Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  “I appreciate your opinion, Jyuth,” Hoskin broke the silence. “A smaller field is probably called for. I only hope there are not any further candidates winnowed from this room, seeing as we have still two candidates remaining at the table. I don’t want to lose any more of you, as finding competent, temporary replacements isn’t easy. But that does bring me to the next point. Who are we going to have fill our empty chair?”

  “Well, Lord Chancellor, I believe Lord Ginwood and Lady Halton are both competent in running their lands and have good connections with the banking houses. Both would be quite suitable,” said Ridgton. Predictable. As far as Ridgton was concerned, any role had to be filled by someone of nobility, even if they weren’t sure which hand they should use to wipe their backside.

  “A fine proposal, sir. But I’m afraid they’re at their holdings. By the time we would have a bird fly with a message and expect them back, I fear there would only be a week before the election is called. That hardly seems worth it. Is there anyone who is in the city right now?”

  “My lord, what about considering Lord Eden?” drawled Aebur. Every word from him seemed to ooze out of his mouth, sending shivers up Hoskin’s spine. “He does have considerable wealth. In fact, I think he’s already a lender to the crown.”

  “Ahem,” Jyuth cleared his throat, “you said the crown. Just to be clear, the crown doesn’t exist. What that means for the debt of the prior administration, I think, is for others than me to decide.”

  “Yes, good point,” said Hoskin, nodding to Jyuth, but looking to bring the conversation back to the point he wished to solve. “I don’t believe it’s appropriate for Lord Eden to take on the role. Already I have Lord Uthridge and Sir Penshead here not focused on their vital jobs for the realm. I don’t need another case of that, especially for the one person who keeps the gold flowing and the wheels turning. No. We need someone else to do the job.”

  A few seconds of silence stretched out; Hoskin scanned the faces of the council members. It looked like Uthridge was about to say something, so Hoskin carried on talking. “No other suggestions from you either, I see. Good. So, I propose Percival; my assistant will fulfill the technical aspects of the role on my behalf, and of course, he’ll then transition to the new permanent appointment after the solstice. I assure you he’s very competent. Any concerns? No. Settled then. Now, let’s move on.”

  “As we discussed a few weeks ago, my contacts in Ioth have confirmed the contract between Pyrfew and the shipwrights of the city.” Aebur spoke without referring to the sheaf of papers on the table in front of him as he provided his weekly intelligence briefings to the council. “Work on the fleet is well underway. It’s apparent that eighty warships of varying classes have been commissioned and are currently under construction.”

  “Eighty ships!” Ridgton looked aghast. “That’s twice again their current fleet and will make for a bigger force than our own. Lords, our command of the Arz Sea will be tested if this fleet takes to the open waters.”

  “I bow to your assessment, my lord,” fawned Aebur. “My sources tell me that for a construction effort of this size, the fleet isn’t expected to be ready for another two months to sail to Pyrfew.”

  “It’s only a matter of time. I’d expect the Ioth shipwrights will sail them with a skeleton crew for delivery, but they’ll have an escort. We have to destroy them before they’re crewed and deployed.” Ridgton was animated, clearly concerned.

  “What are the options, Admiral?” said Hoskin.

  “We could attack on the open seas, but that’ll require fighting whatever escort Pyrfew uses. Alternatively, we can destroy the ships in the yards before the escort arrives. I’ve received no reports of an escort from Pyrfew currently sailing. They’ll probably wait to leave until the ships are ready. With the typical summer winds, it’ll be two weeks to sail from Kingshold to Ioth.”

  “So, we can conceivably wait two or three weeks before deciding a course of action?”

  “Yes, we could do, Lord Hoskin,” Ridgton begrudgingly agreed, “but the time for action is now. Are you afraid of making a decision?”

  Hoskin felt his cheeks grow warm. The admiral would never have spoken to the king in this way, and he could feel the eyes of the other privy council members on him. He was damned if he was going to let this one bully him.

  “Lord Admiral, I’m neither king nor lord protector. My job is that of caretaker, to ensure there’s something to hand over to the next poor unfortunate soul who has to look after this realm.” Hoskin held Ridgton’s gaze. “Be assured, if action was required now, then I would choose. But I will not unnecessarily commit Edland to open war with Pyrfew or raid a neutral city like Ioth, which, may I remind you, is an important trading partner for us. I’d suggest you ready plans for both courses of action, and also consider alternatives, so we’re ready to respond. And Aebur, I expect daily briefings on this situation going forward.”

  The lord and the spymaster both nodded, Ridgton visibly bridling at having to take direction from Hoskin. He knew the admiral saw him as simply an administrator, who knew nothing of the matters of war. “Anything else to report, Aebur?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Hoskin, I’d like to say something to our spymaster.”

  Hoskin was taken aback for a moment. That sounded like Jyuth asking for permission. Hoskin gave him a small nod to continue.

  “Aebur, I know you have your eyes in the city, and that’s what you need to fulfill your responsibilities. But let me remind you, those responsibilities are for the protection of the realm. I don’t want to hear of you meddling in this election. You hear me?”

  “Of course, my lord Jyuth. I had no intention to do anything of the sort.” The spymaster’s face was devoid of expression, but Hoskin didn’t sense sincerity in his words. He was going to keep an eye on him; he didn’t need Aebur to have delusions of being a kingmaker.

  “Anything else to report, gentlemen?” asked Hoskin, his patience for this meeting at an end and wanting to get on with the day.

  “I have one more thing,” said Ridgton. “It may be trifling, but could have an impact on trade over the coming months. The summer fogs from the north are coming earlier than we’ve ever remembered. They’re already further south than last year. If they continue at that pace over the next month, then they could reach Kingshold and the mouth to the Sapphire Sea. Commercial ships will be impacted by longer journey times. And, of course, pirates like the fog. We’ve never seen anything like it, nor have any records of anything similar.”

  “You may not have records, Ridgton,” said Jyuth, “but I’ve seen it happen a handful of summers, the last time probably close to a hundred years ago. The streets of Kingshold cloaked in fog for a week. Makes your life complicated, too, Penshead; folks can get up to a lot when you can’t see further than the end of your fingertips. I thought I had worked out the pattern for when it happened. I guess my calculations must have been off…”

  “Thank you, Uthridge,” said Hoskin, letting Jyuth’s reference to his age pass once more. He’d have to discuss that with him at some point. “That’s valuable information. I’ll be sure our merchants’ guild is aware of this information. I expect they’ll be able to turn it into a profitable opportunity somehow. I call this council adjourned.”

  “Hoskin, a word please.”

  The lord chancellor was next to last to leave the privy council chamber. Only Jyuth remained sitting. Lord Hoskin closed the door to the room, resumed his seat, and forced a smile.

  “Yes, Lord Jyuth. How can I help?”

  “I wanted you to know I think you’re doing a good job.”

  Hoskin nearly fell off his chair at the unexpected praise.

  “It looks like you’ve realized most of the council is worthless for you to do your job. Worthless, or in the case of Aebur, to be treated with caution.”

  “I know you have misgivings about him, my lord. Can you share them with me?”

  “I’m afraid not, Hoskin. If they�
�re proven unfounded, then you’d know something; it’s best you didn’t know.” The wizard leaned back in his chair, appraising Hoskin in silence. “Have you considered standing for lord protector? It would be refreshing to have someone guide the kingdom who is both capable and not power mad.”

  Once again, Hoskin was flabbergasted. “My lord, I don’t think so. I’m not well-liked amongst the nobility. And with Hoxteth’s death, Eden probably has a third of them in his pocket already, the rest split between the other five candidates. I wouldn’t be able to overtake Eden.”

  “Well, now there are only four other candidates. Lady Orlan has withdrawn for fear of a knife in the dark. But don’t overestimate the impact of the votes cast only by nobility. More pyxies are in the hands of the merchants and non-noble landowners now than nobles. Granted, I’m sure a number of other nobles are planning on traveling here before the solstice. How many votes do you estimate will be cast?”

  “From the tax rolls, we estimated around one hundred and fifty. Two-thirds of them nobles.”

  “Your estimate is logical, but who tells the tax collector the truth?” Jyuth laughed at his own joke. “You’ll be surprised, Hoskin, at the coin circulating in the shadows of the city. The nobles will be relevant, but I think this vote will be driven by more than just the Inner City.”

  “Well, thank you for the vote of confidence, my lord. But I don’t have any intention to run. I’m actually looking forward to being done with Kingshold and going back to my family. Some quiet time to write my histories.”

  “I understand, Hoskin. This place does wear you down,” said Jyuth, deflating for a moment. “But you remind me, I’ve seen you in the library a fair deal recently. Very commendable. Could I ask a favor of you, Hoskin? Could you find a book called The Trials of Bethel?”

  Hoskin didn’t realize he had now become the royal librarian, too, but thought better of arguing the point. He could get Percival to do it, of course.

  “Are you referring to Queen Bethel the Red? I don’t recall seeing that book before, but I will find it if we have it.”

  “Thank you. Very much appreciated.” Jyuth got up from his chair and walked toward the door before turning with a big smile visible through his beard. “And keep up the not-fucking-it-up!”

  Chapter 15

  News Travels Fast

  The sun rose above the city as Dolph and Mareth walked through the streets of the Middle back toward the Floral Gate and the Royal Oak.

  Mareth knew Petra would be starting work there by the time he returned; the blonde-haired vision from the night he met Gonal was a new serving girl for Jules, who worked the late shift. He remembered thinking she was besotted with him when they met; though he now recognized he might have had that backward.

  Each evening that week, Mareth had performed in a different inn in the Upper Circle; The Ballad of the Tin Man joined by other new songs like Who Judges Us, about Lord Fiske, and Can You Tell Me The Way To The Battle, a comic song about the lord general. The crowds had been steadily growing. Mareth would see familiar faces night after night, young nobles even singing along now.

  Each night, after finishing, they went to the Hub or the Middle and played through the night for throngs that would likely never see the money needed to vote in their lifetime, but Mareth found their engagement invigorating. The citizens wanted Hoxteth to win. They wanted someone who started off as one of their own in the palace, even though he was now a lord.

  And though it was the early morning, Mareth walked through the streets without stumbling, no need for Dolph to hold him up. Mareth had rediscovered his original addiction, the adulation of the audience, and it had greatly reduced his booze consumption. And like every morning for the past week, he had walked back to the Royal Oak where he now had a room using Hoxteth’s money; it was important for him to appear reputable now. Like most days, Mareth’s stomach was in knots about seeing Petra again, and if he was honest with himself, Petra might also have had something to do with his new choice of home.

  He knew Petra liked him.

  Or he liked to reassure himself that was the case. Each morning, she would greet him as he entered and seat him at a table while she brought a breakfast of fried bread and black pudding. Petra would always sit with him while he ate, interested in the stories of the night before and how the people reacted to the songs.

  At least she would until Jules told her to get up and back to work.

  He liked to watch her move around the common room going about her business. She had such grace—her lithe body clothed in a simple green dress (which brought out the green in her eyes) with a white apron, talking to the tradesmen who came to eat before the day ahead. Laughing at their jokes, maybe touching their arms to make them feel welcome.

  Mareth reassured himself Petra really did like him.

  He really should make sure.

  He needed to write the poems that had been circling his mind since he met her.

  Dolph walked side-by-side with Mareth, matching his stride and scanning their surroundings for signs of trouble. Mareth had to admit he had become bearable, perhaps even a reassuring presence. He gave thanks Dolph wasn’t a talker. The performances each night would leave him energized, but also spent, and so, he was glad of the silence while they walked.

  Mareth walked tall, feeling good he was doing something of value. Not simply a historian viewing this time of change for Edland with detachment, but being involved, changing people’s minds.

  And he realized for the first time in many years, in truth, since his friends had died, that he was having fun.

  They were approaching the Red Gate, but turned to avoid the Lance and the shops that were beginning to open, heading through less busy streets. Some people recognized Mareth as they walked by, and they’d sing a line or two of Hold My Cock (no need to explain who that one was about) or The Tin Man, which brought a smile to his face and stoked the rekindled love he had for the city.

  Maybe there would be a brighter day for all?

  Dolph lightly grabbed his arm and whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Don’t look. But we’re being followed.”

  He couldn’t help himself; without thinking, he turned and saw three rough-looking men walking twenty paces away from them.

  “I said don’t look! And there are three more in front. Is the sword just for show?” asked Dolph, nodding to the saber Mareth wore at his belt. He had been encouraged to wear a sword to complete his new costume, like a troubadour of old, and so, he’d dug out his old saber and oiled away the rust.

  “Oi! You!” The lead thug of the three in front was an ugly lump of meat, only half of his left ear remaining, the top half looking like it had been chewed off. “You! You’re that bard. Haven’t you given up? Haven’t you heard the news?”

  The three in front and the three behind stopped about ten feet away from Dolph and Mareth. Calmly stepping to the wall, Mareth lent his mandolin against it. No point in it getting damaged if there was going to be trouble. And it looked like there was going to be trouble. He and Dolph were outnumbered. Mareth hoped he’d remember which end of the sword to hold.

  “I think you must be thinking of someone else,” replied Mareth, keeping it civil. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “Nah, you’re the one,” said Half Ear. “You’re the one who’s been singing all those songs about everyone except Hoxteth. So everyone knows you work for him. Or at least you did. Ha ha ha.” And the other thugs laughed along with him.

  As far as Mareth was concerned, Half Ear wasn’t making any sense. What did he know? “Who do you work for? Do you know them, Dolph?”

  Dolph had turned to have his back face the wall so he could see both groups, but he shook his head in response.

  “That’s none of your concern, bard. All that’s important is our boss is alive, and yours got a knife in the brain last night.” The thug was enjoying himself, goading his prey while he had his thug friends with him. “I’m sure that’s very saddening for you, so here’s
the deal. We’re either going to cave in your skull, or you can promise to stop the singing, and we’ll just give you a good hiding to help you remember.”

  “He’s dead?” Mareth asked in shock. Hoxteth was meant to be lord protector. “He’s dead…” Mareth considered the news, steel forming in his belly from who knows where. “Here’s my answer, and you can tell Eden this, too. Fuck. You.”

  And he drew his sword. Dolph already had his long sword in hand and wordlessly moved to cover the left. In front of Mareth were Half Ear, Nail (his weapon of choice being a club with nails driven through the end), and Shortarse (five feet tall, but nasty looking). Half Ear had a sword; the rest of his crew had clubs of various sizes, but he still waved them forward first.

  The years of inactivity, slouching by tavern fires and at bars, slipped away from Mareth. He found himself back in his adventuring days. Living by his wits, fighting side-by-side with his friends, always looking for the next song. It made him feel good!

  He breathed in deeply. For many, what would follow would be a war cry or a shriek, but when he fought, Mareth sang. The thugs momentarily looked confused as he belted out the Battle Song of the Clayborne.

  Shortarse came in first and swung at his head, which Mareth ducked easily and returned a vicious cut to the thigh, putting his assailant on his backside. Ha! One vanquished!

  Mareth felt his blood rising as the excitement and the song seeped deep into his bones.

  Nail came in jabbing with his club, looking to rake him with the rusty nails at the end, but he batted off the blows. Half Ear raised his sword and took an uncultured swing at Mareth’s arm. He had to pivot and parry the blow, but Nail was able to hit him in the back, the wind knocked out of him in a rush and sending him forward into Half Ear.

  Half Ear wasn’t expecting it. It took him by surprise as much as Mareth, and the pair ended up in a heap on the ground. Mareth untangled himself from the scramble and picked up the song again at the chorus, readying for Half Ear to come at him with his sword. But he saw his saber had gone through Half Ear’s gut when they collided, and now the thug was bleeding out on the street, a look of horror on his face as he tried to hold the blood in.