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.