Archibald crossed the room and kissed the ring of the still seated bishop, “Good morning, your grace,” he said, then turned and bowed graciously to the archduke. “My lord.”

He swept off his cloak and shook it out carefully. Perplexed, he looked around. “Your servant left before taking my cloak.”

“Just throw it anywhere,” Braga instructed.

The earl looked at him aghast. “This is imported damask with gold thread embroideries.” Just then, the servant reentered with a large comfortable chair. “Ah, there you are. Here take this, and, for Maribor’s sake, don’t hang it from a peg.” He passed his cloak to the servant, who bowed and left.

“Brandy?” Braga asked.

“Oh, good lord, yes,” Archibald replied. Braga handed him a glass, the bottom of which was filled with a smoky amber liquid.

“I appreciate your coming, Archibald,” the bishop said. “I’m afraid we won’t have much time to talk just now, there is quite a bit of turmoil in Melengar today. But as I was telling Braga, I thought it might be beneficial for the three of us to have a quick chat.”

“I’m always at your service, of course, your grace. I appreciate any opportunity to meet with you and the new King of Melengar,” Archibald said nonchalantly. Saldur and Braga exchanged looks. “Oh, come now, it can hardly be a secret. You are the archduke and Lord Chancellor. With King Amrath and the prince dead, if you execute Arista, you’ll wear the crown. It’s really rather nicely done. I commend you. Murder in broad daylight, right before the nobles—they’ll cheer you on as you steal their crown.”

Braga stiffened. “Are you accusing me of—”

“Of course not,” the earl stopped him. “I accuse no one. What care do I have for the affairs of Melengar? My liege is Ethelred of Warric. What happens in your kingdom is none of my affair. I was merely offering my sincere congratulations,” he raised his glass and nodded at the bishop, “to both of you.”

“Do you have a name for this game, Ballentyne?” Braga asked tentatively as both he and Saldur watched the young earl closely.

Archibald smiled again. “My dear gentlemen, I am playing no game. I’m being truthful when I say I am simply in awe. All the more because of my own recent failure. You see, I tried a gamble myself, to increase my station, only it was less than successful.”

Braga became quite amused with this primly dressed earl. He understood what the bishop saw in him and he was curious now. “I’m very sorry to hear you suffered difficulties. Exactly what were you attempting?”

“Well, I acquired some letters and tried to blackmail the Marquis of Glouston into marrying his daughter to me so I could obtain his Rilan Valley. I had the messages locked in my safe in my private tower and was prepared to present them to Victor in person. Everything was perfect, but…poof.” Archibald made an exploding gesture with his fingers. “The letters vanished. Like a magic trick.”

“What happened to them?” Saldur asked.

“They were stolen. Thieves sawed a hole in the roof of my tower and, in just a matter of minutes, slipped in and snatched them from underneath my very nose.”

“Impressive,” Saldur judged.

“Depressing is what it was. They made me look like a fool.”

“Did you catch the thieves?” Braga asked.

Archibald shook his head. “Sadly no, but I finally figured out who they are. It took me days to reason it out. I did not tell anyone I possessed those letters. So, the only ones who could have taken them are the same thieves which I hired in the first place. Cunning devils. They call themselves Riyria. I’m not sure why they stole them, perhaps they planned to charge me twice. I won’t give them the satisfaction of course. I’ll hire someone else to intercept the next set from the Winds Abbey.”

“So, the letters you had were correspondences between the Marquis of Glouston and the Nationalists?” Saldur asked.

Archibald looked at the bishop surprised. “That’s an amazing guess, your grace. You are very close. No, they were love letters between his daughter and her Nationalist lover Gaunt. I planned to have Alenda marry me instead to spare Victor the embarrassment of his daughter being involved with a commoner.”

Saldur chuckled.

“Have I said something funny?”

“You had more in your hands than you knew,” Saldur informed him. “Those weren’t love letters. Those were coded messages from Victor Lanaklin carried by Alenda to Gaunt. The Marquis of Glouston is a traitor to his kingdom and the Imperial cause. With that treasure you could have had all of Glouston and Victor’s head as a wedding gift.”

Archibald stood silent and then swallowed the rest of his brandy in one mouthful.

“But you won’t be able to obtain additional letters. There will be no more meetings at the Winds Abbey. Regrettably, I was forced to ask the archduke here to teach the monks a lesson for hosting such meetings. The abbey was burned along with the monks.”

“You killed your fellow shepherds of Maribor’s flock?” Archibald asked Saldur.

“When Maribor sent Novron to us it was as a warrior to destroy our enemies. Our god is not squeamish at the sight of spilled blood, and it is often necessary to prune weak branches to keep the tree strong. Killing the monks was a necessity, but I did spare one, the son of Lanaklin so he could return home and let his father know the deaths were on his hands. We can’t have Monarchists and Nationalists allying themselves can we?” Saldur smiled at him. The elderly cleric took another sip of his drink, the moment passed and once more Braga observed the persona of the saintly grandfather returned.

“So, you were after Glouston, Archibald?” Braga said, refilling the earl’s glass. “Perhaps I misjudged you. Tell me, my dear earl, were you more upset you lost the land or Alenda?”

Archibald waved his hand in the air as if he was shooing a fly. “She was merely an added benefit. It’s the land I wanted.”

“I see.” Braga glanced at Saldur, who smiled and nodded. “You may still get it.” Braga resumed speaking to the earl. “With me on the throne of Melengar, I will want a strong Imperialist ally guarding my southern border with Warric.”

“King Ethelred would call that treason.”

“And what would you call it?”

Archibald smiled and drummed his fingernails on the beautiful cut-crystal of the royal brandy glass, making it ring with a pleasant song. “Opportunity.”

Braga sat back down and stretched out his feet to the fire. “If I help you obtain the marchland from Lanaklin, and you throw your allegiance to me, Melengar will replace Warric as the strongest kingdom in Avryn. Similarly, Greater Chadwick will be its most powerful province.”

“That’s assuming Ethelred doesn’t declare war,” Archibald warned. “Kings often frown upon losing a quarter of their realm, and Ethelred is not the type to take such an action without retaliation. He enjoys fighting. What’s more, he’s good at it. He has the best army in Avryn now.”

“True,” Braga said, “but he has no able general to command it. He doesn’t have anyone near the talent of your Sir Breckton. That man is gifted when it comes to leading men. If you broke with Warric, could you count on his loyalty to you?”

“Breckton’s loyalty to me is unwavering. His father, Lord Belstrad, is a chivalrous knight of archaic dimensions. He beat those values into his sons. Neither Breckton nor his brother—what’s his name, the younger Belstrad boy who went to sea—Wesley, would dishonor themselves by opposing a man they have sworn their allegiance to. I do admit, however, their honor can be an inconvenience. I remember once a servant dropped my new fustian hat in the mud, and when I commanded Breckton to cut off the clumsy oaf’s hand in punishment, he refused. Breckton went on for twenty minutes explaining the code of chivalry to me. Oh yes, my lord, he is indeed loyal to House Ballentyne, but I would rather have a less loyal man who simply obeys without question. It is entirely possible that should I break with Warric, Breckton might refuse to fight at all, but I’m certain he would not oppose me. Personally, I would be more concerned with Ethelred himself. He is a fine commander in his own right.”