“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.