Joel Shepherd - Petrodor

Right on the southern edge of North Pier, the temple was always surrounded by a cacophony of activity. The new father, Father Recheldi, was a decent enough man, quieter and less well loved than Father Berin, but perhaps that would change in time. He had returned five days before from the grand mass to elect a new archbishop, and had had little to say about the process, save to shrug and murmur, “Time will tell.”

A man named Tietro was archbishop now. Few had ever heard of him, save that he came from a northern Torovan town in Danor, and Family Tietro were said to be close allies to Duke Tarabai of Danor. The days of fatherly neutrality, it seemed, were over. Few had been surprised.

Sasha had been pleased, though, that Father Recheldi had not returned with instructions from higher up that she and Errollyn could no longer be quartered in the temple. Most of the Torovan priesthood did not know that the North Pier Temple even existed…or not until recently, at least. Dockside temples were unaligned, the families of their priests neutral in broader Petrodor alliances, and their fathers thus unable to trade favours and climb the ranks to the higher slopes. Perhaps those higher ranks now thought to offer Father Recheldi favours to spy on her, or worse…Sasha did not know. She remained alert, and trusted no one but her closest friends. She'd been in Petrodor for long enough now that that was more a reflex than a conscious decision.

From back toward the dockside, she could hear the rush of waves against the dock and the creaking of boats at the pier. From the North Pier, yells and shouts, the trundling creak of heavy wagons, and the squeal of pulley ropes hauling loads. Further south, toward South Pier, the cries of the marketplace …and a more recent sound, the clinking and hammering of tools. Dockside was being rebuilt.

As she gazed up the vast, shambling slope before her, the bells were tolling once more as the upslope temples joined in the celebrations. The North Pier Temple did not have a bell. Father Berin had had better things to spend money on.

The trapdoor behind her creaked and Sasha turned in her chair to see Errollyn pushing up through it. His left arm was in a sling, yet he wore his sword all the same. The bow, of course, he left in their quarters.

“I wonder if they'll ring the same when the demons of the apocalypse come flying through,” he remarked, seating himself in a nearby chair. He pulled some grapes off the small table between and stretched with a wince. He looked tired, his hair in even greater disarray than usual, yet to Sasha's eyes he seemed healthier each day.

“I think maybe this is the demon of the apocalypse flying through,” Sasha said.

Errollyn smiled. The bells were tolling because Torovan had a king. Following the announcement of the new archbishop, the archbishop had then turned around and declared a sole ruler for Torovan-a king, as there had never been a king in eight hundred years.

King Marlen Steiner.

“He had us all right from the beginning, didn't he?” Sasha sighed. “Probably from when he first heard of the coming war.”

“Royalty is a strangely attractive notion for humans,” Errollyn remarked, shifting to seek a better position. He was always stiff, always getting aches in strange places. Worse, he tried to exercise as though he'd never been hurt, until Sasha had threatened to tie him up like Rhillian had. Kessligh was little better, though somewhat more patient. Between the two of them, Sasha sometimes felt like a nursemaid.

“Probably he was the one who started Archbishop Augine and the others table-thumping about the war in the first place,” said Sasha. “Marry a Lenay princess, start a war, destabilise your enemies and claim all the spoils when they collapse. That's quite a list, even for Patachi Steiner. Even his worst enemies underestimated his ambition.”

Marya had been the key. Lenay royalty. It had long been agreed that marrying into Lenay royalty did not confer royalty upon a Petrodor family. Marya had been a princess, yet that did not make Symon Steiner a prince…nor Patachi Steiner a king. It was a status symbol, nothing more, like the fancy jewels that Family ladies wore-a Lenay princess was an exotic status symbol for powerful Petrodor men. A fashionable accessory, like a necklace, or a jewelled dagger. Or a pet wolf. Only now, the new archbishop decreed that such a marriage was enough to make Patachi Steiner a king, and the entire Family Steiner a royal family. And it became so because there was no one left of sufficient power and resolve to prevent it. Torovan had a king, because those who mattered decided that it should. Sasha had read and heard told of enough old, romantic Torovan tales to know that it wasn't supposed to work this way-always in those tales there resided the notion of entitlement , that one ascended to such things because it was right and proper, and decreed by the heavens. But then, that was why the archbishop existed, to decree on the gods’ behalf. No one ever questioned who put the archbishop in power. The gods did. Of course.

Obviously her own father, King Torvaal, hadn't seen this coming either. He'd interfered by marrying Alythia to Family Halmady, and thus unknowingly creating a rival claim to the throne of Torovan. Steiner's claim would be superior, of course, because Marya was elder, but the Great Families of Petrodor were nothing if not insecure. Claims could be extinguished as easily as lives.

It was all so silly. Sasha had never been a great lover of royalty, but most of that had been for personal reasons. She'd never, until now, been quite so disgusted by the entire concept. She was revolted by it. Was this how kings were made? Through greed, murder, intrigue and villainy? Some kind of king Patachi Steiner would make, she was certain. Now, as Kessligh had predicted, things were worse.

“There's not going to be enough space on the old Maerler Mansion plot to build his new castle,” said Sasha.

“He won't stop at the old mansion plot,” Errollyn said grimly. “He'll build on all of Sharptooth.”

“Three of those families conceded rather than fought,” Sasha reminded him.

Errollyn shrugged. “You think that'll matter?”

Sasha thought about it. Then shook her head. “You're right. He'll demolish the lot.”

“King of Torovan,” Errollyn said, as though the words tasted foul on his tongue. “I'm sure he'll adopt the grandest trappings of royalty he can find. He'll keep all his trading empire, all the ships, all the warehouses. He'll turn all his allies into lords, give them holdings…not high enough to offend the dukes, but high enough.”

“Make the relationship formal,” Sasha agreed, nodding. “Formality has an odd way of changing people's behaviour.”

Errollyn raised an eyebrow. “As a Lenay, you'd know.” Sasha shrugged. “That castle atop Sharptooth will dominate the city. I'd think it'll take him fifteen years to build, at the least.”

“Ten,” said Sasha, popping a grape. “Petrodor grows so fast, and the stonemasonry here is excellent. There's unlimited labour, probably Riverside will be restocked of desperate souls in a year or two, they'll do anything for a few coppers.”

“Possibly.” Errollyn gazed up at the slope with eyes narrowed by pain. “We made a mess, didn't we? Serrin and human both.

“A king will make Torovan an ambitious power to contend with, well into the future. That means more wars, more trouble, more suffering.”

Sasha gazed past Errollyn toward where Sharptooth jutted up from the Petrodor Incline. Yesterday, the last of the fires had finally stopped smouldering. Reports said there wasn't much left. “Fortunate maybe Rochel didn't live to see it,” she murmured. “He'd have hated it. Maybe enough to have done something stupid. He could get away with a few insolent remarks toward patachis. Kings are a different matter.”