“They tolerate these new inventions at the moment,” Randwick admitted, “but only grudgingly. I think only because they know how much dissent they’ll create amongst farmers and factory hands alike who would lose so much now if machines were taken away. It’s difficult to take something back once given, and there’s always bad feeling afterward. I know De Lisle has spoken to your father at least twice about limiting the use of machines throughout the kingdom, but the king didn’t seem to think he was all that serious. The Brotherhood’s biding its time at the moment, perhaps hoping everything will settle down, but they’ll not stand for a moment if they think their authority is being questioned.”
“But machines do threaten them! A machine can perform the same duty in the same way every single time… day in, day out…” Charleroi continued along her original train of thought, opening her mind to new ideas now as they came thick and fast. “Machines don’t need prayers to provide service, and that service isn’t dependent on the benevolence of a god. A ‘believer’ in machines… in science… has no need for other gods, and if the people no longer need gods, then neither do those who rule them.”
“There is so much of your mother and father in you…” Randwick said softly, turning to stare down at her as pride filled him as never before.
“I never knew her…” Charleroi whispered, the sadness in her voice born of emptiness rather than a sense of loss.
“I had that honour…” Randwick declared softly, lowering his head out of respect for The Queen’s memory, “and so wise and beautiful a woman I’ve never seen, before or since… save for one…”
The Princess opened her mouth as if to speak, realised what her mentor had meant by that last statement, then decided instead to remain silent, turning modestly away to hide the reddening of her cheeks.
“I think we should go, Your Highness,” he added quickly, glancing back inside at the clock inside once more. “Your father will be expecting to see you…”
“Am I presentable, good sir?” She asked nervously, suddenly very concerned she mightn’t be dressed well enough for an official audience.
“I’m no judge, Milady, as you’re always perfection to me,” he replied gallantly, giving another flourishing bow, “but I’ll warrant Matron would never have left you for me to take to court if she’d not thought you dressed properly.”
He took a step back and regarded her with a critical eye for the first time. Clothed in a long, flowing dress of pale blue silk adorned with intricate lace patterning, and with her dark hair tied and gathered in tresses at her back, she looked every bit a noblewoman of royal lineage.
“The courtiers may be struck dumb upon first laying eyes on you, Princess,” he suggested impishly, “so I’d wear your tiara to remind them of their place… but otherwise, a picture of grace and beauty.”
“Your gallantry is a credit to you, sir,” she acknowledged playfully, almost drunk on the endorphins of flattery as she executed a curtsey in response. “Will you do me the honour of escorting me to the Longhouse?”
“The honour is all mine, Your Highness…”
The actual proceedings were terribly boring, with Charleroi spending most of her time watching quietly from an upper viewing chamber, seated alone in the front row of a small cluster of padded seats set at a second-storey level that overlooked the main hall below. There were a number of such chambers along each wall, their express purpose to provide comfortable seating for guests and nobles to look on from a discrete distance as affairs of state were discussed below. She’d barely had time to say hello to her father before they’d begun – no more than a single kiss on the cheek, a hug and a kind word before he bade her retire to the chamber in which she now sat to simply ‘observe’.
She watched her father now as he sat at the head of a cluster of curved tables, assembled in the centre of the room to form a great ring with dozens of seats positioned about its outer circumference. Directly opposite the throne, a narrow opening between the tables allowed passage, and custom held that whether there were two present or two hundred, anyone addressing the royal party would stand, bow to the king, then enter that ring of tables and stand at its centre to make their case.
Most of the ceiling, which stood three floors above the hall itself, was comprised of stained glass fixed into iron frames. The design produced a stunning effect of decorative illumination that sent beams of multi-coloured light across all four walls surrounding that circular table, and set into each wall, large fireplace also spat and crackled as piles of thick logs burned atop glowing embers. Paired guards with swords at their belts stood at each entrance – of which there was one in each of the four walls – and in several of the empty audience chambers on Charleroi’s level, she noted with interest that one or two of the king’s elite archers were also lounging quietly in the semi-darkness, able to watch over the whole show without appearing too obtrusive.
Phaesus had ruled Huon for just six months, having been forced prematurely into the role after the murder of his older brother, Rizal at the hand of an unknown assassin. There’d been only one ruler likely to have ordered such a killing and in earlier times, war between Huon and the Blacklands would’ve been a certainty after such an act. Phaesus IV however was a ruler with very different ideas to those of his brother and father before him, and in spite of great personal grief he’d pushed ahead with a softer approach with the hope of a better future.
Alliances forged with the Crowedans and the Westerland, followed by similar agreements with Swales and the Sun Empire soon after, had gone a long way toward laying the groundwork for this final treaty with Huon’s only remaining enemy. The Osterlands as a whole was tired of the almost constant conflict that had engulfed it for more than two generations, and although Huon still suffered the occasional raid from Westerland pirates on occasion, tensions had generally eased across the entire continent.
It was this very real opportunity for lasting peace that made this final accord so important. The only remaining enemy – ever Huon’s greatest and most dangerous – was Harald the Black, his kingdom twice the size and able to muster a similarly greater number of men. Three times in a generation, The Blackwatch had landed on Huon soil, only to be beaten back and defeated by the effectiveness of the Huon war fleet in destroying supply and halting invasions on the beaches themselves.
It stood to reason however that this good fortune couldn’t last forever and Phaesus was now working hard to secure a final, binding treaty with the men of the Blacklands that had eluded his predecessors throughout their reigns; the very same one they’d all come to Burnii now to settle so that once and for all, there could finally be peace throughout the whole of the Osterlands.
The real ceremonies were yet to come. King Harald and his entourage were due to arrive within days, at which time there’d be much rejoicing and celebration at the completion of this last step toward lasting peace. Yet as always, a king’s work was never done and there were a multitude of far less interesting yet no less important matters of state that required consideration, whether the king held court at Cadle or anywhere else.
Discussions went on for hours. Charleroi couldn’t tell exactly how long, for the only clock in the room was positioned well below and outside her line of sight where the king could see it, however servants had brought a tray of bread and meat at one point, suggesting it had been close enough to dinner time. What she did know was that it was incredibly boring, sitting up and not really listening as a procession of nobles and wealthy guildsmen bleated on about minor issues affecting their own, tiny little worlds.
Each had sat patiently, waiting for a turn to present his case, and Phaesus listened intently to each and every one, nodding here and there, passing soft comment or asking the occasional short but pointed question before handing down his royal verdict, everything recorded by the royal scribe that always sat at the king’s left hand, scribbling away in his own coded, scratch-like scrawling as he recorded every word and detail of what had transpired.
&n
bsp; Randwick sat at the king’s right, one of just a handful of the king’s trusted advisors present that evening. Her father had also grown up under Randwick’s mentorship and it was no surprise that the king at times still sought the counsel and support of one of his most trusted men. The princess understood how important it was for him to be down there at that moment, but it also meant that she was left all alone, and she definitely wasn’t enjoying it as the third guildsman in a row droned on about how vagrant boggans had been breaking into his factories, stealing his wares and vandalising his new machinery.
As that too came to an end, Phaesus paused the proceedings for just long enough to have a quiet word with Randwick, the two whispering together for just a few seconds before the older man nodded once, rose from his seat and bowed deeply as he took his leave. He moved directly for the nearest door and slipped through quickly as a guard held it open for him. Down below, Phaesus continued on with the next order of business without a second thought.
Randwick stepped through the small door at the rear of her audience chamber a moment later, and she rose to meet him, happy to finally have company.
“Your father sends his apologies regarding the standard of discussion this evening and tasks me to send you away to bed,” he advised immediately, disappointment showing on her face as she realised that he meant for her to go alone.
“You’re not to escort me?”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness… the king needs me back downstairs: there are important matters yet to be discussed before this night’s done.”
“So I’m to find my way back all alone…” she grumped, making a statement rather than asking a question.
“Aye, if y’ so choose…” he replied with a smirk, not falling for her feigned indignance for a moment, “or I can call one o’ the courtiers to show you the way. Might take a while to find one at this time o’ night, but you’ve nowhere else to go, after all…”
“You’re mean…!” She observed, fighting a smile of her own and not at all looking forward to the idea of listening to any more talk of trade deals and petty vandalism. “Don’t bother… I can find my own way back.”
“Straight down these steps…” he advised helpfully, turning back toward the stairs he’d just climbed beyond the open doorway, “…then take a right, head straight down the end of the corridor, another right, then up two flights of stairs and your chambers are right there on the left. Can you remember all that?”
“Of course…!” She frowned, already struggling to commit his rapid-fire directions to memory but not about to admit defeat. “You just go off and do whatever it is that you must…”
“Believe me, Princess…” he confided honestly with a grimace, once more refusing to take the bait of her attempt at sympathy. “If I were given a choice, I’d take being your escort over sitting in on this drivel any time, but the king commands and I must obey…” he added ruefully. “And so must you! Away with you, now, or I’ll have the scruffiest guard I can find take you instead.”
“Eww…!” She bleated softly, mostly sure he was joking but not willing to risk it as she slipped past him and made her way down the stairs at a good pace.
“To the right…!” He called helpfully, only to be met with a faint squeal of exasperation as the princess reached the bottom, veered right as instructed and disappeared from view.
Of course, she’d gotten lost. It had taken all of perhaps ten minutes to realise that fact as Charleroi rounded a hallway corner and came face to face with the same painting of a rider on horseback she’d now seen three times. Steeling herself against a powerful desire to loudly and rudely verbalise her frustration and embarrassment, she turned and stalked slowly back the way she’d come, attempting to backtrack to a point where she once more recognised her surroundings in the maze of rooms and corridors that filled the spaces around that great, central hall.
There was no way she could safely seek help from anyone else. Word was certain to get back to Randwick, and she’d never hear the end of it: it just wouldn’t do! There was nothing for it but to soldier on, suffer in silence, and find her way back to her chambers alone, even if it took all night. She was still on the second floor and as she passed a wide set of stairs leading both up and down, she paused for a moment to gather her wits, collect her bearings and try to decide which way she needed to go next. Downstairs again, she decided, to find her starting point and begin again from scratch.
It was at that point, halfway down and leaning on the thick, wooden bannister, that she heard voices below accompanied by the clatter of many footsteps as whoever it was made their way along the long corridor at the bottom of the stairs. She considered for a moment whether she should bite the bullet and ask for directions, but her pride was too great and it also dawned on her in that moment that there seemed to be a lot of people down there… certainly more in one place than one might expect, so late into the evening.
Curiosity got the better of her then, and rather than show herself or withdraw, Charleroi instead decided to creep carefully down to the landing between floors, crouch down behind the corner of the balustrade and peer around it, silently observing the scene that was unfolding below.
De Lisle was of exceptionally poor mood as he stalked along the corridors about the Great Meeting Hall, followed as usual by a half-dozen lesser brothers; his own personal collection of customary retainers, social-climbers and hangers-on of a generic type that invariably gravitated toward men of power. It was within his power to dismiss all of them… even have them tortured and executed, should he have so desired… yet as much as the idea appealed on occasion, he generally refrained from ordering such brutal activity. Those aspiring to greater things were often better kept close where they could be observed, rather than allowed to hide dark places where plots and conspiracies grew faster than mushrooms ever could.
It was true – at the moment, at least – that none would dare challenge him while he held direct counsel with The Shard, however all things were subject to change and even a cardinal could still grow old, become infirm… or choke on a thimbleful of poison, slipped into his cocoa on a cold, winter’s eve. De Lisle’s position came with its own set of challenges (and an official food taster), but he mostly enjoyed his duties and he definitely enjoyed the comforts, perks and luxuries that came with them (his taster, perhaps less so…).
It was however the cardinal’s firm belief that The Brotherhood currently faced the greatest threat to its existence he’d ever encountered. While that frightened him more than a little, in a way he was also glad that this perceived crisis had come while he was still in charge. The world they currently knew might’ve been doomed, had its fate rested with some inexperienced successor, whereas De Lisle, concerned as he was, was nevertheless supremely confident in his own ability to successfully guide The Brotherhood through the current crisis.
“Silas…!” He barked sharply, halting without warning and causing some of his posse to collide awkwardly with each other rather than sign their own death sentence by bumping into him instead.
“Your Grace…?”
Quisitor Silas wasn’t one of the cardinal’s usual entourage, but he was rarely out of earshot when travelling in Huon and always managed to appear when De Lisle called, seemingly almost of thin air on occasion… which even the cardinal sometimes found a little disturbing.
Short and frail enough to be described as wizened, Silas was one of The Brotherhood oldest members, yet rather than seek power for himself, he’d instead carved out a niche for himself both as Chief Quisitor and as one of De Lisle’s most indispensable movers and shakers. Pinched features, watery eyes and a laughable pair of pince-nez spectacles were excellent camouflage for a sharp, calculating and exceptionally cruel mind, and it was the very fact that Silas had never shown any ambition for further advancement that made him so perfect as an assistant and confidant.
“Send word to Furphy and Connor immediately that the audience with the king went about as well as was to be expected – which is to
say ‘badly’ – and confirm they’re to proceed as planned.”
“Of course, Your Grace…” Brother Silas nodded immediately, making a clear mental note for later.
“Any word on the witch…?”
“Nothing yet I’m afraid, Your Grace…” he replied immediately, with less enthusiasm. The news over the last forty-eight hours hadn’t been good, and he knew how much had been riding on the success of that particular operation. “I have Brother Trabant holding direct communion through The Shard as we speak, awaiting any further developments. As soon as our brothers in the Blacklands know more, we too shall be informed.”
“See to it…” De Lisle suggested coldly, neither man at all concerned that extended direct communication with The Shard might eventually destroy Brother Trabant’s less experienced mind. “We need to deal with this before she falls into the wrong hands: we cannot allow that to happen.”
“Our men are clear in their orders, Your Grace… they will not fail you.”
“And Gregor…?”
“Already done, Your Grace… word of his incompetence will not spread. What of the other one?” Silas added eagerly, a dark smile flickering momentarily across his lips. “She’s still being held at the Welshport temple. Is she also to be disposed of?”
“She’s to be kept alive for the time being,” De Lisle countered with a shake of his head, frowning as he noted the dark disappointment that showed in Silas’ face at that moment. “Those are orders direct from The Shard, so you can forget any designs you may have in that regard… for the time being, at least…” he added eventually, thinking that perhaps it never hurt to keep one’s hopes alive. “Although it may be of some use to question her regarding the other one,” the cardinal decided suddenly, changing his mind. “You can take care of that personally. Have her thrown on the fastest ship you can find and meet them at Long Hop… from there, whatever means you use to extract information is at your discretion, so long as she’s not badly damaged…”
Dragonfire Page 22
