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Rodell Pariot stood with General Oren Glybard on the east tower wall, overlooking the crowds streaming into Kaerleon. The General wasn't tall, but he was wide across the chest and shoulders and still appeared powerful despite the gray that had laid siege and conquered his receding hair. His clean-shaven face was broad and stern, creased by a life of service in the army of the king—a life of pride and grief, triumph and tragedy. He still wore his cuirass, burnished and decorated with the badge of the Crown.
Oren was also the Archduke of Leodia, but that title meant much less to him.
A regiment of the Imperial Guard trotted through the main avenue as the crowds respectfully opened a way to let them pass. Resplendent in their blue and black surcoats and shining from their mail to their blue crested helmets, they moved in perfect unison, halberds resting on their shoulders. Oren nodded in satisfaction as he surveyed them.
With the king's death, the city almost erupted in chaos as the people rioted and the nobles schemed against each other for position. But both rioters and nobles put their differences aside with the Imperial Guard in full force. A state of martial law was established, with Oren in the unwanted position of stewardship. He had no patience for the nobles and little sympathy for the masses milling in the streets complaining of lack of food and increased taxes. Yet, he was forced to name himself the Steward of Leodia until a king was crowned.
"The merchants demand the trade routes be reopened, your Grace," Rodell said. "They say they will take their business elsewhere if they cannot turn profits here."
"Trade." Oren continued to scan the advancing crowds. "A business I know nothing of. My only concern is preserving the peace and keeping at least a semblance of order to not appear weak before our enemies and allies. Let the Master of Trade deal with the merchants."
"Your Grace. You ... hung the man two weeks ago."
Oren gave Rodell an impatient glance. "Gunter Reavis?"
"He was one of the conspirators we uncovered plotting to anoint a new king."
Oren snorted. "How can I keep track? I hang traitors daily. My morning ritual, in fact. I break my fast with hen eggs and hung necks. Thank Deis there are still a few trustworthy men left in this city. Imagine my surprise when Garret Drayton told me he was the Ear of the Realm in addition to being the king's Chief Steward. He has spies in every corner of the city, ferreting out these traitors who think to take advantage of the chaos. Loathe though I am to rely on a master of spies, he is a servant of Leodia and has proved his worth."
Oren glanced at Rodell. "You'll have to be the Master of Trade for the moment, at least."
Rodell caught his mouth before it dropped open. "Your Grace, my duties as Captain of the Guard leave me little time for—"
"Time is not a luxury we can afford any longer, Captain." Oren's voice was firm in its rebuttal. "Do you believe I have spent my spare moments getting drunk in my garden or enjoying a pleasant throw with my mistress? We all must make sacrifices in these chaotic times, it seems. So, speak quickly. Will you take the title, or need I seek another?"
"I will, your Grace." Rodell could scarcely believe it. His family ranked quite low among their contemporaries, and Rodell's father constantly needled him about his failure to improve their worth. He had gone to his grave imploring Rodell to exert himself in every way possible to uplift the family name. Then in the space of a moment, he found himself inheriting a coveted position that upgraded his station far higher than he could have achieved on his own.
Oren nodded in a satisfied manner. "You have proven your worth and have shown none of the deceit so common with the ruling class. I'll have the appropriate papers drawn up by the morrow, Lord Pariot. Don't disappoint me."
"Thank you for the honor, your Grace." Rodell bowed respectfully. "If I may change the subject, the topic on everyone's tongue is who will succeed the king. The Lion Throne sits empty, and as long as it remains so, these plots will not stop."
Oren frowned. "Do you see me as Kingmaker, Captain? My duty is to uphold the law of Kaerleon. Drayton goes through the king's articles to see whether or not His Majesty left a note of a successor. It will take some time to examine the thousands of articles the king had stored away. In the meantime, the Lion Throne will continue to sit empty, so long as I draw breath."
"And if the article can't be found...?"
Oren's expression darkened. "Then Deis save us, for blood will be shed—mark my words. The thirst for power will move even the most cravenly conspirator to action. The yoke of submission is not easily worn, no matter what benefits these churlish lords and ladies receive. Long has Norland chafed at being leashed by their peace treaty. The cantrefs in Byrthon would like nothing better than be governed by their own lords again. Even Hispalis—how long until they look to be sovereign only to their queen? Jafeh has always felt they were unjustly dealt with and will gladly rebel again, should they feel they could succeed. Leodia will break, suffer the loss of her provinces and the lives of her people. If Marcellus Admorran is indeed guilty of Lucretius' death, he will have ushered in the fall of the civilized world."
Rodell shook his head. It was still hard to swallow that Marcellus would even be considered to have any part in the king's death. He is cursed if that is true, no matter how the people feel. "Have you received word or clue to his whereabouts?"
They continued their walk along the wall. Each blue-cloaked guardsman saluted as they passed. Oren nodded gravely in return. "Thousands. Pigeons come in by the hundreds. Flying rumors, I call them. The Birdkeep had to request extra hands to aid with all the messages. According to what is written, he is in Jafeh, raising an army of assassins. He is an outlaw in the forests of Byrthon. He is in Hispalis, married to the Queen. He's joined a Mandru clan in the Steppes. All at the same time. It is madness. Fools seeking riches for information, no matter how false it is." Oren grunted sourly. "I will not waste strength and manpower chasing meister tales. I must have facts if I am to bring him to justice."
"Do you truly think Marcellus will ever meekly submit to being arrested? What king's man would volunteer for that task? Most still worship the man. The boldest say he was justified if he slew Lucretius. The king sent him to his death for nothing, and his family was murdered as well."
Oren's scowl deepened. "It is no secret the king had gone mad. I almost resigned from my position in those last days due to the completely foolhardy orders he laid upon me almost daily. The realm is now dangerously vulnerable, the borders ready to fall if any Bruallian hordes wish to attack. The bulk of the army is still scattered throughout the realm."
He paused, looking downward as though to follow the plummeting hopes of the kingdom. Rodell had served under the man for much of his life yet had never seen him uncertain before.
"If Marcellus could be exonerated, it may be good for the realm," Oren said in a tone so low that Rodell had to strain to hear it. "He was a symbol of the glory of Kaerleon, as much as the king had been. Many in the kingdom still hold him highly, even among the nobles. Fights break out daily about whether he was involved in Lucretius' death. Most don't even believe it."
Rodell looked at him wonderingly. Oren was renowned for his rigid code of conduct. Gray shades didn't exist in his eyes. And yet...
"You sound as if you think he can be ... pardoned?"
Oren glared as though he'd been accused of murder. "What I'm saying, Captain, is that I mean to have Marcellus returned whole and unharmed so that he can give an account for himself. I had a good look at Lucretius' body, what was left of it. He was tortured and killed, yet the wounds were days old, if not longer. The king bore no such wounds when last he was seen. The catacombs were filled with slain men, with no witnesses to what transpired. It would seem impossible that an imposter sat on the throne, yet what else could explain Lucretius' mutilated body?"
"Covered by Lord Admorran's cloak, the very one he wore when he met with the king. And the sword of Lord Admorran was left with the king as well."
"Which tells me nothing save Marcellus found Lucretius' body first," Oren said. "What happened down there is a mystery perhaps only he can answer, but that doesn't make him an assassin. No, I mean to hear the truth from Marcellus' mouth before I pass judgment."
Rodell hesitated before his next words. "It is whispered by some that you mean to take the throne for yourself."
The look Oren gave Rodell made him think he had gone too far. The General turned away, a dark scowl on his face.
"So I've heard from a few traitors' tongues before they died. I will not claim the throne as my own, nor do I have any temptation to do so. Ruling a realm as large as this is a task I could not fathom. I almost understand why Lucretius finally cracked under all the pressure. I will gladly bend the knee to a lawfully crowned king, yet who is there I can bow to? Surely not the scheming rulers of the province kingdoms or even our own nobles. They all scrape and kneel before me now, trying to curry my favor. But I know they scheme and plot against me and each other as soon as they leave my sight."
Rodell's own family counted among the nobles, but he decided to let that pass. "Trust Lucretius to die with no living heir to the throne. Unless those rumors of a bastard son are true."
Oren gestured as though fanning away the statement. "I leave rumors to the fools that spread them. Bastards are not rare, even for kings. But if Lucretius fathered dozens, it means nothing unless documents legitimizing a claim for the throne are found. Unless such documentation surfaces, spare me thoughts of bastards. I've enough of my own to suffer all over the realm, with their hands out as if I owe them something besides bringing them into this world. Thank Deis I have legitimate heirs at home waiting for me to die."
"As you say, your Grace."
"Is there anything else, Captain? I like to have a few moments to brood in silence before threatening nobles."
Rodell almost turned away but paused. "This may seem off the subject, but tales of more than Marcellus are spreading. We've had an increase in traffic coming into the city because of fear. There are increasing reports of people being snatched in the night, vanishing without a trace. My men send out patrols that do not return. Sometimes only their horses are found. The townspeople and villagers speak of night terrors, wraiths that feed on souls. Surely bandits taking advantage of superstitions—"
Oren looked at him in silence, his eyes distant. "Superstition. A label that often describes what is not yet known. Be wary of what you label as drivel, Captain. The voices of the people are usually more trustworthy than the fools who rule them."
"Are you saying you take stock in these tales, your Grace?"
"I don't know what to make of it and can't divert my attention to investigate. Not now." The wind tugged on Oren's cloak as though to chill him with its icy touch. He ignored it as he looked upon the city. "All I know is that I won't let Kaerleon fall, not so long as I draw breath. Kaerleon is all that matters."
A young courier was allowed passage by the guards at the stairwell. Rodell placed his hand on his rapier grip all the same. Assassins came in all genders and ages, and no one could be trusted of late.
The lad's face was flushed when he handed Oren a sealed message with a smart salute. "From Brumar, your Grace."
"A new Norland rebellion, do doubt. That would be highly appropriate for my mood." Oren waved the lad off before breaking the seal and reading the scanty words. His frown deepened.
Rodell resisted the urge to lean over and spy on the message. "Ill news, your Grace?"
"Depends." Oren handed him the parchment. "I want you to take a battalion and leave for Norland immediately. This changes everything."