The grand chamber was adorned with intricate tapestries that came alive from the light of the flickering candles that lined the stone walls. The Crest of the King’s lineage, a boar’s head on a bed of thorns, hung high above the crackling fireplace. A long oak table, positioned just far enough from the fireplace to avoid roasting anyone but close enough so nobody froze in winter, divided the room.

At the head of the polished table sat a stern-faced Chamberlain, his countenance did little to reveal the urgency of this clandestine meeting. He was a figure of grandeur and wisdom. His piercing blue eyes emphasized his majestic presence. Pure white hair and sharp features with deeply etched lines were evidence of the passing of time and the burdens of governance. The regal robe that adorned him was intricately woven with threads of crimson that advertised his authority.

The Chamberlain held a position of unparalleled significance within the treasury. As a trusted advisor to the King, his duties extended beyond the realm of finance. He was the orchestrator of the royal household, the guardian of ceremonial rituals, and the keeper of order and decorum. However, the Chamberlain’s true essence lay in the meticulous management of the kingdom’s financial well-being. Taxes were his domain, revenues his concern, and the treasury his sacred charge.

To his left, the Controller paced the length of the table, his normal composed demeanor now shattered. The portly figure, a ceaseless motion amidst the stillness of the chamber, continued to wear out the marble floor between the table and the fireplace while rubbing his chunky hands together. Dressed in a simple, somber robe, his dishevelled appearance betrayed his current state of distress. Atop his head, a bald expanse gleamed under the soft glow of the fire, hinting at the battles waged against a receding hairline. Yet, his spirit refused to surrender, as evidenced by the horseshoe-shaped cascade of shoulder-length hair that clung tenaciously to the sides. Each strand seemed to defy its own fate as if engaged in an eternal struggle against the inevitability. His keen eyes magnified through spectacles perched upon his nose darted tirelessly across the chamber.

Within the tapestry of the Kingdom’s governance, the Controller's role was that of a meticulous guardian. He served as an unwavering sentinel within the treasury, entrusted with the preservation of fiscal integrity. His duties encompassed the unforgiving task of financial audits, traversing the labyrinth of ledgers with a discerning eye. Every coin accounted for, every expenditure dissected, he sought to unearth the faintest whisper of impropriety. His diligence was a bulwark against the specter of embezzlement, a steadfast shield that protected the kingdom's coffers from the ravages of corruption.

Together, the Chamberlain and the Controller formed an indomitable duo within the realm of finance. Their scrutiny was unyielding, their attention to detail an impenetrable shield against the encroachment of misappropriation. These figures were the bedrock upon which the kingdom's prosperity was built.

“Will you sit!” the Chamberlain snapped. The Controller startled, then muttered under his breath as he took his seat next to the Chamberlain

Alaric sat at the opposite end of the table. He leaned forward, his piercing eyes fixed on the Chamberlain. The short chubby man sitting next to him wiped the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand, his face red, the armpits of his clothing soaked through.

“A grave matter has come to our attention, Alaric,” the Chamberlain began. “We have reason to believe an unknown organisation is counterfeiting our Kingdom’s coins and forging documents with a fake seal.”

The Controller interrupted; his voice tinged with desperation. “We suspect the source of the counterfeiting operation lies in the province of Kira.”

Alaric dropped his elbow on the table and rubbed his temple. A yawn started to build like a tempest deep within somewhere.

“We won’t bore you with the intricate details, not that you’d fully grasp them,” the Chamberlain continued, “But, these troublemakers are flooding the countryside with fake coins. On top of that, they are selling nobles’ land with deeds that are better quality than the originals. What does this all mean you ask?”

Alaric didn’t ask.

“Well. We believe that the mastermind behind it all is sowing the seeds of rebellion in that region,” the Controller interposed, he then took a handkerchief from an inside pocket of his robe and wiped his forehead. “Turning the noblemen in the province against each other. Riling up the common folk. Collapsing any sense of civilization! Anarchy!”

The Controller’s voice reached a crescendo as he raised his girth from his chair.

“A little dramatic, don’t you think, Controller?” Alaric rubbed his chin and tried to process the information. But his thoughts started to drift back to his warm bed that he was rudely woken from by guards of the Treasury.

The Controller mumbled to himself and blinked furiously as he sat back down, He wrung out his handkerchief to the side and then wiped the glistening dome of his head.

The Chamberlain made a subtle coughing noise to get the Controller’s attention, once he had it, he waved his hand. The Controller nodded retrieved a small leather pouch from his robe and made a grunting noise as he rose from his chair. Then he made a sigh with every step as he waddled towards Alaric.

“Have you taken this to the Treasurer yet?” Alaric asked.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“We are at the earliest stages of an investigation, no need to trouble her yet,” the Chamberlain looked down his nose at Alaric.

“So how do you know the coins are counterfeit?” Alaric continued his line of questioning, to understand what the issue was. And more importantly why he was involved.

The Controller handed Alaric the leather pouch, he felt the weight of it then tipped the contents out on the table. A dozen or so gold and silver coins clanged together as they came to rest. Alaric picked one up to examine it. It appeared like any other gold coin, one face imprinted with the profile of the King, the other a symbol of the crown. The coin felt and weighted like gold as he twirled it in his fingers. He bit on the coin. Alaric spat the taste out to the side. Felt like one a real gold coin but didn’t taste like one.

“Well, that’s one way to confirm its authenticity,” The Chamberlain turned away in disgust.

The Controller handed Alaric a scroll and an eye loupe from a different pocket inside his robe.

“How many pockets do you have in there?” Alaric opened the scroll on the table, fixed the eye loupe in place and started scanning the Deed of Transfer document.

Alaric rummaged through his memory of estate law. It didn’t take long, because he knew next to nothing. But what he did know was that every Deed of Transfer required three seals in a particular order. The seller seal. Then the Royal seal to approval of the sale. And finally, the purchaser’s seal. The purchaser was not required to witness the addition of the other seals, the other seals just had to be there first.

“So, you’ve come to these conclusions based on a few gold coins and…” It was then that he noticed it, the King’s profile on the wax Royal Seal gave a sly wink. The eye loupe fell from Alaric's face and clanked on the table. He tried to catch it, but his attempts only made the loupe bounce with vigour. Alaric slapped his hand on the table to pin down the eye loupe, then leaned back in his chair.

“Let me guess,” Alaric folded his arms. “You two came across a deal too good to be true so you bought a whole lot of land that wasn’t for sale. So, and now a few nobles aren’t too happy about it. No doubt some of those nobles have more important friends, who aren’t friends of yours, are starting to ask questions. Am I close?”

The Chamberlain remained a statue, the Controller wiped the sweat from his head. After a few moments of being locked in a stare, the Chamberlain pursed his lips before replying.

“Do you know of an artist capable of such high quality?” the Chamberlain asked.

“No.” Alaric raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

The Chamberlain extended his right hand towards the other side of the chamber. Alaric’s eyes followed, and then his shoulders slumped.

The Hero’s Gaze by Kethryll the Brushmaster hung proudly on the wall.

“That’s not me,” Alaric jabbed a finger in the direction of the painting.

“But aren’t you the sole survivor of the Battle of IronKeep?” the Chamberlian’s hawkish features twisted so that they could be interpreted as puzzlement.

“I slept in,” Alaric retorted. “It wasn’t my fault the battle started early.”

The Controller waddled to the other side of the room as fast as his chunky legs could carry him, then gasped for air as he stopped in front of the portrait.

“Is that not the Rivercrest Citadel,” the Chamberlian continued. “On the banks of the Saphire Mountains River?”

“And that does look suspiciously like the Scepter you returned with,” The Controller pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, inspecting the canvas while nodding profusely.

“That painting was done months ago. I haven’t seen that slippery pig-bastard since!”

“Oh,” the Chamberlain said with a condescending nod. “I’m sure there’s no collusion between you two. Even if you were the last person to be seen with the Brushmaster. Which, might I add, his disappearance occurred not long before the false coins emerged in circulation. Coincidentally the region, that these coins were reported is the same region that your friend, Kethryll the Brushmaster, has a studio where he would be able to craft such pieces.”

Alaric sucked in a deep breath and held it. The interruption to his sleep was oil to his anger, and now the Chamberlain had just struck a match. He held his breath as he squeezed his fists to the point his knuckles were about to burst out of his skin, then slowly relaxed as he released the air in his lungs.

“He has lots of studios,” Alaric shrugged. “All over the Kingdom. And why would he be minting fake coinage and forging documents? And why is this my problem?”

“So, you admit you know the locations of his lairs, and that you two have conspired against the crown?” the Chamberlain rose from his seat and leaned over the table.

“What?” Alaric’s eye twitched. “That’s absurd, even for you.”

“Perhaps,” the Chamberlain righted himself and straightened out his robes. “As for the Brushmaster’s motivations…That is something only you can discover, if you want to clear his name.”

“Me?” Alaric blurted.

“Yes,” the Chamberlain sat back down. “Given your friendship with the Brushmaster, and your type of heritage, you are in a unique position to investigate.”

“My heritage?” Alaric cocked an eyebrow.

“Yes, Alaric,” the Chamberlain smiled like a cat that ate a canary. “Your heritage. I’ll be blunt, Alaric. I don’t care for your type. Demi-gods roaming about, causing mischief on a wimp, never contributing anything. They are a drain on the economy. A reminder of a bygone era that—”

“Fine,” Alaric cut him off. “I’ll help if that’s what it takes to stop your monologue. What do you want me to do?”

“Find out what happened to Kethryll and what, if any, his involvement is with this criminal element.” The Chamberlian said.

“And since we cannot be involved in any capacity,” The Controller moved next to Alaric and fidgeted with his hands. “This is not an official investigation, so you won’t have any law-appointed powers of a sheriff. Such formalities would only slow down a man of your…skills.”

“You leave immediately.” The Chamberlain rose, his chair scraped across the floor

“Can I at least get my stuff?” Alaric asked.

The Chamberlain shouted a stern order. The large double wooden doors behind the Chamberlain opened and a guard entered the chamber holding a small sack. Alaric got to his feet. “How do I know it’s all there?”

The guard shook the bag upside down. A pair of leather boots stretched and distorted as they slipped out of a bag that was too small to hold them. The guard waved the bag with gusto. Armour and gauntlets fell on the marble floor with a crash that echoed throughout the grand chamber. After one final wave, the guard let the magical bag drop on the heap of Alaric’s possessions.

“My mace?”

Two guards came through the chamber’s large double doorway dragging the heavy weapon into the chamber. Alaric winced as the iron weapon scrapped the marble floor, leaving a jagged trail. The two guards dropped the handle, next to the pile.

“Here,” the Controller scooped up the coins from the table and returned them to the leather pouch. “Take these as a stipend for expenses. Good luck.”