The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Seventeen

"Here's one," called Hawth from the corridor.

Larst lifted his head from the table and shook his head, trying to wake himself up. He stood, watching the door as an old man, tall and lithe as if he was made of steel wire swept down the corridor.

"Gentlemen," he said, nodding to Larst and Straw in turn. "I received your...message."

"We wanted to see the council," said Straw.

Larst rubbed his forehead with his fingertips, as if he could wipe away the doubts.

"Unfortunately the members of the council are not available. They were called away by business in their own districts," he said, dropping a number of ledgers down onto the table.

"All of them?" said Larst, his hand falling down to his side. Straw shot him a concerned glance. He must look even worse than he felt.

"Most unusual, I grant you. May I?" he said, indicating the seat in front of him.

Larst waved his hand as if he was indifferent to where the man sat, but his thoughts were raging. The council had ignored his summons and fled back to their castles. He had hoped to reason with them, so they'd see that the country could not continue as it had done for centuries past, but he couldn't bloody well do that if they refused to see him. Instead they were probably preparing their armies ready to re-take the Citadel. Damn and blast it.

Hawth re-appeared at the door and waved a hand to get his attention. Larst shook his head. No one else would be coming.

His hand went to the dagger at his waist, his hand gripping the hilt. He pulled it out, turning it over. The blade was clean. It was hard to believe that the previous night it had slit the throat of a King. He laid it flat on the table and sank back into his seat.

"Is that meant to be some kind of gesture?" said the old man.

"What do you think?"

"I think you are trying to play at diplomacy and you're not even sure what the rules are." His voice was deep and calm. Larst was in no doubt that he was sitting in front of a man used to being the commanding presence in the room, even when he was whispering in the ear of the King.

"There are no rules. Not any more," said Larst, quietly.

The man brushed an invisible speck of dust off of one of the ledgers. "Quite so."

Larst was tired. After the horrors of the night, with the heart-thumping terror of every step, and his senses pricked to hear even the tiny squeaks of the mice beneath the floorboards, he felt like a scarecrow after the birds had got to him. "So, who are you then?"

"I am the Lord Chancellor, chief advisor to his..." he stopped and cleared his throat. Larst could have sworn he saw the man's lip twitch. "His former majesty. May I ask you the same question?"

"We're no one. Formerly of nowhere," said Straw in a low growl, leaning forward in his seat.

Larst held up a stilling hand. "I'm Larst," he said.

The Chancellor nodded. "And that is your child-name I presume."

"I haven't got any other."

"I'd gathered that. Otherwise you wouldn't be sitting there right now. If you'd been named, you would currently be spending time as a guest of the Red Tunnels, before taking the view on Wheltroll Bridge and we would still have a King."

"You mean I'd have my head chopped off."

"Oh, not for a good long while. We're not Pryvians after all. The men in the Red Tunnels are very dedicated hosts. They'd ministrated to your needs for, well months, if necessary."