About two hours later, Matt slumped into the seat in his study with a weary sigh.

The Grand Council had not given in immediately. It wasn’t an attempt at rebellion or a sign of defiance; Matt thought it was more that they were trying to adjust themselves to participating in any kind of debate that didn’t involve knives or clubs. Eventually, they had finally settled into agreeing to at least three laws.

The first had been fairly straightforward, basically accepting the proposal to allow Assemblies of freeholders to elect Voices. There had been some debate as to how many freeholders constituted an Assembly, though they had eventually agreed that an Assembly counted as any gathering of more than five hundred freeholders. Assemblies of over ten thousand could elect two Voices, though many of the looks the noblemen had exchanged had told him they were doubtful that an Assembly would ever reach that size.

Their second act had been to declare a muster for the freeholders, summoning at least ten banners of reserves to Redspire from all over the Kingdom. Those troops would be crucial over the coming days, and the sooner they arrived and began training, the better. Matt was glad to see the nobles were willing to set aside their grievances for long enough to help defend the Kingdom. They had even agreed to a tax on the nobility in an attempt to defray the cost.

Unfortunately, they had also decided that their King needed a bit more protection, possibly to guard against another charge into enemy territory. They had created a small band of bodyguards, calling them the lifeguard, who would need to accompany him wherever he went. He supposed he should feel flattered by the concern, but it would be awkward to have a personal retinue to manage. Then again, if he couldn’t manage to maneuver around a few bodyguards, then he didn’t have much hope for survival in the future.

It was the third act that had required a bit more debate. The nobility might have been sufficiently cowed by Tek’s execution to not defy him, but honoring others was never a big part of their collective will. Still, he’d convinced them that rewarding their defenders was prudent, and so they had seen their way clear to rewarding the members of the Crown Guard with the prizes he’d promised them. They’d also given both Captain Morteth and Lord Grufen a new honor, recognizing them both as Defenders of the Realm. With some small extra effort, he’d also managed to give that title to Lord Braden—posthumously, of course—which was a lot less of an issue. Apparently, it was easier to honor a dead rival than a living possible friend.

Still, it was not a bad start to the Grand Council’s tenure. If they remained this biddable, Matt didn’t see any reason why he would have to interfere much in their decisions. At least, he didn’t think so yet.

He glanced down at the map laid out on his writing table, and his weariness lessened as he took in the information on it. According to the last messengers he’d had, Grufen was holding the line in the Small Heights. Lady Itrelia had made some headway at first, but the arrival of the Hard Scythe Orcs had driven her back, to the point where there were whispers that the Frost Elves were balking at their supposed queen’s orders. Given the disasters she’d already led them into, Matt didn’t doubt there was some discontent there, but he wasn’t planning on relying on that fragile hope. He’d have to deal with her directly at some point.

Morteth’s reports from the east were a little more encouraging. The Noble Races had retreated in poor order, just this side of a complete rout. He’d apparently managed to time his counterattack at just the right time, catching the assembled siege forces when they were squabbling over the few remaining supplies in their camp. The half-starved, bitter soldiers had panicked when Morteth’s men had hit their lines, and they had fled almost immediately, ignoring the orders of those officers that had tried to keep them standing. Some of the banners had stood, but they had been isolated and weakened by lack of rations, and Morteth had driven them off in short order.

In all, the commander of Greymouth had claimed to have destroyed nearly five banners of Knights and Elves, driven the enemy from the mountains, and completely destroyed the enemy camp. His report had been professional, respectful, and competent. Matt desperately hoped that he could trust the man; it would be painful to discover a reliable general only to have to kill him in self-preservation.

Reports from the south were…less than encouraging. The remnants of Lord Braden’s force were gathering in the city of Shadowfen, the capital city of the Blackleaf Goblins. Given his suspicions about Suluth, that suggested some ominous possibilities, but he doubted that Braden’s Orcs would respect someone who just assassinated their leader. If anything, the banners might keep Suluth from leading her Goblins into rebellion. He had to hope that would be possible, given the other problems he faced.

Teblas was officially his least favorite person in the world, now that Tek was dead. The rebel Leaffall Orc had pushed on through the Grim Hollows into the Sortenmoors, starting a campaign to try to claim that territory for himself. He’d apparently run into some resistance, however. Matt’s picture of the situation there wasn’t clear; neither Suluth nor the ad hoc militia there were sending him any messengers, and only a few of his own scouts were managing to come back. At the very least, the Alliance of Light hadn’t made any appearances yet. They were probably gathering supplies and troops, getting ready for a campaign once the winter snows had melted.

At the very least, the west seemed to be secure. He’d had no reports of any raids from the Coalition, and no news of any bandit groups breaking the truce on his side. Matt didn’t know how long he could count on that, but at least it would probably hold through the winter. It had to, if he was going to keep anything together.

There was a knock at the door, and Matt looked up in surprise. He had expected to have at least a little time to rest before his meeting with the Low Folk. If anything, that project was almost as important as anything else, and he had hoped for the chance to focus on it.

He shrugged. Things were going well enough that it felt foolish to demand anything better. “Enter.”

Gorfeld stepped through the door, followed closely by someone he vaguely recognized. They were a Wizard, by the robes and the eyes, but he couldn’t quite place the face. His steward bowed low. “Sire, the ambassador from the Western Coalition wishes to speak with you. Do you have a moment?”

Matt looked from Gorfeld to the Wizard. He recognized him now; it was the brash young ambassador from the negotiations. The young man was making a fair attempt at being brave, but it was clear he remained a little nervous. “I do have a moment. Is there something you wish to discuss?” As the Wizard opened his mouth, Matt held up a hand. “Actually, first, I don’t believe that I heard your name before.”

The Wizard hesitated, as if thrown off balance. He fidgeted slightly. “My name is Paralus, King Matthew.”

“Ah, yes. I remember you from the talks. It’s just been a rather busy month.” Matt gave him a wry smile and then gestured for the Wizard to take a seat. The young man did so gingerly, as if afraid the chair would bite him. Gorfeld took up a position next to the door, the Imp’s eyes alert.

“Now. What do you need from me today, Paralus?” Matt phrased the question carefully, not wanting to appear too helpful. Paralus represented a potential enemy, after all.

Paralus took a moment to breathe, as if to steady himself. When he spoke, his voice was much steadier. “First, may I extend our congratulations to you on your successful campaigns. Though we mourn the loss of so many lives, we hope your victories will lead to a time of peace for your Kingdom in the future.”

“A reasonable hope, though I doubt that our neighbors have much interest in that at the moment.” Matt shook his head. “Lord Hethwellow especially seemed to want my head. If anything, his losses will only make him even keener to take it now.”

Paralus grimaced a little. “That…may be, King Matthew. All the same, the way for peace is always open.”

Matt gave him no answer for that statement, idealistic as it was. He simply gestured for the ambassador to continue.

“I was sent originally as both a messenger and an observer on behalf of the Coalition. It was felt that given the terms of our truce, it would be wise to have someone to communicate with you on our behalf.”

“A wise decision. There are too many times when a misunderstanding has led to war, and I wouldn’t want that to happen between us.” Matt tapped the table as he thought further along those lines. “Now that you mention it, I suppose I should ask the Grand Council to appoint our own ambassador to your lands. I trust they would be well received there?”

The Wizard blinked. He nodded slowly. “Yes, I believe they would. We would certainly be able to provide them lodging at our court.”

Matt nodded in return. “Good. I’ll present the need to them in their next session.”

Paralus hesitated and then leaned forward. His multicolored eyes flashed with sudden interest. “This Grand Council, I understand you reinstated it very recently?”

There was something about the way the young man spoke that drew Matt’s attention. It wasn’t just a diplomatic ploy of some kind; there was real interest in the words. “Yes, it was a tradition that the Kingdom once had that had fallen into disrepute. I felt it was wise to revive it.”

“Yes. A wise choice. There is strength in tradition, after all.” Paralus’ eyes grew sharper. “Yet in other ways, you have acted against tradition. With the establishment of the…freeholders? And this idea that their representatives can interfere with the decisions of the nobility? It flies in the face of the natural order of things.”

“Ah.” Matt sat back in his chair. “You’re wondering why I respect tradition in some cases, and ignore it in others.”

Paralus nodded, and Matt continued with a small smile. “Well, think of it like sailing a ship. Are you aware of how that works?”

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The Wizard nodded again, his expression a bit affronted. “Of course I do. The wind fills the sails, and the ship moves.”

“Exactly. Tradition can be much the same. If you follow it, you can draw great strength from it. But will it take you where you want to go?” He watched as Paralus opened his mouth, and then frowned. “If all you do is travel where the wind takes you, you’ll never control your own course. A wise captain uses the wind, but he changes the angle of the sails and his rudder to make sure that his ship arrives where it needs to go.”

Understanding dawned in those strange, whiteless eyes. “So you are doing likewise here. Steering things so that you enjoy the power of tradition, but not letting it control your decisions.” Paralus paused again, and then tilted his head. “So where is it that you are taking your ship?”

“I’m guiding us exactly where I swore I would.” Matt gestured to the wall, and to the city beyond it. “I mean to see the people of this Kingdom safe, prosperous, and happy. If I need tradition to strengthen me for that goal, then I will use it. If my goals demand that I forgo that strength for a time, then I will have no problem doing that either.”

“I see.” Paralus looked down at his hands for a moment, his expression uncertain. Then he looked back up. “Thank you for your answers. It will help me understand your actions. I have one more concern, a request that the Clans of Rust entrusted to me.”

Matt raised an eyebrow, and the young Wizard continued. “They are concerned with your use of Gnomish laborers outside of Redspire. I tried to explain that they were here of their own will, but the Dwarves remain unconvinced. Would it be acceptable for me to visit them while they are at their work?”

“Of course.” Matt smiled in relief. He’d thought the Dwarves might have made some ridiculous demand about freeing the Small Heights; perhaps the active signs of warfare in the area had finally convinced the stubborn fools to stop pestering him about it. “In fact, I was going to inspect their project today. You can accompany me.”

He looked at Gorfeld, who was still waiting patiently by the door. “Send a messenger to the labor crews. I don’t want to catch them off guard. They weren’t expecting us for a few more hours.”

Gorfeld bowed. “Yes, sire.” He stepped to the door and spoke to someone outside. Matt heard footsteps retreating down the hallway as a servant went to get the message going. He stood up, making sure that his notes and maps were secure, and then looked to Paralus. The Wizard had stood as well, looking slightly alarmed. Perhaps he hadn’t expected to be given what he’d asked for.

Matt smiled. He’d been looking forward to seeing the progress here. “Well, then, let’s be off. I’m sure that we don’t want to keep them waiting.”

“This seems…fascinating, King Matthew.”

Matt chuckled a little at the nonplused expression on Paralus’ face. The Wizard was studying, for all intents and purposes, a large square hole in the ground. It measured about fifty meters on a side and was already about a meter deep. Laborers of all races were hard at work in the sodden earth, working to deepen the hole. A short distance away, there was another hole full of Gnomes, Goblins, Orcs, and Imps doing the exact same thing.

“It might seem like not much to look at now, but you are looking at the future of Redspire.” Matt turned as a rough-faced Gnome approached. Unlike Lord Nuramesh, this Gnome looked as if he’d never spent a day clean of dirt in his life. His face was smudged with mud, and he was dressed in a leather tunic that looked close to armor encrusted with old dirt. “Here is the site foreman. Parufeth, I think your name was?”

The Gnome gave him a broad grin. “Yes, sire, that’s me. You’ll excuse me if I don’t shake your hand.” He waved a callused hand caked with filth, and Matt shrugged. Paralus actually shrank back slightly; it looked as if the Wizard was mildly ill at the sight of the Gnome. “We’re just starting on the site, here, but we’re making good progress. I imagine we can start the brickwork within the next couple of weeks.”

Matt nodded. “Excellent. It seems like you are on schedule so far.”

“We are, sire. The tunnels are going well, too. I’d say by mid-winter we’ll be able to start on the next bit of work.”

Paralus broke in, his voice horribly uncertain. “May I ask what exactly you are doing here, sir Gnome? Is this intended to be some sort of garbage pit?”

Parufeth laughed, some of his coating of dirt falling away. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. I’m no sir, though. Just a freeholder, as I understand it.”

The Gnome looked at Matt with a hint of nervousness, and Matt glanced at Paralus. “All of the workers are here of their own free will, working for a good wage. None of them are being forced.” He looked back to the hole and smiled. “As for what we are doing here, it is something that will save hundreds, if not thousands, of lives in Redspire.”

Both of them blinked in surprised. Even the guards assigned to him by the Grand Council, who had been standing with some amount of boredom a short distance away, turned to look back at him, their faces incredulous. Only Gorfeld appeared unsurprised. Instead, the steward was watching him closely, his expression serious.

Matt grinned. He gestured to the River Crimson, which was flowing by at a languid pace a short distance away. “Tell me, Paralus. If some inconsiderate Goblin lets his Warg crap in that river, how far upriver does it need to be for me not to taste it in the water in Redspire?”

The question caught the group off guard, and Parufeth let out a bark of laughter despite himself. Paralus looked nonplused again, and somewhat annoyed. “I am not sure, King Matthew. It would have to be some distance, I am sure.”

“At the very least, you wouldn’t want to be drawing water with it happening in eyesight, correct?” The Wizard nodded, and Matt continued. “That Warg isn’t just causing a bad taste, you know. Waste and decay can carry disease as well. Drinking foul water is as dangerous as eating rotten meat. Worse, in some ways, because a single bit of corruption can taint a whole well for some time.”

The Wizard frowned, looking at the river. “Which is why it is wise to boil such water. Is this not done among your people?”

“In most cases, I’m sure it is. In others…” Matt shrugged. “If you are sure the well is fine, why would you go to the trouble of boiling it? Never mind that the same corruption in the river can just as easily flow through the soil to your well.” He looked at Gorfeld, who was looking back and forth from the holes to the river. “Gorfeld, how many times has Redspire been afflicted by plague? Especially things like dysentery or cholera?”

The Imp looked uncertain. “I am…unfamiliar with those names, sire.”

“You might know them by the symptoms instead. Diarrhea, vomiting, weakness, and death. Usually within a very short time.”

Understanding dawned in the Imp’s eyes. “It sounds like the pale drips.” He glanced at the Wizard before responding. “We suffer from it often, though it only grows bad every other year. One of our Rulers actually died from it a few years ago.”

Parufeth’s eyes had narrowed. “We have something like that up in the Small Heights as well. The poor fools just can’t manage to drink enough water and keep enough food in them to survive.” He glanced at the river, his eyes suddenly worried. “You’re saying it’s in the water?”

“I am.” Matt pointed at the river. “Any time some animal dies upstream, or a lazy butcher dumps his leavings there, or some sick fool looses his bowls in the river, the rest of us are at risk. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not shit myself to death because I took a drink of bad water.”

The Gnome grunted, and the lifeguards muttered to each other. Gorfeld nodded slowly, but Paralus folded his arms and frowned. “How to avoid it, then? It seems to be a natural fact of life. Something that must be endured.”

“Tradition would certainly seem to suggest that, yes.” Matt met the Wizard’s eyes, and then looked back at the pits. “The work we are doing here is going to be the answer.”

He pointed. “Once the pits are deep enough, we’ll start walling them in with brick. We’ll make it watertight, except for one watertight pipe that stretches down the tunnel to a place deep beneath the city. Then we’ll fill in the pit. First with gravel, then with sand, then finer sand, until they are nearly half full.”

Matt turned, letting his finger trace a straight path out to the river. “Once that is done, and the pipe leading beneath the city is complete, we’ll dig a channel that leads from the river to the pit. We’ll let the water filter into the pit, washing over it. When it filters through the sand and stone, it will bring creatures with it, creatures that eat the corruption that sickens us. After a few days, those creatures will make their homes in the sand, devouring the foulness in our water.”

Gorfeld’s head snapped around, the Imp’s eyes sharp. “And the water that filters through it will be clean.”

Grinning like a teacher with a favorite student, Matt nodded. “Exactly correct. It’s called a slow sand filter, and it will make the water as pure as a mountain stream. Better, actually.” He looked back toward Redspire. “The pipe beneath the city will lead to a wide, watertight space we’ll call the Great Cistern, where we can store it. From there, we’ll build more pipes leading to the wells of the city. From then on, no matter what else happens, the people of Redspire will be free of those diseases. The pale drips, as you call it, will nothing but a memory. First here in Redspire, and then in every city I can reach.”

When he turned back around, the others were now openly staring at him. He spread his arms wide. “So what would you call a project like this one? What name would you give it?”

There was silence. Then Parufeth grinned. “A hard day’s work, I’d say. What mere shoveler can say they killed off a disease?”

“A miracle. A work of magic unseen.” Paralus seemed equal parts in awe and fear. The Wizard was looking back and forth from the river to the holes, his mouth working as if he was having trouble finding the words he needed.

Then Gorfeld spoke, his voice quiet. “What would you call it, sire?”

“The only thing I can.” Matt turned back to the holes, where the laborers were continuing to dig. “A good start.”

It was hard to remember that confidence a few hours later.

Part of it was the weather. As they were riding back into the city, the clouds gathered overhead. By the time they reached the edge of Redspire, the chill water was starting to come down. There was one final gust of wind, a scattering of raindrops. Then it started to downpour, a heavy, pounding rain that quickly turned the streets to rivers of mud and soaked him through to the skin almost immediately.

Paralus had broken off almost immediately, obviously ready to seek refuge in the small apartments that Matt had given him in the palace. The guards and Gorfeld, on the other hand, followed him back to his own part of the palace, not even bothering to shake off their cloaks. Apparently the lifeguards were just as dedicated to his safety as Gorfeld was to making sure that his king wasn’t left alone with them. It would have been hard to avoid noticing the suspicious looks between the steward and the soldiers. He wondered for a brief moment which was more trustworthy.

As he entered his study, Matt swept the cloak from his shoulders and hung it from the nearby rack. He shook himself like a dog, shivering a little as the cold air touched his wet clothes. “Well then. At least we have impressed our visitor from the Coalition.”

“Not just him, sire.” Gorfeld was shaking out his own coat, shivering only a little as he took up his spot near the door. “The workmen were listening as well as the Wizard. I doubt that Parufeth will have them stop, even in this weather. They will see it done.”

“Good.” Matt slumped down into his seat with a sigh. “Now, we have the Council dealt with. The waterworks are on schedule. What’s next on our list?”

Gorfeld blinked, his eyes going slightly vague. “The representatives of the Low Folk are going to be waiting for you. After that, I believe the captain of the High Guard whose men remained near the city wishes to speak to you.” The steward paused. “I believe that some Speakers are also waiting for your attention as well. You ordered them gathered before you left on the campaign?”

“Ah, that’s right.” Matt put a hand over his eyes for one moment. The meeting with the Low Folk was almost as important as the one with the Council. If he could keep the people of Redspire under control and productive, it would create a ripple effect for the rest of the Kingdom. Convincing the Low Folk leaders here to trust him would go a long way to maintaining that control, especially since he could explain the power he’d just entrusted them with through the appointment of Voices.

He took the hand away from his eyes. “Go and get some fresh clothes on. I will too. I’ll meet you at the Low Council room in thirty minutes. Have the captain brought to me another…hour after that.”

“Yes, sire.”

Matt turned back to his closet. He knew there would be warm clothing there, something that he’d need for the next few hours. The last thing his people needed was to see their king as a half-drowned rat.