Douglas Niles - Lord of the Rose

Yet so much of the city had sprung back to life under his leadership! All around was evidence of his success. Sometimes, though, he felt it was all too much. Too many things needed his attention, nothing worked properly without his direct involvement.

A guard in gleaming golden armor and scarlet tunic pulled open the door and mutely, probably even unconsciously, invited the prince back to his responsibilities. The regent held his head high as he stalked past the man into the lofty room.

The great chamber managed to be ornate and sterile at the same time. Sunlight poured through the windows, illuminating the relief works etched onto the two dozen columns, reflecting from the bronzed engravings lining the interior walls. Even so, he immediately felt as if he had entered a realm of shadow. The air was cool here, and now for some reason he shivered, though it was early summer and the day was balmy even at this morning hour.

“I have the maps displayed in the planning room, Excellency,” noted Baron Dekage, his aide de camp. “Together with the dispatches that arrived overnight.”

“Dispatches? More than one? What is it now?”

“I am afraid the squabble between the realms on the western shore continues to escalate. Word arrived by pigeon last night, after you had retired, sir, regarding Coastlund’s claim that the fishing fleets of the south and Vinlund are encroaching upon Costian waters. This morning, shortly after dawn, a ship arrived at the docks, bearing word from a captain of the Southlund fishers. He says his comrades were attacked by Costian galleys. Boats have been burned and crews left to roast or drown.”

“By Joli-how dare they play around with war! Do they know that the Princess Selinda was just sailing through those very waters?” snapped the regent. “By all the gods, if they so much as fired an arrow in my daughter’s direction, I’ll hang them all from the topmasts without so much as a by-your-leave!”

He went to a sideboard, poured a glass of cold water, and drank it. It was no good-the acid churning in his stomach continued unabated. “Who is my admiral in Caergoth, again?” he demanded crossly.

“That would be Lord Marrett,” Dekage replied. “He took command this spring.”

“Oh, yes, Marrett.” The regent didn’t recall much about the man-it was a routine promotion that had been necessary to appease the Duke of Caergoth-something involving in-laws of the recently married duke-but Lord Marrett would have to be ordered to sea. That would require a series of authorizations, issuances, and provisionings that would take half a day just to organize. Damn it! He was expecting quarterly reports tomorrow night and had been counting on these last two days to steel himself for the strain. There were always problems with the books, missing inventories from the iron mines and coal shipments, details that would inevitably cost time and money to resolve.

Now, he had extra work to do.

“Er, my lord… there is another thing,” Dekage said hesitantly.

“What? Spit it out, man!”

“Patriarch Hower begs an audience. He is waiting outside.”

“Very well then, send him in-and leave us alone.”

Seconds later the aged priest, master of the temple of Shinare in Palanthas, came in and bowed humbly before the Lord Regent. He was a rotund bald man, clad in a robe of shimmering gold. He mopped his pate nervously as du Chagne fixed him with a glare.

“What is it, old fellow? I have a lot to do today.”

“Begging my lord’s pardon-I must speak with you about the temple in Caergoth. It is the matter of the young patriarch, Issel. I fear, my lord, that he has offended some of the elders. I have received no less that four complaints during the last week. I know that young Issel was your personal selection for the post, and the man suggests great potential, but perhaps it is too soon for-”

“Have the collections suffered?” interrupted the lord regent curtly.

“No, my lord. If anything, the donations have increased slightly since Issel’s arrival two months ago.”

“Then tell these complaining priests that I am satisfied with the new patriarch. Furthermore, tell them that, if they continue to complain, I shall require you to share their names with me.”

“My lord!” gasped the priest. “That would confound the sanctity of our order’s sacred bond!”

“Nevertheless, do as I say. Tell them.”

“Very well, my lord,” replied the chubby patriarch, deflated in his gilded robe. He withdrew swiftly and silently, while the aide de camp returned to introduce more business.

“It is regarding the duke’s conference to be convened in Caergoth next week. Princess Selinda is due to arrive in the next few days, depending on the vagaries of wind and tide, of course-”

“Yes, I know, I know. I fret for her, but she insisted upon going. The matter was out of my hands, and of course, there are a thousand-no, a million-things I need to attend to here! Matters of commerce, of taxation-of income and debt! Besides, my daughter will serve well as my representative at the conference.”

“Er, I understand that, lord. I am certain the Lady Selinda will do a more than creditable job in your stead. No, my lord, the problem is the other two dukes. Both Thelgaard and Solanthus have sent missives in the last few hours, begging your lordship’s pardon and pleading that they have been detained. Each will be several days late in arriving for the conference.”

“By the gods!” The lord mayor’s face flushed, his voice cracked. “This is an insult to my station, my very self! How dare they?”

“Begging my lord’s pardon, since you sent your daughter to the conference to represent you, the insult-a potent one, to be sure-is directed at your delegated representative and is therefore not, technically, a wrong directed at your own august personage.”

“Bah,” he said, stroking his beardless double chin, blinking. “Are they acting in concert, conspiring against me?”

“No, rather I suspect that neither of them cares to arrive first, but both are equally concerned about arriving second. The second would have to honor the first by being present at the moment of his arrival,” the baron suggested. “The Duke of Thelgaard claims that his wife is ill and will not be ready to travel for several days. You recall her, lord… she is rather elderly, and in poor health.”

“That sick cow!” snapped du Chagne loudly. He felt a little better after the outburst. “Why doesn’t he come without her? What about Solanthus? Sure he’s not complaining of a sick wife! Why, if that slut were any healthier, Rathskell wouldn’t be able to walk!”

“Er, yes, lord, and no.” The aide de camp couldn’t help but blush-the wedding of the Duke of Solanthus to a much younger woman had been a scandal in Solamnia just the year before. “No, he claims that he cannot afford to leave his holdings, just now. A matter of revenues uncollected, I believe. I suspect it is his attempt to influence trade in Garnet.”

“Failures of revenue?” The lord mayor was outraged. “Why, he’s a rich as any three gods! He has the Stones of Garnet in his treasury, by Shinare’s sake! Well, never mind. I know how to hit him where it hurts!”

Du Chagne paced back and forth before his great windows, his heart pounding, his face flushed from his agitation.

“So the whole conference is delayed, for days, perhaps a fortnight, because of these stuffed up gamecocks?” he fumed. “I know just the thing to take them down a few pegs! Thwart my conference, will they? Dekage, take a letter.”

“Aye, my lord.” The baron hastened to the writing desk, drew out scrolls, quills, an inkwell and blotter. “I am ready, my lord.”

“Address two sheets, identical letters. The first: To His Excellency, Duke Jarrod of Thelgaard, Lord of the Crown, Keeper of the Great Plain, Heir to the Throne of the White Swan, etcetera, etcetera. Good, got that? The other copy should be addressed to His Excellency, Duke Rathskell of Solanthus, Lord of the Sword, Master of the Garnet Spur, Inheritor of the Silver Blade, Guardian of the Solamnic Code, etcetera, etcetera.”