The General's Legacy_Part One_Inheritance

by Adrian G Hilder

  Right now, he was duty-bound to attend the representatives meeting which, unusually, was being held on this Day of the Sun since all had been in attendance at the old general’s funeral two days before. The venue for these meetings remained in the palace despite attempts by the representatives to locate it elsewhere, but not in the throne room. That compromise had been made. A reception room was converted and a square table commissioned. That was what they were all standing around when Pragius entered, exchanging pleasantries and expressing condolences. Pragius took his usual seat beside his father.

  Duce Eden, the representative for Halimouth, delivered a short speech in memory of the general, who originated from the port city. That speech smoothly transitioned into the subject at the top of his agenda: the near completion of the newest warship being built by the Artifex Ship Building Company.

  His speeches are more long-winded than ever since he won his second term, Pragius mused.

  A shared sideways glance at his father suggested he might be thinking the same.

  ‘We will soon have a skilled workforce idle without further orders for ships,’ Duce said, sounding like a tutor lecturing his students. ‘Our trade still grows and provides a tempting target for pirates, or maybe even foreign nations. The Valour of Valendo is a fine vessel, but she’s the only one of her kind and can of course only be in one place.’

  ‘There are fifteen ships in our navy now, Mr Eden, twelve of them purpose-built warships. They all need trained men to crew them. No other navy in any known nation can match ours,’ King Ceoric replied, with practiced patience.

  ‘Yes, for sure, Your Majesty, but none is as capable as the Valour,’ said the much older Carn Serjey, the representative for the Ostenza port region. ‘There are many islands not fully explored and charted. Another of the Valour’s class would offer greater safety as we explore further afield.’

  Of course he would agree; the two of them find it difficult to look further north than Haliford, thought Pragius.

  Ceoric waited expectantly for Majoran Mansen, the representative for Haliford, to have his say. The man fidgeted with his quill and notebook longer than was usual, appeared to scribble down some calculation before reluctantly coming up with his verdict.

  ‘It’s a question of balance, Your Majesty,’ Majoran finally said. ‘The army hasn’t had additional resources for three years now but at its current strength is more than adequate to protect our northern border from the bandit threat...’

  Why do they find it necessary to restate what we already know? Pragius wondered.

  ‘…no signs or reports of a military build-up in Nearhon, and we even have trade on a small scale.’ Majoran stopped, as if he had finished having given no conclusion. He sat back, pulled up on the collar of his shirt, placed a hand on his small pot belly before stating hurriedly, ‘We may well benefit more from increased protection, capacity for exploration and sea defence.’

  Ceoric raised his eyebrows looking down at his own notebook. His father, the great general himself, had counselled against reductions in the strength of the army over the last fifteen years. He had a history of being right in such matters, but there was no intelligence to suggest Nearhon was preparing to continue the war. There was unanimous support for the expansion of the scout network, which kept a concealed eye on Valendo’s interests in Nearhon and elsewhere. This came cheap compared to a larger standing army. Pragius stifled a yawn.

  ‘Very well, write your formal proposal and we will vote on it next session,’ Ceoric declared.

  The subject changed to roads, a building program based out of Haliford that was only contentious in so far as the standard of separate routes to Halimouth and Ostenza. Carn made his usual point: ‘We understand the value of a road on the bank of the river Hali, but what opportunity is there for Ostenza to develop with neither barge route nor completed road serving it? Halimouth comes close to having both.’

  Duce tried to soften the blow that he thought would inevitably come. ‘After the Halimouth route is complete —’

  Carn cut him off, both palms pressed on the table top to stop himself slamming them down. ‘Which at the current rate will be a further two years!’

  Majoran spoke confidently, now underlining something in his notebook. ‘Which is regrettable, but as my forecasts indicate it is in the best interests for Valendo as a whole to complete the last stretch to Halimouth first.’

  Ceoric tried to make eye contact with Carn. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Carn, but this council shows what we must do.’

  Carn was looking out the window, already thinking about how he would break the news to his supporters struggling to get shipping businesses growing.

  ‘We should move on then… Treasury assistance for church hospitals.’

  ‘Your Majesty?’ Majoran said.

  ‘This is new,’ said Duce, eyebrows raised.

  Carn’s attention still seemed to be out the window. In his mind, he was rehearsing the briefing he would give. Patience was in short supply when it came to this mud road and its inability to carry weight year-round. Two years was about a year too late with Ostenza’s election due no more than a year away. The loathsome tick Bakural would probably get in, especially if the shippers started backing him. Then he would be sitting here for the council to deal with and they wouldn’t enjoy that.

  ‘Carn?’

  ‘What? Sorry, Your Majesty…’

  Ceoric had been speaking for some time. ‘Church hospital support.’

  ‘Uh huh…’ Carn replied.

  ‘Donations not consistent in every church, those with shortfalls to be made up from the treasury?’

  ‘Well, Your Majesty, it sounds expensive…’ Carn fluttered his hand dismissively, ‘Where would it end? And if people knew any shortfall would be dealt with by the treasury, who would bother to donate at all? I fear the treasury would quickly find itself with a burden it is unprepared for. A noble but ill-conceived proposal, in my opinion.’

  Carn stared at his notebook, wondering why he had been quite that harsh. Duce pushed his chair back, angling it a little towards his king.

  ‘Carn has a point. Just what are we suggesting we commit the treasury to here?’

  Majoran nodded slowly, relieved of the task of objecting himself.

  Odd, I would have thought this one a popular proposal, a real vote-winner, Pragius thought.

  ‘Well I am disappointed in this council,’ Ceoric stated tersely.

  ‘Happens to the best of us sometimes,’ muttered Carn, turning back to the window. Nobody heard.

  ‘Trade development councillors, Your Majesties?’ Duce enquired.

  Ceoric gave a backhanded wave of acquiescence. Duce launched into a monologue outlining major trade connections, how they were developing and the problems they were facing. Pragius forced his eyes and ears open but was less successful at doing the same with his mind. He was jolted back to alertness with a sudden bold statement from Duce.

  ‘Salt. The market still cannot get enough salt. Access to deposits with our neighbours in the north remains difficult and dangerous. The cost of security to make it through the bandit country is high and the standard or often absence of roads is problematic. You’d really need a road from the lake city down to Halimouth —’

  ‘Or Ostenza,’ Carn cut in.

  Duce cast his eyes upwards to the ceiling and paused for two breaths. ‘And an end to the bandit problem to bring down transport costs,’ he finished.

  ‘King Klonag is as unresponsive as ever to diplomatic contact, though we do seem to be making progress with his brother, Prince Karl Ferand,’ Ceoric reported. ‘His daughter arrived recently to study and play with our orchestra.’

  Duce had a quizzical look, his penchant for the theatrical showing through. ‘She’s a violinist — talented, apparently.’

  ‘I take it Prince Sebastian is taking care of this diplomatic initiative?’ Duce asked.

  ‘No, Cory is,’ Ceoric repl
ied.

  Carn looked shocked. ‘But, Your Majesty — a soldier on a diplomatic mission…?’

  ‘It seems a diplomatic assignment was his idea, though I think it was my late father who suggested inviting Prince Ferand’s daughter here. Surely a future commander and maybe general would benefit from some diplomatic experience?’ Ceoric asked.

  ‘They are hardly likely to launch an invasion with the king’s niece in residence,’ said Carn. ‘Let us hope something more constructive for the long term comes of this. How is it going so far?’

  Pragius paused, then replied. ‘Well, they are of similar age and, er… appear to have enough in common to be getting on well so far.’

  ‘Somehow I imagined Miss Ferand to be…well, somewhat younger, joining the academy as she has,’ Carn said.

  ‘I think we all did,’ replied Pragius.

  Ceoric frowned and reminded himself he really must make more time to keep up to date with his youngest son.

  ‘We will have to trust Garon’s judgement… and hope young Cory can continue without his guidance,’ Majoran said.

  ‘Shall we move on to mining operations?’ Majoran took the mixture of silent nods and grunts as his cue to begin a roll call of mines, not just in the Haliford region where mining was most intensive but for the whole Kingdom. Pragius resolutely focused on Majoran’s words. Production yields, market valuations of ores and forecasts. His voice had a humming droning quality to it, occasionally raising in pitch before falling away again.

  Pragius noticed as he sat down that the surface of the wooden chair caused his clothing to squeak as the material rubbed over it. He put both hands palms down on the dark wooden table top, which felt cold, clammy and slightly sticky to the touch. Pushing down and away with one hand, his skin squeaked over the surface, then he pulled the hand back again and did the same with the other. A pair of marks made by his hands smeared the polished surface. Odours of fresh beeswax mixed with musty leather from the old books on shelves that ran most of the way around the room. The only break in the shelves was for an old grandfather clock, its ‘tock’ marking the passage through time.

  Majoran’s narrative marched on through every mine, from Tranmure down to the coast. The only excitement in the whole discourse was news of problems in a mine just outside Tranmure with the stability of some tunnels. The words ‘collapse’ and ‘injuries’ briefly snatched Pragius’ attention.

  Rapid knocking made everyone turn and look as the door opened and a stout woman strutted in. Her grey-streaked brown hair was pulled straight back into a short ponytail. Green-brown eyes crinkled as her mouth beamed, and she had a tray tucked onto her hip, held with one hand. The tray was loaded with bread, cheeses, fruits, a large jug of water and a wooden cup for each of the men around the table. Pragius’ stomach responded with a hollow rumble.

  ‘Gentlemen, time for lunch. You can’t run the kingdom on an empty stomach any more than an army can march on one, I fancy. Here we go.’ She continued her strut as she spoke, sliding the offering onto the table as if she were determined to feed the world one tray of food at a time, starting in this room.

  ‘Er, yes — yes, thank you, Mrs Samshaw,’ said Ceoric.

  She clasped her hands together in front of her white apron and stood expectantly. A couple of heartbeats went by, then Pragius reached for a slice of bread and some cheese.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Samshaw, just what I needed,’ he said.

  Apparently satisfied, she turned swiftly, her plain grey dress whirling around her, and left the room in the same manner she had arrived.

  Pragius filled himself a cup of water; the diminishing echo of the pouring sound seemed to prompt the others into helping themselves.

  Carn chewed slowly and drank frequently, his attention outside the window again. His shoulders always appeared slightly slumped under the dark woollen jacket he wore, which was a little out of fashion with younger men; however, under it was a white collarless shirt with ruffles down the front that very much matched the current fashion. His attire was an odd mix for a grey-haired man determined enough in his work to leave retirement for a good many more years to come.

  Majoran seemed to be more hurried in his eating and drinking. His eyes darted around the tray with rapid efficiency, which seemed to be the way he picked out his wardrobe — nothing imaginative, just simple greys and a white shirt. He was a man old enough to display greying hair at the temples and start carrying the world's worries on his shoulders but not old enough to set them down again.

  Duce was methodical in his balanced choice of items from the tray, their arrangement on his plate and even the order in which he ate a bit of each. He sat upright, back off the chair with a real sense of decorum. He had a fine dress sense, and today wore what was considered the latest fashion in Halimouth: dark greens featured heavily. The outfit was a little out of place in the current company but this didn’t concern Duce; he knew full well that Halimouth set the trends that any rich people in the kingdom would then follow.

  The king didn’t have the time, inclination or even thoughts for this sort of thing. He was duty-bound to dress formerly for these meetings, just like Pragius. That meant donning a silver-buttoned, dark blue coat, black trousers and dress boots — and, in his case, the crown. For a touch of individuality, Pragius had thrown on a shirt, much like Carn’s.

  Carn continued to eat as the others’ empty plates piled on the tray. They waited a while, hoping he would finish soon and bring his attention from the window back into the room. An awkward silence grew.

  Praguis, feeling fresh and alert, decided to break it. ‘Further diplomatic matters then, gentlemen?’

  Carn’s head snapped round. Pushing the last piece of bread into his mouth, he handed over his plate then cradled the cup of water in his hands. He nodded for Pragius to continue.

  ‘The ambassador from Emiria comes to the end of his assignment here shortly. We were thinking, to lighten King Ceoric’s load, Prince Sebastian could start to take on more foreign affairs — starting with our closest ally.’ Pragius stopped, realising he hadn’t explicitly asked a question or made a statement of intent. The council’s permission wasn’t required for this appointment.

  ‘I am sure it is a good time for Prince Sebastian to start participating more in the affairs of the Kingdom,’ Duce answered.

  There came a murmur of agreement from around the room.

  I wonder if this is showing confidence in relations with Emiria, or in Seb, thought Pragius.

  There followed a lengthy conversation loaded with speculation on the state of affairs in countries across the seas with the most enigmatic being the Eastern Kingdom, as they referred to it. Most news arrived with traders in Halimouth. Since sailing east meant dead reckoning navigation out of sight of land, the round trip was dangerous and rarely done.

  ‘We should also look for an ambassador to place in Ephire full time. It has been, what? Seven years since we last sent an emissary over there,’ said Ceoric.

  ‘Agreed,’ replied Carn and Duce, almost in unison.

  Majoran was silent so King Ceoric addressed him. ‘Thoughts? You look as if you have some.’

  ‘I’m uncomfortable with this idea; there is no member of the royal family to appoint… We would need to recruit someone unknown,’ Majoran replied, shifting in his seat to emphasise his discomfort.

  ‘Perhaps we should invite candidates from among the port traders? Someone may be looking to retire or move on,’ the king suggested.

  ‘I’d be prepared to make enquiries, Your Majesty,’ said Carn.

  Duce made an open-handed gesture. ‘That’s settled, then,’ said Ceoric. ‘We are done then for the day, unless there is anything else?’

  A mixture of heads shaking and notebooks closing brought matters to an end.

  ***

  It was dark by the time Pragius had finished discussing the day’s meeting with his father. His eyes were fogged with tiredness and they strained to see d
own the palace corridors by the light of a fluttering candle flame. His footsteps were quiet with the shoes he had changed into; they just made the occasional scratching and scuffing noise as the soles ground bits of grit and dust from the floor into the stonework.

  Taking an iron key from his pocket, he turned it in the well-lubricated lock of his private office door. Pulling down on a leather strap, the catch on the other side of the door popped up with a sharp clack and he pushed on it with his knuckles.

  It swung open quietly on hinges as well looked after as the lock. A wave of cooler air washed over his face taking away a little of the tiredness.

  The candlelight danced into the room, saving shadowy secrets in corners and behind furniture to be explored later. The light picked out embossed gold lettering on the spines of leather-bound books on shelves around the room. It put a tiny copy of its flame in clear empty wine bottles and glasses of different shapes and sizes arranged in no particular order across the tops of the bookshelves. Over larger surfaces, such as the desk, the candle threw a calmer, more reserved glow. The candlelight didn’t care for the true colour of anything in the room; to Pragius’ eye everything looked darker, with strong yellow tones, compared to how the more faithful daylight would show it. Carefree though the candle was as it played in the room, there was something new lying on the desk that confused it.

  A book.

  The candlelight didn’t know whether to pick out highlights made by the bone hand trapped under a pale leather covering or cast a warm glow over the flat areas. The candle gave up trying to play with the book; the book was not interested, so the candle accepted it as it was and danced over the other things in the room instead.