Raymond E. Feist - Queen of Storms

Lodavico nodded. ‘The governors and rulers of the northern ports are scattered and more prone to welcoming smugglers and traders than armies. Besides, none of the ports are large enough to accommodate a flotilla that could put a substantial force at Marquensas’s rear. Port Colos is the largest, and it is so close to Marquensas’s border it might as well belong to Daylon.’ He stroked his chin, a habit Bernardo had seen countless times when the king was lost in thought. ‘Daylon is …’ He looked at the episkopos as if at a loss.

Gently, the cleric said, ‘I think he is taking care of what is his and guarding it.’

Lodavico shook his head. ‘No, I know he is planning something. He’s amassed wealth and has sway over many of the barons. He’s making Marquensas the new Ithrace. I’ve read the reports …’

Seeing that the conversation was taking a familiar turn, the cleric sat back, keeping his features a mask as he resigned himself to another pointless harangue about Daylon Dumarch’s close friendship to the dead king Steveren Langene, the ruler of Ithrace, real intelligence commingled with imagined slights and insults, turning into a rant invoking every possible reason to hate the most powerful baron in the twin continents.

When at last the king’s ramblings tailed off, Bernardo gladly turned the conversation to other matters the king needed to consider, not urgent, but important, and called in a scribe to record the king’s decisions. As the meeting came to a close, the episkopos waited for the king’s permission to rise – they had worked together so often, this amounted to the cleric inclining his head slightly and the king nodding – and as he stood, Bernardo said, ‘Majesty, I shall have the edicts recopied and returned before nightfall for your seal.’

‘I expect I should return to sit for that wretched artist. The sooner I’m done with this exercise in vanity, the better I’ll like it.’

Bernardo bowed slightly, and the king departed.

After the monarch was gone, the episkopos waved the scribe away, then lingered, enjoying the silence and solitude, if only for a few moments.

He refused to wallow in his transitory frustrations over dealing with a monarch who by any reasonable measure was on the fringe of madness. Bernardo Delnocio of Poberto had quickly recognized that Lodavico was a truly lonely man, hated even by his own family, surrounded by those who feigned loyalty and affection for him only out of fear. Rather than be another attention-seeker, Bernardo had patiently provided counsel and the Church’s support, ensuring that Lodavico became more dependent on him over each passing year.

Many times the king had asked the episkopos what he desired, to which Bernardo had always answered, ‘Only to serve,’ and every time a gift had been offered, Bernardo had declined it.

In truth, the gift came the other way; it was the cleric who gave the ruler what he most craved: Bernardo listened. No matter how preposterous or deranged Lodavico’s rant, Bernardo listened and the king needed this indulgence.

After Bernardo had spent almost two years on Lodavico’s council, the monarch had come to view him as the only being on all of Garn who didn’t hate him, fear him, or want anything from him, the only one who truly cared for his wellbeing. In short, Lodavico had decided that Bernardo was his only friend.

And this was when the manipulation had begun.

Over the last twenty years Bernardo had contrived to get rid of anyone who might prove an obstacle to his control of the king – a timely accident, an assignment to a particularly dangerous frontier post, a sudden illness. A great deal of patience had brought the cleric to almost complete mastery over the most powerful kingdom in North Tembria.

Bernardo could finally see his goal on the horizon: the Church’s control of Sandura, and his control of the Church. These two aims were intertwined, and he knew the closer he got to his goal, the more his deadliest foe would be his own impatience.

Should the cathedral under construction next to the king’s castle be completed in his lifetime, Bernardo already had plans to annex this monstrosity of a castle to it, tearing down walls, replacing dark corridors with passages of light, ancient dark stone with massive windows of the finest glass. He knew that would be completed years after he had left this existence but was content that whoever he appointed to follow him would share that view. When the Church was supreme, ruling over all Garn, there would be no need for castles, fortresses, or armies.

His plan extended beyond his own lifetime, which was more of a vainglorious desire to be remembered in the Church than for any personal gain. The rulers of Sandura would be so submerged in the culture of the Church that they would not realize this.

He heard the faintest rustle behind him, and knew he was no longer alone. Only a handful of men could move that quietly and of those only one would dare approach him unbidden. Without looking around he asked, ‘What news, Belli?’

Marco Belli, Bernardo’s most trusted and deadliest servant, spoke softly. ‘More rumours from the west.’

‘Marquensas?’

‘Yes.’

Bernardo turned to face him. Marco Belli, known as ‘Piccolo’ for obscure reasons, stood motionless before his master. He was a smaller man than Bernardo, but of less than average height, wiry and agile. Belli’s eyes were his most deceiving feature, for he could look innocent, or jovial, even while planning how best to kill you. He sported a red cap with a hawk’s feather, a dark blue tunic, and leather leggings. At his side hung a short sword, but Bernardo knew he was an expert in many other weapons. Piccolo was the only man the cleric fully trusted and would permit in his presence alone and armed.

‘Tell me about Marquensas,’ said Bernardo as he reseated himself.

‘For months now a town in the north of the barony, Beran’s Hill, has been very busy.’

‘This I know,’ said the cleric. ‘Rumours, little more.’

Piccolo nodded. ‘True, but persistent rumours, Your Eminence.’ He paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. ‘There is no pattern nor is there any one item worthy of serious consideration, but in total …’

‘A design?’

‘Not apparently, but … something is taking shape. Though if someone is behind it, it isn’t obvious.’

Bernardo nodded. ‘Something is going on in that town.’ He also organized his thoughts before adding, ‘It’s where Lodavico and I expect the lure to be. If Baron Daylon expects Sandura’s attack, and with Copper Hills’s aid, he could trap Lodavico’s forces there.’

‘Lose the town, but win the war,’ agreed Piccolo.

‘Exactly. Lodavico loses a huge number of his military, enrages allies expecting an easy victory, and convinces others of Sandura’s perfidy when whatever excuse Lodavico dreams up is exposed as a lie, so it’s a victory both militarily and politically. At worst, Sandura is wounded and weakened, perhaps enough for old enmity to rise and former allies to turn on Lodavico. At best, Dumarch has allies ready and launches a counter-offensive …’ He spread his hands slowly and moved them outwards, as if wiping away game pieces from a table. ‘… leaves Sandura much as Lodavico left Ithrace …’ Bernardo let out an audible sigh. ‘And that we cannot have.’

Piccolo glanced around the dark room. ‘Can’t say I’d miss this castle.’

‘On that we agree. But when the cathedral is finished and blessed it will be the seat of the Church’s power in the twin continents. And that must be protected.

‘This war is inevitable, given our king’s obsession with all things related to the fall of Ithrace. Even the suggestion that Daylon Dumarch is becoming the next King of Fire …’ Bernardo paused. ‘I have little problem with them making war on each other. I just wish it to be on my terms, at a time of my choosing. Remember, the perfect plan executed at the wrong time has another name.’