“It is not an easy role to fill.” Bayaz reached out to touch that flower with his fingertip, ever so gently brushing a few specks of glittering dew from its petals. “Living kings are always objects of derision. But people cannot wait to worship the dead ones. Someone must lead. Someone must make the hard choices. For everyone’s benefit.”
“I somehow doubt they’ll thank me for it,” muttered Orso.
Bayaz showed his teeth for an instant as he nipped that bloom off with his thumbnail and slipped the stalk through his buttonhole. “Thanks would be too much to ask.”
“Lord Isher, thank you for coming.”
“Of course, Your Majesty, the moment I received the message.”
Orso had an urge to ask Isher what army his overblown uniform belonged to, as he’d certainly never served with the Union one. But then Orso was wearing an even more overblown uniform himself, and the only military action he had seen was surrounding one of his own cities and hanging two hundred of his own subjects. When it came to impostors, he was surely the worst in the whole Circle of the World, so he smiled wide and resisted the temptation to make himself a hypocrite into the bargain. He was getting better at resisting temptations, all in all. Or so he told himself.
“An astonishing room,” murmured Isher, suitably awestruck as he gazed up at the ceiling, carved in the minutest detail as a forest canopy, gold and silver clockwork birds dotted among the branches. They had sung, once, when fully wound, though the mechanism had failed long ago. It was, without a doubt, impressive, which was why Orso had picked it for this interview. He could not escape the thought, however, that whatever monarch constructed the place could simply have frolicked in one of the dozens of real forests he owned and put several hundred thousand marks into paying off his debts.
“They call it the Chamber of Leaves,” he said. “For obvious reasons.”
“I had no idea it existed.”
“There are probably a dozen rooms just as grand in the palace that I have no idea exist, and I’m supposed to own the place.” Orso thought about how that sounded as he gestured Isher to a chair. “Or… at least be its custodian, for a generation. There’s a hall in the east wing so big my mother used to ride in there. She even had it turfed at one point.”
“Your Majesty, might I extend my condolences on the death of your father. I have not had the chance to do so personally and—though I confess we had our differences—he was a man I always very much admired.”
“Thank you, Lord Isher. And might I offer my congratulations on your forthcoming wedding. We have had too few happy events to look forward to, of late.”
“Difficult times, Your Majesty. Nothing for me.” As a well-powdered footman leaned towards him, silver tray expertly balanced on his fingertips.
“Nor me.” Orso waved the man away and shuffled to the edge of his chair. “In my youth I loved to dance, but since taking the crown I prefer to get straight to the matter. I wish to speak to you, man to man, on the subject of Fedor dan Wetterlant.”
“A terrible business.” Isher grimly shook his head. “And one that has the prospect of doing serious harm. Discord between the Closed Council and the Open is like discord between a man and his wife—”
“It has not been the happiest of marriages in recent years, then,” observed Orso, thinking of his father’s grinding teeth during their fencing sessions.
Isher only smiled. “The Open Council can be a somewhat shrewish bride, I confess.”
“And the Closed Council a domineering and neglectful husband. No one knows that better than I, believe me.”
“Older men on both sides have, perhaps, become entrenched in their positions. Sometimes it takes younger men to find new ways forward.”
Orso nodded along. “Honestly, my advisors feel the nation’s interests would be best served if a trial were never to happen. If Wetterlant were to rot away in the empty ground between innocence and guilt.”
“It is a solution that makes sense from their perspective, but… if I may?” Orso waved him on. “It would satisfy no one. Wetterlant would continue to bleat for justice from his cell, and his friends in the Open Council would bleat on his behalf, and his mother would be a continual thorn in everyone’s side—”
“Doubtless.”
“—while the common folk would see no justice done and harbour further resentment. And then… I hope you will not think me naïve, but there is a moral question. It would be a victory of expediency over principle.”
“We have had far too many of those.” This was going better than Orso had dared hope. “You speak my very thoughts!”
“With your permission, Your Majesty, might I suggest a compromise?”
“You think you can find one?” Orso had expected to coax or threaten or barter his way to it, and here Isher was offering it up as a gift.
“I took the liberty of speaking to Lords Heugen and Barezin. Influential old allies of mine. And my friend Leonault dan Brock will soon be arriving in the city. He is new to politics but tremendously popular.”
“Mmm,” murmured Orso. The Young Lion’s tremendous popularity was something he could hear less about, overall.
“I believe, with their help… I could get broad support in the Open Council for a lengthy prison sentence.”
“Wetterlant committed rape and murder.”
“That is the accusation.”
“He scarcely even bloody denies it himself!”
“When I say lengthy… I mean without end.”
Orso raised his brows. “The Open Council would countenance a life sentence for one of their own?”
“Most of them are every bit as disgusted at his behaviour as we are, Your Majesty. They are keen to see justice done.”
“His mother most decidedly is not.”
“I know Lady Wetterlant well, and this bluster is merely the tigress’s desperate defence of her cub. She is fierce, but no fool. I believe when she realises the alternative… she will help me secure an admission of guilt.”
“A confession?”
“A full and contrite confession with no need for the Arch Lector’s… intervention. The trial could be a formality. A demonstration of your justice done, firmly but fairly. Of your power exercised, without delay or dispute. Of a new spirit of cooperation between the Open Council and the Closed.”
“Well, that would be a fine thing.” It might have been the first time Orso had enjoyed discussing official business. “It’s supposed to be a damn Union, isn’t it? We should strive to find our way to common ground. Perhaps some good can come of this after all.” Orso sat back, grinning up at the gilded birds as he considered it. “I certainly do hate hangings.”
Isher smiled. “What kind of monster enjoys them, Your Majesty?”
An Ambush
Squeak, squeak, squeak, went the wheel of her father’s chair. Savine narrowed her eyes at it. Gritted her teeth at it. Struggled with every turn of that wheel not to scream.
She had been walking her father to work, then wheeling him to work, once a month since she was a girl. The same route down the Kingsway, between the statues of Harod and Bayaz that began the frowning parade of the Union’s heroes. The same conversation, like a fencing match in which you were never sure whether the steels were blunted. The same laughing at the misfortunes of others. She saw no reason to change her habits simply because her life was falling apart around her, so she mimed the old routines. Still walking, like a ghost through the ruins of the house she died in. Still wriggling, like a snake with its head cut off. Not laughing at misfortunes so much, mind you. One’s own bad luck is so much less amusing than other people’s.