by Alan Scott
“Do we know who has won the duel, Grandfather?”
Jacob waved a dismissive hand. “Is it really important? Either of them will be strong enough to stand by my daughter.” Kimberley bowed her head.
Jacob pulled a report from his never empty in-tray and started to study it. “Take Cameron to your aunt, Oceania; she knows what to do next.”
“Yes, Grandfather.” Reaching down, Kimberley grabbed Cameron by the arm, opened a shadow-door, and dragged him through.
With the departure of his granddaughter, Jacob looked up and leaned back in his chair, calling out, “Lucas!”
“Yes, Father?”
“Has your mission been successful?”
“It has, Father.”
“Excellent.”
“Though I wish you had told me about it when we met in your office.”
“Stop whining, boy. You are a Pace; you should be able to react to sudden requests.”
“Yes, Father.”
“You are a disappointment, boy.”
“Yes, Father, I know. I am sorry.”
“Bah.” Jacob broke the link with his son. Calling out again, he said, “Oceania!”
“Father?”
“Kimberley is bringing the boy to you now.”
“Understood.”
“Who has won?”
“My husband returns to my side.”
“Goodbye, Daughter.”
“Goodbye, Father.”
Jacob Pace reached down and opened his bottom drawer, taking out a bottle of red wine and a glass. Opening the bottle, he poured himself a large glass and took a deep drink. Jacob smiled a very rare smile as he raised the glass in silent salute. Today had been a good day. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to enjoy the delicate fragrance of the jasmine and the musical sound of the water falling from the fountain.
Chapter Six
Taxes and Still More Taxes
Six months later
“So many dead,” mused Rebecca Rothgal, quietly. She was currently sitting at the head of a table, chairing a very sombre and depressing meeting in one of the palace’s meeting rooms.
“Pardon, your Majesty?” asked Chamberlain Marc Aslo.
“I said – so many dead.”
“Em, please explain, your Majesty?” queried Captain Philips, the only other person in the room.
Rebecca looked sadly at Captain Philips. “My mother, my father, countless soldiers and civilians – all have died to protect the Twin Kingdoms and the great city of Deep Lake. They have seen off invading armies, monsters, and bad harvests.” Rebecca gave a cheerless laugh. “They were easy to defeat.”
“My Queen...” began Chamberlain Aslo.
“No, Marc, it is true. I think I face the most dangerous foe yet.” Another forlorn laugh sounded out from Rebecca. “I face the Red Bank.” Rebecca placed her head in her hands. “Please don’t fail me, Rab,” she whispered.
Captain Philips cast a confused look at Chamberlain Aslo, who gave a slight shake of the head.
“Sorry, gentlemen; I am babbling.” Rebecca sat up and rubbed her tired eyes.
“Then we should fight, your Majesty. We should stop paying these leeches and stand up to them,” said Captain Philips.
“HOW, John!?” Rebecca screamed in despair. “How, John?” she repeated in a calmer manner. “They own most of the land now. They own most of the merchants, the farms, the bakers, etc. If we stop paying, they will simply starve us out.”
“Well, we take the land from them. We strike back.”
“We have been through this a thousand times, John. The Red Bank owns almost all of the merchants, banks, and institutes in our neighbouring countries. They would simply stop trading with us and the Twin Kingdoms would starve.”
“Well, we could....” began John Philips.
“We could what, John? We could invade our neighbours? We could go to war? With what? Our army is busy fighting the ever-growing number of bandits, and guess what? It takes money to fight a war and we don’t have any.”
Captain Philips wrung his hands in frustration. “I know, your Majesty. It’s just... I feel so powerless.”
“I know the feeling, John,” consoled Rebecca.
“They say money is the root of all evil,” commented Chamberlain Aslo.
“Never a truer word said,” noted Captain Philips.
“What I cannot understand is why the Red Bank is trying so hard to bankrupt the Twin Kingdoms,” continued Chamberlain Aslo. “As Rab says, it makes no business sense and they could not rule a kingdom. Could they?”
“They would need a puppet – someone they could control to sit on the throne,” said Captain Philips. Rebecca cast a disapproving look at her Captain.
“Sorry, your Majesty,” responded Philips.
At that moment, there was a knock at the door. “Come in!” called out Rebecca. The door opened and in walked Rab Cregg.
“What news, Rab?” asked Queen Rothgal.
“A small amount of good news, your Majesty.”
“Which is?” asked Rebecca.
“They have agreed not to increase the interest.”
“In exchange for what?” asked Rebecca, guardedly.
“There is no catch, your Majesty.”
Rebecca looked thoughtful. “The Red Bank never does anything without a catch.”
“I know and I am slightly worried by it,” Rab admitted.
“Why are you worried?” asked Captain Philips. “Is this not a good thing? Your Majesty, surely this is good news?”
“Good news, Captain Philips?” Rebecca shook her head. “No, Captain Philips, this is not good news.”
“Why?” asked a confused Philips.
“I shall tell you later,” said Chamberlain Aslo.
“I have much to think about and I need some time alone. Everyone out,” Rebecca said.
“But, your Majesty...” started Rab.
“No, Rab, I said everyone out. Now!”
“Yes, your Majesty,” the three men said as one. Bowing low, they left the room and shut the door.
After the men had left, Rebecca finally let the tears flow from her eyes. “What am I going to do?” she whispered to herself. “How did my kingdom get into so much debt?” Holding her head in her hands, the sobs began. “How am I going to feed my people?”
After five minutes, Rebecca slammed her hands down on the table. “Oh, for our Lord’s sake! Stop acting like a little girl, Rebecca, and get a grip,” she scolded herself. “You are a queen; act like one!” Wiping away the tears, she took a few deep breaths and then froze. “How long have you been there?”
“Longer than you will have wanted me to be,” stated Shadow Killer as he walked from behind Queen Rothgal.
“Have I ever told you that I hate you?”
“Once or twice.” Shadow Killer sat down opposite his Queen.
Composing herself, Rebecca asked, “What news do you have?”
“I can only ever find traces of him. The world out there,” Shadow Killer glanced out the window, “is in chaos.”
“Is it his doing?”
“The Midnight Man is powerful, but not that powerful. He cannot influence the whole of Talocants in his present state.”
“He doesn’t need to; the bloody Red Bank seems to be doing that for him.”
“The Red Bank, powerful as they are, are not connected to the Midnight Man.”
“Are you positive, Shadow Killer?” pressed Rebecca.
“I can find no link. As nasty and vindictive as they are, they are only human.”
Rebecca pulled a face. “Barely human, in some cases. Are you really positive? I am sure that there is more to the Red Bank than meets the eye. There is something very sinister about the way they work.”
“As you know, my resources are not what they were.”
“And whose fault is that?” snapped Rebecca.
Shadow Killer went dangerously quiet.
“Sorry.” She took a deep breath. “Sorry, I’m just ve
ry, very tired... and frustrated... and to be honest, desperate.”
“I can see, your Majesty,” observed Shadow Killers in neutral tones.
“So – the world is in chaos, my people hate me, the Church denounces me as a whore to deviants when they think I am not listening, at least three distant relations are planning to overthrow me, and I have just pissed off my most deadly ally! Can things get any worse?” Rebecca threw her arms dramatically in the air.
“I can think of a few things,” commented Shadow Killer.
“Don’t even start,” groaned Rebecca as she pushed herself upright and walked to the window. Shadow Killer watched her, silently.
Looking out the window, Rebecca smiled sadly as she took in the wonderful views. “I fear that I will not see this time of year again.”
Shadow Killer stood up slowly and made his way to stand next to Rebecca. Ignoring the scenery, he carefully studied Rebecca’s face, noting the extra lines that had appeared, the deep weariness that was weighing her down, and the fear and loneliness that showed in her eyes. “We all die, Rebecca.”
“That’s a very male thing to say.”
“I am a male.”
“Yes, I know, but if you were a woman, you would try to cheer me up, try to take my mind off the terrible thoughts that are going through my head. You would try to calm me down and tell me that everything will be ok.”
“I am not a woman,” stated Shadow Killer.
“No, you are not; you are a man, a warrior, a Dev’ver,” Rebecca turned her head to look at her bodyguard, “so instead, you simply state that everyone dies.”
“Correct.”
“And that is meant to comfort me?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca shook her head and muttered, “Men.”
“Rebecca, everything dies, so there is no point pretending otherwise,” began Shadow Killer. “What most people forget to do is live. You have lived, Rebecca Rothgal. You have stood strong against your foes. You can hold your head high.”
“And if, when I die, my enemies destroy everything I built?”
“Nothing lives forever.”
“Men and women – we are so different,” observed Rebecca, sadly.
“No.”
“No?”
“No, it’s not a male/female thing; it’s the difference between living a short life and a long one,” disagreed Shadow Killer.
Rebecca studied her bodyguard. “How much death and destruction have you seen in your six hundred years, Shadow Killer?”
“More than you can imagine.”
“How much hope and happiness have you seen?”
“More than you can imagine.”
“And what about your name and deeds, Shadow Killer? What will happen to them when you die?”
“They will be forgotten. A new person shall make a name for themselves and take my place for a few short years, and then the pattern will be repeated again and again and again.”
“This is a very depressing conversation,” dismissed Rebecca as she walked away from the window, made her way back to the table, and sat down.
“Why don’t you call on your brother?”
“Jack?” Rebecca shook her head, slowly. “You know as well as I do that he is a broken man. Besides, you cannot fight a bank with swords and claws.”
“He would, if you asked,” prompted Shadow Killer.
Rebecca gently smiled. “I know what you are doing, Shadow Killer, but no matter how desperate the situation gets, I will not call on my brother. I love him too much to do that.”
“Good.”
“Does that settle your fears?”
“Yes, it does. As you say, your brother is a broken man – broken by the guilt he carries about the children he sacrificed and the fear that he may become like the Midnight Man. If he was a normal man, it would not matter, but he is not; he is the Ver known as Dark Storm.”
“Worry not, Shadow Killer. As I said, I will not call on my brother,” reassured Rebecca.
“Good,” nodded Shadow Killer.
Rebecca nodded and closed her eyes.
After fifteen minutes of silence, Shadow Killer said, “Tea?”
“Mmmmm, please.” Rebecca kept her eyes shut.
“Ok. I’ll see if I can find any cake.”
“That would be nice.”
“Right,” said Shadow Killer as he made his way to the door. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Ok.”
With Shadow Killer gone, a peaceful silence filled the room. Queen Rebecca Rothgal kept her eyes closed and enjoyed every second of it.
***
“You look... upset, John,” said Chamberlain Aslo as he and Captain John Philips walked along the corridor.
“I am more frustrated.”
“Why?”
“Because... oh, never mind.”
“Because,” said Aslo, carefully, “her Majesty does not seem... herself?”
John slowed his walking and looked at Chamberlain Aslo carefully. ”It could be,” he hesitantly replied.
“I sometimes think that her Majesty takes advice from too few advisers, and that some of the more trusted advisers are being sidelined.”
“And their advice not being given the weight it deserves,” finished Captain John Philips.
Chamberlain Aslo stopped walking as the corridor came to a T-junction. “True and wise words. I need to go this way.” Aslo indicated the junction with his hand.
“Whilst I need to carry straight on, so I will say farewell.”
“Farewell, Captain.” Chamberlain Aslo started to move off.
“We must speak again, Chamberlain!” called out Philips.
“Yes, we must,” said Aslo, turning slightly. “It is good for friends to discuss ideas and thoughts.”
“Yes, it is,” agreed Philips as he watched Aslo walk away. “Yes, it is.”
***
Across the city in the Archbishop’s office
“Ah, my dear Lady Amanda Rothgal-Ackroyd and Confessor Vember, how good to see you,” began Archbishop Frances Peak from behind his large desk. “Deacon Brown, refreshments for our guests.”
“Of course, your Grace,” acknowledged Deacon Brown as he turned to the pair. “Can I get you anything?”
“Water,” responded Amanda.
“Same for me,” replied Confessor Vember.
Turning, Brown asked, “Archbishop?”
“Ah, they do say purity is next to godliness.”
“They do.”
“I shall have a water, too.”
“A large one?”
“As always.”
“Very good, your Grace.” With that, Deacon Brown removed himself from the room to get the drinks.
“Please sit, Lady Rothgal-Ackroyd and Confessor Vember,” insisted Peak.
“Thank you, your Grace,” said both his guests.
“Now, how may I help you?”
“I fear for the moral, spiritual, and physical safety of the people of Deep Lake and the Twin Kingdoms, your Grace,” Amanda Rothgal-Ackroyd stated.
“That is very charitable of you, Lady Rothgal-Ackroyd.”
“That deviant-loving witch Queen of ours is draining the very life blood of the kingdom to feed her thrice-damned lackeys. She has raised taxes so high that parents cannot feed their children, all under the pretence that the Red Bank is upping its demands for repayment of debts.” Amanda closed her eyes and calmed herself before continuing, “This cannot go on much longer, your Grace. I have prayed for guidance from our Lord and he has sent me a sign.”
“Has he now?” Archbishop Peak steepled his fingers as he studied Amanda.
“He has,” confirmed Confessor Vember.
At that moment, Deacon Brown re-entered the room carrying a tray containing the drinks, which he placed down on a small table next to the window. “Water for you, Mistress Rothgal-Ackroyd.”
“Thank you.”
“And one for you, Confessor.”
“My thanks, Deacon.”
“And, of course, a large double water for you, your Grace.”
“Is it pure water, Brown?”
“Yes, your Grace; it’s a pure straight double water,” said the Deacon with a perfectly straight face.
Frances Peak took an experimental sip. His eyes widened slightly. “Yes, this is extremely pure... water.”
“Just as your Grace requested.”
Catching a questioning look from Amanda Rothgal-Ackroyd, Archbishop Peak smiled. “I once drank some contaminated water that made me extremely ill. I now insist on only the purest water.”
“Ah,” said Amanda, with a knowing nod.
“Anyway, enough about water,” the Archbishop waved his hand, dismissively. “You were talking about a sign from our Lord, were you not?”
“Yes, Archbishop, I was.”
“Then please, continue?”
“I started praying at dawn three days ago in my private chapel when I began to notice a strange darkness surrounding the building.”
“A strange darkness?” queried Peak.
“Yes, a strange darkness. It felt heavy, dangerous, and radiated evil.”
“Radiated evil.”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“Mmmm, please, go on.”
“I started to pray to our Lord for salvation and protection against this evil presence. As I prayed, I could hear whispered words – words of terrible temptation and even worse horrors.” Amanda took a quick swallow of water before continuing, “Those awful words still haunt me, and it is only through the strength of our Lord that I find the strength to defeat them. Archbishop, be glad that you will never know what was said. I will only say that the violence and debauchery were extreme.” Lady Rothgal-Ackroyd closed her eyes and placed her hand on her breast.
“My dear lady, are you ok?” asked a concerned Deacon.
Amanda opened her eyes and waved away the Deacon’s concerns “Though I am a weak woman, I am protected by our Lord. I am well, thank you for your concern.”