Final Round
Martel had never experienced such boredom in his life. Day after day continued in the same manner with debates concerning the endless minutiae of the Senate and the Great Charter. Each word was argued over, and every phrase became a battlefield. He wondered if this was more gruelling than being besieged by Khivans, hearing their cannons unleashing their barrage against the walls. Listening to some of the delegates speak, Martel dearly wished he had the spellcraft to push their words back like a cannonball or crack the barrel that endlessly spewed out projectiles.
He excused himself from time to time, but he knew it looked poor for him to be absent too often; the Senate was ostensibly his creation, if not his idea, and he had to appear invested in its form. More than once, when he had to weigh in after listening to ludicrous demands concerning a specific wording, he thought about how he had dealt with the high inquisitor refusing to release Alastair and Juliana. Threats worked so much more efficiently; it was amazing how swiftly people obeyed and did what was needed when they feared you.
Caritas wrote draft after draft, crossing out words and scribbling notes along the edges. The magistrate from Aquila led the charge, proposing the initial phrases, which the others commented upon. A few times, Martel looked at the parchment in the old man’s hands and imagined setting it on fire, just to free himself from this chamber. It might reignite the civil war, but that felt like a reasonable price to pay.
When it all came to an end, Martel did not notice it at first, being lost in his own thoughts. He only looked around as the silence continued, making him aware that everyone watched Caritas scribbling furiously. “It is done,” the magistrate declared. “We have a complete text. The charter is finished. I shall write a clean version and have copies written for each of us to study. Shall we reconvene tomorrow? That gives everybody time to study the text and give their final objections.”
“Let’s do so,” Martel agreed, always glad whenever they called it a day. And if anybody objected tomorrow, he would be more than happy to convince them to be satisfied. Fire could be persuasive, he found.
***
Back in the chamber the next day, Martel’s eyes ran over the document. He found himself admiring the penmanship almost more than all the labour the text represented. Though it did not disappoint on that regard either. In simple terms, it explained every right, privilege, and responsibility the Senate and its individual members had. It was impressive; Martel almost wished he had paid attention during the debates that led to this.
He looked around the table. “Does anybody object?” His expression suggested that doing so would be a poor idea.
“I still don’t like the order that the provinces are named in,” a delegate began to say. “It seems unfair that…” His voice trailed off under Martel’s withering gaze. “No objections.”
“Perhaps a simple show of hands,” Eleanor suggested. “All in favour of adopting this document as the Great Charter of Aster?”
Several hands flew into the air. Others followed reluctantly. As the last, Giles of Marbury raised his with the most disgruntled expression known to mankind.
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“It is unanimous. Our negotiations are successfully concluded,” she declared with a beaming smile. “We shall have peace and a Senate to rule the lands.”
“Hooray!” Cheers and cries of jubilation followed by those of more sentimental inclination; for Martel, a happy expression sufficed. Under the table, he felt Eleanor squeeze his hand.
“Wonderful!” exclaimed the high priest. “So, what happens now?”
Everyone looked at everyone. “Well, it should be signed. Important documents always are.”
“By whom? Us? We’re not the Senate.”
“Who else then? Him?” A delegate pointed at Martel. “He’s the lord of the city, isn’t he?”
“Well, unofficially, but not officially until the Senate declares him so.”
“Can the Senate gather before the Great Charter is signed? Can he sign it before the Senate gathers?”
“That feels like a paradox.”
“These are uncharted waters.”
“Enough!” Martel exclaimed; he was getting a headache. “This assembly will be considered a provisional Senate. We will gather tomorrow in a hall appropriate for the occasion. The high priest may have the honour of leading the gathering as the spiritual leader of the Empire.” Seeing nobody object, he continued, “The Senate will declare me imperator. I shall sign the Charter, my policies are ratified, and we are done.”
“At which point, you’ll resign.” The delegate from a minor province stated this as a fact, but it felt like a question as all eyes stared at the captain.
“Yes,” Martel replied; whether he meant it or not, he knew he had to say so.
“And afterwards, we shall have a celebration worthy of this momentous occasion!” The duchess of Trior gave Martel a wide smile.
“Well then,” the high priest said calmly, “I will see you all tomorrow.”
***
As the representatives dispersed, Martel ended up walking alongside Eleanor back to their wing. Neither spoke until they were out of sight from the others; once a sense of precarious solitude had developed around them, they both laughed with relief. “It’s really done. I was starting to have my doubts,” Martel admitted.
“At this point, everybody was too invested to walk away. Arguing over details was just a way for some to feel they had exerted some manner of influence over the negotiations. That they exercised a choice.” Eleanor smiled, looking up at him. “This will be good. No more senseless wars that drag on endlessly. We have accomplished something that will be written in the history books.”
“I hope they spell my name right.”
They both laughed, still as much from a sense of relief as anything else. “Come along. Somebody is waiting for us in your chambers.”
“What? Who?”
“Come along,” she reiterated. They continued a short while until they entered Martel’s personal quarters. A man stood, looking out of place and more than a touch nervous. He was vaguely familiar, though Martel could not recall from where.
“Martel, you remember my tailor, of course.”
“Captain.” The man gave a deep bow.
“Uh, sure. What’s this?”
“Martel, tomorrow is a celebration. You will not wear your typical robes, and while I never thought I should say this, I am tired of seeing you in uniform,” Eleanor explained. “The good master has already sewn my clothes. Now it is your turn, but I imagine you have grown over the last few years. Hence, he needs to take your measurements again.”
“Of course. Obvious. How silly of me that I failed to anticipate this.” Martel took position and stretched out his arms. With an almost frightful expression, the tailor rushed to begin measuring the captain.
Looking at Eleanor as he waited, it struck Martel that she would leave Morcaster soon. In a few days, possibly. She had been by his side through everything, sacrificed for him again and again. Could he really stand and watch her walk away, especially given what he felt for her? What he owed her?
The other side of the thought came to him: what if that was the kindest thing he could do? He had been a force of nature dragging her along in his wake. Maybe it was time to release her and allow her to seek her fate and fortune free of him.
The idea made him feel distraught to his core, but he hid it to reciprocate her smile while the tailor fluttered about, moving in between them.