Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

“No, my dear. I wouldn’t make a good candidate, even if I would make a good protector. I’ve alienated myself from many of the nobles of this realm through my marriage to my former husband. And I have no obvious connections to the common people, though I care about their plight deeply. No, I’m afraid I’m not the candidate we’re all looking for.”

  Mareth had been grateful to Lady Grey for her employment up to this point. It had been her intervention in Hoxteth’s office that had started this journey, and she’d stood by him over the past week, but it was beginning to grate how she was telling them things they already knew.

  “If you won’t stand, then, Lady Grey,” Mareth said, irritation showing in his voice, “where do you think we’re going to find someone noble born who’s going to turn their back on that? Because we’ve been looking hard and we can’t find anyone!”

  “Mareth,” she chided, “sometimes we forget to look in the most obvious places.” Once again, the smile was back on her lips as she focused her attention on the bard. “Tell me, can you think of a minor noble who might be involved with what could be considered a popular uprising?”

  Oh no, she can’t be serious.

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, my lady,” said Mareth.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I think you do yourself a disservice.” He noticed the others around the table looking at him confused, all except for Trypp, who looked like he was enjoying this exchange. Petra was staring at Mareth with questions in her eyes.

  “Mareth, what’s she talking about?” asked Petra.

  He sighed. “I’m a noble. A minor one. My father is Lord Tomas of Bollingsmead. As his third child, I’m officially of less worth to him than his favorite mare. My father thinks I’m a wastrel, and so, he’s hardly likely to pull strings to get other nobles to back me.”

  “That can all be managed, Mareth,” said Lady Grey. “What many care about first is the name you come with. We can build a story around the rest. And I’ve heard you can tell a very good story.”

  “Mareth, you never told me.” Petra withdrew her hand from his. She looked disappointed, which hurt like a punch in his gut. “But if this is all true, then why shouldn’t you stand? You told me you wanted to be at the center of the story. What better way? And we’ll all support you. I mean, we were already with you.”

  Mareth didn’t know what to say. She still believed in him, even though he hadn’t told her everything. Were they all following him? It might have been his original idea, but it was also as much Petra’s. And since the first meeting with the supervisors, he was pretty sure he had just been following directions from Alana and Jules.

  He had said he wanted to be at the center of things, but he’d given up the stories being about him. And for good reason. People he loved got hurt the last time.

  But he knew this was a once in a lifetime chance for Edland to be better. Seeing the look on the faces of his father and brother if he became lord protector would also be priceless. But, by Arloth, he didn’t want to fail again.

  Alana confirmed his thinking of who was really driving the cart by addressing Lady Grey while Mareth sat quietly, unsure what to do. “So, assuming he does this, we then have the candidate we need. Are you able to help us address our math problems?”

  “Yes. I’ll support you,” said Lady Grey. “I, too, have considered other options, and you have the best chance, even if it’s small. And so, I’ll finance the campaign so you can get organized in the districts. You can pay people something reasonable for the next few weeks of work. I can also lead the contacts with select nobles who can be swayed from their current positions or who have yet to decide. And I know all of the deals made by my husband with the wealthy merchants of the city. If we honor those, then we can likely count on their vote if enough see public support by the time we get to solstice.”

  “Lady Grey, can I ask you a question?” said Trypp. “Speaking as someone who’s had an annual vacation in a little town called revenge, I’m sensing there’s at least a small element here of wanting vengeance against Eden. Why not just buy an assassin to get back at him?”

  Lady Grey looked at Trypp, considering him and his question. “Yes, revenge is a motive here. Eden losing the election is not revenge enough. But the price for his assassination is too high, the guard around Eden is too big, security too strong. So, I need to wait until after the election, but if he wins and becomes lord protector, I can do nothing. So, the bitter part of my soul that wants revenge now has to first of all wait for him to lose the election. Then I can kill him, nice and slow as he deserves. But there’s still the other part of me, the part that stayed up for so many nights with my husband working out how we’d make this whole world a better place. That part knows we all deserve something much better.”

  Everyone deserved better. And everyone deserved a say. It might not work, but Mareth realized he had to give it a shot. What had changed since earlier in the day when he’d been talking from one supervisor to another? Nothing, that’s what. The same mission, the same goals, except now, maybe, they had a good candidate. Or, if not good, then at least different.

  “I should probably just drink the hemlock now and get all of the pain out of the way, but I’m in,” declared Mareth. “I’m in if you’re all with me, and you promise to help me avoid screwing it up too bad. I didn’t want this. This has been a team effort so far and it needs to be going forward.”

  There were nods, smiles, a smattering of applause, hugs and handshakes, and all vouched their support. And as a result, they were all responsible for dropping him into it, right up to his neck.

  Chapter 21

  Bartholomew

  The grey stone stairs descended through a torch-lit passageway, shadows dancing on the walls, their footsteps echoing loudly about them.

  Hoskin didn’t usually have a need to descend to the dungeons. It wasn’t his first time, but the occasion usually demanded a traitor of some significance to make the trek into that gloomy hell hole. Hoskin wasn’t exactly afraid of the dark—he loved to work late into the night in the library with nothing more than a single candle for light—but that was a comforting light, warm and personal, creating a little bubble in the dark for him and one of his beloved books.

  The dark here was different: a cold dark, a dark where creatures of the imagination could consume a person. He was taken back to a time just before his thirteenth birthday. His father was away from home attending the king, and he and his mother were at their estate when his Uncle Gerald came to stay. Gerald was a cavalry captain and had just returned from a fake war against the tribes of the Green Desert—initially to spend time with his sister, but he quickly bored of that, and so, he’d made it his mission to turn Hoskin into a fighter.

  Hoskin had given up drills with their sword master when he was eight—after two long years of bruises, cuts, and blows to his self-esteem—before his mother finally intervened to spare him further misery. But Uncle Gerald wanted to make a man of him, so it became day after day of Hoskin being humiliated by an adult in the castle courtyard. His uncle seemed immune to the words of his sister to stop, until Hoskin had broken down into a wet quivering lump, tears streaming down his face.

  The crying made his uncle snap, and he locked Hoskin in the damp cellars of the castle in the complete dark—for what seemed like days, but in reality, was only a few hours. Hoskin huddled in a corner, hugging his knees while he could hear rats scrabbling around in the dark, his eyes conjuring demons and dragons from the swirling colors he saw in the total black.

  Even when he’d been freed, and his uncle clapped in irons, his sleep had been disturbed for years to come. His father stripped his uncle of his rank and ordered two hundred lashes in punishment. Hoskin watched every lash, and when he saw his uncle cry, he knew for the first time his father loved him.

  A cough brought him back to the present. Oh yes, he’d picked up Percival on the way down, not wanting to delay this particular visit, but Percival insisted there were things he needed to discuss. “
Yes, Percival, please do go on.”

  “Lord Chancellor, I’ve been working my way through the records kept by Lord Hoxteth, and I must tell you, the financial situation doesn’t appear to be at all healthy. The reserves of gold in the palace are little, and it seems there haven’t been many taxes collected in the past two weeks. I additionally found that the crown owes money to bankers in Ioth, Carlburg, and Danteth. Oh yes, and it seems the royalty paid to Eden each month has been one of the driving causes of this financial calamity. We’ve become somewhat hand to mouth, it appears, my lord.”

  “Is it that bad?” he asked. “Hasn’t it always been that way?”

  “I don’t believe so, sir,” said Percival, brow furrowed. “I did give some thought this morning to looking for a new job, as I’m not sure you can pay my salary.”

  Hoskin stopped and looked closely at Percival.

  “I’m sorry, sir. That was supposed to be a little humor. I shan’t do it again.”

  They started walking once again, now through a long tunnel that would take them to the dungeons below the mountain. “The fundamental question, Percival, is do I need to do anything about it?” Hoskin put the emphasis on I in his question. “Do we have enough money for the next eleven days?”

  “I believe so, my lord.”

  “Then, in that case, let’s move on. Next topic.”

  “Lady Kingsley had a very intriguing audience last night,” read Percival from a new sheaf of parchment. “She called the merchants with charters for the various market houses in the city to her house after the fiasco of the strikes the day before. The good news is she did clarify she’d honor all existing charters, if elected. However, when they were having drinks afterward, she did manage to call one merchant from Ambrukhar a towel head, I believe. And she asked another merchant from Ioth, who was there with his husband, ‘Is everyone in that city a sissy?’ It seems Lady Kingsley may not be able to hold her gin.”

  “Well, that’s her out of contention, then. Not that she’s a quitter; she’ll hang on until the bitter end. What else? We’re getting close to my destination.”

  “One last item, Lord Chancellor. Lord Eden is inviting you to a ball in two days. Apparently, it’s going to be the social occasion of the year.”

  “Tell him to shove it, Percival. Politely, of course. Now, I think you should head back to the palace. I wouldn’t want to damage your delicate sensibilities with what you might see.”

  Hoskin was met at the dungeon door by a big man, who wouldn’t have looked out of place in the meat markets of Kingshold: rough brown clothes covered by a leather apron with many sharp gouges, pincers, and saws secured on a belt around his middle. His appearance was not that of a monster. He’d seen men like him walking in his ordinary course of life, but Bartholomew rarely saw daylight, choosing to live here in the dungeons.

  Without a word, Hoskin followed him to a small cell, door ajar, where, inside, a fat, oily naked man hung from iron chains secured to his wrists. He was bleeding from numerous cuts to his face and body, one eye badly swollen.

  “I took the liberty of warming him up for you, Lord Chancellor,” said Bartholomew.

  “Master Aebur,” said Hoskin. “I assume you’re enjoying the hospitality of our dungeons? I’m sure you can agree it’s much more pleasurable than being a head on a spike.”

  Aebur was silent, his eyes appearing slightly unfocused.

  “If you don’t talk, you’re of no use to me,” continued the lord chancellor. “In that case, I can easily have you dressed and sent back to our good wizard. Tell me, what is it Jyuth thinks you’ve done? After the king was dealt with, he said he’d give you the benefit of the doubt for something, but what was it?”

  “I-I don’t know what to tell you,” wheezed Aebur. “I’m a loyal servant.”

  “Not good enough.” Hoskin turned his back on the spymaster and waved his hand to Bartholomew. From behind Hoskin came the repeated sound of fist on flesh and groans of agony. After a few minutes, Hoskin said, “That will be enough for now.”

  “I’ll ask one more time,” Hoskin said to Aebur’s face. “I’m a busy man, and I can’t stay down here all day watching you foul yourself. Now tell me, why does Jyuth want you dead?”

  “I-I don’t know, my lord. I swear.”

  “Master Aebur, this saddens me greatly. I’m not a cruel man. I could say this hurts me, more than it hurts you, but I don’t think that would be true, and I want to set you a good example about how to be honest. I’ll be back tomorrow, and I hope you have more to say. Bartholomew, it looks like our guest might be a little cold. Maybe you should light a fire?”

  The next morning, Percival skipped alongside Hoskin as he walked quickly to the dungeons. “Percival, why are these tunnels lit with torches when we have oil lamps throughout the rest of the palace?” asked the chancellor.

  “I believe it’s for mood, my lord,” said Percival without a hint of irony. “My lord, I have some other matters to discuss.”

  “Everything is urgent,” Hoskin said wearily.

  “No, sir, there are many things I just handle myself.”

  Hoskin stopped and looked at his secretary. “Really? Like what?”

  “Just this morning, I’ve already approved Sir Penshead’s request to double the shifts for the city guard in the Inner Core in response to the increased levels of protests against each of the candidates. And I asked the commander of the customs guard to step up duty collection once more given our cash flow situation.”

  “Good…very good. So, what’s important enough for me actually to hear about?”

  “Well, Lord Jyuth is asking how the questioning is proceeding.”

  “Tell him it’s going swimmingly. Aebur is having the time of his life. Next.”

  “I’ve received reports from a number of sources that groups of common people are organizing to be able to buy a demon. To vote, sir. It appears the unofficial district supervisors are part of this scheme, but there are others who are leading the organizing. Should I have Sir Penshead stop this?”

  “Interesting,” said Hoskin, mulling on this turn of events. What harm could it do? And would they even be able to do it successfully? Getting a thousand crowns would be a challenge for anyone, and who would they trust to not run off with it instead of heading to Jyuth? “No, let them carry on. I’m sure they’ll lose interest soon. Next.”

  “One last thing, my lord,” said Percival, shuffling to his final page of notes. “High Priestess Teresa is asking how the Church of Arloth should prepare for the coronation of the new lord protector.”

  “Coronation? They aren’t going to be king or queen. What about that don’t they understand? I can only imagine how it rankles her that the new protector is going to be named by a six-inch pink pyxie instead of Arloth anointing a new monarch,” he said, shaking his head. “But it’s a good point, Percival. We should probably prepare for some celebration after the announcement of the new lord protector. At least Jyuth chose the solstice, so it’s already a festival. Please give it some thought.”

  “Yes, my lord, of course. Do you have anything for me?”

  “No, Percival, I’ll see you later.”

  Hoskin opened the dungeon door himself, the thing thick, heavy and made of oak with a barred window set in the middle. There were no locks on the door other than a deadbolt on the inside. Guests of Bartholomew weren’t usually able to walk out under their own steam, so keeping them inside wasn’t a concern.

  His nose wrinkled at the smell of burnt hair and barbecued meat that wafted through the corridor from the open cell door as a scream ripped through the silence. Hoskin was light-footed, reaching the doorway unnoticed, where he peeked his head around the frame so he could compose himself before going in.

  It wouldn’t do to vomit in front of the man being tortured.

  He saw Aebur hanging in the same place as the day before, but now long, red, angry marks covered his torso and legs, the wounds weeping. He took a moment to compose himself before stepping
around the corner and into the room, the heat of the brazier assaulting him, the iron pokers sticking out of it giving it the look of an infernal hedgehog.

  “Good morning, Bartholomew. How is our guest today?”

  “Good morning, m’lud,” said Bartholomew, smiling. Now here was a man who enjoyed his work. “I think you were right that he was cold yesterday because the fire has helped our friend be a lot more comfortable about sharing.”

  “That’s good news. What do you think he’d like to talk about?”

  “He has answers to them questions from yesterday now, m’lud. Don’t yer! Wake up!” Bartholomew pushed at the spymaster’s fat belly with the iron poker in his hand. The end was not red anymore, but by the faint sizzle, it was still hot. Aebur’s eyes opened wide, and he screamed again. The torturer kept pushing the end of the poker into the naked man’s gut.

  “Aaargh…I’ll say…I’ll say why Jyuth has suspected me; just stop, please.” Aebur was sobbing and sniveling, and the words came out in a flood in between wet snorts.

  “Go ahead, then, Master Aebur. I’m all ears,” said Hoskin, regarding the captive. Aebur was less smarmy in his current position than usual. In the past, Hoskin could tell that Aebur always valued what was left unsaid, what someone didn’t know, but he did. Now, it was in his interests to make Hoskin believe he was telling everything.

  “I was just following orders, I swear. I was doing what the king wanted. The king and queen. They liked to have others join them in their bedroom. At the beginning, it was all simple enough. I was helping them by bringing the odd whore into the palace. I’d bring her, or him, in through a secret passageway from the Inner Circle. It carried on for a year or so, and then they wanted to be more lavish and more discreet than being in the palace where you and others might hear something. So, they had me buy the house that had the secret passageway. And then they wanted it to be like their own private zoo, whores of every race and color from all over the world for them and their friends.”