The receiving room in Firgen’s suite was his favourite. The lantern roof gave it a lovely airy feel and the room was small enough that it didn’t suffer from drafts. His hunting trophies, old weapons, and dented suits of armour lined the walls. Firgen knew visitors viewed them as an intimidation device, but for him, it was a place to take his memories from the walls and swing them about a bit when no one was watching.

Firgen lounged in a smart, high-sided, leather armchair. Áberd had arranged a feast of delicate cakes and tiny teacups on an exquisite table, inlaid in ivory with a detailed map of Rícewelig. He had no idea where his fine furniture and porcelain came from, and neither was he sure if drinking tea and eating fancy cakes was a manly pursuit, but Firgen didn’t care for public opinion on his private pastimes. He was King, so he was bloody well going to eat and drink whatever he liked. The ritual soothed his mind and helped him remember the many happy hours he’d spent with the late queen.

Áberd floated around the room making slight and pointless adjustments to everything. A consummate hoverer, Áberd had elevated the task of waiting to a tasteful art form.

Like all good tea and cake sessions, Firgen preferred to share his with a friend, or at least the closest a king could get to one. After many solitary sessions, he knew if he didn’t have someone to talk to, the cake would disappear too quickly, he’d feel sick, and the fabulous experience would be over far too soon.

Ebýr, at ease in a fine spun, black-wool tunic, waved the final pink fancy around as he spoke. Firgen followed its circular path to Ebýr’s mouth so consumed with envy he missed half of what Ebýr was talking about “…that raider’s long hall we spent so long searching for,” said Ebýr. The cake disappeared and Firgen was finally able to work out what Ebýr was saying.

“Yes, I do,” said Firgen. “We must have spent six months wandering the country hoping to find it. I guess it was a story after all.”

Ebýr licked his lips. Firgen eyed the top of the man’s cheeks, spotting the tell-tale tightening as Ebýr suppressed a smile.

Bastard.

“It was a good story though,” Ebýr said, “A great axe, mighty enough to slay the greatest beast. Good thing we never found it, would’ve been hard work carrying it about.”

Firgen stretched, his armchair creaking in concert with his joints, “Has anyone made any progress on slaughtering a path to the throne?”

“I’ve received a variety of reports of varying credibility,” said Ebýr, “but I don’t think anyone has found the root of the issue yet. The competition has been popular; bands of armed mercenaries are patrolling the countryside searching for something to fight, usually each other.”

Firgen scowled.

Ebýr cleared his throat, “To add to the chaos, groups sponsored, or led by the upper classes and richer traders, are building information networks and gathering support for their claim from the smaller settlements. They’re helping citizens hold out against the surge in animal attacks and violent thieves, but seem more interested in boosting their popularity than actually rooting out the main cause.”

“It’s almost like they think it will come to a vote,” said Firgen. He sipped his tea – too bitter. “I didn’t specify what they needed to solve, but private armies taking unsanctioned action isn’t going to help stability: it makes the monarchy appear weak.” Firgen stirred in his third teaspoon of honey.

“Might I make a suggestion?” said Ebýr.

“We both know you will. Get on with it.”

“We should increase patrols along the main roads to help maintain the peace. It would not be good to have trade disrupted, or upset too many of our neighbours.”

“I suppose it would be bad if productivity dropped too much; famines are expensive.” Firgen tried his tea again – much better. “Send out the Húskarlar, I’d like them to be seen as much as possible until the unrest has settled.”

“What about the militia?” said Ebýr.

Firgen sighed, “We’ll have to restock the armoury. Make sure we have sufficient equipment: shields, spears, longbows, leather gambesons, siege tools, and so on, enough to outfit a citizen army in case there’s some real trouble.”

“I’ll check in with Lord Rhodomel, see what the crown can afford.”

“Ensure it’s enough for at least five thousand soldiers, preferably double. You decide the composition.”

Ebýr grabbed a square of cinnamon and pear sponge, then washed it down with a substantial gulp of hot tea, “May have your leave to depart, Sire? I would like to start immediately.”

Firgen waved his assent.

The tea cups danced and skittered on their saucers as Ebýr stood. Áberd glided behind him and, lifting Ebýr’s chair a few inches, plucked it out of the way, preventing any objectionable chair scrapes across the polished floor.

Ebýr smiled and made a slight bow, “Sire.”