“As for the specific circumstance of Dagoska!” Thuel looked up hopefully, chest still shaking with suppressed coughs. “Is that city not possessed of some of the most powerful and extensive defences in the world? Did it not resist a siege by the Gurkish, less than a decade ago, for over a year? What has become of the walls, sir, the walls?” The great room fell quiet as everyone strained to hear the reply.
“Lord Chamberlain,” wheezed Thuel, his voice nearly drowned out as one of the clerks turned the crackling page of his huge book and began scratching on the next, “the defences have fallen into poor repair, and we lack the soldiers to keep them properly manned. The Emperor is not ignorant of this,” he whispered, all but inaudible, “I beg of you…” He dissolved into another fit of coughing, and dropped into his seat, accompanied by some light jeering from the Angland delegation.
Hoff frowned even more deeply. “It was my understanding that the defences of the city were to be maintained by monies raised locally, and by trade levies upon the Honourable Guild of Spicers, who have operated in Dagoska under an exclusive and highly profitable licence these past seven years. If resources cannot be found even to maintain the walls,” and he swept the assembly with a dark eye, “perhaps it is time that this licence was put out to tender.” There was a volley of angry mutterings around the public gallery.
“In any case, the Crown can spare no extra monies at present!” Jeers of dissatisfaction came from the Dagoska side of the room, hoots of agreement from the Angland side.
“As for the specific circumstance of Angland!” thundered the Lord Chamberlain, turning toward Meed. “I believe we may shortly hear some good news, for you to take back to your father the Lord Governor.” A cloud of excited whisperings rose up into the gilded dome above. The handsome young man looked pleasantly surprised, as well he might. It was rare indeed that anyone took good news away from the Open Council, or news of any kind for that matter.
Thuel had got control of his lungs once more, and he opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by a great beating on the huge door behind the high table. The Lords looked up: surprised, expectant. The Lord Chamberlain smiled, in the manner of a magician who has just pulled off an exceptionally difficult trick. He signalled to the guards, the heavy iron bolts were drawn back, and the great, inlaid doors creaked slowly open.
Eight Knights of the Body, encased in glittering armour, faceless behind high, polished helmets, resplendent in purple cloaks marked on the back with a golden sun, stomped in unison down the steps and took their places to either side of the high table. They were closely followed by four trumpeters, who stepped smartly forward, raised their shining instruments to their lips and blew an ear-splitting fanfare. Jezal gritted his rattling teeth and narrowed his eyes, but eventually the ringing echoes faded. The Lord Chamberlain turned angrily toward the Announcer, who was staring at the new arrivals with his mouth open.
“Well?” hissed Hoff.
The Announcer jumped to life. “Ah… yes of course! My Lords and Ladies, I have the great honour to present…” he paused and took a huge breath, “…his Imperial Highness, the King of Angland, of Starikland, and of Midderland, the Protector of Westport and of Dagoska, his August Majesty, Guslav the Fifth, High King of the Union!” There was a great rustling noise as every man and woman in the hall shifted from their seats and down onto one knee.
The royal palanquin processed slowly through the doors, carried on the shoulders of six more faceless knights. The King was sitting in a gilded chair on top, propped up on rich cushions and swaying gently from side to side. He was staring about him with the startled expression of a man who went to sleep drunk, and has woken up in an unfamiliar room.
He looked awful. Enormously fat, lolling like a great hill swathed in fur and red silk, head squashed into his shoulders by the weight of the great, sparkling crown. His eyes were glassy and bulging, with huge dark bags hanging beneath, and the pink point of his tongue kept flicking nervously over his pale lips. He had great low jowls and a roll of fat around his neck, in fact his whole face gave the appearance of having slightly melted and started to run down off his skull. Such was the High King of the Union, but Jezal bowed his head a little lower as the palanquin approached, just the same.
“Oh,” muttered his August Majesty, as though he had forgotten something, “please rise.” The rustling noise filled the hall again as everybody rose and returned to their seats. The King turned toward Hoff, brow deeply furrowed, and Jezal heard him say, “Why am I here?”
“The Northmen, your Majesty.”
“Oh yes!” The King’s eyes lit up. He paused. “What about them?”
“Er…” but the Lord Chamberlain was saved from replying by the opening of the doors on the opposite side of the hall, the ones through which Jezal had first entered. Two strange men strode through and advanced down the aisle.
One was a grizzled old warrior with a scar and a blind eye, carrying a flat wooden box. The other was cloaked and hooded, every feature hidden, and so big that he made the whole hall seem out of proportion. The benches, the tables, even the guards, all suddenly looked like small versions designed for the use of children. As he passed, a couple of the representatives closest to the aisle cringed and shuffled away. Jezal frowned to himself. This hooded giant did not have the look of good news, whatever Lord Hoff might say. Angry and suspicious mutterings filled the echoing dome as the two Northmen took their places on the tiled floor before the high table.
“Your Majesty,” said the Announcer, bowing so ridiculously low that he had to support himself with his staff, “the Open Council recognises Fenris the Feared, the envoy of Bethod, King of the Northmen, and his translator, White-Eye Hansul!”
The King was staring off happily towards one of the great windows in the curved wall, utterly oblivious, perhaps admiring the way the light shone through the beautiful stained glass, but he looked suddenly round, jowls vibrating, as the old half-blind warrior addressed him.
“Your Majesty. I bring brotherly greetings from my master, Bethod, King of the Northmen.” The Round had fallen very still, and the clerks’ scratching nibs seemed absurdly loud. The old warrior nodded at the great hooded shape beside him with an awkward smile. “Fenris the Feared brings an offer from Bethod to yourself. From King to King. From the North to the Union. An offer, and a gift.” And he raised the wooden box.
The Lord Chamberlain gave a self-satisfied smirk. “Speak your offer first.”
“It is an offer of peace. An endless peace between our two great nations.” White-Eye bowed again. His manners were impeccable, Jezal had to admit. Not what one would expect from savages of the cold and distant North. His goodly speech would almost have been enough to put the room at ease, had it not been for the hooded man beside him, looming like a dark shadow.
The King’s face twitched into a weak smile at this mention of peace however. “Good,” he muttered. “Excellent. Peace. Capital. Peace is good.”
“He asks but one small thing in return,” said White-Eye.
The Lord Chamberlain’s face had turned suddenly dour, but it was too late. “He has but to name it,” said the King, smiling indulgently.
The hooded man stepped forward. “Angland,” he hissed.
There was a moment of stillness, then the hall exploded with noise. There was a gale of disbelieving laughter from the public gallery. Meed was on his feet, red-faced and screaming. Thuel tottered up from his bench, then fell back coughing. Angry bellows were joined by hoots of derision. The King was staring about him with all the dignity of a startled rabbit.