-fixing. The ledger works both ways."
A flicker of respect, or perhaps mere satisfaction at a deal well-struck, passed over Hiller's face. He bowed again. "As you say, Your Majesty. The gold will arrive within the week."
They left as quietly as they had come. William let out a long, slow breath. He had just mortgaged a piece of the kingdom's traditional power structure to a group of accountants with ledgers. He could already hear the outraged cries of 'betrayal of blood' and 'mongrel reign'. But the grain stores could be refilled. Soldiers could be paid. The plague doctors could be supplied.
He opened his ledger. Under Treasury empty, he wrote: Loan secured from merchant consortium (Hiller et al.). Terms: immediate funds, establishment of Commerce Council, guarantee of uniform trade law. Calculated risk: alienates traditional nobility. Immediate gain: solvency and expert management.
As he wrote, a second messenger arrived, this one from the coast. The man was weary to the bone, salt crusted on his cloak.
"The scouts returned from Mist Isle, sire. Harald's fleet… it numbers twenty-seven longships now, maybe more. They gather like gulls before a storm."
Twenty-seven. A number that turned the coastal raids from a nuisance into a potential invasion.
"And our men? The ones sent to make contact?"
The messenger's face was grim. "The trader returned. Alone. The old sergeant… stayed. Sent a message back with the trader."
William leaned forward. "What message?"
"The trader said they found a camp of one of Harald's lesser jarls, a man named Styr, who lost three brothers in last year's battles with us. The sergeant, he drank with them, spoke their tongue. Styr listened. He's angry with Harald for taking the lion's share of last season's plunder. The message is this: 'Blood-Raven plans to strike the heart, not the coast, when the moon is dark. He seeks a throne, not just wool. Your king should look to his own walls.' Then the sergeant stayed, saying he'd 'talk more' if we sent another shipment, this time of good steel blades and ale."
A cold finger traced William's spine. Strike the heart. Look to his own walls. Was it a bluff? A ruse? Or had his pragmatic, undignified attempt to sow discord yielded a fragment of vital, terrifying truth?
Harald wasn't just a raider. He aimed for Blackcliff itself. And the warning came not from a loyal subject, but from a bought fragment of the enemy's own alliance. The arithmetic of survival had just grown exponentially more complex.
William dismissed the messenger and called for Glenshaw. As he waited, he looked at the map. His gaze moved from the coast, up the rivers, to the mountains, and finally to the dot marked Blackcliff. Every decision of the past days—contracting the coast, raising merchant funds, hanging men in Riverton, pressuring Ferdinand—all of it was predicated on a scattered, external threat. What if the threat was now cohesive, and aimed directly here?
The old scribe entered. "Your Majesty?"
"Send word to every garrison within ten days' march," William said, his voice cutting through the gloom. "Recall them. All non-essential patrols, all training exercises. They are to reinforce Blackcliff with all haste. Strip the stores from the outlying keeps. And send a quiet word to the captains: watch for Norse scouts in the high passes. The storm is not on the coast. It is coming here."
Glenshaw's eyes widened, but his quill was poised. "And the coastal towns, sire? They will be naked."
"They will have to trust the sea and their own walls. We cannot defend everywhere." The words tasted like ash. He was abandoning the coasts based on the word of a turncoat sergeant and his own cold calculation of probabilities. "Also, double the watch on our 'guests,' Daerlon and Maurice. I want to know if they so much as breathe a sigh of relief at this news."
As Glenshaw left, William stood again at the narrow window. The wind howled with renewed menace. Twenty-seven longships. A merchant-bought treasury. A plague-stricken south. A duchy teetering on treason. And a throne that might be the primary target of a Norse king.
The climber was now the king. The cliff face was no longer stone, but a converging wave of human desperation, ambition, and violence. His ledger was filling with grim entries, each decision carrying a hidden price in blood, honor, or future strife. There were no more clear paths, only choices between different kinds of fall.
He turned back to the table, to the endless scrolls, to the waiting ledger. The arithmetic of the stone throne offered no final sums, only a relentless series of subtractions and fragile, temporary balances. The night was long, and the numbers, like the Norsemen, were closing in.