Arc II: Profit

Chapter11: Frank's Discussion Part 1

Farmer Jenkins adjusted his dirty but well-maintained clothing, attempted to smooth down the rat’s nest of red hair springing from his head, and then knocked on the manor house door. It swung open with Maria’s perfectly placed, gray bun bobbing in acknowledgment of his existence. She glanced over his shoulder to see the sun hanging low in the sky behind the farmer.

“Adequate timing, farmer Jenkins. The lord is awaiting your presence in the library. I will show you to him and bring refreshments shortly. Wipe your feet, please.”

Jenkins scraped the soles of his boots on the stones around the manor house entrance placed there for the purpose. Maria frowned and looked at the mat to one side of the door. Jenkins looked at the now filth-coated decorative stones outlining the lineage of Lord Tom’s household. He blanched.

“Interesting choice, Farmer Jenkins. Fortunately, I’ve been serving the lord’s family long enough to know I should have been more specific. I’ll have those cleaned later. Please, follow me, and don’t touch anything you are not directed to touch.”

Jenkins scratched the back of his red-haired head in embarrassment and nodded,

“Yes, mam.”

He meekly followed the head maid inside. Down the corridor to a door of polished oak. Marie opened the door for him and ushered him inside. Lord Tom was seated at his massive desk near the center of the room, working on some letters. A padded ornate chair was in front of his desk, awaiting farmer Jenkins.

A smaller desk was set nearby with tall shelves of expensive-looking books all around the room. The ostentation and luxury of the place were making Jenkins more nervous than he already was. He was not used to anything that wasn’t purpose-made. His former wife had liked sprucing up their home. Finding those damn branches for her had been a pain.

The look of excitement as she hung the fresh spruce branches around their home after weaving them into small designs had brought him joy.

Shaking his head to banish the thoughts turning uglier, he addressed Lord Tom as he awkwardly bowed,

“Evening, my Lord.”

Lord Tom finished scribbling furiously on one of the letters he was determined to finish this evening and responded informally,

“Enough of that, farmer Jenkins. We have much to discuss, and I will not let propriety interfere with the short time I can devote to explaining what is happening. Let us use it sparingly. Please sit.”

Lord Tom clasped his hands together, resting his elbows on the edge of his desk with a weary expression counter to his previous attitude towards the letter he had been scribbling. Jenkins took a seat at the chair set out for him.

Once he was seated, he stared at his lord. He didn’t know if Lord Tom meant for him to speak his mind, but the despair of the situation was too much for him to care if he was rebuked for it. The Lord seemed to be waiting for him to speak, so Jenkins abandoned caution,

“What the hells happened today…Sir? Why did you let him take my farm away from me? I don’t want to do this.”

Tom’s shoulders slumped. The lord of Red Adder County had a frustrated set to his expression,

“Jenkins, this will not be a happy conversation for either of us. My rights and privileges come with responsibilities that the common folk of this county do not get to see or understand for the most part. So the short answer to your question is politics.”

“Politics…Do you mean like when Mistress Milligan tries to get you to rule in her favor at those audiences you put on? That never works in the way she seems to want. You are the Lord. Who could force you to do anything with just words?”

Lord Tom smiled at the reductionist assessment of politics being just words.

“Politics is far more complicated than words, Jenkins. Our good Mistress Milligan fails to get her way so often because she has no leverage to get me to do what she wants. Without going into too many details, Grandmaster Knowet All Beckle has more powerful friends than I and little fear of being called out for abusing his position for petty acts like this. Even Lords have superiors they must report to.”

“He sets the rules for what paperwork needs to be filled and when. He writes policy amongst a large majority of this kingdom’s nobles. His closeness with the royal family and his years of being “indispensable” at managing affairs within the kingdom make it difficult to move against him regarding his official duties.”

“Lastly, he is very good at sticking his hand into most aspects of the kingdom administration to ensure everything he wants falls under his “official” duties. He wields incredible influence as prime minister of his majesty’s information network.”

The farmer’s hands clenched on the arm of the chair as he raised his voice,

“Petty?! He’s taking my livelihood away?! ”

Lord Tom narrowed his eyes.

“I will not let propriety get in our way, but I will not let a disrespect slide. Watch your tone, farmer Jenkins.”

Jenkins nodded curtly at the rebuke. He forced his posture to relax and addressed his Lord in a much more cordial tone.

“If I may ask, my Lord, how is this a petty act? It messes up everything I’ve worked toward since…Rukan passed.”

Lord Tom relaxed his posture and eased back in his seat. He wasn’t unaware of the pain of losing a loved one.

‘Gods damn you, Beckle.’

“Context is needed for you to understand, farmer Jenkins. You have been sucked into an old…an argument, I suppose is the most polite term, between my family and the Grand Master Knowet All…Gods, I hate that title just as much as the man.”

Lord Tom stood from his desk and strode to a shelf on one side of the room. Browsing the shelves momentarily, he retrieved a book and returned to his desk. He flipped through it briefly, then slid it across the desk to the farmer.

“My lord, I have trouble reading. I can do enough to get by for the farm reports, but…”

“Just look, Jenkins.”

Jenkins obliged. He started laughing.

Across both pages was an elaborate template etching. It was exquisitely crafted to show a scene in which a much younger and still opulently dressed Beckle was being punched in the face by a well-dressed man who strongly resembled Lord Tom. A beautiful woman in leather armor screamed at Beckle as she whacked him from behind with a chicken. A small child was in the foreground giving a rude gesture that may have landed the boy in a woodshed had the obvious resemblance to the pugilist not been apparent.

Lord Tom smiled at the reaction. He chuckled at the farmer’s response as he relived the fond memory.

“My family has been titled in this country for a century and a quarter since our last war with Keirmont. One of the ways we have kept our position is to not shy from our mistakes but to learn from them. We do this by immortalizing the lives of our family, with all the bad and good clearly outlined.”

Jenkins had gotten his mirth at the scene under control for the most part, with only a few more coughed chuckles as he replied,

“I can see the sunny side of remembering that triumph right there. It’s not every day you see a noble getting cockslapped.”

The lord of adder county gave a brief smile at the joke.

“Old farm jokes…nice. But that event was an abysmal failure.”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Eh?”

Lord Tom’s fist slowly clenched, knuckles white, on the desktop. Juxtaposed against the brief smile, the anger was stark.

“The conversation’s details do not leave this room, Farmer Jenkins. The royal court does not allow libel, true or not. We failed in that encounter as we should have killed him. It would have saved my parents.”

Jenkins stared at his Lord, uncomprehending. He had enough years to know by now that when a Lord said frog, people got a hold of one right quick, or bad things happened. Lord Tom casually mentioned the needed murder of someone who could upend the life of a commoner with a few words to override his liege lord.

“You…What do I…How did…”

The Lord mastered his anger again. As he explained, he drew in a breath for continued calm, gesturing to the scene portrayed.

“The… argument portrayed in that scene was a disagreement over the logistics of placing a battalion of some of the kingdom’s soldiers in the position of clearing a dungeon without the assistance of the guild. My parents had close friends in that detachment and knew the futility of placing common soldiers in that kind of engagement, no matter how well trained.”

“It’s a meat grinder against troops in that number, especially during the events known as “breakouts.” In those cases, more is not better. Beckle, deciding that what was needed was a stalling tactic, decided the lives of a battalion of troops of loyal kingdom men and women were worth the time it would take the dungeon mobs to chew through them.”

“My parents refused to allow this to happen, so they went into the dungeon to stall until the more specialized guild members needed to stop the breakout effectively could be summoned. A day later, I was an orphaned Lord. They saved that detachment from being thoughtlessly wasted at the cost of their own lives.”

Tom paused at a knock on the door.

“Enter.”

He stood to cross the room as Marie entered the room with a rolling tray of refreshments. She uncovered a platter of sandwiches and retrieved two tankards from under the cart. She placed them next to a pitcher of chilled ale.

“Will there be anything else, my Lord?”

“No, thank you, Marie. A simple repast was a perfect choice. Come, Jenkins, let’s eat.”

Marie eyed the farmer as he got to his feet to cross the room to the food with a smile. She bobbed a curtsy.

“As you say, my Lord.”

Marie bustled out of the room with another curtsy to Tom and a nod to Jenkins. Tom disregarded the ceremony and walked to the food.

The two men returned a few sandwiches and the now-filled tankards to the desk. Nothing was said for a few minutes as they ate, both occupied in their thoughts. Tom drank deeply from the tankard at the last bite and continued his lecture.

“Beckle used their death to petition the House of Lords for concessions on several matters I won’t go into detail on, except that it was to cement his position as head administrator of the guild. He used the death of my parents as an excuse to gain more control.”

“I’ve done the best I can at mitigating the damage this stunt of his will make to your livelihood and to start on turning this to Red Adders benefit. I apologize for not being able to do more. Beckle has too many connections in the capitol.”

Lord Tom looked over the farmer’s simple attire, wiry frame, and a haystack of red hair. Some words of caution would be warranted to the man. Farmer Jenkins was much older than most recruits for the guild and would face some unique challenges from that as much as his unorthodox entry into the guild. The missive Beckle had provided had not painted a picture of frolicking bunny rabbits in his future.

Tom knew enough to educate the man on some of what to expect from standard guild training procedures. The missive had given a bare-bones outline of some changes to the established training program, but this would be a mess. A note at the end of the missive promised further details to be sent out as they were available.

Tome knew this meant primarily that Beckle would make future changes that benefitted himself. Shaking his head at the hubris of the man making sweeping policies without forethought, he continued,

“You must remember that it isn’t just Beckle you must watch out for in the capitol. The knowet’s as an organization worships the man. He has many powerful nobles if not in his pocket, at least in working relationships with him.”

“The details of this “accelerated” training they were talking about in the missive are vague, but the crux is it has to do with throwing you into the deep end of combat in the dungeon below the guild. Stop panicking.”

Jenkins’s eyes had gone wide at this.

“Listen to your instructors, and don’t anger Grand Master Brisco. He will make a decent ally against the knowet’s machinations but not a catch-all. Focus entirely on your combat training before you are put into the dungeon. Weapons, armor, tactics, every bit you can soak up beforehand will help you survive.”

Jenkins’s eyes were glazing at the mountain of information Lord Tom was trying to cram into him quickly. The farmer was not stupid, but his life had been turned upside down today. Tom needed to wrap it up before the man got overloaded.

“Keep your eyes open, your mouth shut as much as possible, and your gear well maintained. This ordeal will not be easy for you. Graduate. Come home safely, and we can use what you learn to prepare others who will follow you through this trial.”

Lord Tom slid a drawer open from the desk and retrieved a pouch. He slid it across the table to Jenkins. The farmer hesitantly picked it up, eyes widening at the weight.

“That is enough to get you some decent starter gear and weapons. Wait to pick your weapon until after induction. They shouldn’t skip that much of the process, at least. Don’t fall for the merchant’s “discounted” gear. It will get you killed.”

The glazed eyes had focused on the weight of the heavy purse. They now widened.

“Killed? Survive? Isn’t this training? What kind of training could get me killed? I thought you said it was a training dungeon?”

“No, I said dungeon. There are no “training” dungeons. They’re all death traps we have to work as a nation to keep under control. A patrol through a well-harvested dungeon is normal for novices to graduate. The guild protects us from monsters, and they do not hold back in training up the new recruits because they can’t. One in two novices that apply through the normal channels is dead within a year of being inducted.”

“I am still amazed the recruiters have such success finding new candidates as they do. That may be why Beckle has started this conscription program.”

“Still, this is the kind of high-handed idiocy I would expect Beckle to try to pull by using a dungeon exclusively to accelerate training. You will still get weeks of training before entering, but most of your training will be in the dungeon. Usually, they save that as a final exam after taking novices on their capture tour. Grand Master Brisco must be frothing at the mouth at wasting lives before they’re properly trained.”

Jenkins protested,

“Helping a child to learn to swim in the pond is a far cry from catapulting them into the ocean with rocks tied to their feet. Why do this?”

“A good question. And it outlines just how much trouble Beckle can give you. If I’m right, he’s made some powerful enemies by forcing other noble children into his “accelerated” training. Oh, they’ll still get the preferential treatment they usually do. Get used to seeing that quickly, as it is an unfortunate industry standard. But all of this conscription nonsense is news to the kingdom. It will set the kingdom ablaze because that man started this new training without warning.”

“Again, don’t antagonize him. Keep out of the noble conscripts’ way. You should get at least a crash course in most of the normal subjects covered during induction, but don’t expect to be given as much time as you like.”

“You keep mentioning that. What is induction?”

The farmer was starting to get angry again at the unfairness of all this happening. In contrast to Jenkins’s foul mood, Tom smiled briefly as if at a fond memory. That anger could help the farmer if he used it instead of letting it control his actions. The smile was suppressed in favor of a profound statement of fact.

“Induction is…your welcoming party into the guild. I’ll be honest. It is not fun while it’s happening. Think of it as a boot camp for adventures. It usually lasts six months. Expect less. Any other questions?”

The man’s hands were clenched in anger at all this being tumbled onto his head. A varmint in his fields had led to upending his livelihood with a looming death sentence in one of the most dangerous locations in the kingdom while dealing with more nobles who would be getting preferential treatment. Jenkins kept his fury at the injustice behind his teeth,

“Many, my lord. But none helpful to me right now. I’ll save them for…induction.”

“Let me know how that works out for you. Go, head home for the evening. I’ll have the luciloos pick you up from there at first light for an escort to Purpolis. First, they will bring you here for one more meeting a bell after sunrise. The escort will leave shortly after. Will they have to find you? Or will you be waiting?”

Jenkins stiffened and stood from the chair.

“I’ve run my farm for years without shirking, only way to get anything done in life. No shirking. I’ll be there.”

Lord Tom looked at the man standing before him with an obstinate expression. He laughed softly. Standing, he stuck his hand out to the farmer.

“Fair enough, novice Jenkins. That is a good philosophy to have. No shirking. I have other matters to attend to. See yourself out.”

Jenkins shook the proffered hand.

“Have a good night, my Lord.”

In a creepily timed occurrence, the door to the library swung open, revealing Marie waiting for the farmer to exit the room. Jenkins jumped at the sudden movement of the door. Tom waved at the matronly maid,

“No need, Marie. Novice Jenkins can be trusted to avoid trouble between here and the front door.”

“With respect, my lord, as your father used to say. Trust, but verify.”

Lord Tom pursed his lips at the phrase but nodded to the woman. Jenkins was wise enough not to say anything about this in front of Lord Tom. How he ran his household was none of his business. The farmer didn’t want to piss off another noble today.

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