King Conall VI sat in his study, surrounded by his personal library — the largest in Caithness, numbering in the hundreds. Literacy was wider spread now than ever before, what with every major town in his realm having at least one printing press. Actually, Caithness had more printing presses per capita than Megalos, however much the Megalans looked down their noses at their “backward” neighbors — properly authorized that is, for every licensed press in Megalos, there was at least one more underground press pumping out political, heretical, or salacious tracts (sometimes all three at once, the sex lives of the less popular bishops and archbishops was always popular, if illegal, reading).
But this morning, King Conall wasn’t enjoying any of the books Myrddin had taught him to love as a child, or even mining them for ideas for breaking the deadlock the civil war had settled down into. Instead, he was enjoying a goblet of the beer he preferred (much to the chagrin of those of the Caithness nobility that favored the wines Megalan high society called for) with Siccius, Archbishop of the Church in Caithness.
Finishing off his goblet, Conall put it to the side and focused on his guest. Siccius lifted his own half-finished goblet of Bordelon wine in a semi-toast, the finest wine produced by the Megalan island province of Araterre (or at least, the finest that could handle being shipped all the way across Megalos). “Still drinking that rotgut, I see,” he said, nodding to the King’s empty goblet.
Conall just shrugged. “What can I say? It’s what I grew up with while in hiding.”
Siccius chuckled. At Conall’s quizzical look, he explained, “I was just remembering the time you were offered Bordelon wine and turned it down for — that,” gesturing at Conall’s goblet. “Sir Geremy was mortally offended.”
Conall grimaced. “He didn’t challenge me to a duel, so his offence wasn’t that strong, but yes ...”
He shrugged, then straightened in his seat. “To business,” he said with firm reluctance. “So, Archbishop, I know you can’t tell me much, thanks to the Church’s official stance of neutrality in the civil war. But what can you tell me?”
“As you say, my son, not much,” Siccius replied, setting aside his goblet. “My concern is properly the spiritual and temporal welfare of the flock, not the political maneuverings and ambitions of its secular rulers. However, I can report that Archbishop Flavius of Raphael and Sir Geoffrey Freeman have reportedly heard rumors of malfeasance in the Caithness archdiocese. They ‘requested’ that I permit an independent investigation of the archdiocese’s records, and since I refused are calling for the Curia to require that I do so.”
“What, is Archbishop Flavius looking to add to the five pounds of gold he wears on one hand?” Conall asked with an angry sneer.
“Now my son, you must be understanding — that five pounds of gold causes the ten pounds of gold on his other hand to unbalance him, making him list to one side as he promenades down the street, blessing the poor,” the Archbishop said with an admirably straight face.
Conall snorted, then sobered. “And just what are they playing at?” he asked.
“I suspect they’ve heard reports of my sermons on the need to put doctrinal issues to the side and focus on what Christ actually said will get one into heaven — feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and comforting the sick and afflicted,” Siccius said with a shrug.
Conall frowned. “Right, very dangerous doctrine, that.”
“To them it is. Flavius’s archdiocese shares its southern border with al-Wazif, and half of his subjects had Muslim grandparents. And Sir Geoffrey, well, he didn’t rise to become Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller by being relaxed about heresy and paganism. And both Raphael and New Jerusalem are on our border, ideas are going to drift across along with our trade goods.”
“I imagine your refusal to wear the silk robes of your predecessor hasn’t reassured them, either,” Conall commented, waving at the Archbishop’s plain if sturdy cassock. “To tell you the truth, I’m a little surprised you haven’t stripped Adseveration Cathedral of at least some of its luxury.”
“Actually, I considered doing just that, at least around the edges,” Siccius admitted. “But in the end I decided that, so long as the luxury doesn’t extend to living quarters and offices, it is but an outward show of our recognition of our debt to God, especially when it comes from donations rather than taxes.
“But Your Majesty, do not mistake Sir Geoffrey’s and Archbishop Flavius’s love of luxury for venality — however much they enjoy the wealth their positions bring them, they are true believers in the Church, if not necessarily in God, and my refusal to join them in enjoying what they see as the natural benefits accruing to those of our station probably reminds them more than a little of the mystics. And you know the Church is always more comfortable with a mystic once he’s dead and safely turned into a saint.”
The King frowned thoughtfully. “Do you think they realize you’re laying the groundwork for another Schism?” he asked, then glanced up at the suddenly still Archbishop. “You can relax, Your Holiness,” he said with a wry grin. “I haven’t ordered the Silver Hand to keep an ear on the Church’s private discussions, just the public pronouncements and mood of the people. Still, the Church is a Power in my realm and I would be remiss in my duty if I didn’t keep an eye on it — even if I generally count it a friend, William of Wallace taught me of the need for that. And for anyone that really knows you, hearing what I do of what your subordinates are saying, it’s fairly obvious what you are up to.”
Siccius relaxed, and shrugged. “I suppose you are correct,” he said at last. “And no, I doubt the Curia in general or my fellow curiates in particular realize what I’m up to — they don’t know me as well as you, and I suspect are too focused on what they intend to do to us to worry about what we may do to them.”
Conall chuckled and reached for the pitcher to refill his goblet, when the door to the study opened and a very nervous page stepped in and bowed to the two men. “F-Forgive the interruption, Your Majesty, Y-Your Holiness, but a messenger has arrived from the Kildar and insists on delivering his message directly to the King, immediately.”
Myrddin, formerly guardian and now Court Wizard to King Conall VI, looked up in surprise from his book and rose to his feet as that former ward now king burst into his living quarters unannounced. Conall closed the door in the face of his guards, and glanced around. Finding the two alone, he turned to his father figure with an attempt at a lighthearted smile. “I’ve just received a message from Sir Morgan the Kildar about some arrivals through the Cave of Worlds. Myrddin, you’re going to be taking a little trip, though at least this one will be a little warmer than your last — at least until you hit the mountains.”
Myrddin put his book on the table beside the chair he’d been sitting in. “Yes, of course I’ll leave immediately,” he said with a smile. “It’ll be good to get some news of home — it’s been years since the last Banestorm victim to cross our path.”
The King’s attempt at a smile died, and he took a deep breath. “Myrddin, Sir Morgan included some of what the newcomers had to say, and I’m afraid the news is not good — not good at all.”
“Six billion people,” Myrddin whispered to himself, slumped in the chair he’d occupied when Conall had burst into his room.
From where he sat stiffly in a chair beside him, Conall hesitantly laid a hand on his Court Wizard’s arm in an attempt at comfort. “Perhaps it isn’t as bad as these — these ‘Japanese’ think it is. And even if it is, didn’t you tell me once that your own family were ranchers in some backwater called Idaho?”
Myrddin took a deep breath and forced himself to straighten, scanning the rest of the Kildar’s message. “Yes, if they’re still on the family ranch they should be all right, at least for the short term. Though it’s been over five decades since a mini-Banestorm dropped me here — who knows what my family has been up to since? Still, even if our new guests are unlikely to have personal word for me, they may have some bit of knowledge that could help us break the deadlock before Megalos rolls over us.”
Suddenly he brightened even as he rose to his feet. “Sir Morgan’s going to send a party to the nearest library in Japan as soon as he’s collected as many survivors as he can support?! Conall, you picked a winner with this one.”
The King chuckled wryly. I didn’t exactly pick him, Myrddin — the man risked being drawn and quartered as a traitor in order to do his duty; I had to reward him somehow! And with his lack of knowledge about the court and Megalan background, having the position of Kildar open up just before I knighted him seemed like a godsend. We’re just lucky he’s as loyal and competent as he seemed.”
Sobering, Conall rose to his feet. “While you’re getting ready for your trip into the back of beyond, I’ll be getting together the stores he’s requested to at least start to replace what he’s using for the refugees and requisitioning the barges needed to get everything as far west as Tacitus, and write out instructions for Baron Elohar to supply the necessary cartage to get you the rest of the way, along with the rest of the replacement supplies. I’ll have to promise to make good what he donates, of course ...” the King mused as he headed for the door he’d burst through a short time before, but Myrddin hardly noticed, already looking over his bookshelf in an effort to decide which books from his precious library to take with him.
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(Posted Wed, 03 Mar 2010 06:46)
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