The Watch
1534 Words
The Watch~
Nigel Willoughby
Jorendon
General Willem Cleland was a bull of a man, solid and thick from his jaw to his boots. The dense black curls he kept trimmed short were waging a losing battle with the vanguard of white invading his temples.
Black and white like the man.
Cleland never wrestled with ambiguity. Duty was the porridge the aging soldier ate for breakfast. As Minister of Arms, he didn’t choose a stance for political advantage, and he was incapable of subtlety. He was loyal to a fault, but no one in Jorendon was more capable of defending the realm.
Cleland stood before King Walter in the smaller, older throne room designated for council sessions. Hundreds of shields hung on its grey walls, weaving a colorful tapestry drawn from the heraldry of the most prominent houses in Innis. Here in the old heart of Joren’s palace, the walls breathed with hundreds of years of history, and forgotten dreams and schemes of royal courts come and gone.
The general was arguing his case for adding more soldiers to the ranks. Not particularly well.
“Maintaining a large army in peacetime is a drain on the treasury,” said King Walter. “I am expected to feed them, clothe them, house them, and see they have enough coin in their pockets for ale and w****s. And why?”
“Your Majesty, King Gerard increased Brescan regiments by three thousand last year. King Philip matched that number in Larad’s garrisons,” said Cleland. “Either could move against us at any time.”
“Could, but won’t,” said Walter. “They’re too busy wrestling over gold, tobacco, and deerskins in Tallu. The Ten Kingdoms are playing Bresca against Larad, selling their peace to the highest bidder, and changing allegiances more often than the tides.”
Nigel nodded. A larger Royal Army did not further his interests. He used the slow nod of unspoken confidence he gauged would sway those intimidated by his history with the king. The usual sheep from the ministries of Building, Antiquities, and Guilds followed his lead, bobbing their heads because he had.
They were an odd assortment of personalities with motives drawing first one and then another into temporary alliances. Each had an agenda, but all gave deference, feigned or real, to their king.
“I agree, Your Majesty,” said Lord Geoffrey Langdon, Minister of Coin. “No sense in paying more idle soldiers.”
Langdon wasn’t as clever as he imagined himself, but his fiscal acumen could be counted upon to consistently side against discretionary spending. He reeked of the patrician languor that afflicted the old Surdisi lineages softened by too many decades spent in coddled comfort. Langdon was as precise about his appearance as his ledgers, right down to the neat seams pressed in his underdrawers. How Nigel’s agent came about that tidbit of information, he hadn’t cared to ask.
All aligned but one.
Nigel locked eyes with the Beacon. They had a history of being on opposite sides. Deighton’s agenda would benefit most from Cleland’s request if arrogance didn’t blind him to the opportunity.
“The Church concurs, Your Majesty,” said Deighton. “The funds are better spent spreading the faith and cleansing your kingdom of heathenry.”
Predictable. Hatred narrows the mind. Blinds one to the possibilities in the game.
“General, we are a kingdom surrounded by water.” Langdon sought to ingratiate himself by belaboring the point. “If our king is to grant additional funds, it is better spent on ships.”
“The clans don’t have to cross water to reach Jorendon,” said Cleland. “Add all their private guards together, and they outnumber our regiments by half. Rhynns have always understood the importance of keeping a standing army.”
Walter snorted. “Because they take such delight in fighting amongst themselves.”
“The last clan war of any significance was decades ago,” Nigel chose to point out.
It had been that long since Dowan Iverach cowed Camran into submission. The few forays he made into Aleron afterward hardly counted. Iverach belligerence stopped the day Dowan died.
“They’re just catching their breath,” said Walter. “Rhynns keep each other in check. It’s why they lost. Da’Rhynns think the lowland Rhynns are backward farmers. The lowland Rhynns think Da’Rhynns are thieving shopkeepers, and the mountain Rhynns don’t get along with anyone, even themselves.”
“Let me have them.” Cleland’s weathered face lit with the novelty of an idea. “Let me build a fort along the border. I’ll recruit Rhynns. Form up a militia.”
Nigel weighed the possibilities. Risks, to be sure, but intriguing opportunities as well.
“You’d still be paying more idle soldiers,” said Langdon.
“Not if we oblige the rhiem to fund the militia,” said Cleland, latching onto his fledgling plan. “The clans are paying their own guards anyway. We’d be relieving them of the cost of housing and clothing them. They’d get the benefit of a guard at a lower cost than maintaining their own.”
“Until you pull them away to fight in Erusa or Tallu,” said Langdon. “Then they’re left vulnerable.”
“I’d give my word to keep them in Rhynn,” said Cleland. “Use them solely in defense of the kingdom.”
“The rhiem would never consent,” said Deighton. “It siphons away from their private guards. You should focus on dismantling those instead.”
“And squander a treasure trove of trained talent.” Cleland waved off the notion. “We could call it a watch. The Royal Rhynn Watch.”
“God, no.” Walter rolled his eyes. “Don’t give them another reason to puff out their chests.”
Deighton frowned. Bigotry amplifies stupidity.
“Your Majesty, if you are actually considering this ill-conceived notion, require General Cleland to recruit only from the lesser clans. Allow the Church to interview recruits to ensure their faith.”
“Limit me to a few rogue clans? To kneelers who can convince the Beacon they’re zealots?” Cleland snorted. “I’d be hard-pressed to find a single recruit to satisfy His Holiness.”
“Bringing the lesser clans together and arming them would have a destabilizing effect,” said Nigel.
“Mandate a test of piety, and you’ll get a bunch of sheep who’ve never swung a sword,” Langdon added, with unexpected and well-timed clarity of reasoning.
“Give me leeway,” said Cleland. “I’ll put the recruits under the command of our most trusted colonels. No Rhynn above the rank of captain.”
“That’s sure to appeal to their overblown pride.” Walter cut off the discussion. “Go ahead. Build your fort and start your little experiment. When it turns b****y, I’ll say I told you so.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Cleland bowed.
“But, Your Majesty—” Deighton stood.
“Enough talk of soldiering.” Walter dismissed them with a flick of his hand. “Lord Nigel, stay. I have letters I want you to draft to the royal dunderheads across the straits.”
# # #
Walter lifted off his crown and poured a goblet of wine. He was no fool.
Nigel had mentored him well.
After Walter’s mother died, and with his father disengaged, a cadre of servants of Nigel’s choosing had raised the young prince. He’d been a quiet boy. He did what his tutors expected of him and even developed passable skill with a sword. But at most of what he attempted, Walter was rather average. He’d even been humble at one point in his life.
Power changes a man. With everyone bending to his will and hanging on his every word, Walter began to consider himself exceptional.
His appearance led some to misjudge him as soft. Wistful brown eyes slanted down at the corners in a perpetually drowsy expression. Honey-colored hair and a bow-shaped mouth belied his stubborn confidence. The Walter the First had been a feather-headed pawn, but Walter the Second found politics far more intriguing than a courtesan’s wiles.
“Rhynns again,” said Walter. “Why does it always come to Rhynns? We start off talking about festivals, and it ends up with Rhynns. We talk about tax collection, and it takes us to Rhynns. We talk about armies, and we end up—”
“—with Rhynns.”
“Why, Nigel? What’s the agenda, and who bears it?”
“I could restate the obvious. You’re of Aurel blood, by a quarter. By making you seem more Aurel, your enemies make you less Innish. Goading you into siding with the Rhynns is one agenda.”
Walter bent over his correspondence desk and rummaged through strewn papers.
“Secondly, as Cleland pointed out, armed and trained Rhynns outnumber your Royal Army. Those Rhynns are sworn to you. Granted, their grandfathers spoke the oaths, but they take duty seriously. Rhynn swords hold your throne.”
“So Rhynns are an obstacle to removing me or a tool to use against me.” Walter thumbed through another stack of papers without looking up. “Thus, I should weaken the clans while I also strengthen them. How very helpful.”
“The clans are your best possible allies,” said Nigel. “The pessimist in you suspects I am right.”
“Damn it, Nigel. Nearly four hundred years since Joren claimed Innis and here we stand talking about half the kingdom as if it were a separate realm.”
“The King of Innis rules the Innish, not Rhynns and Surdisi. The distinction is there because you allow it. The Falkenders never understood that and your father—”
“Was an idiot.” Walter turned from the desk with a letter in hand. “This came from the Brescan ambassador. Most of it is Gerard harping about fair treatment for the Brescans in our prisons. He asks me to affirm Innish law on executions. Why now?”
“I don’t know,” Nigel lied. “Is there a particular Brescan he’s concerned about?”
“Not that he mentions, no.” Walter shrugged. “If you see no harm, draft letters to Bresca and Larad both. Affirm our execution laws. Distribute copies to the ministries. If someone was about to off a Brescan under questionable circumstances, it should give them pause.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. I’ll see it done.”
“One more thing. I want you to represent the crown at this Iverach-Aleron wedding. I trust you can attend without insulting them. More than I can say for the rest of the council.”
“Consider sending General Cleland with me. I could arrange some introductions that might prove beneficial to his project.”
“So you approve of his little experiment. Good,” said Walter. “Tell him he’s going with you.”
“As you wish,” Nigel said with a precise bow. “Will that be all?”
“Is it ever? There’s no end to the minutia, only my tolerance for thinking about it. Go.”
Chapter 17
- Writer
