On the fifth day, Able had his scheduled audience with the count. He had done his best to tidy up and freshen the scent of the solitary outfit he had been wearing for over two weeks, but his best was not impressive unless one considered his lack of resources. He did not expect Adeptson to. At least Northrise had been happy to gift him soap so he could clean himself.
He sat on the bench in the T-shaped intersection that led up to the imposing door to the audience hall. The hands of the clock, an impressive brass mechanism attached to the wall beside the door, clicked loudly as the star-shaped weight pulled the gears along on its quest for the floor. 10:02. Able wondered if this was the actual time, not that it mattered as the clock was fulfilling its role of reminding who exactly was waiting on whom.
The door opened at 10:03 and a squat man in a stiff longcoat poked his head out—Fleet Barker, the count's secretary— and invited Able inside. It wasn't quite like stepping into Larbantry the way the front hall had been, but it still tried with some moulding along the ceiling, a large, lavishly designed entry carpet, and a raised dais for the people of rank.
The wall behind the dais, however, was bare. Given that it would customarily be covered with art commemorating the accomplishments of the noble family tree, Able thought it did Adeptson few favors. On the other hand, maybe it was a defensive gesture.
The count himself stood at the end of the dais nearest the window, looking like a broody portrait as he stared into the gray light. His black hair was neatly oiled and coiffed to give the impression of waves gliding back from his face. His eyelashes were thick and strangely straight, and he wore his mustache in a sharp chevron that matched the angle of his eyebrows. Able could not find much resemblance between him and Lark, but he supposed they were only cousins and then supposed further that if Adeptson did not look much like the Firstprophet clan that his blood claim would be all the more precarious.
"My Lord," Secretary Barker began. "May I introduce Able Houser of the University of Fourwind Heights?"
Adeptson turned and strode to the center of the dais with inappreciable aid of his elaborately carved cane. Able could see the count was favoring his right leg, but could not see why. He came to a stately rest before the two men on the floor and leaned on his cane with both hands.
"I do not understand why you requested an audience."
"I wish to interview you, my Lord," Able gestured with his notebook and pencil to draw attention to them, "since I am writing a chronicle about a domain that is your purview."
"There is as of yet not a lot of story to be told," Adeptson sniffed.
"Yes, but," Able hoped he could avoid sounding condescending, "I rather intend to be here and ahead in the work when it gets to that point?"
"Seems a lot of effort when you can just write what the other scholars write. It's a frozen waste, but we need the lumber." His tone was dismissive, but he actually seemed embarrassed.
"To the contrary, I think as the latest addition to our empire, there is a lot of potential in this region," Able attempted to resurrect the ambitious persona he had first used with Reeve. "Surely, my Lord, you have designs for this territory beyond simple production?"
"Of course I do," Adeptson straightened. "Square mileage alone makes this territory larger than any of the provinces. Now, you may say, what does that matter, when it's mostly uninhabitable, and what little available farmland is unusable half the year? Well, I disagree. I think with a little ingenuity, we can turn those factors around. Furthermore, while the Royal Navy will always have the priority, I have three thousand miles of coastline I can fill with shipyards to cater to the trading industry."
"Have you attracted interest from investors for a commercial shipyard?"
"Excuse me?" the count scowled. "Do I look like a investment broker to you?"
"Er, no, sir?" Able was puzzled, having thought his question innocuous. "When the Brightisle Bridge was unthinkably swept away by that cyclone four years ago, Lord Whitestone relied on merchant investors to get it rebuilt."
"And he's a laughingstock for it," Adeptson sneered. "It's positively uncouth, lining a buffet so the bottom feeders can feast on the tragedy."
"But...they're the people that need that bridge the most, aren't they? Brightisle could no longer function as a trade center without it."
"He should have petitioned the Crown for emergency funds, as is proper. Instead, he has allowed the merchant class the unprecedented right to collect tolls from his populace. Disgraceful."
Able could think of several roads and bridges overseen by the trading collectives, although it was true that none of them were in regions governed by high office. However, the unusual cyclone that had destroyed the bridge had also ravaged several other cities and provincial countrysides, so there had been some question as to how the king would prioritize the repair efforts. Able had not thought ill of Whitestone's solution to the problem, but perhaps the gentry had.
"I'm sorry, I did not know," Able swallowed his argument in favor of keeping the interview from ending. "In that case it is clear that your domain needs to be productive before you can undertake any of these projects." Able pointedly looked at his notes so that he did not glance around the room.
"It will take time, yes," Adeptson nodded. "Perhaps a lifetime, but that is what it means to build a legacy."
"I've seen reports of the setbacks you've been experiencing, and I was wondering why you are not using the resources already here to address them."
"The resources I—are you accusing me of something?"
"I refer to the Borealunders, sir," Able soothed, or so he hoped. "Certainly they have experience with lumber and making do with fields that are unusable half the year, if not being able to help with any of your other troubles."
"Help? The Bors?" Adeptson laughed. "These savages fight me tooth and nail, even to their own detriment! It's everything my forces can do to bring them in line."
"They have little incentive to help you given your current practices," Able replied cautiously. "If you were offering a chance at Larbant citizenship, for example, it might—"
"Where do you come up with this madness? The Bors are not fit for citizenship."
"Well...maybe not as yet, but it worked for the Dagobari to—"
"Dagobar laps up any people within its reach and that is exactly why it is the wanton, godless refuse that scourges this world. Or are you one of those scholars that worships at its altars of learning?"
"I never thought so, sir," Able replied, feeling strangely honest about what was technically a lie. "My mistake at using such a distasteful example. For a better one, perhaps, I hail from Blueport, where anyone who can buy property becomes a provincial citizen."
"Oh, that explains much," the count nodded and rolled his eyes. "The practices of Lord Shellridge and the other coastal governors have jeopardized the security and sanctity of our great nation. I'll not make the same mistakes those high lords have made in letting their underlings proceed with such measures."
Able could not remember a time in his whole life that he'd any desire to defend the viscount of the Southern Shores, yet now he had to pocket his compulsion to do so. "I...surely, I understand, my lord, that you have strong ideals, but what could possibly be improper about at least refinancing the region, given all the challenges you face?"
"Who sent you?" Adeptson's face had gotten red and his eyes were gleaming.
"Sir?" Able glanced at Barker for help. "No one. I'm on research leave from the University."
"Oh, a likely story, I'm sure," Adeptson spat. "Who sent you—Merit Blue? I know he's been boasting at court that he thinks he can manage this office better than I!"
"I did not know that," Able raised an eyebrow, though he wasn't surprised either. The Blues were notoriously aggressive with the favor they'd found under Impetus's reign.
"Well, you can tell that fat-faced windbag that I'm on to him!" Adeptsonpounded the dais once with his cane. "I'm on to all of them, sniffing about for weakness like a pack of jackals—well they won't find it here! I have Firstprophet blood in me, and their treacherous whispers will not change that!"
"My Lord," Barker put in gently, "the sheriff himself vetted this man and gave him clearance. I don't think—"
"Oh, I knew it!" Adeptson pointed at Able. "He's been after me to test my uncle's patience further. Did he think you could convince me to submit the hardship waver?"
"We didn't discuss it," though Able doubted he was still listening.
"He's trying to undermine me!" Adeptson cried. "Same as Bricker, thinking he could go behind my back. Reeve would do well to remember what the Commissioner thought of that!"
"What did the Commissioner think of that?" Able had not been privy to this report.
"Insurrection, he called it," the count seemed to find this word quite satisfying, savoring the shape of it in his mouth.
"As well he should have," Barker broke in. "My Lord, the hours before lunchtime grow short and we have other matters to attend to." And he looked to Able with a tight, beseeching grimace.
"Of course," Able bowed. "I cannot thank you enough, my lord, for your time."
Adeptson seemed to become aware that his dignity had failed, and he corrected this by straightening his posture, waving dismissively at Able, and turning to peruse the agenda sheet Barker had just handed him.
Able saw himself out and closed the heavy door behind him. He stood awhile in the empty hallway, the ticks of the clock echoing in three directions, with the sobering impression that the audience had gone as well as it possibly could have.