The House of Oldenrock

To Run a Kingdom Part II

The dais that the thrones were on was really not that high, but to Rodder, it felt like it was on the top of a mountain that isolated him from the world below him, a world of people that wanted him to be down there mingling with them so he could understand them.  How was he to understand all of their problems if he was above them, but then how was he to enforce judgment if he was mingling with them?  The commoners did not have authority over one another.  He had to sit up on the throne.

A man was allowed to enter the throne room, and a herald yelled out the titles, titles that Rodder was too nervous to pay any attention too.  He prayed that the man would be reasonable, not like the unreasonable people that King Gregor had thrown out of the court.  The man did not seem to react to the fact that Rodder was holding court instead of his father.  Perhaps word had gotten out that the King and Queen had retired for the day and had replaced themselves with their son and his wife.

The man was lean and tall, probably in his mid-fifties based on the gray of his thin receding hair and cold deep eyes; however, his still athletic build made him seem younger.  Rodder wondered just what he was.  Although he had the look of a knight, he did not bear the insignia of one, and his clothing, although it might have once been fine clothing, was worn.  He was no knight of King Gregor’s army.  They would always keep their clothing in good condition, and they would never wear any sort of worn clothing before the King.

            The man approached the dais and bowed.  Clearly someone had instructed him on at least the basics of proper court etiquette.  Often times the commoners who appeared before the King would forget that step.  “State your name and request,” Rodder said in a clear voice, one that belonged in court.

            “Fuloc Swordman,” the man began, so he was a freelance.  Rodder remembered his father instructing him that it was not a good idea to trust a freelance, for one could never know where they came from or where their true loyalties lied.  Men died for their countries, but never for money. Fuloc Swordman also had a heavy northern Olgen accent, and he looked like he had ancestry in Léthan, but that did not mean that he had just come from there. 

            “I request that you end trading with foreign countries in the costal cities?”

            What an audacious thing to request.  The Olgen ports were built on trade with other countries.  If that was taken away then the economy in the ports would freeze, and of course that would affect the entire kingdom’s economy. “Now, why would I do such a thing?” Rodder asked.  “Would you like all of the people in the ports to starve and then start rioting because their main source of income is embargoed?”

            “No my lord.”

            “That would be the main consequence of what would happen if I granted your request.”

            “Correct my lord; however, I believe that the benefits of doing so would counteract the economic problems that would follow.”

            Rodder studied the Swordman.  “Notice everything about your petitioners,” he remembered his father saying.  “They can give much away without even noticing it.”  Rodder was paying attention to the way that Fuloc spoke. He spoke clearly and correctly without muddled syllables, like one who had received some sort of education, which was odd.  Most freelance men did not know much beyond how to count their money and use the blades they yielded. Rodder had to hear his reasoning.

            “And what are your reasons?”

            “Enemies and spies my lord. They come in from Nortica and Rossemesia in the trading ships, and they say that they come to trade, but they do much more.  Us freelance men know, for in times of peace when work for a freelance is hard to find, we are often employed to do dirty assassin’s work.  It is the only way we can scourge a living.  I have been sent off after many a good men throughout the northern cities, and Tradoc where any man can do as he pleases. Ever wondered how the good Lord Gardo of Gardock died last year, the lord who had done so much to keep the Nortican danger away?  It was I.  I snuck in through his window at night, and made it look like his dog had gone mad and attacked him.  The job was quick and well paid for, although my conscience urged me to give all the money to the poor and spend a night in the temple to The Spirit begging for forgiveness, yet the guilt still rests on my shoulders.  They same goes for a merchant in Wood Port who refused to trade with Rossemesians.  He’s dead by my hand too.  And then there’s-”

            “Stop!” Rodder commanded.  “We appreciate your candor, but do you know what you have just admitted.”

            “I do.  I rehearsed this speech long before I came here.”

            Now Mayenna spoke. “You have admitted to the murder of a lord.  Are you aware what the penalty for your actions are?”

            “Death of course my good lady.”

            “You are forfeiting your life.”

            “Many men forfeit their lives for their land.  I have harmed mine too much to continue living freely in it.  I came here and willingly confessed my crimes and came with a solution to prevent others from committing crimes like mine.  Stop the trade in the costal cities.”

            “First we need proof that you have done these things.”

            Fuloc drew his knife and sword and threw them on the ground.  “How can you prove anything?” he exclaimed aghast.  “I committed the crimes.  I have confessed them openly.  Punish me and take my suggestion.” His face was now flushed, and Rodder wondered if his sanity was on the line, but then he realized that something was wrong with his mannerisms.  There were bits of anger in his voice.  “Take my suggestion!” he shouted once more as if that was the only thing that mattered.

            “I hope that you realize that there are many other better solutions than eliminating trade,” Mayenna said.

            “No!” the Swordman shouted.  “There are not!”

            “We could search vessels sailing into the ports and we could only allow foreign merchants to bring in a certain amount of money into our cities to insure that they do not go spending it on assassins. We also could hire freelance Swordmen to defend the cities’ keeps so they avoid committing homicides. Ever thought about that?”

            “No!”

            Rodder did not know if he should have smiled or frowned.  He at least knew where this was going now.  The freelance was at least right about one thing.  He was not a loyal Olgen citizen.  Whatever treaty had been signed at the Clanmeet to make peace between The Olgenoct and Nortica would shortly be void, and Rodder doubted that Selene would be one to prevent it from being so. 

“Guards, bring the man here,” Rodder commanded, and the guards brought the man closer to the dais, and Rodder noticed a gold chain around his neck.  Whatever was attached to it was tucked inside his shirt, but Rodder has his suspicions of what it was.  “Show me his necklace,” he ordered, and the guards pulled it out from his shirt.  It was an amulet that depicted a ship sailing over land. There were words at the bottom, and although Rodder was too far away to read them, he knew what they said and what they meant both literally and in the whole broad spectrum of the land.

“Who sent you to destroy the Olgen economy?” he said, for that must have been the Fuloc’s intent.  He had no doubt that he had also committed the crimes that he had confessed to, for the best tricks and rumors had just a bit of truth in them.  Rodder’s breath was then caught in his throat as the freelance’s face began to turn purple and his lips blue.  He had somehow managed to slip poison into his mouth as the guards grabbed him.  “Ajj akvan nonst chaka,” were his last words before he finally stopped breathing and died.

There was a stunned silence, and Rodder sat back in his throne.  He put his hand in his forehead.  “Take the body away,” he ordered to someone.  He had no desire to see the other petitioners, but he knew that he had to.  It was his duty.  “How on earth did a Nortican spy just show up in my father’s court?” he asked to no one.  Only two things were certain. The Norticans were ignoring the treaty, and people were still taking the Oldenrocks for fools.