The Record of the Saints Caliber (28 page)

“No,” said Brandrir, looking his brother square in the eyes. “No.” He turned back to Parvailes. “All three years. We do not break the Ageless Accords.”

Dagrir shook his head. “We can no longer afford—”

Brandrir slammed his mechanical hand upon the table, splintering the wood. He looked up at his brother and could feel his face warm and flush with anger. “Duroton does not go back on its word!” He turned to Parvailes, pointing a mechanical finger at the old man. “Three years pay. Send a ship with it tonight.”

Parvailes looked at Dagrir and the two seemed to exchange some sort of unspoken communication with their eyes. That only set Brandrir off further. “Tonight!” he roared, slamming his mechanical fist upon the table once more. “Duroton honors its word!”

Parvailes shook his head and began scrawling something in one of his ledgers. Dagrir stood looking at Brandrir in silence, lips pursed and head wagging. He was about to speak when the door squeaked open and a procession of finely dressed men entered, smiling and chatting amongst themselves.

Six men filed in, one after another, each in colorful doublets trimmed with gold or some other similarly lavish fabric. Some held ledgers in their hands, others carried various rolled scrolls beneath their arms. Brandrir knew these men, if by not much more than name. They were true politicians. They were the current congress—the King’s Council—but they were not of any congress like the ones of old. These men were supposed to represent the people of Duroton, but in reality represented budgets and taxes and the wants and needs of the nobles who appointed them all.

Nobles,
thought Brandrir to himself, huffing out loud at the thought. That was another recent intrusion from the southern realms into Duroton. Brandrir had often heard that the southern kingdoms believed that some men were born superior; born of higher blood than others. In some of the kingdoms the highest nobility were granted special titles—the Exalted, they were known as. Mostly sons and daughters of Kings, the Exalted held almost godlike powers over anybody they came across, even within other kingdoms. It was ridiculous. The entire idea of nobility seemed ludicrous to Brandrir and he found it hard to believe that in the southern kingdoms men bowed before nobles for no reason other than the title alone.

Brandrir looked at his mechanical arm and balled its hand into a fist.
Respect should be earned, not granted,
he thought. Ending the idea of “nobility” would be high on the agenda once he took the throne.

The councilmen finished filing into the room. They laughed and chattered amongst themselves until a few began taking notice of Brandrir’s presence.

“Brandrir!” said one of the men, lighting up at his sight. Brandrir knew him as Balin Yagdril. He was dressed in a bright yellow doublet ribbed with silver and similarly elaborate britches. He had brown eyes and a long thin mustache and a beard as sharp as his politicking. He held a bundle of scrolls under his arm. “You’ve decided to join us, have you? Will you be heading the council table today in Dagrir’s stead?”

“He will,” said Dagrir and acrimoniously pulled the head chair out from the table. “Being as after tomorrow’s ceremony he will be King, I suppose it’s past time he learns how to head a council.” He extended a hand. “Please brother, take your seat and perhaps we can begin by telling the council what your first order of business has been?”

“Oh, well this sounds sour,” remarked Balin. Balin represented the Council of Nobles and represented the lands and titles of people throughout the kingdom. Brandrir looked at the bundle of scrolls the man held with some disdain. No doubt they were requests for entitlements sought by those he was representing. “Perhaps we should begin on a lighter note. Councilman Sigrund has some pleasant news this morning.”

“That I do,” said Jord Sigrund. He was an immensely rotund man dressed in velvety copper fabric that draped loosely about his bulk. He always wore a silver coif—something that had come to represent the Council of Taxation—and it perfectly matched his hair and eyes. Jord had sat on the council for forty years and was the most seasoned of all the Councilmen after Parvailes.

“If it has anything to do with the three-hundred thousand phoenix worth of gems hauled from the Yotun Mines, our grace here has already managed to spend it.” said Parvailes. He looked at Brandrir sourly from beneath his bushy gray brows.

Jord started at this, his cheeks and neck bobbing as he looked at Brandrir, quite stunned.

“Let us properly convene council,” said Dagrir to Jord. “Let us come to order beneath the Duroton sky.” he said more loudly.

The mumblings and murmurs subsided as the council members took their chairs. Brandrir scowled as he dragged himself and his seat closer to the table. Only Dagrir remained standing, as was customary for the Standing Speaker. It was the highest position in the council next to the King, or Regent King in Brandrir’s case. Usually Dagrir sat in the King’s seat and Balin acted as Speaker. But with Brandrir back the seats had to be rearranged slightly.

“The King’s Council is now convened,” said Dagrir loudly as he shut the door to the chamber and took up a position just behind Brandrir’s seat. “If any would not speak beneath the Duroton sky, let him be excused so that the Lands take no heed.” Dagrir paused for the briefest of moments, then continued. “At High Seat today is Regent King Brandrir Thorodin, son of Duroton. And, I might add, that after tomorrow, he will be our Standing King.”

Brandrir smiled. The Councilmen all had dull faces. There was some frivolous clapping from a couple, but for the most part not a single one looked up from their books and papers.

Dagrir slapped his brother on the shoulder, his hand clanking loudly on his pauldron. He continued. “I, Dagrir Thorodin, Demi-regent King—Regent King after tomorrow—shall act as Standing Speaker. Rankin Parvailes, Coinmaster and Council of Records, shall be Recorder of Council.” Dagrir exhaled deeply. “Before we get down to business, let us quickly move through formalities. We have Balin Yagdril, Council of Nobles; Jord Sigrund, Council of Collections and Taxes; Baldir Bjort, Council of Agriculture; Gefjon Jolori, Council of Jurisprudence; Aldur Ilmarinen, Council of Foreign Affairs; Hymnar Ragnir, Council of Domestic Affairs; and, as you know, myself and Brandrir are Council of Rule and War. Let us come to order for the Lands of Duroton.”

“For the Lands of Duroton,” repeated Brandrir and the council in unison.

Brandrir inhaled deeply as his brother began speaking. He looked down at the table, rubbing his eyes and holding his head as Dagrir briefed the Council on the agenda. He looked out the window as Dagrir began in about his recent decision to pay the Icelanders three-years worth of reparations. He was vaguely aware of the chuckles from the Councilmen, but he was already becoming lost in his own thoughts.

From his seat he could see the outer wall of the castle where the massive sections of brick and stone had been toppled. His mind drifted to that fateful night seventeen years ago. How the castle shook at its very foundations. The screams of men drifting through the night sky. The Kald as they flitted through the bedroom window, towering over him with those hateful eyes, and how they knocked him to the floor. Brandrir grit his teeth. He could still feel the icy foot on him; still hear his mother’s screams; see the Kald tearing at her nightgown. And then Dagrir’s scream, the most bloodcurdling of all.

Brandrir’s right hand began stroking the cold, metal shell of his left arm. He looked down at the thing and inhaled deeply, the weight of the tank upon his back felt heavier now and he was aware again of its warmth that radiated even through his armor. He looked at his metallic fingers, each one clacking upon his palm as he balled them into a fist, the tank on his back releasing a quiet hiss.

Dagrir’s harsh voice suddenly ripped Brandrir from his thoughts. He looked up at his brother who was standing there, staring at him with his dark, piercing eyes. But all Brandrir could see right now were those scars on his neck. The pink, raised scars of ruined flesh from where the Kald had wrapped their icy fingers around his neck.

“Councilman Jord has asked you a question, brother.” repeated Dagrir. “Perhaps there is something more pressing on your mind right now that you’d like to share?”

Brandrir shook his head of any last distracting thoughts and clenched and unclenched his metallic fist a few times, causing the tank on his back to release a number of hisses. “No, I’m sorry,” said Brandrir. His eyes somehow drifted away from Dagrir and to the stack of papers next to him. He looked down the long table and at the rolled scrolls before each of the councilmen. “Um…I’m sorry, what was the question?”

Dagrir exhaled deeply. “Councilman Jord had asked if we can hold off the reparations payment and divert the money to—”

“No,” said Brandrir firmly. “Next matter of business.” Down either side of the long table Brandrir could see all the councilmen looking at each other in stunned silence. Some raising eyebrows and then looking away, others biting their lips and shaking their heads.

“Next matter indeed,” muttered Dagrir. He sighed heavily. “Councilman Baldir, I believe you have the matter of military provisions to discuss?”

“Yes, sire,” said Baldir. “With spring here it is now time to discuss the matter of food stores for the Northern Guard and for the Grimwatch. Last year we devoted a sixth of our croplands to rye for dry stores, but as I understand there will be an increase in men at the Grimwatch. I recommend we plan to increase stores for the winter.” Here Baldir stood up and unfurled his long parchment upon the table. “Here you can see available farmland for the city of Durotania. This next scroll is available farmland further north in the Bluelands, which is usually reserved mostly for the men of the Grimwatch.”

Brandrir rubbed his eyes and slowly moved his hands out to massage his temples. Baldir spoke with such matter-of-factness that there was little in the way of animation to him. The man droned on and on about acres of wheat and corn and rye and percentages of grain needed for livestock.

“Is there a problem, brother?” asked Dagrir.

Brandrir lifted his head from his hands. “Oh, um…no. Just, whatever you think necessary, Councilman Baldir. I respect your council and your advice.”

“But, your grace,” began Baldir. “I need to know how many men you’re adding to the Grimwatch.”

“Oh…um, yes. Etheil was thinking we add five-hundred,” said Brandrir.

“Where are these men coming from, brother?”

“I don’t know,” said Brandrir. He scratched his head and then held up his hands. “We’ll take them from the Northern Guard, I guess.”

Dagrir wiped a hand down his face and held it before his mouth for a moment, his dark eyes looking away from Brandrir. At last he removed his hand and exhaled deeply. “Brother…we…you can’t just…”

“Perhaps this needs more discussion in private council between your two graces,” said Balin Yagdril.

“Yes,” said Dagrir. He breathed deeply. “Moving on then. Councilman Balin, I believe you had a matter needed to be put to vote when we adjourned last. This ought to be quick and exciting enough for my brother to focus on.”

Brandrir looked up at his brother and scowled but Balin jumped right into his matter.

“Indeed, your grace.” said Balin. He turned to Brandrir, looking at him with that sharp smile of his. “As you know, your grace, certain matters require a unanimous vote by all Councilmen and that all Councilmen be present for the vote. Councilman of Jurisprudence, Gefjon, here, pointed this out to us last time. Now that you’re here, your grace, I…
we
…would like to present the matter of Exaltation of Nobility. As you may be aware, the southern kingdoms long have had a tradition of—”

“What?”
shot Brandrir, standing up from his chair. He placed his hands upon the wooden table, his mechanical left hand banging loudly. He leaned over and looked at Balin. Then looked down at all the Councilmen.
“What?”

Balin was silent but looked up to Dagrir.

“The Council thinks it’s wise to slowly begin allowing Exaltation of certain, key nobility.” said Dagrir as he stood at Brandrir’s side.

Brandrir looked up at his brother. “What?”

Dagrir rubbed his forehead and combed his hand through his hair before beginning. “Brother, there has been a lot of talk amongst the nobility as of late. Actually, for more than a decade they’ve been talking. We’ve been running deficits and Jord is having a difficult time convincing any of the nobles to pay more in taxes. In short, the nobles want Exaltation in the same manner as nobles of the southern kingdoms. We grant Exaltation, they’ll pay more taxes.”

Brandrir felt his hands balling into fists. The tank on his back hissed.

“Titles are everything these days,” added Balin.

“Titles,”
spat Brandrir. He turned away from the table and shook his head. “Duroton was once a kingdom without nobles. Duroton is a country of free men. The sons of Duroton are—”

“Are ruled by a King like any other kingdom in this world,” said Parvailes quite plainly from across the room. The old man sat in his seat, looking at Brandrir with those accusing old eyes of his. “I am Council of Records and I can assure you the people of Duroton have never been quite as free as your friend Etheil likes to make the history books sound. True, in recent years we have granted nobility to more than just the King and his sons, but were the Stewards of Duroton anything less than nobles in the grand scheme of things? Whether one is called a steward, a noble or an exalted is not really relevant. They perform the same duties.”