Jezal frowned. “I am not sure that I—”

“Upon achieving power, one should immediately distance oneself from all allies. They will feel they own your victory, and no rewards will ever satisfy them. You should elevate your enemies instead. They will gush over small tokens, knowing they do not deserve them. Heugen, Barezin, Skald, Meed, these are the men you should bring into your circle.”

“Not Brock?”

“Never Brock. He came too close to wearing the crown to ever feel himself beneath it. Sooner or later he must be kicked back into his place. But not until you are safe in your position, and have plentiful support.”

“I see,” Jezal puffed out his cheeks. Evidently there was more to being king than fine clothes, a haughty manner, and always getting the biggest chair.

“This way.” Out of the garden and into a shadowy hallway panelled with black wood and lined with an array of antique arms to boggle the mind. Assorted suits of full armour stood to glittering attention: plate and chain-mail, hauberk and cuirass, all stamped and emblazoned with the golden sun of the Union. Ceremonial greatswords as tall as a man, and halberds considerably taller, were bolted to the wall in an elaborate procession. Under them were mounted an army’s worth of axes, maces, morningstars and blades curved and straight, long and short, thick and thin. Weapons forged in the Union, weapons captured from the Gurkish, weapons stolen from Styrian dead on bloody battlefields. Victories and defeats, commemorated in steel. High above, the flags of forgotten regiments, gloriously slaughtered to a man in the wars of long ago, hung tattered and lifeless from charred pikestaffs.

A heavy double door loomed at the far end of this collection, black and unadorned, as inviting as a scaffold. Knights Herald stood on either side of it, solemn as executioners, winged helmets glittering. Men taxed not only with guarding the centre of government, but with carrying the King’s Orders to whatever corner of the Union was necessary. His orders, Jezal realised with a sudden further lurch of nerves.

“His Majesty seeks audience with the Closed Council,” intoned Bayaz. The two men reached out and pulled the heavy doors open. An angry voice surged out into the corridor. “There must be further concessions or there will only be further unrest! We cannot simply—”

“High Justice, I believe we have a visitor.”

The White Chamber was something of a disappointment after the magnificence of the rest of the palace. It was not that large. There was no decoration on the plain white walls. The windows were narrow, almost cell-like, making the place seem gloomy even in the sunshine. There was no draft and the air was uncomfortably close and stale. The only furniture was a long table of dark wood, piled high with papers, and six plain, hard chairs arranged down either side with another at the foot and one more, noticeably higher than the others, at the head. Jezal’s own chair, he supposed.

The Closed Council rose as he ducked reluctantly into the room. As frightening a selection of old men as could ever have been collected in one place, and every man of them staring right at Jezal in expectant silence. He jumped as the door was heaved shut behind him, the latch dropping with an unnerving finality.

“Your Majesty,” and Lord Chamberlain Hoff bowed deep, “may I and my colleagues first congratulate you on your well-deserved elevation to the throne. We all feel that we have in you a worthy replacement for King Guslav, and look forward to advising you, and carrying out your orders, over the coming months and years.” He bowed again, and the collection of formidable old men clapped their hands in polite applause.

“Why, thank you all,” said Jezal, pleasantly surprised, however little he might feel like a worthy replacement for anything. Perhaps this would not be so painful as he had feared. The old wolves seemed tame enough to him.

“Please allow me to make the introductions,” murmured Hoff. “Arch Lector Sult, head of your Inquisition.”

“An honour to serve, your Majesty.”

“High Justice Marovia, chief Law Lord.”

“Likewise, your Majesty, an honour.”

“With Lord Marshal Varuz, I believe you are already well acquainted.”

The old soldier beamed. “It was a privilege to train you in the past, your Majesty, and will be a privilege to advise you now.”

So they went on, Jezal smiling and nodding to each man in turn. Halleck, the Lord Chancellor. Torlichorm, the High Consul. Reutzer, Lord Admiral of the Fleet, and so on, and so on. Finally Hoff ushered him to the high chair at the head of the table and Jezal enthroned himself while the Closed Council smiled on. He grinned gormlessly up at them for a moment, and then realised. “Oh, please be seated.”

The old men sat, a couple of them with evident winces of pain as old knees crunched and old backs clicked. Bayaz dropped carelessly into the chair at the foot of the table, opposite Jezal, as though he had been occupying it all his life. Robes rustled as old arses shifted on polished wood, and gradually the room went silent as a tomb. One chair was empty at Varuz’ elbow. The chair where Lord Marshal Burr would have sat, had he not been assigned to duty in the North. Had he not been dead. A dozen daunting old men waited politely for Jezal to speak. A dozen old men who he had thought of until recently as occupying the pinnacle of power, all now answerable to him. A situation he could never have imagined in his most self-indulgent daydreams. He cleared his throat.

“Pray continue, my Lords. I will try and catch up as we go.”

Hoff flashed a humble smile. “Of course, your Majesty. If at any time you require explanation, you have but to ask.”

“Thank you,” said Jezal, “thank—”

Halleck’s grinding voice cut over him. “Back to the issue of discipline among the peasantry, therefore.”

“We have already prepared concessions!” snapped Sult. “Concessions which the peasants were happy to accept.”

“A shred of bandage to bind a suppurating wound!” returned Marovia. “It is only a matter of time before rebellion comes again. The only way we can avoid it is by giving the common man what he needs. No more than is fair! We must involve him in the process of government.”

“Involve him!” sneered Sult.

“We must transfer the burden of tax to the landowners!”

Halleck’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. “Not this nonsense again.”

“Our current system has stood for centuries,” barked Sult.

“It has failed for centuries!” threw back Marovia.

Jezal cleared his throat and the heads of the old men snapped round to look at him. “Could each man not simply be taxed the same proportion of his income, regardless of whether he is a peasant or a nobleman… and then, perhaps…” He trailed off. It had seemed a simple enough idea to him, but now all eleven bureaucrats were staring at him, shocked, quite as if a domestic pet had been ill-advisedly allowed into the room, and it had suddenly decided to speak up on the subject of taxation. At the far end of the table, Bayaz silently examined his fingernails. There was no help there.

“Ah, your Majesty,” ventured Torlichorm in soothing tones, “such a system would be almost impossible to administer.” And he blinked in a manner that said, “How do you manage to dress yourself, given your incredible ignorance?”

Jezal flushed to the lips of his ears. “I see.”

“The subject of taxation,” droned Halleck, “is a stupendously complex one.” And he gave Jezal a look that said, “It is far too complex a subject to fit inside your tiny fragment of a mind.”

“It would perhaps be better, your Majesty, if you were to leave the tedious details to your humble servants.” Marovia had an understanding smile that said, “It would perhaps be better if you kept your mouth shut and avoided embarrassing the grown-ups.”

“Of course.” Jezal retreated shame-facedly into his chair. “Of course.”