The Axe and the Throne (41 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I would advise against a trip to Westport, my king.”

Derudin stood obediently beside the seated king. Lyell's grand desk was made evermore monstrous by the scrolls and papers piled upon it. With the tumult following the imprisonment of Crella and Stephon, Lyell had fallen behind in his many self-appointed tasks, namely those of overseeing the kingdom's military and finances, and he angrily studied one such piece of correspondence as Derudin spoke.
It is too much for one man, and he is losing focus.

The fact that Alther had not gone to Westport as ordered further complicated matters. The city was falling to chaos and members of The Guard had to be stationed in markets to help lower the incidence of theft and murder. Had he the time, Derudin would have sought out Alther in an attempt to advise the man, but between his duties to the king and his classes, he had none to spare.

“But you have not even heard the reasons and necessities for such a trip,” said Cassen. He stood before the king wearing his usual simper. “I beg pardon for borrowing from your own title, but would it not be
wise
, my dear Derudin, to first examine all the factors?” As always, it seemed it was Cassen's intent to provoke Derudin to anger.

It will not happen again.
Derudin would never forgive himself for once allowing Cassen to agitate him to the point of lashing out. His subsequent absence from the many High Council meetings that Cassen had attended had caused irreparable damage. “What factors are there that will prevent the angry mob from storming the king's litter?” Derudin kept his voice calm.

“I am so glad you have asked. Allow me to explain.” Cassen produced a wax-sealed piece of paper. “As you will see, I have been sent by the prince himself to request the king's presence in Westport. It seems Alther has negotiated some more lucrative trade agreements with the Spiceland merchants and wishes to have a banquet feast to celebrate what he is calling the Rebirth of Westport. Quite cleverly done, if I do say so myself.”

“You think it clever because it is your own doing. Since when are you Alther's envoy? What do you have to gain from this?” Derudin asked, the king thus far remaining silent.

“I am both offended and flattered that you would think the
Rebirth
was of my own invention. But I assure you, they are Alther's words. I admit I may have used some of my influence with the merchants to help him secure his better contracts, but Alther is not the fool you make him out to be, Derudin. He is an intelligent man—of noble blood, no less.”

“Do not twist my words. I implied no such thing. And you are yet to answer my second question.”
This silk-covered serpent will be the death of the kingdom if he continues unchecked.

“The second question?”

“What do you have to gain from this?” Although he felt the anger beginning to boil inside, Derudin's words remained coolly delivered.
Seek the void. Do not let this fool challenge your restraint.

“Are we not all denizens of the same kingdom? We all have much to gain by not seeing Westport fall to ruin, lest Eastport and the Throne follow.”

“Remind me again what good your piece of paper and fraudulent magnanimity will do in the face of a starving, angry horde?”

“Enough bickering,” said Lyell, finally looking up from his papers. “I will not pass up the opportunity to reconcile with my son and see him succeed. Partnering with Cassen was perhaps the first intelligent thing he has done since I took Adeltia. We will attend this banquet, but it will be held in the Throne. I would trust my fate to the mob no sooner than I would parley in a blood feud. We will make all the necessary arrangements to ensure all the men of note from Westport are accommodated for the short trip that will be required of them.”

“A very fair compromise, my king,” said Cassen. “I am sure Alther will be content to hear of it.”

Derudin saw no use for further discussion. Once forged, the king's decisions may as well be set in stone.

“I will see to it that Master Warin makes the preparations necessary for security. Thank you for assisting my son, Cassen. It will not be forgotten. If that is all, you may leave.”

The king's attention once more on his papers, Cassen shot Derudin a satisfied smile before curtseying and making his exit.

Many Years Ago

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Head down and shoulders slumped, he struggled to pull his wooden cart, the wheels seeming to catch between every gap of the cobblestones. He felt like an insignificant speck, caught in the shadow of the wall that loomed overhead—a shadow that kept his dirty corner of the city known as the Armpit in darkness well into the afternoon.

When he was younger his mother had told him the story of the wall, blaming it for all the surrounding squalor. “Had Adella finished the wall, we would not live like this,” she said, breath reeking of ale. “But she builds her great throne instead, the Castle to End All Coin.” He wondered which of her patrons she'd heard that from. His mother was no wordsmith.

Queen Adella received little love from her people. When her brother Adellos II died the kingdom mourned, and soon after she had replaced him, the kingdom wept. But the boy was not fool enough to believe their lot in life would have been any better had the wall spanned across the continent, shielding Adeltia from the threat of northern invasion. Perhaps if his father had been one of the many architects put to death for failing to meet the queen's standards, he would have cause for complaint, but he never knew his father nor did he think he would want to. The Adeltian Throne—that towering object far in the distance and namesake of the kingdom's new capital—did not condemn him… It
called
to him.

He'd not seen his mother since having left her years ago, but in the Armpit he remained.
Better to be an orphan than a whore's bastard,
was what he told himself when his childish longing to see her threatened to take hold.

Passing by the bakers and smiths, fruit vendors and butchers, he hardened his resolve to leave this place entirely, to not be another lifelong victim of the Pit. They all looked so different, these peasant laborers, yet depravity saw them unified. He had no sympathy for this lot, however. Sympathy and compassion were weaknesses he conditioned himself to no longer to feel. These were not people oppressed by an unfinished wall, these were slaves of their own self-pity—his eventual rise above them to be validation of his assertion.

Eating nothing but gruel he was able to save fifty-three coppers—just over half a mark—in the past two months. His belly ached for mutton, but he had not given in, not once since he started saving. With five marks he could buy a cotton shirt and trousers, and with one more he could afford a bath. Another two would see him into his first pair of shoes, used of course, and a final eighty coppers would get him a ride out of town shared on a wagon. He would take the first job he could get, no matter what it was—
even if it means I must be an architect
.

He came to a sudden halt, sloshing the contents of the many chamber pots in his cart, and attempted to make sense of what he saw. A carriage drawn by two black horses was in front of his employer's shop. The shady fellow was being arrested for some misdeed, no doubt. He was ever trying to cheat him or one of the other boys out of their pay. Self-preservation begged him to return to the abandoned leaking structure he called home to avoid any guilt by association, but his curiosity would not allow it. He entered the back of the building to empty his pots into the piss wagon, hoping to catch a glimpse of the activity inside.

He was not the only curious boy letting the contents of his pots slowly drain while craning neck in an attempt to spy on the goings-on in their employer's office. Someone of importance was paying him a visit, but to what end he could only guess.

“Who's in there?” he asked the others standing around the wagon.

Strig, the oldest boy sneered. “The Shitlord.”

“Who's that?”

Strig just shook his head, laughing to himself. The older ones loved to know something the others did not, and enjoyed making them grovel for answers. Aside from kicking rats, it was about the only modicum of power they were able to wield in this place, and they were not about to give it up.

He thought he had already identified the richest man in the area, the owner of the bar and brothel. The man was often seen strolling the town with one or more of his strongmen in tow, taking what he pleased from vendors who were either afraid of getting their teeth knocked out or of having him send their favorite whore to their wife with a bastard baby in her arms. At any rate, the lack of filth on the man's clothing was impressive, and the boy had made a conscious note to learn all he could about him—a difficult task requiring the suspension of contempt; the very man had been responsible for some of the boy's mother's better beatings. To know there was another far more powerful man in the area—even if just for a visit—made his chest grow hollow with anticipation.

He never saw the Shitlord, which only added to the intrigue, but he later learned that this man who could afford the luxury of massive horses and a leather-lined carriage was indeed the Lord of Shit. It had not occurred to the boy that his employer might have himself been employed by another, let alone that that person could possibly be of any worth. Granted there were like to be several links in the chain of command separating the Shitlord from the boy's toothless boss, the fact remained that the Shitlord was by all accounts exceedingly rich. Far wealthier than the brothel owner, far wealthier than anyone he had ever hoped to see pay a visit to the Armpit. And the man was in charge of transporting, of all things, piss and shit.

Being the clever boy that he was, he eventually came to the realization that the filthier the service, the more profitable it could be, and he resolved never to pass up an opportunity to use that knowledge to better his station in life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cassen inhaled deeply the bouquet of excrement, sweat, and blood—not to savor the stench that spoke of his childhood, but to remind himself of how far he had come. How ironic it was that he was on his way to meet a young man not unlike himself in his ambitions, but due to utter stupidity and obliviousness, had managed to descend within the social hierarchy just as rapidly as Cassen had risen.

Cassen was no stranger to the dungeons. He had many contacts within them—among the gaolers as well as the inhabitants. It took far less than lady servants to buy the trust, fleeting that it may be, of these lowborn wardens and malefactors, and it was always worth the cost. He had certainly never promised a prisoner so much as he intended to tonight, but this was no ordinary prisoner.

“Good evening, Vidar,” Cassen said with familiarity.

“Ah, the Duchess. Come to rape some of my boys again? Or is it the other way around? I never could tell.” Vidar's smile was more disgusting than the smell. “You've turned me into quite the whoremonger.”

Cassen wondered how the man managed to amuse himself with the same joke each and every time he came to visit.
Believe whatever you like, so long as you keep your mouth shut as I pay you to.

“Oh, but you know me so well, my good Vidar. Perhaps you can guess my taste for the night?”

“Well,” said the gaoler, stroking his misshapen chin as if truly considering. “I would have to guess you would be in the mood for some choice meat tonight. Perhaps something a bit princely?”

“Whoremonger you may be, but you are good at what you do. I will need an hour with the prince,
undisturbed
.” Cassen handed Vidar a golden coin worth fifty marks with a downward wrist and raised pinky.

“I would think a prince might fetch a more handsome sum,” said Vidar with a bit of humor. He was at least wise enough not to sound resentful.

“You would be wrong,” Cassen replied as he strode passed Vidar dismissively, having snatched the key from his desk.
Show an ounce of weakness to one, and all will take from you a pound.
It was an old Adeltian saying that Cassen thought especially fitting in his current surroundings.

“Interrogators of The Guard already did a number on him,” Vidar hollered to Cassen's back. “You may not find him as entertaining as you like.”

Cassen needed no escort; he knew where the prince would be. There was a special cell for holding and interrogating nobility, designed to be less physically torturous in exchange for being more mentally so. Vidar had explained to him long ago how they found that those accustomed to the comforts of royalty would crack “too far,” as he put it, when placed under the normal methods of deprivation. Once stripped of the belief that they would ever reattain their former glory, they lost the will to live and the care to comply. This had become apparent after Lyell had taken over Adeltia. The attempts on his life implicated many an Adeltian highborn, and Vidar had been present for it all. But in spite of his advanced age, his spindly limbs, and near complete lack of hair, he had the spryness of a far younger man—almost as if he was somehow draining these prisoners of more than just their secrets.

A flutter of excitement passed through Cassen as he imagined for a moment that he was headed to Crella's cell rather than to Stephon's.
What an enthralling time that will be, if and when it comes.
But it was not a realistic goal for the time being. Crella was held in the former queen's chambers at the top of the Throne. Members of The Guard were abundant in that area. It was the most heavily fortified section of the main castle, housing the king himself. Protectors could be difficult and dangerous to bribe, as a small minority of them actually took their vows to heart. It simply was not worth the risk at this time.

Cassen had passed countless empty cells on his way to his final destination. Each was the typical hold, containing no more than a bucket. Stone made the walls and floor, and the bars were of thick rusted iron. In time he reached a massive door not unlike one that would be found on most frames in the castle. He knocked three times and waited a few moments for reply.

“Enter.” The voice did not sound as though it belonged to one confined.

After unlocking the door, Cassen entered and found the cell quite decent indeed. A nobleman would retain some form of dignity after having passed so many horrid cells to finally be placed in such clean, albeit modest, quarters. It would let him know that he was receiving special treatment, giving him the hope of one day being freed. Why else would your gaoler go through the trouble of providing such amenities? In addition to the simple bed and chamber seat, there were luxuries such as books, a bucket of clean water, a bar of soap, a comb, and a tiny razor, too small to easily end one's life with but certainly capable of shaving given enough time—something that would be had in abundance. Stephon's half-eaten supper sat by the door, which appeared to have been a fair plate of food. Cassen made out the remnants of roast chicken, gravy, green beans, and a mug of some frothy beverage that was now empty.

“They told me you would come.”

Cassen knew the interrogators would be attempting to goad Stephon into revealing as many names and as much information as possible, but Cassen had nothing to fear. Though he had known about the heavy-handed plot, Cassen had nothing to do with its invention or execution. And it had no chance of success—Cassen had seen to that by implicating some of the conspirators himself. The fact that Stephon had been drawn into it was proof enough that the boy would work well for what Cassen now had in mind.
And I will have little worry of him speaking my name after today, with the banquet so near at hand.

“And here I am,” Cassen said. “I do apologize for the delay.”

Stephon lay on his back with a large vellum binding propped upon a pillow on his chest.
The Intricacies of War and Tactics
was a beast of a book, one that Cassen was not himself familiar with, but nobles loved to memorize and quote excerpts from it when arguing about battle tactics and formations with other highborn who had also never seen a battlefield.

Cassen gave a moment's pause to attempt to unravel the mystery of how Stephon knew it was he who had entered the room, but decided the boy likely had no idea, and that with so much time at his disposal, he was able to come up with plenty of cryptic greetings for his few guests and interrogators. Stephon had always had a flair for the dramatic, and Cassen certainly could not fault him for that.

“They said you would free me,” said Stephon, his head still completely hidden by the massive book.

“I am sure they said a good many things, most of which, if having struck upon truth, only did so by coincidence. They are toying with you in the hopes that you will tell them everything you know.”

“I have already told them everything. Why would they continue to lie?” asked Stephon.

“Perhaps because they have no way of knowing that you have indeed told them
everything
.”

“But I have.”

Cassen was beginning to worry that Stephon's mind might be too far gone for what he had planned, but there was no harm in continuing his efforts. He had come this far.

“My prince, I have not come to free you, not yet at least. I have come to offer you the greatest gift I can think to give.”

Stephon turned the page in his book as if not listening.

“And I do not expect you to believe my offer to be true,” Cassen continued. “I will not need from you any promises or trust. I would be a fool to expect them at this point. I only ask that when I bring you proof that my gift is genuine, that you accept it, and remember that it was I who acquired it for you.”

Stephon shoved the two sides of the book together, closing it with a solid thud, and hefted it to the side. He sat up in his bed, looking directly at Cassen. He did not look much different than Cassen remembered. He bore no marks or bruises from interrogation, though Cassen had not truly expected to see any. Stephon was the same cleanly shaven, handsome, and arrogant urchin he had always been, and he looked rather annoyed to have been kept down here for so long.

“And what could a lowborn duchess acquire that a prince and heir to the throne could not?”

A key to your cell for one.
Cassen had not expected Stephon to have become even more brazen with his time spent in the dungeons, but it was often said that confinement, much like alcohol, allows one's true self to emerge. It was somewhat discomforting to realize Stephon had actually been tempering himself until now.

“There are two men and a fair amount of castle stone that lay between you and the throne, are there not?”

“The king and his son have no claim to the throne. I am the true heir. And I will not be in here forever. I will take what is mine.”

What favor can you curry from springing a man from a trap he does not truly believe himself to be within?
“Nonetheless, I assume you would be grateful to whomever was able to expedite the process of seeing you from prison and into your rightful throne?”

“That I would. I would reward such a person with a position of high esteem—greater, of course, than that of duke or duchess.”

“That is good—”

“But let me be very clear,” interrupted Stephon. “As of right now, it is not the king's throne I wish to have. It is his head.”

Cassen nearly laughed. He'd heard that Stephon had gone quickly from apologetic to acrimonious as his stay continued, but to hear it firsthand was rather amusing. “Do you speak so boldly with those who question you?”

“Are you not one who is questioning me? I see no difference between you and any of the other fool members of The Guard, and I speak no differently. I have told you already of my plans to destroy the false king and his accomplices, and I tell you again that my plans have not changed. He is a disease upon this great Adeltian Kingdom, and he must be dealt with as such. His taint must be eradicated so that pure Adeltian blood can once again rule. Only then will this kingdom be returned to glory.”

Cassen saw no need to point out that Stephon himself was not of pure Adeltian blood, nor that when he was first dragged into this cell, kicking and screaming, he claimed to have only colluded with the Adeltians to such a degree as to thwart them.

“Your Grace, it sounds as if you have given this much thought. I will serve to aid you in every way I can. I realize pleading patience is of no comfort to you. All I can do is beg that you forgive me for the lethargy with which it must seem I perform these tasks. As you know, there are many among even the Adeltians who cower to the false king, and they too seek to hinder me.”

“You have wasted enough breath. Go and do as you have promised, and I will see you justly rewarded.” With that Stephon propped the heavy book back upon his chest, opened it to a seemingly random page, and looked as if he was again reading.

Cassen eyed the text with amusement.
And to think I did not even get a quote.
“As you command, Your Grace.” Cassen curtseyed and exited, shutting and locking the door behind him.