Third Round
Third bell had rung, and every delegate sat around the table in the discussion chamber. Nine people on one side stared at four on the other. “I am sure he will be here any moment,” Eleanor claimed.
“This better not be some ploy to get us back to the table,” Giles warned them, waving a finger about in the air; Martel had to suppress laughter, knowing how inappropriate it would be, but for a moment, the magistrate had reminded Martel of being a child and being scolded by Father Julius. “I meant what I said. I’ll not accept more negotiations until the Faith is represented at this table.”
“Nobody will force you to speak, magistrate,” Martel replied, keeping his expression blank. “We can sit here entirely in silence until His Reverence appears.”
“Well, in fact, since we have gathered, perhaps you can explain a disturbing rumour that has gone around the palace,” Giles continued. “Apparently, nobody, neither guards nor servants, have seen Prince Flavius for days. And there are dark whispers of blood and bodies in his chambers.”
Martel clenched his jaw. Was this going to be what capsized his endeavour? That the prince had forced Martel to kill him? He felt Eleanor’s eyes on him. He could play for time rather than risk anybody storming away from the table when they heard the truth.
Or he could be brutally honest and get this over with. “The truth is worse than rumours in this instance, I imagine.” That got everyone’s attention around the table. “The prince attempted to flee the other night. Unfortunately, he got himself killed, as he was never a warrior and shouldn’t have made an attempt to be one.”
Shock could be seen and audible gasps be heard. “This is an outrage!” Giles exclaimed, leaping to his feet, and his chair fell to the ground. “You have spilled royal blood! A Tyrian bastard has slain the heir to the Empire!”
“How could such a thing happen?” Honorius looked at him with stern disapproval. “If he was such a novice in weaponry, your guards should have been able to disarm him with ease.”
“He tried to kill me, captain.” Martel returned her gaze without wavering. “Along with others. Forced to defend myself against numerous attackers, my spellcraft did not allow the luxury to distinguish between dangerous assailants and those who should have stayed in their quarters.”
“You speak with callous calm about someone meant to one day sit upon the emperor’s throne.” Alexia, legate of Anvallum, clutched the edges of the table until her knuckles turned white, and it looked as if she might break it apart with her empowered strength.
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“Forgive me, am I late? Such long corridors through this palace.” Nobody had noticed the doors open or an old, frail-looking man entering. He wore the robes of a clergyman but with golden thread stitched into a blazing sun as his emblem. A young priest supported him.
“Your Reverence, we have heard the most appalling news! This would-be tyrant has slain Prince Flavius!” Giles proclaimed loudly.
“I heard. Such a tragedy,” the high priest replied with a solemn expression.
“You… heard already?” Honorius asked.
“Of course. His remains have been entrusted to the Faith that he may be given a burial suitable to his rank and family.” The old priest detached from his companion and moved slowly down the table on Martel’s side. “The captain is a pious man with the utmost respect for the Faith. He would never dream of doing otherwise. Ah, shall I sit here? I can better hear you all.” He took the seat next to Martel, pushing the duchess of Trior one chair down. “Now, what is this Great Charter I have heard so much about?”
The people on the other side of the table exchanged glances, but none seemed willing to reproach the high priest for changing the topic. While Giles picked up his chair with a sheepish expression and sat down again, Honorius cleared her throat. “Your Reverence, we have yet to determine if this is the course of action to take. It would radically restructure the Empire and also endorse the actions taken by the rebels who now sit next to you.”
“And bring peace to our lands, if I understand? Ending the civil war that rears its ugly head.” The high priest bowed his head as if in prayer. “The Faith abhors bloodshed. We should consider ourselves blessed to have found such a prudent path to peace, which will also safeguard it in the future.” He raised his eyes again. “To that end, I consider it only reasonable that eight seats in this Senate are reserved for members of the clergy.”
“Eight?” exclaimed various people around the table.
“The Faith encompasses the entire Empire,” Martel pointed out, borrowing a phrase. “It is only natural that it should have more influence than any single province.”
“You did request divine wisdom, Captain Honorius,” Eleanor added. “We do not wish for it to be underrepresented.”
“I suppose not,” she mumbled.
“We could always reduce the seats allocated to the nobility,” Giles suggested with a glance at those on the other side of the table. “A duke or duchess is one thing, but earls? Can their viewpoints not be adequately expressed by those of higher rank?”
“If that is your concern, the number of aldermen seems grossly misjudged,” Cheval argued, breaking his silence for once. “Why does every city with a charter need representation when they all say the same?”
“I must agree with my dear counterpart. As he intimates, we are not all of one mind. The entire purpose of the Senate is to ensure all viewpoints are presented during debates.” The duchess of Trior smiled as she spoke, but her eyes remained locked on the delegate from Marbury, who fell back in his seat with a sullen expression.
Martel remained silent. The exact distribution of seats did not matter to him; he foresaw that they would argue back and forth until reaching a compromise that left nobody excited or disappointed, but somewhere in between. To him, all that mattered was that none raised the question anymore whether this was the right approach; they only debated how to best to proceed. Across the table from him, Captain Honorius likewise sat in silence. She made no further objections as the discussion continued.