The Jongurian Mission (14 page)

Orin smiled in agreement, then nodded his head, directing their gazes toward a table set against the far wall across the hall.
“Over there is the representative from Duldovia, Willem Pritt,” he said.

Halam and Rodden turned in their seats to look behind them, while Bryn stared over their shoulders.
The man that Orin pointed out was seated at a table with several other men around him, but seemed to only occasionally speak to one seated across from him. He appeared to be of medium height and looked to be in his late-forties. His shoulder length brown hair was tied behind his head, and he wore light brown pants and shirt, with a darker russet-tinged jerkin that bore the Duldovian seal of a wind-chopped sea. His arms were thick and strong; the body of a man who knew a hard-day’s labor in his youth, but which had become stocky with age. His face was probably very handsome once, but years of exposure to the elements had hardened his features, giving him a more toughened, yet dignified appearance.

“Wille
m Pritt, the name does sound familiar for some reason,” Rodden said, looking to Halam and Orin for confirmation.

“It should,” said Orin.
“It was Pritt that led the final charge on the third day at Baden, the charge that ended the resistance, and the war.”

“That’s right,” said Halam, the memory coming back to him.
“There were many who said that he should be declared king after that battle, but he refused, saying he was only defending the honor of Adjuria.”

“Yes,” Rodden continued, “and people also thought he was crazy for turning it down and heading back to his fishing boats on the Duldovian Sea.”

“He said that all he wanted to do was to reclaim the honor Duldovia lost when she was still part of Culdovia fifty years earlier. I’ll say one thing for the man,” Orin said as he raised his glass high, “the man knows his history, even if most of Adjuria does not.”

The three men raised their glasses up and they clinked together above the table.
Bryn looked up at Orin in confusion, and seeing his face, Orin continued.

“You see Bryn, back during the first Adjurian Civil War nearly one hundred years ago, Duldovia and Culdovia were one province.
They were only split into two following the resolution of hostilities. Several Culdovian nobles went along with the Regidian designs on the throne, thinking to secure more power for themselves. For their treason, the king split them off into a separate province. That is the wrong that Pritt was trying to alleviate when he talked of restoring honor following the Battle of Baden.”

“All so long ago,” Rodden said as he stared into his wine.
“I’m surprised anyone remembered the events of the first civil war while the second was raging.”

“Oh, it was easy for Pritt to remember it,” Orin said, “his family was one of the leading families in Culdovia at that time, before they threw in their lot with the Regidians.
Afterward they had their noble status stripped, and the family was forced to take up fishing the Duldovian Sea. Since then they have risen, in no small part to the role that Pritt played running supplies to the Baishur River and taking part in several successful naval battles during the war with Jonguria, but I don’t think that he’ll ever let the fall of his family leave his thoughts.”

The time passed
as the four let their thoughts settle on events of the past, many of which occurred before they were born. After a time Rodden broke the silence.

“What exactly are the feelings of Pritt toward renewing trade with Jonguria?” he asked Orin.

“Well, he thinks that renewing trade is a good idea, but he’s concerned with how quickly the other provinces have clamored for it following the decision to hold this conference. He has reservations about how quickly things should progress, and how the trade should be divided up between the provinces, if at all.”

“Does Culdovia then feel the same way?” Halam asked.

“Yes, both provinces have nearly the same outlook. I think that Brun and Pritt met to find common ground before they agreed on a conference. It wouldn’t do for the two most influential provinces to be on separate pages.”

“Where is Pader tonight?” Rodden asked, referring to the Culdovian representative.
“I don’t think I see him in the hall.”

“Oh, he was her
e earlier today for lunch,” Orin said, “but I guess he thinks one appearance a day is sufficient.”

“I don’t understand,” Bryn spoke up.
“Why is it that a different man than the king is representing Culdovia?

Orin’s eyes rolled back in his head at the question.
“Is there no education in Eston these days?” he asked with a chuckle.

Bryn felt embarrassed and held his head down.
“Sorry sir, it’s just that we don’t often talk of things other than livestock and the harvest back home. All this talk of trade and politics and history and war is new to me.”

Rodden tousled Bryn’s hair.
“No need to apologize, lad. I think half of the people in Culdovia don’t know why the king doesn’t represent them.”

“You see, Bryn,
” Orin proceeded to explain, “the royal family lost a lot of credibility following the civil war. Many people in the country felt that if the king wasn’t strong enough to protect himself from a Regidian coup, then he could probably do little to protect them.” He took a swallow of wine before continuing. “Over the past hundred years there’ve been many challenges to the royal authority. First was the succession crisis which led to the first civil war and a new king. Following that was the war with Jonguria, the assassination of the king, and the second civil war. After the Battle of Baden, people began to loudly voice their concerns with the monarchy, and its hold, or lack thereof, on the country. With a new king on the throne, not more than a boy at the time, it was decided that the provinces would be given a great deal more autonomy. The king would henceforth be more of a figurehead of the country, exercising little real power. For that reason, Culdovia is represented by Pader Brun at the conference.”

“Well, in that case,” Bryn asked, “why do we still have a king at all?
If the task of governing Adjuria falls to a council of provincial representatives, what’s his use?”

“A fine, question lad, and one that many of us are still struggling with,” Orin said.

“It was agreed at the end of the civil war that the royal council would govern in a temporary capacity until it was felt the king was old enough, or perhaps strong enough, to rule the nation once again,” Rodden explained. “Although now it’s been several years, and the king
is
old enough to assume his historical function as the head of the government.”

“I don’t think many of the council members would be so quick to take up that argument, however,” Orin said.

“No I think not, “Rodden agreed, his body slumping back from the table “but at some point Rowan Waldon will demand a stronger say in governing the realm, one that is his right by birth.”

“What is the king like?” Bryn asked, sitting up on the bench once again, eager to hear about this disgraced noble.

“He’s a very strong young man,” Orin said, “and there’s no mistaking he’s from the Waldon line. He prefers to be out in the woods hunting, or in a boat on the water, to any courtly function, as most nobles do; but he has never missed a royal council session. He listens more than he speaks, but when he does open his mouth, people listen, as what he says holds wisdom beyond his years.” Orin paused to drink from his cup, then continued. “He has a deep-seated hatred for the Regidians, it is said, and I’d be surprised to hear otherwise. You see, Bryn, when the Regidians staged their coup, they held Rowan hostage, taking him back to Atros, where he stayed in captivity for four long years before being restored and allowed to come back to Baden. He also doesn’t look favorably on those provinces which supported Regidia during the conflict, but knows that if he wants to resume his role as a true king, he needs to overlook past transgressions in favor of present realities. Altogether a fine young man, not much older than you are now.”

“I couldn’t imagine being a king at my age,” Bryn said.
“I wouldn’t know the first thing about running a country.”

“Well, then it
’s good we have the royal council,” Halam laughed, the others, including Bryn, joining in.

“You have to remember, Bryn,” Rodden said, “he’d been trained from a very early age in the duties expected of him.
He was twelve years old when he was taken prisoner, and all that time he still expected to rule Adjuria. It was only five years ago that his role as a sort of king-in-waiting came about.”

“He hides his anger, if there is any, quite well,” Orrin observed.
“I’ve no doubt he’ll make a fine king, and not make the mistakes that those who came before him fell into. If those mistakes were made again, the inability to control provincial power schemes, trade animosities, or war lust; I feel that Adjuria would do away with the monarchy altogether.”

Loud hoots and hollers from the center of the hall caught their attention.
A deep-throaty voice was demanding that the minstrels play a drinking song popular among the peasants. The calls were soon taken up by others around, until the minstrels could do nothing but obey. The lutes and pipes began a merry jig, and many of the men and the few women there were began to grab arms and dance around the hall, with many a serving girl unwittingly ushered into the dance as well.

“I can see Flin is still going strong this evening,” Orin said with some disapproval in his voice.
He looked over at Halam and Rodden, whose attention was still on the center of the hall. “The delegate from Oschem, he’s been here all day, and by the look and sound of him, he’s been enjoying himself every minute.”

The man that Orin described was just then finishing off a large leg of turkey that he had pilfered from one of the passing trays.
When he was done he wiped his greasy fingers on his dirty tunic, then grabbed a tankard of ale from the hand of a dancing nobleman.

“That’s who Oschem chose to send?” Rodden said with a bit of surprise and humor in his voice.

“Andor Flin,” Orin said. “He’s been representing Oschem in trade deals since I was a boy. His family has always had strong connections in trade and government, and Andor has continually taken advantage of them.”

Bryn looked at the man as he upturned the tankard to get at the last drops, spilling a stream of ale down the front of his clothes, which he then wiped at with his sleeve before looking to a serving girl for
another cup. He was in his mid-sixties, as far as Bryn could judge, and looked to have never done a day of physical labor in his life. His belly was quite large, and since Andor was a short man already, it appeared to dwarf him in size. He was completely bald on the top of his head, but had white hair on the back and sides. His eyes were large and seemed to bulge out of his head much like his belly bulged out of his body. His small mouth was enclosed by large, floppy jowls and a big round nose. He wore a light tan shirt and tunic, both accented in green, with darker brown pants. They appeared to be well-tailored, but with all of the food, wine, and ale stains down the front, it was hard to judge. On his belt, if indeed he wore one, as it was hard to tell with the immensity of his gut hanging down, was strapped a large dagger with an ornate, gold-inlayed hilt. The scabbard bore the seal of Oschem on it, a dusty plain beside a sandy desert.

“Of all of the delegates that will be present at the conference,” Orin said, “Flin is the only one who fought in neither the East-West War nor the Civil War.”

“You’re kidding,” Halam said, his eyes wide with surprise as he looked at Orin. “Nearly everyone who was old enough clamored to fight against Jonguria, and most felt it a sense of duty to choose one side to fight for on returning home.”

“Yes, I know,” Orin said.
“Flin had good family connections, and he managed to stay out of both conflicts. I don’t see how he could have helped much anyway; I don’t think the man has ever had a day of proper military training. I’d be surprised if he even knows how to properly hold that dagger at his belt.”

“So most of the delegates fought in one, or both, conflicts then?” Bryn asked Orin.

“Yes, most did. Many were too young to fight against Jonguria.” He pulled at his bushy sideburns with his eyes cast upward in thought. “Oh, let’s see now. There’s Jocko More from Sheffield, Doth Hane from Equinia, and Pader Brun. Also, Whent Auro didn’t participate, as is the usual custom among Montinos.”

“And the
Civil War?” Rodden asked.

“Let’s see, the civil war.
Most who were too young to fight in Jonguria were the first to take sides in that conflict. When a young man misses out on fighting, you can be sure he’ll be the first to join in on the next,” Orin said with a disapproving shake of his head. “Nearly all of the delegates fought that war. There’s Fryst Bahn of Hotham,” Orin began, raising up a finger for every name he ticked off, “Klyne Surin of Allidia, Dolth Hane of Equinia, and Jossen Fray of Regidia. All fought for the usurpers and lost.”

Bryn looked up at Halam at the mention of Jossen Fray’s name, but there was no reaction from his uncle.

“On the allied side of the conflict,” Orin continued, holding up his other hand now to count off the names, “there was Shefflin’s Jocko More, Iago Cryst of Mercentia, Whent Auro of Montino joined in this time
,” he said looking across the table at Rodden before continuing, “Millen Fron from Fallownia, Pader Brun from Culdovia, and Willem Pritt from Duldovia, he finished.” He looked down at his fingers, silently mouthing the names and moving each finger, searching his mind for one more name. “Ah yes, he said, putting his hands down and breaking into a smile, “And Halam Fiske of Tillatia, present in both conflicts.”