The Blade Itself

Hoff shook his head with a mighty frown, staring around the room in search of something else to displease him. “How many more must we endure today?”

“Er… four more, your Grace.”

“Damn it!” thundered the Chamberlain, shifting in his huge chair and flapping his fur-trimmed collar to let some air in. “This is intolerable!” West found himself in silent agreement. Hoff snatched up a silver goblet from the table and took a great slurp of wine. He was a great one for drinking, indeed he had been drinking all afternoon. It had not improved his temper. “Who’s the next fool?” he demanded.

“Er…” Morrow squinted at a large document through his spectacles, tracing across the crabby writing with an inky finger. “Goodman Heath is next, a farmer from—”

“A farmer? A farmer did you say? So we must sit in this ridiculous heat, listening to some damn commoner moan on about how the weather has affected his sheep?”

“Well, my Lord,” muttered Morrow, “it does seem as though, er, Goodman Heath has, er, a legitimate grievance against his, er, landlord, and—”

“Damn it all! I am sick to my stomach of other people’s grievances!” The Lord Chamberlain took another swallow of wine. “Show the idiot in!”

The doors were opened and Goodman Heath was allowed into their presence. To underline the balance of power within the room, the Lord Chamberlain’s table was raised up on a high dais, so that even standing the poor man had to look up at them. An honest face, but very gaunt. He held a battered hat before him in trembling hands. West shrugged his shoulders in discomfort as a drop of sweat ran down his back.

“You are Goodman Heath, correct?”

“Yes, my Lord,” mumbled the peasant in a broad accent, “from—”

Hoff cut him off with consummate rudeness. “And you come before us seeking an audience with his August Majesty, the High King of the Union?”

Goodman Heath licked his lips. West wondered how far he had come to be made a fool of. A very long way, most likely. “My family have been put off our land. The landlord said we had not been paying the rent but—”

The Lord Chamberlain waved a hand. “Plainly this is a matter for the Commission for Land and Agriculture. His August Majesty the King is concerned with the welfare of all his subjects, no matter how mean,” West almost winced at this slight, “but he cannot be expected to give personal attention to every trifling thing. His time is valuable, and so is mine. Good day.” And that was it. Two of the soldiers pulled the double doors open for Goodman Heath to leave.

The peasant’s face had gone very pale, his knuckles wringing at the brim of his hat. “Good my Lord,” he stammered, “I’ve already been to the Commission…”

Hoff looked up sharply, making the farmer stammer to a halt. “Good day, I said!”

The peasant’s shoulders slumped. He took a last look around the room. Morrow was examining something on the far wall with great interest and refused to meet his eye. The Lord Chamberlain stared back at him angrily, infuriated by this unforgivable waste of his time. West felt sick to be a part of it. Heath turned and shuffled away, head bowed. The doors swung shut.

Hoff bashed his fist on the table. “Did you see that?” He stared round fiercely at the sweating assembly. “The sheer gall of the man! Did you see that, Major West?”

“Yes, my Lord Chamberlain, I saw it all,” said West stiffly. “It was a disgrace.”

Fortunately, Hoff did not take his whole meaning. “A disgrace, Major West, you are quite right! Why the hell is it that all the promising young men go into the army? I want to know who is responsible for letting these beggars in here!” He glared at the Under-Secretary, who swallowed and stared at his documents. “What’s next?”

“Er,” mumbled Morrow, “Coster dan Kault, Magister of the Guild of Mercers.”

“I know who he is, damn it!” snapped Hoff, wiping a fresh sheen of sweat from his face. “If it isn’t the damn peasants it’s the damn merchants!” he roared at the soldiers by the door, his voice easily loud enough to be heard in the corridor outside. “Show the grubbing old swindler in, then!”

Magister Kault could hardly have presented a more different appearance from the previous supplicant. He was a big, plump man, with a face as soft as his eyes were hard. His purple vesture of office was embroidered with yards of golden thread, so ostentatious that the Emperor of Gurkhul himself might have been embarrassed to wear it. He was accompanied by a pair of senior Mercers, their own attire scarcely less magnificent. West wondered if Goodman Heath could earn enough in ten years to pay for one of those gowns. He decided not, even if he hadn’t been thrown off his land.