In Which Ietrin Regrets Asking

March 20, 1178

"Drowned in a ditch, you say?"

At least he wasn't angry? For all Ietrin's father didn't care much for the parish priest, it hadn't seemed likely that he'd take the news well--if only because suitably pious replacements were so woefully hard to come by. "Indeed. Damn rains."

"Hmm." His father leaned back in his chair as he stroked his beard. His crown might have slipped right off his head if not for the meticulous locks holding it in place. "That is problematic, given how Rome doesn't seem to care much for our souls. Do you think Carvallon would add a priest to their end of the deal if we threw in a basket of pastries?"

Did they need to throw in a basket of pastries? "Father, we're giving them my sister. They ought to give us a dozen priests."

His father sniffed. At least Roderick was good at looking like a king so long as he kept his mouth shut. Was Ietrin a horrible son for thinking that? Probably. But a horrible son was not necessarily the worst crown prince, was he?

"You don't seem to understand the value of the ports we will be able to access."

Perhaps I would if they were being put to some sort of reasonable economic use. "Father, we don't need such a large navy."

"And why not?"

Oh dear God. "We're landlocked, Father."

Ninety-nine out of a hundred men would have left it at that. It figured that his father wasn't one of them. "We have rivers, don't we?"

"Small, shallow ones--and poor farmland, and no important resources to speak of." But perhaps it was asking too much for the man to see that. Ietrin was not a king--yet--but he would be one who saw things as they were. His father was a king who saw things as he pleased. "We don't need to waste resources building a proper military because we're not worth the trouble of attacking. Everyone knows you can't make a profit from conquering a kingdom whose primary export is syphilis, for Christ's sake; as long as we hand out some knighthoods every once in a while to make it look like we might put up a fight, we're fine."

A marble gray glare struck him from his father's seat. "Our primary exports are our spices."

"Yes, which we 'borrow' from Spain." Ietrin sighed. The coat of arms on the wall would have been a more receptive listener, no doubt. "The ports are hardly part of it, are they? You just want Ramona to be Queen of Carvallon."

"Well, you have to admit that Learianna could have done better--and certainly Camaline would have had your mother and her friend not insisted on having things their way." Well, that was a given. Ietrin might have done better too. "And who all would have to die for Riona to be Queen of Dovia? Oswald and Prince Farilon, and then Prince Sparron and his sons? That's five right there, and that's assuming they don't breed any more than they already have. I'm a king, dammit--I should have at least one daughter with a crown on her head."

And no doubt feisty, impish Ramona who still laughed at fart jokes and couldn't stop fidgeting if she was bound in ice would be delighted that the honor had fallen to her? "By the way, when exactly were you planning on telling her?"

Almost immediately he regretted asking. Nothing good could come of the look in his father's eyes.

"Ietrin... will you recall that I prefaced this meeting by saying I needed a favor?"

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