Master of the Kingdom Ch. 09

On the palace grounds, in the building known only as the Old Keep, were the chambers of the Royal Council. A spacious, octagonal room, with each wall devoted to displaying art and heraldry from each of the eight provinces of the Kingdom of Allore. Opposite each other, there were two doorways, with the door intended for the King's advisors set in the wall of Odeon, the wealthy coastal province said to be the beating heart of the kingdom. The other doorway, for the royal family's exclusive use, was set into the wall of the royal province of Gracia.

In the centre was a polished wooden table, also octagonal, designed in proportion with the room that housed it. Around that were eight seats, each decorated with the heraldry of the office that the seat was intended for. There were five men seated around that table who rose respectfully for King Roland when he entered. When Adeline followed, obediently walking a few paces behind, some of the men glanced at each other, with a mix of surprise and confusion.

Adeline smirked to herself as she stepped to one side to wait at her King's right shoulder. He still smelled faintly of the sweat and sex of His newest toys that He had played with after His morning meeting with Bishop Mathys. Adeline herself was wearing a long, grey dress with drooping bell sleeves and a almost scandalously short skirt that ended just above her knees, gathered at her waist with a white leather belt. She wore a variation of her usual hat, a white version that matched her clothing. This new clothing had been arranged by her King, and it sent a delightful shiver up her spine to think about how He had dressed her to His liking like a doll.

So much had changed for Adeline in two days. It was impossible for her to think about the woman she used to be. That was all before her King had claimed her as His own, a process that someone both reduced and elevated the witch, rendered her self worth down to nothing but an object even as she felt exalted as His personal property. Now she could hardly relate to that small, greedy creature who had sought to reduce her beloved King to a mere puppet.

"Gentlemen, you may be seated," the allowed with a grand gesture after taking a seat himself. There a brief scraping of chairs and rustling of cloth before the King smiled at them all. "I know our council is woefully incomplete today, but all the same I'd like to-"

"Where is my heir, you goddamn monster!?" demanded the fat Lord Amrien as he pounded the table with a closed fist. Carved into his chair, above his head, was the scale and coins that marked him as the Royal Treasurer. His place was on the opposite end of the large table from the King- but also directly in the King's view. It was ever difficult for the least favoured council member to pass secret notes or messages.

"Please, Your Grace, we require answers," spoke Lord Daulton from beneath the crossed sword and shield of the Lord Commander. He was an older, greying bear of a man, tall and broad who had managed to resist growing soft in body in his old age. "Lord Amrien here had quite the disturbing story to share with us this morning."

"Did he, now?" King Roland replied. "My lords, I should have you know that since our last meeting it has come to my attention that certain men and women of high standing in this realm have been conspiring against me. Last night I have engaged the Veronomigan Guard to arrest those responsible, and take hostages from those I had thought to spare. That is why Lord Oculi has been forced to vacate his position as High Justice of the Realm, and why I have taken in Lady Desiree and her young son into my custody."

Daulton and Lord Baltoy, the aging Grand Admiral, exchanged a brief glance. "Lord Amrien has also accused you of rape against Lady Desiree," Lord Daulton continued.

"Shall I drag her out, then, and we have the truth from her?" The King shook his head. "I am disappointed in you, Lord Amrien. I had thought to extend you mercy, that you might learn from your mistakes and serve me as you had served my father. Now I see that was a mistake. Adeline, fetch the guard."

"Of course, Your Grace," Adeline said smoothly. She had palmed a small silver bell for this purpose, and now revealed it as if snatching it from thin air. A small thing, not magic in the strictest sense, but part of the theatre that maintained her reputation. She rang it with a flick of her finger, drawing forth a cold, clear chime. No guards would come, of course, to such a small summons, but this was again all part of the theatre. What her Master needed most was the threat of arrest.

Almost immediately, Lord Daulton stood. "You overstep yourself, Your Grace. Having a councilman arrested while we are in session, for making accusations against you? No, it shall not be done. I will not have it! Come, Pierrot, we shall have to escort Lord Amrien to safety."

Baltoy, hearing his personal name used so casually, sat up, startled. "Ah... yes, quite. Of course, Tristien, you have my sword."

Lord Daulton glared at King Roland as the three men prepared to leave. "Send your giants, if you dare. There will be consequences for this. You have refreshed the ranks of the Royal Army. Let's see how fifty barbarians compare to a thousand trained soldiers."

The King merely replied with a tight smile, and simply watched with cold, unblinking eyes as the lords fled the council chambers.

Under the symbol of a ledger and quill, Lord Daverigne, the High Steward, a young and vital boyhood friend of the King, coughed. "Well, that was quite a performance."

"You should have seen Daulton when he came to me with these charges," Lord Cyriaque, the slender and foppish Royal File, chuckled when he leaned back in his chair, "He was prepared for a fight even then. Kept complaining about our beloved king being a 'debauched, greedy, useless emperor just like they had in the Old Empire'. I had to remind him 'twas the barbarians that sacked the old capital, not the royal family."

King Roland stretched and sat back in his chair as well. "I am insulted," he said dryly, "I take great exception to being called useless."

The three men shared hearty laugh at that. Adeline smiled, and fetched the carafe a servant had left on the sideboard and began handing out goblets of wine, ensuring that Cyriaque received his first. Only when the poet had helped himself to a sip did she hand her King his wine.

"A toast, gentlemen, to keeping the rats of uncertain loyalty and will from our hallowed chambers," the King proposed.

"A toast, and gladly, Roland," Daverigne replied, clinking his goblet against the King's, "And a further toast as well to your new pet. I hardly knew what to believe when you said the witch would be eating out of your hand."

Adeline found herself blushing as the Royal File shared in their toast, an immature, girlish feeling that felt strange to her after all these years. Whether she was ashamed or happy that her Master had been bragging about his conquest, she could not tell, but that did not stop her from daintily helping herself to a seat on the arm of the King's chair. If being a pet pleased her King, then she had to try her best. In response, her King wrapped an arm around her hips and began idly stroking her leg, a sensation that sent a shiver up her spine.

"Well, we have much to discuss," King Roland said, drawing the meeting to order.

"I should say so," Cyriaque replied, with a small grin, "I hope you have some genius stratagem to getting us out of this mess. I took the liberty of having swift horses on standby, just in case this meeting did not go as well as you hoped, Your Grace."

"Do you think I'd have put the House Guards of Nessane, Amrien, and Oculi in the Royal Army wholesale, and put hundreds of swords in the hands of someone I suspected of having uncertain loyalty?" the King waved the question away. "Even now, their officers, pockets heavy with gold, should be seeking out Daulton's loyalists and putting them to the sword. Even if they fail in this task, the army will be in chaos, with wounded men and dead commanders, and Daulton should not be able to rally them to threaten us before the royal guard can arrest him."

Daverigne frowned deeply. "Is that wise, Your Grace? We have less than half a council, and no army beyond your handful of barbarian giants, and you've been spending the royal treasury freely."

"'Tis a dicey situation to be sure, but I am confident we will be fine," the King said confidently. "Lord Amrien was our unknowing Judas Goat, leading the uncertain elements of this council to slaughter. I had already sent for his replacement a week ago. Our new Royal Treasurer, Lord Yames should be here within a day or two."

Now it was Cyriaque and Daverigne's opportunity to share a doubtful glance. "Lord Yames," Cyriaque replied, "The same Lord Yames who, when you were Royal Treasurer, you discovered was embezzling taxes to fuel his orgies and feasts for his inner circle."

"Did the old man pass away, and we're speaking of his son?" Daverigne asked, incredulous.

"No, the fat old bastard lives still," King Roland explained, "And to my knowledge he has no sons of his noble line, although doubtless a heaping helping of less metaphorical bastards. Understand this, my friends, that he has been able to get away with his crimes for decades under my father. Lord Amrien may be a useful idiot for his envy but he wasn't incompetent as Treasurer. Lord Yames was able to fool the surveyors and assessors, provide the throne it's due on top of increasing incomes in Odeon such that he was able to embezzle to his heart's content without catching attention from the throne or having his people rise against him. As far as I'm concerned, some so adept with discovering opportunities for corruption and agile with his ledgers is exactly the kind of man I want in charge of the Treasury."

Daverigne looked absolutely gobsmacked. "Roland, you know I'm your oldest friend, I hope. So please understand when I say this... but putting a known criminal in charge of the Treasury is madness. We'll be robbed blind!"

"Consider this, Daverigne," the King explained carefully, "I don't care if he robs me, so long as the royal incomes increase, the people stay complacent and I have money enough for all my designs. I ask you, what better beast to send after a wolf than a wolfhound? With Lord Yames as Treasurer, every rich man and noble house altering their books or keeping a few extra coins on the side will tremble in fear of this giant of their craft being unleashed against them." He shrugged his royal shoulders and concluded, "If Lord Yames ends up with a bigger orgy, why would I care so long as the throne gets it's due and my work can be done?"

Silence reigned for a moment, until Cyriaque, visibly impressed, began applauding the King.

Daverigne sighed at the court poet. "All right, my objection is withdrawn. What of the other positions on the council?"

"An admiral will have to wait, as there are more pressing concerns and the royal province is landlocked anyway," the King allowed, "But for High Justice I was going to appoint Lord Nicaise, when I have time."

"Lord Nicaise," Daverigne rubbing his forehead, "The famed writer of comedies."

"Yes. Have you read his work? Such an surgical skewering of the flaws in my father's rule ought to make for some insightful comments on our legal code."

"Lord Nicaise, the unapologetic pagan."

"That, too," The King replied, "I have His Eminence the Bishop suitably in hand that that shouldn't cause issue with Her Holiness the Papess."

"So, who then, do you plan to appoint to be the head of your army, then?" Daverigne said, with a wave of his hand, "Surely there's a loyal and capable general who fucks goats? A cunning tactician who eats wild mushrooms and believes himself to be the return of Solomon?"

"For now, the head of my Veronomigan Guard will suffice, until a suitable replacement for Lord Daulton can be found." For once the king seemed somewhat doubtful.

"Actually, Your Grace, if I may," Cyriaque interjected, "If your cunning Royal Mind has not yet decided, I may in fact know just the captain for you. And it so happens I've asked him and his closest, most trusted officers to find something else to do while Lord Daulton's coup plays out."

"Is that so?" the King replied, his face darkening as he turns his gaze, now growing fierce, to the poet, "You betray my trust easily, Lord Cyriaque."

"Now, now, Your Grace, please hear me out," the poet gestured plaintively, "We all know Lord Daulton to be a proud and inspiring man, the very embodiment of piety and honour. But what if I told you of a different man, one stifled by his command, singled out for his... unconventional opinions but a staid and potent enough man to have the respect of his subordinates and the lesser soldiery at large? A man who has a chip on his shoulder for the good Lord Daulton, yet was honourable enough to not abandon his duty in the face of such a rival?"

The King was quiet for a time, considering. "Very well, I'll meet this man of yours. But this arrangement better not have tipped my hand, or else."

"I understand, Your Grace. Please, if you don't mind, I will withdraw and make the arrangements for you to meet this eve."

King Roland nodded, and the slender poet rose, paid his respects and left the chamber.

"Cunning little rabbit, isn't he?" the King asked once he knew the Royal File was away.

"You don't trust him, Roland?" Daverigne asked.

"I don't trust anyone," King Roland replied, "But if Lord Daulton has his way and reinstates my father as his puppet, or simply takes the throne for himself? A man like that would not serve as Royal File, to be replaced with some dour secretary or dry historian. Cyriaque came from the provinces, entertained my mother, won a seat on the council with flowery words, and cannot survive this situation without me. We shall see if he proves useful. And perhaps, with this captain of his, he might."

"It is a little dismaying to hear that you do not trust even me, Your Grace."

"Well, what of your younger sisters, Philippe?" answered the King smoothly, "I wouldn't expect, nor want, you to remain faithful to me if their lives are under threat. So to hold your loyalty as absolute as possible, we would have to make a nation where that cannot happen, no?"

Daverigne frowned as the King went on, doubtless at first wondering if his old friend was trying to make some kind of veiled threat. But then, as the King's intention became clear, he chuckled. "You seem to have an answer for everything, Roland."

"Good. Then you'll become my Chancellor?"

Daverigne blinked in surprise. "There hasn't been a Chancellor for over a hundred years. You expect to go campaigning, now? With an army of... fifty? Why would you need a man to act in your stead?"

"I need a man who isn't afraid to question my judgment, to act as my right hand and highest advisor. I need a man of sufficient skepticism and moral fibre to help me corral and get the most use of this gallery of rogues I'm assembling." The King snorted, then shrugged. "You are the only man I can rely upon for this service, Philippe."

Daverigne looked away. "I'll consider it, Your Majesty."

The King nodded. "Very good. I hope you'll accept. Please be present tonight, when Cyriaque returns with this soldier of his," he said as he dismissed Daverigne with a wave of his hand.

The other man stood, and offered the King a bow. "Are you certain that this will work, Roland? A, what did you call it, a 'gallery of rogues' to run the nation? With nary a reputable or honourable person among them?"

"I intend to complete great works in my life, thus I must value ability over all else," King Roland said thoughtfully, "Great kings of old did not blanch over their subordinates' foibles so long as those subordinates completed their tasks and got the job done. Perhaps there is some one in a million person of brilliance and moral fibre and intense loyalty in this country, but more likely we will find people who are only strong in one of these areas of three. Loyalty can be earned, criminality can be satisfied, but I have no time to teach or have someone taught, so ability must rule my choices. And given the choice between two men of similar ability, I would err on the one whose dark reputation is known, over the person who might sin greatly but hide it successfully."

Daverigne nodded. "I thought you may say something like that. Be sure that your wings don't burn, flying too close to the sun, Your Grace."

"Thank you, Philippe. With your help, I'm sure we can make this work."

The High Steward bowed once more and withdrew.

King Roland sighed heavily. Fearful that she might be overstepping her bounds as his property, but wanting to comfort her Master, Adeline hesitantly reached out and began stroking the King's hair.

At first her King flinched away, casting Adeline a suspicious glance. So sensitive to the mood of her Master, Adeline drew her hand back as if she was burned, only for the King to seize her wrist. "No, you may... offer comfort, witch," her King murmured.

And so, the witch ran her hands through her Master's thick, curly hair, the tips of her nails delicately trailing over his scalp. She could feel her Master's neck muscle relax, his head tilting in the direction of her hand.

"I can't believe that just yesterday you were trying to turn me into a puppet king, and now here I am letting you comfort me as though you were a young love," the King said with a sardonic chuckle.

"I am your property to do with as you wish, Master," Adeline replied, "What happened before I emerged from that haze of lust yesterday afternoon, I barely remember. It seems as thought it happened to another person."

She could recall being claimed by her Master in her laboratory, and afterwards being engulfed by some... sensation. A kind of low, animalistic longing that clouded her mind so she was adrift in sensation. She could do nothing but follow her Master's orders, numbly answering his questions to the best of her ability in that barely-aware state, not unlike a cow being lead around by the farmer's goad. When she regained some faculty and awareness that night, it was in the back of her Master's carriage, with a passel of His other toys, all of whom were, to different degrees, in states similar to her own.

The one thing she was certain of was that King Roland was her Master, and that He owned her, body, mind and soul. What pleased Him pleased her, and she would die for Him if He commanded it, even if she had to wield the blade herself. To do otherwise felt mad, irrational, even aberrant. She belonged to Him, was an object to be used as He saw fit. Every year of her long life was just the mindless wanderings of a lost sheep before He took control of her.

The King hadn't responded to her, indulging in the simple pleasure of having his hair stroked. But now, he broke into her reminisces, simply stating, "Here we are, at the beginning of something great, and it feels as though everything hangs on a knife edge."

"Great men are made by great challenges, Master," Adeline replied. She read that in a book, once. Did her Master give her permission to read? Some of her memories were so confused, it was hard to say what had happened and when.

Her King chuckled again. "An empty platitude. But I don't suppose you have much else rattling around in that empty head of yours, now, do you?"

"No, Master," she replied, "I only think of the things you tell me to." That was true, in a way. She said it in hopes it would please, but her Master's orders had a way of focusing things, at least.

"Still, some of your suggestions today were good. Especially that bit with the bell. Good girl."

Adeline's cheeks flushed once again as the pure pleasure of having been praised by her Master filled her. "I am happy to have pleased You," she replied, shifting her weight and lifting her long legs over the council table so she could slither down into her Master's lap. Her arms snaked around his shoulders, and she coyly nuzzled at his neck. Part of her was ashamed at this behaviour, being so nakedly affectionate to this man, but it was stifled by the warm glowing feeling that penetrated her mind from the intimacy.