Raymond E. Feist - Queen of Storms

These portraits were an Ithraci thing, a vanity that rather offended Lodavico, but gradually Bernardo had convinced him to sit for a portrait to commemorate his glory. Bernardo had studied Lodavico for more than a year before they met, and he had now been a member of the king’s court, his most trusted adviser, for a decade. He knew the monarch of Sandura had hated the way he looked his entire life.

The king knew he was often mocked for his appearance behind his back. His nose was slightly bent to the right, his left eye was marginally higher than the right, and his rare smile was noticeably lopsided. This asymmetrical visage, while not ugly, gave him an odd appearance that put people ill at ease for reasons they couldn’t quite fathom. Coupled with his gaunt frame, and a certain coiled energy that made it look as if he were on the verge of sudden violence, it meant few people were ever comfortable in his presence.

He had taken advantage of that discomfort his entire life, bullying his young siblings to the point of terror long before he took his father’s throne. All of them gladly accepted distant fiefs or convenient marriages to be as far from the court in Sandura as possible.

He had agreed to a portrait only at Bernardo’s quiet persistence. In all his life Lodavico had not met anyone he felt more at ease with than Bernardo. This had been achieved over years of Bernardo’s clever manipulation and the building of trust. There had been nights when Bernardo had simply wished to kill Lodavico, or possibly move to the other side of Garn, but in the end, he knew his persistence in winning Lodavico’s trust would win out. Now that trust was almost absolute.

Something about his manner, his solid presence, calmed Lodavico no matter how stressful the situation that faced him. He counted the episkopos’s counsel as vital, and after many years of having the cleric at his side in the king’s chamber, it was clear that Lodavico couldn’t imagine making important decisions without Bernardo’s advice.

For Bernardo, persuading Lodavico to sit for a portrait was just one more tedious tiny step into completely controlling the king, without him being aware of it. The episkopos knew that by the time this portrait hung in the great gallery of the castle, amid the banners and crests of Lodavico’s ancestors, the king would be convinced the portrait had been his idea, not Bernardo’s, which was exactly what Bernardo wanted.

Growing tired of posing, Lodavico said, ‘That’s enough.’ He stood and indicated for a servant to remove the heavy red cape with the ermine collar. He hated the vanity of the thing but had agreed with the artist that it made him look ‘regal’. Lodavico had finally relented and seemed to be growing fonder of the pomp, which was also in keeping with Bernardo’s plans.

Bernardo rose, feeling his joints protest slightly, reminding him that at his age, approximately fifty years (his exact date of birth was unknown), he needed to spend more time exercising. He had been lean and fit his entire life, adding muscle and sinew as a soldier, and had seen too many others of his rank let themselves run to fat. He would engage one of his retinue to spar with him early tomorrow morning; he was an episkopos, but he had been a soldier long enough to prefer duelling and wrestling to other forms of exercise. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, and his dark hair was shot through with grey. He still looked as vital and energetic as a man half his age.

He wore the less formal clothing of his office, a black cassock with no trim, with black buttons down the front. His feet were clad in ankle-high boots of soft leather, and his only ornamentation was a silver circle brooch identifying him as a follower of the One, and a ring of office that adorned his left hand, another simple circle of silver, though set in the centre with a small ruby.

Vanity was not part of Bernardo’s nature, so his appearance was not designed to please himself, but to project an image he wished others to see. He wanted less to be noticed than to be a presence. More often than not it was a difficult feat.

He waited for servants to take away the heavy cloak Lodavico wore and for the king to move towards the door before falling in a half-step behind, on his left, a position of slight deference. Bernardo remind silent, for he could see the king’s mood was darker than usual for this time of the morning, even after one spent posing for his portrait.

Lodavico headed for his council chamber. As they approached down the long gloomy hall, bereft of any windows as it had been cut through the heart of Lodavico’s castle, shadows from torches in sconces flickered in grotesque parody of the king’s naturally awkward walk. Bernardo was aware of the shadows annoying the king, even though he had endured it since he came to the throne thirty years before. He occasionally wondered why Lodavico hadn’t ordered his architect to design some other type of lighting, but he didn’t linger long on the question; it was possible that Lodavico endured the daily passage as a reminder of his own self-loathing.

Entering the chamber, they found a tray laden with fruit, cold meats and cheese, a loaf of warm bread, a bottle of wine and a pitcher of cool water.

‘Good,’ said Lodavico. ‘I’m famished.’

‘Anticipating Your Majesty’s needs is always my aim,’ said the episkopos.

Lodavico indicated that Bernardo should sit in the chair to his right hand at the end of the council table. The Privy Council had consisted of up to a dozen nobles of the kingdom from dim antiquity right up to his father’s rule. Lodavico had named several nobles to various positions, but rarely convened the entire council, having only done so once after the war against Ithrace, just for public show. Most of the time he preferred to be in consultation with a few advisers at a time, and lately with just one of them: Bernardo. The truth now was, after a little over ten years together, the episkopos and the king made every decision in Sandura.

Lodavico said, ‘What news?’

Bernardo unfolded a leather portfolio he carried. He knew the king expected him not to discuss matters of state while his portrait was being painted, but now that they were alone, Lodavico was anxious to hear the day’s reports.

Bernardo had long since come to understand the king’s preferred order of reporting, and the usual accounts of trade, taxes, and other mundane matters were always subordinate to intelligence, news, and even rumours about anyone Lodavico considered a threat.

‘Little new to report on, Majesty. Some of the companies of mercenaries who’ve been employed in the north are taking ship to come and join your campaigns.’ He paused. A tightening around Lodavico’s eyes communicated clearly what the king desired to hear.

‘No news from Marquensas, Majesty. Our agents report … everything is calm.’

‘What about that … company Daylon assembled in that town …’

‘Beran’s Hill,’ supplied Bernardo. ‘Not really a company, sire, rather a local militia of sheriff’s men, though there is no proper sheriff. A young smith has been given command, a fellow named Declan.’

Lodavico waved away the detail. ‘Beran’s Hill is an invitation of sorts, I’m certain.’

Bernardo had listened to this conjecture countless times, but knew his best course was to simply let the king continue his speculation without interruption and to reassure him that everything that could be done was being done.

‘Daylon Dumarch has magnificent defences in every port, garrisons of size in key locations, cities, trade route intersections, and active patrols everywhere but in the north, along one particular trade route. Why?’

Bernardo hesitated, waiting to see if the question was rhetorical. Seeing that the king expected an answer, he shrugged. ‘He faces very little real threat from the north. His only neighbour of consequence is Rodrigo of Copper Hills, and he is one of Baron Daylon’s closest friends. Dumarch would as soon expect a brother to turn on him as Rodrigo Bavangine.’ He paused, gauging the king’s reaction.