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After the funeral, most of the court went back to the castle for a somber feast, while the family and close friends went with the body a few miles upriver to the Summer Palace, where Edgar would be buried. It was an appropriate resting place for the man—the one thing he had ever been good at in his life was hunting, and he had done a great deal of it in the parkland there.
Broderick was family of a sort, but Queen Rohesia made it quite clear that neither he nor his wife would be welcome at this final, private service. And frankly, he was happy to concede the point to her. He had more important things to do, because tomorrow evening, the privy council was meeting to choose a regent for the new boy-king.
First, Broderick and Lukas ducked into an alleyway near the cathedral, where they divested themselves of all their collars and sashes and orders, their swords and plumed helms, and the heavy quilted surcoats bearing their coats of arms—a silver bridge on blue for Lukas, a black eagle on silver for Broderick. They changed into everyday clothes and sent all their finery home in the hands of their squires. Then they walked over to Hafoc Street, where they settled into their favorite booth at the Hawk’s Nest.
The old tavern, bent and bowed with age, was full of quiet dark corners and poorly-lit parlors. The management knew their clientele—all the richest and most powerful men of Myrcia—so many parts of the building were off-limits to anyone who wasn’t “the right sort.” Lukas thought this was “nice” because it made sure “everyone fit in.” Broderick saw it for what it was: naked, brutal snobbery. Even so, he couldn’t deny the Hawk’s Nest was a good place for a drink or two.
“Right. Who do we know for sure is on our side?” Lukas began, once they had their ale.
“Well, you and me, of course,” said Broderick, holding up two fingers. “And Baron Corbin, too.” A third finger.
Lukas nodded. “Old friend of your mother’s family, of course. I’d add the Bishop of Leornian. My family and his go way back together. Sadly, he thinks I’m a complete reprobate—possibly because I am—but he likes you.”
“Earstien only knows why,” chuckled Broderick. “Fine. That’s four votes. Halfway there. Who’s definitely against us?” He held up one finger. “The Earl of Hyrne, obviously.” The man was Queen Rohesia’s older brother; there wasn’t any point in even trying to get him to change his vote. “And the Lord Chancellor.” He was her uncle. Two fingers. “And the Earl of Stansted—always was a close friend of Edgar. Probably the only one he still had.” Three fingers. “And there’s the Duke of Leornian.” A fourth finger, and a sigh. “His father never liked me, and he’s no better.”
“Flora Byrne is on your side,” said Lukas, referring to the beautiful Duchess of Keneburg. “And I bet it wouldn’t take much to get her back in your bed, too.”
“I’m quite happy with Anne Meriwether for now, thank you. That gets me to five votes, though.”
“Make it six. Lady Jorunn Unset is Annenstruker by birth, and I’ve always felt a certain affinity toward her.” Lukas’s mother had been an Annenstruker princess, and both he and Broderick had served as squires to the King of Annenstruk in their youth.
“Unfortunately, Caedmon Aldred hates me. That’s five votes for Rohesia, then.”
“Not at all. It’s true—Caedmon isn’t particularly fond of you. But he appreciates your talents. I’ve heard him say so, in fact. Seven votes for you, and that means we’re one short.”
By their reckoning, four members of the council didn’t have a clear preference one way or another: the Bishop of Formacaster, the Duke of Pinshire, the Earl of Grieffenberg, and Baron Quigley. Over the next day and a half, he and Lukas paid a visit to each of them.
When visiting the bishop, Broderick made sure to praise his homily at the king’s funeral, and to mention—as if by chance—a passage from the Halig Leoth about young boys needing a strong male presence in their lives. At the Duke of Pinshire’s mansion, Broderick revealed a bold plan to bolster trade with Sahasra Deva—the kingdom to the east of Myrcia, adjoining Pinshire, where the duke’s family had enormous investments.
Through Muriel’s auspices, he managed to get himself invited to supper at the Earl of Grieffenberg’s house. Most of the earl’s lands were out west, on the edge of the great desert, and over an after-dinner whiskey, Broderick told stories of his two years as commander of the camel squadrons.
“Too many of the eastern nobles ignore the desert shires,” he said. “I think it’s important to make sure our new king has men around him who know the west.”
“Hear, hear!” said the earl, raising his glass.
The next morning, Broderick paid a call on Baron Quigley, who served as the Lord High Treasurer, and together they deplored the wastefulness of the late king.
“A marvelous man, of course,” the baron said. “But he had no idea of finance. After Sir Presley Kemp went to the Empire in ’44, no one could ever explain budgets or savings to the king. That Loshadnarodski adventure cost us dearly, as you well know.”
“I wouldn’t wish to point fingers,” said Broderick, leaning closer, “but I’ve heard people say he would have signed a treaty in ’44 or ’45, except that the queen insisted we keep fighting.”
The baron said he had heard the same thing (even though Broderick had invented the rumor at that very moment), and together they commiserated over the profligacy of women.
That evening Broderick and Lukas strode confidently into the Privy Council Chamber, shaking hands and chatting pleasantly with everyone. Broderick took great care not to appear too happy, though. Like the rest of the council, he was dressed all in black, and he made a point of approaching the Earl of Hyrne in front of everyone to ask how the earl’s sister, the queen, was holding up.
At last the wine was poured, and the servants withdrew. Everyone sat around the long table of glassy mahogany, under the high vaulted ceiling with its mosaic of Finster Accepting Earstien’s Call. Lukas caught Broderick’s eye and winked as the Lord Chancellor knocked the table with his gavel and declared the meeting open. The tedious man had a series of opening remarks, like he always did, and there were a number of preliminary motions in memory of Edgar and expressing the thanks of the council to various towns and guilds that had helped pay for the funeral.
Finally this prologue was over, and the earl said, “I suppose our next order of business is the appointment of a regent for our new king. His majesty, as we all know, is a very promising young man, but he is only 8, and I think we must anticipate that he will require adult guidance until he comes of age. Let us open the floor for nominations.”
“I hesitate to mention it,” said Lukas, who had barely hesitated two seconds, “but there is an obvious candidate right here in this room. I know he is too modest to speak up on his own behalf, so I shall have to do it. I nominate Broderick, Baron Gramiren. He is my brother by marriage, of course, but he was my brother in arms for many years before that. All of you must surely be aware of his reputation for valor and integrity. Our new king would benefit greatly from Baron Gramiren’s experience and wisdom.”
Edward, Baron Corbin, whose father had been a great friend of Broderick’s Gramiren grandfather, raised his hand. “I will gladly second the nomination. I have known the captain general for literally my entire life, and I cannot think of a better or abler man for the job. He is, of course, barred from the throne himself by the unfortunate accident of his birth. But he has served the nation and the court for decades, and I doubt there is any aspect of the administration of the state that he is unfamiliar with.”
Broderick bowed to Corbin and thanked him for his kind words, though he heartily wished the fool hadn’t brought up the issue of his parentage. That always complicated things and put all sorts of ideas in people’s heads about his character.
The Bishop of Leornian cleared his throat and leaned forward on his elbows. “I think the captain general would be a marvelous choice. The obvious choice, in fact, if I may say so. Lord Gramiren has served on this council under two kings. I daresay he could do the job of anyone here, and probably do it better. I mean, I’ve never heard the man lead a service, but I’ve been very impressed, over the years, by his knowledge of the scriptures, so I bet he could give a real rip-roaring, ice-and-darkness sermon if he felt like it.”
Broderick bowed his head modestly, and gave silent thanks for his kindly old grandfather, the previous Baron Gramiren, who had been a very pious man, and who had given Broderick a silver penny for every chapter of the Halig Leoth he could recite from memory.
“Moreover,” the bishop went on, “we all know we can trust Baron Gramiren to guide and shape the mind and character of our young king, because he’s an excellent father. I trust you all know his children. I defy anyone here to name me a more chivalrous young knight than the baron’s son, or a lovelier, more modest young lady than his daughter.”
Broderick told the bishop he was too kind, and privately thanked Earstien—or whatever powers there might be in the universe—that his children had inherited all of his and Muriel’s better qualities, and none of their flaws.
Lukas raised his hand to add that his second son, Stanley, had nothing but praise for the military training he was receiving as Broderick’s squire. Broderick dared a look around and saw nearly everyone nodding approvingly. Not that Broderick deserved much credit there. Stanley Ostensen was a natural swordsman and an excellent rider. And he was so honest, plainspoken, and decent that he hardly seemed like Lukas’s son.
Then Lady Jorunn Unset spoke up, and said that she felt Broderick’s leadership as captain general deserved special recognition. “I am sure we all remember the darkest days of the Loshadnarodski War,” she said. “The captain general did everything in his power to mitigate the awful policy that he was obliged, by his office, to pursue. From what I hear, he retains the full confidence of the army, because they know, whether in victory or defeat, that he has their best interests at heart.”
He couldn’t pretend to be modest now. He deserved that praise, and he knew it. He had worked damned hard to hold the army together during Edgar’s interminable war, and he was immensely proud of how his men had come through it all with their heads held high. He chanced another look around the table, and again, almost everyone was nodding. The most obvious exception was Caedmon Aldred, who was scowling at Lady Jorunn as if she had said something horribly vulgar. But then, Aldred had been one of the leading proponents of the war, so it stood to reason he would be annoyed.
If the Lord Chancellor had called for a vote at that moment, Broderick knew he would have won. But of course the floor had to be opened for other nominations.
The Earl of Hyrne nominated his sister, Queen Rohesia, which was seconded by the Earl of Stansted. The latter gentleman crossed his arms and glared at Broderick across the table as he said, “I acknowledge the captain general’s abilities. But I’d also like to mention his faults. I fear for the freedoms of our people if our young king grows up under the guidance of a man who thinks it’s appropriate to send his enforcers out in the middle of the night to threaten people with knives.”
Consciously composing his features, Broderick said, “I haven’t the pleasure of knowing what you’re talking about, sir.”
“Be that as it may,” the Lord Chancellor put in, “there’s something to be said for letting the queen be the regent. She knew the late king better than anyone, and the new king, too.”
“She’s a frigid killjoy,” said Lukas, leaning back in his chair. “If we put her in charge, I guarantee that in six months, we’ll all be living like monks and nuns up here.”
Broderick took a deep breath and looked away. Sometimes Lukas was brilliant. And other times, he could be so disappointingly dense.
“The queen’s piety is a point in her favor!” said the Bishop of Formacaster. The Bishop of Leornian voiced his agreement, though a bit reluctantly.
Duchess Flora of Keneburg raised her hand for the first time. She rarely stayed quiet in meetings. “I think we mustn’t discount the bond between a mother and son. Our new king needs stability and continuity. His mother has been the one great constant in his life up to this point. She was his first teacher and his fiercest protector. I say we should let her continue in that role.” Flora sat back, folding her hands over her chest, and then added, “A mother knows best. And I say this as the only person here who has ever given birth.”
Everything happened so fast after that. The debate trailed off, and then the Lord Chancellor called for a vote, and Broderick sat there, impotent and silent, like a Sahasran court eunuch, knowing exactly what was going to happen, and unable to do anything but watch.
In the end, he got four votes: his own and Lukas’s, plus those of Corbin and the Bishop of Leornian. Queen Rohesia got eleven. Broderick was so stunned he could hardly think, and so angry he could hardly speak. He fell back on the forms of politeness, and as the meeting broke up, he went around, smiling and laughing and shaking hands with no conscious thought, like he was some sort of clockwork figure on the face of an Annenstruker belltower.
Out in the Palm Court, Duchess Flora fell in beside him and slipped her arm through his. “I hope you know that was nothing personal, Broderick, dear,” she said with a worried smile.
He smiled back as he contemplated dragging her into a darkened stairwell and strangling her with his bare hands. But he couldn’t stay mad at her. Not even for half a minute. Like Lukas, she had been his friend for years and years, and he knew she loved him, in her own, eccentric way. And he loved her, too, after a fashion.
When his mother had died, she had been the only lady from the court who had bothered to show up for the funeral. Actually, she had missed it by minutes, but only because she had been running around the castle, on the verge of tears, trying to shame the other noblewomen into coming with her. That was the kind of loyalty money would never buy.
He patted her hand and said, “Don’t worry, my dear girl. You’re probably right about the queen.”
She probably wasn’t, and he was still so upset about the vote that he couldn’t sleep at all. He spent the night walking around the city in the snow, stopping by each station and outpost and tower to spend a few minutes chatting and laughing and drinking with the common soldiers.
“Blast it all,” he thought, “I am good at this. Better than Edgar, or even my father.” If only his father had loved his mother enough to marry her.
He heard the chimes and saw the light in the grimy windows of the gatehouse he was visiting, and he knew it was Sunday. He gave the old sergeant on duty there a Sovereign for his time, and for all the wine they’d drunk, and then made his unsteady way to the cathedral.
He joined the line of nobles at the west transept, where the private seats for subscribers were located. From that vantage point, you couldn’t see the scaffolding in the half-finished nave, or smell the unwashed commoners jostling close together. You only saw the bishop at the gilded altar, and the choir in their silver-embroidered robes in the high gallery, and the soaring pillars of the crossing, and the big eastern rose window in its full morning glow. An inspiring sight, even for someone who wasn’t particularly religious.
Muriel and his son were in their usual places. They had all been coming to church separately for so long now that no one would be surprised to see him arrive after her.
When the first hymn started—a rousing number about Light and Truth, or whatever—Muriel sidled a bit closer to him and said, “I hear you lost the vote in the council.”
“Indeed I did,” he hissed. “Thank you for reminding me. Are you here to gloat?”
That was uncalled for, and he fully deserved the look of icy disdain she gave him. “No, dear,” she said as the hymn ended, “I was wondering if you planned to do anything about it.” She sniffed. “Other than drinking, obviously.”
Before he could answer, the Bishop of Formacaster mounted the big marble pulpit and gave them a long, droning sermon. Yesterday, of course, had been Ekertide, the Feast of Valamir. So the bishop’s sermon drew from one of Valamir’s epistles. “Let us remember,” the bishop concluded, “what the Blessed Lord Valamir wrote: ‘No man is so great that he can forget the voice of his own mother.’” And then his grace led the vast congregation in a prayer for “Her Majesty, Queen Regent Rohesia, and her son, His Serene Majesty, Edwin Sigor, King of Myrcia.”
As the people murmured their way through the prayer, Muriel leaned over to Broderick. “I’m surprised you’re giving up so easily.”
“Did you want me to storm the castle?”
She shrugged. “No. But I don’t see why you can’t make yourself king. Call a Gemot and make them vote for you.”
There hadn’t been a Gemot in more than a hundred years. And there hadn’t been one that had exercised real power since the War of Myrcian Independence. But a Gemot was a meeting of all the kingdom’s nobles, and it traditionally had the power to make and unmake kings.
The next hymn started, and Broderick leaned close to his wife. “Holy Finster, Muriel, that’s brilliant. I could kiss you.”
She moved slightly away. “It’s been so long, darling, that it would seem almost indecent.”