Viggin sat at his desk, poring over correspondence from various officials and nobles from around his country. Various court notes of disputes settled, and penalties meted out.
The one pleasant surprise was an excerpt from the Sofjorland ledger. Tax revenue had increased by twenty per cent, evidenced by a slight increase in the Grand Duchy’s coffers. The soon-to-be new lady Soderholm had helped the jarl move past his terrible grief. That, and the new trade agreements should see a steady rise in revenues kingdom wide.
He affected a wry smile to himself as the thought occurred to him he would need to dip deeper into his personal funds than he had originally intended, to procure a much more befitting wedding gift for the service Brenda Sogard has thus far provided, and no doubt, would continue to.
A soft knock at his door pulled his mind back from his musings. He had just set aside a letter from his father, outlining that he had set out to invade and annex Bruderman and bring it under the King’s governance pending a decision as to the duchy’s future.
“Enter,” said the Grand Duke, without looking up.
The thin, fussy chamberlain with his greying blonde hair and neat, mustachioed goatee opened the door, as he doffed his baggy green cap. “I just received this despatch, Your Grace.”
Reaching into his black, silver trimmed robe, the chamberlain produced a scroll held closed by red wax stamped with the ornate Skordian royal seal. He held it out to the grand duke.
“Thank you. Is that the only one?” the duke asked, as he took the proffered scroll.
“Were you expecting another?” the chamberlain asked in response.
“More like hoping for one. I wanted to hear from Thayn to be abreast of his progress with the Sofjorland trade treaty. No matter. Wait a moment, would you?”
“Your Grace, mine is to obey, but I do have a great many duties to attend to.”
“Ah, yes, yes, of course. Carry on.”
“I will collect your supper from the kitchen and bring it to you when I complete my tasks.”
With that, the chamberlain bowed deeply, before exiting the study and closing the door.
The Grand Duke cracked the seal, opened the letter, and began reading.
“Our dear brother Viggin Uldenson, Grand Duke of Holvela, and Crown Prince of all Halderlands,
We were made aware of, and were deeply distressed by, the attempted coup that threatened your life and the stability of your realm. In response to this outrage, We have mobilised Our huscarls and all available fighting men willing to serve. We have also issued a decree of expulsion to all Brudermen within our realm. We felt that, although extreme, this course was prudent as Harolf has shown Us that neither he nor his people, can be trusted at this moment in time. We stand by to support you, should you need Us.
On a lighter note, it will be little Heidris’ birthday soon. Please write her a letter and I shall read it to her.
Stay strong, Viggin. You have the right of this.
With warmest regards,
Ilsa Uldenson, Duchess of Skord.
PS: I am aware that he is involved in negotiations with our southern neighbour, but when you see that tawny-eyed rogue you call a brother, send him home, his children miss him- a fact they remind me of at least daily.”
Viggin sighed, and with a slight smile began penning his responses, starting with a letter to Heidris. The letter he wrote to his niece was congratulatory and included a promise to bring her a gift the next time he saw her. The other letter announcing his intent to pay a visit to Lopstad, the Skordian capital upon Thayn’s return from Paqurineva..
ᚲᚺᚱᛟᚾᛁᚲᛚᛖᛊᚱᛁᚾᚾ×ᛟᚱ×ᛟᚱᚾ
The large chariot, pulled by two trotting horses, trundled along the broad main street of Paqurineva, the Nevan capital. It headed to the basilica housing the Empire’s senate chambers, and offices of the large nation’s bureaucracy.
The reddish-brown haired Duke Thayn Uldenson felt strange wearing the Nevan garb. And his long hair and braided beard were a vivid contrast, displaying the obviousness that he was not a Nevan. In this foreign land, he felt naked, without a shirt made of steel ringlets, and an axe belted to his waist. Censor Marius Vinnicus’ assurances regarding his status as a visiting foreign ruler in Nevan society did little to quell his misgivings.
“Please, Your Grace, stop worrying at it. The toga is supposed to sit thus,” said Grillo Amillos, the rotund, newly appointed Civil Censor for the Nevan Empire.
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The duke regarded Grillo with his tawny-coloured eyes, as he tilted his ear to listen to Shufi’s translation. With a slight blush and a wry smile, Thayn responded, “Is this entirely necessary? I look ridiculous, and I could swear this is Marius’ idea of a jest at my expense. And if that is the case, I will have my revenge. He can be sure of it.”
The Azahri spy blinked several times, as he looked at Thayn for several moments, before saying, “Your most esteemed Grace, are you sure you want me to translate that?”
“Why, yes, Shufi. I said it, did I not?” came Thayn’s retort.
“Very well, most gracious Highness.” The spy translated his duke’s words to Grillo.
To Shufi’s surprise, the Nevan leader laughed long and loud, his paunch jiggling as if to emphasise his mirth. The portly Henesian man used a corner of his purple cape to mop at his thinning pate and brow, being cautious not to dislodge the gold laurel wreath upon his head.
“I assure you, it is not. Let us put it down to a ceremonial, diplomatic convention. It is not done out of any intent to cast ridicule upon your august person, Duke Thayn.”
Shufi again translated the Censor’s words, while Thayn cast him a sidelong glance before sighing as he turned to gaze at the passing buildings. He imagined how his own demesne would be with such skill in masonry, and then, as inevitably happens, his thoughts drifted to his wife and three daughters.
It would be Heidris’ fourth birthday soon. Thayn hoped that these deliberations would be prompt. He wanted to trawl the markets for something suitable and unique to give to his daughter. And, of course, he would have to get something for the other two… and his wife. The Skordian duke sighed again.
The chariot came to a halt at the steps to the basilica, and the three men climbed down from it. As they mounted the steps, the charioteer shook the reins to move out of the way for the next one coming up behind him.
At the top, Grillo stopped as he bent forward, hands on his knees while he caught his breath. “I will be … fine in a moment,” the large man blurted between gasps.”
“You really should think about doing more and eating less, Honourable Censor,” suggested Thayn.
“Punish me if you will, venerated Duke. I am not translating that,” said the spy-come-translator.
“Shufi, he knows that these are not your words.” The tall Duke exhaled an overly dramatic, heavy sigh, and said, “Never mind. I will get Marius to tell him.”
The Azahri spy snorted and rolled his eyes as he shook his head.
Once inside the main gallery leading to the Senate Chamber, the temperature dropped noticeably, and Thayn sighed in relief. Being of Northern lands, he was not yet used to the heat this far south.
Just then, a solidly muscled Nevan man of above-average height for their race, with tanned skin and chiselled features, walked purposefully towards them. His red cape billowing behind announced his military affiliation, while the gold-olive wreath surrounding his grey-flecked, black hair announced his elevated station.
“Honourable Censor Marius. A pleasure to see you again, especially on such an auspicious day,” Thayn said as he inclined his head in a slight nod.
Shufi smiled and bowed deeply before standing straight again. However, he said nothing.
“Welcome to the house of the Senate, once again, my friends,” Marius said with his arms spread, and a broad grin across his face. “Grillo, I hope the climb was not too arduous for you.”
Thayn let out a short bark of a laugh, as he looked meaningfully at Shufi, while the spy adopted a helpless expression, looking away.
“We must suffer what we must suffer to feel deserving of our next meal,” replied the fat Censor sagely, wearing a haughty expression complete with raised brows and heavy eyelids. Then Grillo’s face broke into a broad grin, as he embraced his long-time friend. Then the four men walked into the Senate chamber together.
Upon entering the chamber, the faces of nigh two hundred members of the Senate were a mixture of hopeful smiles and curious glances. Among the members’ faces was a smattering of scornful distaste.
Some among them, although well aware of Scipio’s betrayal, still harboured ill will toward the empire’s northern neighbour. Firmly held prejudices and thwarted ambitions were never things easy to relinquish.
It was only Scipio’s involvement with the Thaden cultists and their daemon worshipping that kept their silence, and would do so for a long time. None among them wished to be in any way associated with that outlawed group, as to be so was certain death.
Tabal al’Ajid, a middle-aged, balding Jamahri man with a large nose and silvery sprigs of hair surrounding his head like a laurel wreath, held his hands up to gain the attention of the men within the chamber, and the citizens fortunate enough to gain entry to the galleries to bear witness. He had replaced the elderly magistrate who had decided to retire. After recent events, the poor man’s heart could sustain no more shocks.
In his deep, accented voice, Tabal said, “Order, Order, gentlemen, please. Today is a historic occasion. We will bear witness to the signing of this treaty that will formalise trade between the Halder nations and the Nevan Empire, which will enrich both Halder and Nevan alike. We can hope that this is the beginning of a partnership and, dare I say it, a friendship that will bring added stability to our region.”
This introduction was a prearranged signal for a group of officiaries to bring a podium, four scrolls, and the ceremonial writing brush and ink pot. While these were being set up, Tabal continued, “This treaty will see the cities of Raugus and Bosberg become centres of trade, distribution, and cultural exchange between our nations. May this historic partnership lead to greater understanding and cooperation between our two peoples.”
As the magistrate finished his statement, there were enthusiastic statements of agreement, and the thumping of feet from the galleries and the Senate floor.
Of the four copies of the treaty document, two were in Halder, and two in Nevan. Shufi and Grillo each took a Nevan copy, and Marius and Thayn took the Halder copies. All four men made a show of examining the document. As they were all well versed in its contents, the act was merely theatre for the benefit of the witnesses.
After several moments of this, first Thayn placed his copy on the podium and, after taking up the ceremonial brush, dipped into the ink and signed his name. Then Grillo, Marius, and lastly, Shufi. This process was repeated for the three other copies. The two Halder copies would return with Thayn and Shufi. The Nevan copies would see one stored in the Paqurineva basilica archives, and the other in the Raugus regional basilica.
Shufi had received a jarldom and the title of ‘First Counsel to the Halder King’ to grant him status in signing the treaty. At first, Shufi held the mistaken belief that these titles were mere sophistry to lend legitimacy to the proceedings.
That was until Thayn explained to him that the rank and title were official and that he, in fact, now had the lands and responsibilities of a high-ranking jarl. Thayn advised that he should marry, as a wife could run Shufi’s estate in his absence, citing his own wife, Ilsa, as an example.
Once the signing ceremony was complete, the four men joined hands and raised them above their heads to signify unity and that the treaty was now in effect. The Senate chamber and galleries erupted into cheers and stomping applause.