Crowned With Crime

Political Games

Being a boss is a bit like being a conductor. Some might say that the conductor is the only one who doesn't play an instrument, but if he weren't there, it wouldn't be called music—it would just be a bunch of crap noise keeping you up at night.

So here I am, the Chief Magistrate of the city of Lyubeck, barely 50 years old. Unlike the others, I was young and dynamic, and now I was finally getting the respect I deserved. Plus, it was written in the job description: 'you have respectability.' I don't even know what that means.

But what I didn't see coming was that the position also came with constant work to do. I thought it was like all other political jobs: warming the seats in the town hall a few hours a day, three times a week, doing nothing. But now I'm supposed to work?

In terms of image, it looked great. The faction of the sovereign of Lyubeck, with whom we'd been at war for 150 years, offered me a non-aggression pact. Being nice? It's strange, but hey, we can try a different approach. So, I set to work organizing a banquet: fine dishes, the best wines, the best troubadours in the region. Nothing beats good food and beautiful music while the population outside starves and freezes in the snow.

It's like when it's raining outside, right? You're glad to have a roof over your head, and you're even more glad when others are drowning in the downpour. Because somehow, the misfortune of others enhances your own happiness, doesn't it? Or am I the only one who feels that way?

Besides, I wanted my son to find a wife before the party started. So I forced him to find some wench to give us heirs. No need to be picky, right? We're not asking them to play Romeo and Juliet, just to have children.

A good, solid woman, that's all we need. After all, immortality comes down to two things: keeping the family name alive and leaving your mark on the family business.

Grandpa and grandma had their thing: craftsmanship and farming. They built it all: the forge, the tailor's shop, the wheat fields, the farm, the leather workshop, the lumberjack's cabin, the bakery... As for me, I'm going to build a bank: the Linderberg Bank. Ah! That has a nice ring to it. And the realization of wealth, of course, is when the poor willingly come to you to hand over their money, and with a smile, no less.

Ah, but that takes time. First, we had to build a pawnshop and then make it grow. Never forget this: no matter how rich you are, always start with a small project to test the waters and see who your next enemies will be.

That day's town hall meeting was a waste of time: too many applicants, too many competitors. Despite the bribes handed out, no results. I had to find a way to have the city's sovereign assassinated if I wanted to become queen. Hey, it wasn't my fault, society is violent.

Meanwhile, the ball I organized allowed me to solidify my alliance with the Tricorno faction—the ones with the purple flags, who dress in purple. Yeah, we all decided to have different-colored flags and outfits to better recognize each other at meetings.

That said, all this partying and time spent building my political empire made me realize a problem: where the hell had all our money gone? 2,700 gold pieces? That's all we had left? That's not even enough to pay for the dog's caviar, damn it.

With all the banquets, real estate purchases, bribes, and... well, I mean, because of those rat employees and the state that crushes us with unjustified taxes, we were now on the brink of ruin.

Finally, the day of Champlain's trial arrived. In the meantime, we had given up on our plan to assassinate the judge because, well, in the meantime, the judge had become our buddy. So Chandler Knight could accuse my husband of all the misdeeds he wanted; it wouldn't change a thing because the judge was on our side, and when it came time to deliver his verdict, he just got up to have his coffee, and Champlain finished his trial all by himself.