“You left a note for the thieves’ guild? What did it say?”
“Just that these horses are my animals and that they might want to reconsider taking them.”
Albert and Hadrian exchanged looks of bewilderment.
“They know me. We have an arrangement. They leave me alone … and I leave them alone.”
“You leave them alone?” Albert said in a mocking tone.
Royce smiled at him—not a friendly smile. Then he searched his pack and pulled out a small bit of parchment.
“What does it say?” Albert asked.
“Please accept our apologies for this inconvenience,” Royce recited, then chuckled before finishing. “The bitch didn’t know.”
Royce held up the parchment and in a loud voice said, “Accepted.”
Albert nervously looked at the trees around them. “They’re here?”
“They’re watching to see what I’ll do.”
“And what will you do?” Hadrian asked.
Royce looked at Albert. “I think I’ll try fishing in a bigger pond, now that I have better bait. Shall we ride to Medford?”
The viscount looked back in the direction of the barn and then down at his filth-covered nightshirt. He nodded.
“You can ride with me,” Hadrian said as he swung his leg over the saddle. Then addressing his friend he said, “Well, I hope you learned your lesson.”
Royce raised an eyebrow. “Me?” He untied his horse and climbed on.
“You said the world is a cold, ruthless place.”
“It is.”
“You also said Albert would die from starvation in that barn—that no one would help him.” He smiled broadly and reached out to the viscount. “Care for a hand up, Albert?”
“I’m only helping him for the profit he can—”
“Doesn’t matter. You were wrong.”
“I was not. I—”
“Even if you’re doing it for selfish reasons, you’re still helping to save his life. It just goes to show that good can come from helping a stranger, and it proves that the world isn’t so bad after all.”
Royce scowled. He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped and scowled again. Finally he just raised his hood and kicked his horse into a trot.
“I’ll make a human being out of him yet,” Hadrian said to Albert as they trotted off.
CHAPTER 3
THE COUNCIL OF AMRATH
The chair was a problem. Amrath Essendon could sit a horse for two days straight and feel fine, but five minutes in a chair left him miserable. He was unaccustomed to being still. The best days of his life had been spent with a sword in his hand and blood on his face. As king of a peaceful realm, he had few good days. Most were like this one. Locked in a gray room, trapped in a stiff chair, and surrounded by powerful men—men he couldn’t trust.
Percy Braga was speaking again. Amrath could tell as much by the movement of his lace cuffs as by the drone of his voice. The new chancellor had a habit of gesturing too much and using too many words. Bad upbringing and excessive education ruined the brain for thinking. Pity, as he was an exceptional fighter. Even his conversational gestures betrayed his training with a blade. His balanced steps and wrist movements reminded Amrath of his best friend, Leo Pickering. While both were accomplished swordsmen, the king did not care for their fighting style—too much finesse. Such delicacy might look impressive in a Wintertide contest, but on a blood-soaked battlefield, Amrath would rather have an axe.
“As a result, we could see another flare-up in the trade war with Warric,” Braga was saying. “We have reason to believe that Chadwick will most certainly raise their import tax. Glouston might follow—they have been known to. If that happens, we will lose one hundred tenents for every two we make.”
“And all this is because of the church?” King Amrath lay more than sat in his chair, drooping like so much wax facing heat.
“It is because of the pressure they are applying in retaliation for you not adopting many of their policies here in Melengar. The church feels that—”
“Don’t talk to me about the bloody church,” Amrath growled. “That’s all I hear now. I’m tired of it.”
“Maybe you should take a nap, Your Majesty,” Simon Exeter said, “and leave the task of running the kingdom to those of us with a mind to do so.”
Amrath focused his glare on Lord Exeter. If there was an image for trouble, he was looking at it. Even his choice of insisting on wearing the black and white colors of a sheriff’s uniform was designed to provoke—to remind everyone of his office as high constable. What bothered the king the most was that Simon was his cousin and their families’ resemblance was strong. But Simon was not an axe, nor a rapier like Leo and Braga. Simon was a broadsword, and a sharp one at that.
The king had expected an outburst from him. This was the first formal meeting since the appointment of the new chancellor, and Amrath was surprised it took Simon this long. All the Lords of Exeter had been hard men. It was in their blood and the reason why they had always been chosen to defend East March. They made for ruthless guard dogs, but such an animal needed a firm hand lest it turn on its master. Amrath leaned forward so that his bushy beard brushed the table. “You want to try and put me to bed, Simon? Think you’re man enough, do you?”
Simon allowed himself a smile before saying, “My point, Your Majesty, is that you need to be more concerned than you are of an Imperialist church turning your friendly neighbors into our enemies. Today it is an escalating trade war. Tomorrow there will be troops marching over the Gateway Bridge—very pious, very faithful troops no doubt, but just as intent on melting that crown of yours.”
“I’m well aware of the possible dangers the church poses,” the king said.
“All evidence to the contrary.” Simon glared not at the king but at the chancellor.
Braga stiffened. “I can’t say I care for your implication.”
“And I can’t say I care for you, Lord Chancellor.”
“That’s enough, Simon,” Count Pickering snapped.
Good old Leo. Amrath found himself smiling at his friend.
Leo Pickering was the only face in the room Amrath trusted. The only one he could drink with and not worry how drunk he got. They had been friends since boyhood. In their youth they had nearly started a war with Glouston but in the end had won the hand of the fair Lady Belinda Lanaklin for Leo. Those were the days. Amrath had a knack for getting them in trouble, and it always fell to Leo to get them out. Even in the council room his friend was still watching Amrath’s back, still his king’s ever-ready sword.
Simon turned to Leo with an expression of surprise that may have been authentic. “You of all people should side with me. The chain of chancellor should have gone to one of us—to me by virtue of lineage or to you by the king’s favoritism.”
Leo rose to his feet, but Simon gestured for him to sit down. “No need to take offense. I’m not insulting you—not this time. Granted, I would have objected had His Majesty appointed you to the chancery rather than me, and I would have used your friendship with the king against you. But I would kiss your boots and personally place the chain of state on your shoulders rather than accept this import from southern Maranon—this third son of a wanting earl—as our chancellor.”
“Lord Exeter!” Lord Valin exclaimed. The old revered warrior slammed his fist on the table before him.
This did nothing to deter Simon. “The man was a Seret Knight.”
“We know that, Simon,” Amrath said. His voice tired of repeating. “We knew that before he arrived. We knew it last week when you complained then.”
“But did you also know he applied to be a sentinel? My recent investigations uncovered that little secret just yesterday.”
Serets were the martial branch of the Nyphron Church, generally disliked by all except the most devout, as their claimed jurisdiction had no boundaries. Kings suffered their intrusion and tribunal judgments of their citizenry or faced sanctions imposed by the church
. Sentinels, on the other hand, were despised, hated, and feared by everyone, including monarchs and even ranking church officials. They were the high officers of the seret army—only a handful ever appointed—and all known to be fanatics. Legend held that a sentinel once charged a king with heresy. No one dared to interfere when the sentinel carried out the death sentence by burning the king in the center of his own city. Likely it was only a fable, but the church never denied it.
“It that true?” Amrath asked Braga.
Heads turned toward the chancellor.
“As Lord Exeter has so clearly pointed out,” Braga replied, “I am the third son of an earl. The church is the preferred refuge when you have no part to play in extending your family’s lineage, and my skills did not match those required for the priesthood. Being a knight of the Nyphron Church was one of the few options that suited my abilities. Seeking to be chief among them is merely the result of my desire to excel.”
“But a sentinel is more than just a senior position,” Simon explained. “The sentinel’s sworn duty—besides keeping the faith pure—is to locate the descendant of the old imperial empire and return him to power. Such an event would require all the kings—including His Majesty—to be stripped of their crowns.” Simon turned to Amrath. “And yet this is the man you chose to put in the kingdom’s highest office. A man who actively sought the job of destroying your throne.”
“Are you accusing me of treason?” Braga asked.
Simon sneered, an expression complemented by his goat’s beard and the way he wore his hair pulled back.
“Careful, Simon,” Leo warned. “You’re about to be challenged to a duel you can’t win.”
Braga glared at Lord Exeter. “I will not stand here and—”
“You will do as you’re commanded by your king—both of you.” Amrath stood up, as did everyone else. He let his voice drop to a growl, which along with his size, beard, and prowess at wrestling had earned him the nickname of the Bear. He wanted the argument to end. After a day of debate, his head was hurting. He paused a moment to see if any fight remained in either. In their silence, he resumed his seat. “I think I’ve had enough for one day. Braga and Leo remain. The rest of you … I’ll see you at the party.”
“I was right about Exeter,” Amrath said.
He was out of his chair now that there was only Braga and Leo. As monarch, whenever he rose so did everyone else, which was one of the reasons he felt trapped by the chair. But Leo ignored formality when the rest were gone, and Braga never sat. He was a strange man, darker skinned than most and possessing the thick black hair common to a southern native from Maranon. They were almost as dark as Calians down that way, especially along the coast. Braga was swarthy, handsome, and always moving. Just watching him tired the king. By contrast Leo was relaxed and comfortable. He rocked back in his seat and put his feet on the table, boots clicking to a tune in his head. Dear Maribor, how he loved Leo. Amrath would have gone insane by now if not for that man.
“Are you speaking to me or Percy?” Leo asked.
“Both of you.”
“He wants my job,” Braga said.
“If only that were the case,” Amrath replied. “The problem is that he wants my job. He just can’t figure a way to get it. You’re just this season’s target.”
“Should I resign? It’s not like I have been in this position long. I’ve hardly—”
“No!” Amrath and Leo responded together.
“But Lord Exeter made a good point.” Braga motioned toward Leo. “Count Pickering holds your confidence. He should be chancellor.”
Amrath gazed out the window. He often wandered the room without thought or pattern but always found himself at the window, drawn by the fresh air and open sky. “That’s not possible. You see, that’s the problem with Simon—though he can be a piss pot, he’s also usually right. It’s what makes him such a problem.” Outside, the king spotted the apple merchant, wheeling his cart out the main gate and returning to Gentry Square. What must life be like for such a man? A man with no worries or concerns. A man whose cousins don’t conspire against him? “So, yes, I would love to make Leo chancellor, but I can’t because, as Simon pointed out, there is the little issue of favoritism. Everyone knows we’re close. Leo holds the wealthiest province in Melengar, and we aren’t related, not even by marriage. If I gave him an office, the nobles would—” Amrath threw his hands up in a frustration that he lacked words to express. Being king was supposed to mean—should mean—that he could do as he wished. The truth of the matter was that his life was just a little short of imprisoned servitude to power-hungry nobles. The emperor of the ancient Novronian Empire had it easy—he was a god and ruled without reproach. “Why, I can’t even name him treasurer or keeper of the privy seal, much less chancellor!”
“So why didn’t you name Lord Exeter as chancellor? He is your cousin and, unless I’m wrong, next in line to the throne after your own children, yes?”
Leo chuckled. “You’re absolutely right.”
“Two reasons,” Amrath said, turning and bending back a finger. “First is his obsessive hatred of Imperialists. The man thinks that anyone who believes in the Heir of Novron or supports the Nyphron Church is his mortal enemy. Being a reigning king, I’d like to see this fantasy of a restored empire fade away, too, and a man with Exeter’s views is good to have around. My forefathers waged wars to make Melengar a free and independent kingdom. My crown was won by spilling rivers of blood, and the idea that the Imperialists will one day find the lost heir and everyone will just take a knee to him is … well, it’s offensive, damn it! The church continues to promote this poisonous myth. Now it appears Warric is slipping into their twisted mentality. And if the most powerful kingdom in Avryn can succumb to this insanity, anyone can. Fact is, I agree with Simon. I just can’t afford to make enemies of Clovis or his son.”
“And the other?” Braga asked.
“The other what?” The king looked back and forth between the two.
“The other reason you can’t appoint Simon as chancellor,” Leo reminded him.
“Oh.” The king presented Braga with a wry smile. “Because I hate him. That’s why he’s such a pain. He really can’t get in any worse with his king. So he needles me and revels in his position of being one of the most powerful and disliked nobles in the realm. Worst thing about it is,” Amrath grumbled as he looked back out the window, “if I were to get into a scuffle with Warric, there are no two men I’d rather have at my side than Leo and Simon. It’s true that he hates me. Nothing personal—he just hates everyone, really. I’ve never met a more disagreeable codpiece. But he loves the kingdom. And while he may be misguided, arrogant, and ambitious beyond reason, he’s also tireless in his efforts to keep Melengar safe. That is why I appointed him lord high constable. I imagine there was a mass exodus of thieves and cutthroats the day of that announcement. But don’t worry, once you get to know Simon better, you’ll learn to truly despise him the way Leo and I do.”
“I’m just not certain I’m right for this job,” Braga said. “I’m not native to the kingdom, and as he said, I was a knight of the Church of Nyphron.”
“Which, if you take politics out of it, is a true achievement,” Leo pointed out. “The seret’s reputation for excellence is well known.”
“Still, I’ve only been here a year—”
“Percy,” the king said in a gentle voice. “When you married Clare, you became family.”
“Blood is thicker than paper,” Braga challenged.
“You’re assuming Simon has blood. We haven’t yet determined if he even has a heart,” Leo said. “But you’re right, and while I find you more appealing than Lord Exeter, it is because of his lineage that I, and the rest of the nobles, would back him should something happen to the Bear and his family.” Leo made a show of shivering. “Stay healthy, Your Majesty.”
The king smirked. “Yeah, that’s why I won’t die, because I don’t wish to inconvenience you.”
“I
’ll take that as a promise.”
Braga looked down at the chain as if it had gained weight.
“If Clare had lived, at least…” Braga began. An awkward pause followed.
Clare had been Amrath’s sister-in-law, the aging second daughter of Llewellyn Ethelred, Duke of Rise. The duke had taken too long finding her a proper husband and at the death of her father she asked to live with her sister Queen Ann in Melengar. Amrath could only guess at the state of the court in Aquesta that a granddaughter of the reigning king would choose to flee her own home for a neighboring kingdom. Amrath and Ann were happy to take her in, as she was a gentle soul. A bit bookish, living in exile, and over the age of thirty, they all expected her to remain unwed. Everyone thought she would grow old as the kindly spinster aunt to the royal children, but then Bishop Saldur introduced her to Percy Braga and everything changed. Clare found the dashing young swordsman charming. For months he and Ann commented at Clare’s brimming smile.
“She loved you very much, and I never saw her happier than the day you took the oath of office. She believed in you, and so do I.” Amrath left the window and clapped his big hand on Braga’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “You’re the only one for the job, Percy. I wouldn’t dare give Simon any more power. And I can’t give it to Leo. Being from Maranon actually has its benefits. Singling out any other noble would cause divisions and launch rumors that could lead to bigger problems than just a bruised ego. You have no ties, no known bias. You’ll be called to pass judgment over all of them in the chancery, to make laws and keep the rolls. And only a man with no affiliation can successfully do that.”
“Yes,” Leo put in, “only a man as equally despised as you can hope to be effective as chancellor of our unruly mob of nobles. In that way you’re Simon’s equal. Being a source of universal hatred, you are free to act as your conscience dictates.”
“Wonderful,” Braga said, but managed a smile.
Amrath clapped him soundly on the back, staggering the smaller man forward a step.
“Is it really true?” Leo asked. “Did you actually apply to be a sentinel?”
Riyria Chronicles 02 - The Rose and the Thorn Page 5
