Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (27 page)

He shook his head.  Graff had been denied liberties, freedom, diplomatic channels, and now was forced to listen to his guard and a servant copulating in the cell next to him.  He brought his knees to his chest, trying to shut out the sounds next door.

Abruptly, the noises stopped.  He strained to hear, surprised at the unexpected silence.  Moments later, a dull thud, something heavy hitting the ground.  He heard the door to the next cell open and close.  The sound of a key turning in a lock came next to his ears, then footsteps.

The blonde servant moved smartly to the door of his cell, found the key, and opened it.  She beckoned to him.

“Come!  We’ve not much time!”

“Who...who are you?”

She grinned wickedly, then put on a familiar expression.  “Aw, c’mon, Graff!  Just once more, for old times’ sake?”

His eyes grew wide, as he was startled.  “Dari...Dar...Dariana?”

She beamed bemusedly at him.  “And you thought I’d just disappeared!  C’mon, hurry up!  We have to get you out, and now!”

He bobbed his head a couple times, dumbfounded, and moved towards the exit.

Dariana Balgrun had been his first lover, what seemed like a lifetime ago.  Both had signed on to the service of Sir Garvol around the same time, though they saw little of each other after that.  Within a few months, she had disappeared, and no one ever claimed to know where she had gone.  Last he’d seen her, she was thinner, black-haired, and with a more sultry tone when she spoke.

As he stepped from the cell, he found his voice once more.  “So this is where you disappeared to?”

“Certain conversations with Sir Garvol convinced him I had the right frame of mind and background for…shall we say, less than salient operations?”

“You are Garvol’s favorite spy?” Graff queried, recalling overheard conversations between the Warlord and some of his aides.

Dariana simply grinned.  “Nice not to be forgotten.  Enough talk, we need to move faster!”

They were shortly leaving the dungeon behind.  She’d tossed the key into the cell with the dead guard.  She shook her wrist to drop her sleeve, revealing a cord wrapped about it like an intricate bracelet.  “Distraction makes choking ‘em much easier.  This cord’s done me very well lately.”

They walked rapidly, quietly, to a storage room.  Dariana handed him livery similar to her own.  “Put this on, fast!  I can get you out of here, but you must go quick, right now!  This may be your ONLY chance.”

“What about you?” he asked, pulling off his clothes and pulling on the livery.

She shook her head.  “I’m not done here.  I have a scroll for you to pass to Sir Garvol, though.”

He paused a moment, and looked at her.  “Even after killing a guard, you think you can still operate here safely?”

“Oh yes,” she responded confidently.  “To everyone else in the palace, all of us servants look alike.  All they see is the white livery.  That’s why you’re putting on that disguise.  Now stop talking, we haven’t much time left!”

Once he was dressed, she
led
him out towards a courtyard, where several wagons were being loaded with barrels and blankets and other things.  She gestured to a man directing the flow of traffic.  He came to her.

“Lord Gelva’s aide, Lord Cromitt Triv-Anlinn, wants this servant on those wagons!  He has a message for General Grom-Valock’s eyes only!”

The man looked at Graff, gestured to a nearby wagon, grunted to himself, and went back to what he was doing.

Dariana pressed a pair of scrolls into Graff’s hands.  “Next time, tell them not to bother.  The rest is up to you, old friend.  Good luck!”

              He inclined his head to her.  She kissed his cheek, and moved off.

Graff Vir-Sharron walked to the wagon, and climbed aboard.  When the caravan stopped for the night, he’d slip off, and make his way to the nearest village.  There he’d commandeer a horse, and get back across the border, then on to Gara-Sharron.

He was still stunned, but at least he was free.  And worried.

King Wilnar-Medira wouldn’t even hear an overture of peace.  There would be war, whether the Sharronians were ready to fight it, or not.

A loud bellow, and the wagons began to move.  He sat back, and would remain tense until they cleared the gates of the palace, and began threading through the streets of Penlorka.

Graff Vir-Sharron had a new perspective on life.  There were many things he’d not take for granted again.  Freedom, friends and family.  He’d learned things from this misadventure.

Above all, he hoped he’d get home again before the war broke out.

*****

Lord Tulock Oran, Seneschal of Sharron, sat at the audience desk, just slightly elevated from the floor below. 

This was the Chamber of Justice, from which the Seneschal would hear concerns considered too important for local Magistrates, and too minor for the King.  This usually meant matters between the noble houses, and the like.  It was tedious on good days.

War was imminent.  They all felt it.  And war meant the possibility of loss.  Defeat, of course, meant the coming of a new King, a new administration.  The nobility threw complete and total support behind King Varlock-Sharron, but in the off-chance of his downfall, they always left room for maneuvering.  It was a possibility, however unlikely, that Sharron might lose a military conflict, and it never hurt the nobles to position themselves more squarely.

Tulock ground his teeth silently.  He had more important matters to attend to, and was keeping Lady Marna, Sir Garvol and Lady Ara waiting.  The Prime Magistrates, one each representing the fifteen regions or provinces of Sharron, were usually not considered good enough for the aristocracy.  It was enough to make Lord Tulock wish for his bow, and one arrow for each of these.

The upper class of Sharron consisted of many ranks, depending on many things.  Some stations were inherited, usually birth-rite of nobility.  The lowest rank simply held the title Lord or Lady.  Though inheritable, this was often not taken except when presented by a higher power.  Lady Marna, though born to a noble house, had not taken the title til it had been granted by the King himself.  Lord Tulock had been given the rank when he’d ascended to the position of Seneschal.  His family had not been of the upper class.

Various others held special places.  Knights, titled Sir, were often military leaders or advisors.  Only the King could knight someone.  This also granted a high status among any nobles, and Knights were usually deferred to in order of precedence, ranking technically above the Barons.

He cringed inwardly at the thought.  Though only a Lord, Tulock Oran was Seneschal of Sharron - and thus outranked by only the King himself.  Most of the Kingdom Seneschals had arisen directly from the aristocracy, usually of a friendly house or the same house as the monarch.  Tulock had arrived in his place by merit, and there were many who resented this.

The men arguing before him were among these.  A pair of Barons, both had inherited lands and titles from their predecessors.  Neither had any military, diplomatic, or other relevant experience, yet each argued that they and they alone should be appointed to a place of prominence within the government of the Kingdom.  Neither house had been illustrious in the history of the kingdom, for they’d spent too much time destroying each other in useless, though usually non-militant competitions.

“I speak for
all
the nobility of Sharron, not just those of the southern regions, like Baron Mirval,” continued Baron Yarman Foltupp, raising his voice to emphasize the all, “when I say we wish audience before the King, to discuss an amendment to the laws, to include a new medium with power akin to Common, and voice comparable to Council, but only including those of noble birth!  The time is ripe, with the continued stability of Sharron, for such a body to arise at last!”

“And though I agree with Baron Foltupp,” jumped in Baron Hallin Mirval before Tulock could get a word in edgewise, “I must point out that he speaks only for himself, and perhaps Baron Dovan and Baron Tilroan.  We need to form a new body, consisting of the nobility of the Kingdom, to actively participate in the governing of Sharron, in a manner more befitting our stature than the Common!”

“I represent ALL, save yourself and Kall and Kurmann, and I must lead us to this place!” argued Baron Foltupp.

“The Barons would not by majority elect YOU as our ‘speaker’, Foltupp!”

“Nor would they, you!  How dare you even think to call for the new assemblage!  It is my place, as was agreed upon four years ago during the regional border dispute...”

“That was four years ago, and you have done nothing since!”

Tulock closed his eyes a moment, letting them debate one-another.  It was a very old argument indeed, that the nobility should have a government body akin to Common.  It was also a moot point.  No King in his right mind would grant the nobles a chance to have a single, loud voice.  No monarch would be able to accomplish anything, as they would have a forum to try and stabilize any positions contrary to the governing of the Kingdom.  Worse, behind a single voice, the nobility would stir more trouble than any foreign power could possibly achieve.

“SILENCE!” boomed Lord Tulock, having had enough.  “Your excellencies, if you’d please.”  He took a deep breath.

And paused.  He looked to his aides, taking notes, arranging the day to day operations of the office of the Seneschal.  They worked hard, and well.  They also gritted their teeth and watched the contempt and disrespect shown their boss, whom they all respected.  Tulock bore it stoically, but there came a time to put those beneath him in their place.  He had been considering this idea for a while, and reached a decision.  That time would be now.

“Enough.  This issue is dead.  We will hear no more of it.  I will not take this before the King, not now.”

Each began to raise an argument, when Tulock stood, and banged his staff on the ground.

“Please, my lord Barons, pause a moment and hear me now, and consider my words,” the Seneschal said firmly and evenly.  They fell completely silent. 

“We have a situation arising on our Medaelian border, as you are both well aware.  This is not the time to bring up this dusty argument before the King.  The Common has voted against this yet again, last year, and with the situation as it is, Council will not now hear this.”  A recurrent theme in this argument was to bring it before Common and Council, rather than go to the Crown, where the answer would not change.  “However, you are correct about one thing.  Your Crown does need you.  Your service in this matter will be a testament to your right and privilege afforded you by your station.  Therefore, I am invoking Royal Commission.”

“You cannot!” exclaimed Baron Mirval.

“You wouldn’t dare!” cried Baron Foltupp.

“In our present situation, you would question this action?” asked Lord Tulock.  “Lord Norvil, would you please read the Barons the Law, with regards to invocation of Royal Commission?”

Lord Norvil Rivarr, one of Lord Tulock’s most trusted aides, arose from his place just behind Tulock.  A man of sixty-three, father of eight children, his face was stern, and what little hair he still possessed on his head was totally gray.  His frame was thin, and though a bit arthritic now, he was still considered a fair combatant with a rapier.  He took up a scroll, unrolled it, made a show of clearing his throat, and read.

“From the scrolls of the Laws of Sharron, Section Four, Scroll Eight, Article Twelve, Invocation of Royal Commission,” he began, properly dramatic for this occasion.  “‘In time of war, or preparation to repulse attackers on any border of the Kingdom of Sharron, The Crown may invoke Royal Commission.  At that, all heads of the Noble Houses must present themselves, or if they are infirm, a properly trained proxy, to the Crown, along with three-fourths of their standing household guard.  They will then be commissioned into the Sharron Army, to lead their guard, as a unit under command of the Crown, Seneschal, or Army Commander-in-Chief, in any position duly assigned.  Failure to respond to Invocation of Royal Commission will be regarded as High Treason, punishable by death, and permanent revocation of title, rank, and accompanying privileges.  Two weeks is granted from time of official declaration of the Invocation of Royal Commission for the gathering of Household guards, after which time they will report directly to the Crown for Commission and assignment.”

He paused for affect, then continued.  “A decree of Royal Commission may be invoked by the Crown, The Seneschal, or the Council, but must be presented before the Crown at the end of two weeks.  Withholding of exactly three-fourths of household guard will also be regarded as High Treason, and punishable as mentioned prior.  Invocation of Royal Commission may only be decreed after call to arms of Sharron Army Reserves, and in times of civil unrest, but then only by Council and Crown.’”

Lord Norvil stopped.  “That is all concerning this matter, my Lord Seneschal.”

“Thank you, Lord Norvil, that will do,” stated Tulock.

The Barons remained silent, but didn’t hide the indignation from their faces.

“I have the right, and duty, my lord Barons, to decree an Invocation of Royal Commission,” he continued.  They blinked, still not speaking.  “You have a day’s warning.  I would gather my guards if I were you.”