2
The capital was the ray of sunshine in the land, the haven of the gods, and the point from which all power emanated. For all that, it still looked a dull gray. Tayron admitted that the buildings at least reached heights unseen elsewhere. Unfortunately, architectural imagination was long dead.
The countryside folk on the train remarked at the urban smell, which they had responded to by shutting the huge windows when the towers of the city were still barely visible on the horizon. Bathis dismissed their claims, insisting that he could not smell anything. He followed up by saying that the dung filled farmland had probably dulled his senses. Residing in towns and cities for all of his life, Tayron agreed with Bathis’ sentiments, but couldn’t help feeling that there was more resentment between the rural folk and the city dwellers on the train than smell could have caused.
Tayron had not expected anything more from the capital, in any case. It was just a city. The people of nobility that populated it, and their associated gods, were what made it of any importance. Rather than remaining on their own land, the most powerful families flocked to the king’s court. Their proximity to the center gave them power. Access to the king’s person made them more favorable in the eyes of the gods, and all the more protected for it.
The capital was not the largest city in the land. With its proximity to the center of authority, it also had the strictest law enforcement. Entrepreneurs and businessmen were effectively discouraged from setting up shop. Some more dignified and, in most cases, ancient businesses had a long history of presence in the city, but even these felt the pressure to pull out for the sake of competition.
The city was still far too gray. The towers, though grand in height, were not comforting, either. Their decadence seemed appropriate, though. Tayron was familiar with the names of the corporations they represented. His family members had been fired by most of them.
As the train pulled into the station, he was greeted by a far more welcome sight. The station was surrounded by towers, but did not cater to their looming figures. The station had color. It had life. It defied all that they represented, and reflected in all their metal and glass its own platforms, teeming with bright people. Steam trains and electric trains pulled into and out of the yard - splashing the buildings, then leaving them far behind.
In the rest of the city, people wore dull suits that camouflaged them against the structures they passed, reminiscent of the gray cadet uniforms that were deliberately matched to the paint of the academy barracks. The terminal had color-coded signs directing people to the platforms. Families and friends waited on the platforms for their loved ones dressed in their best clothes – flashy, silky, and neon. The station catered exclusively to long distance trains, so most of the arriving passengers would be welcomed warmly. Tayron regretted not being among that majority.
The noise was almost unbearable. As part of their training, the knights spent an absurd amount of time in silent contemplation. Only when they encountered the din that forced them to stuff fingers in ears did they realize that their train’s engines had been relatively quiet. The dozen trains nearby were deafening enough without the hundreds of people expressing emotions ranging from business-like camaraderie to ecstatic giddiness.
“They could have had some sort of welcoming party,” Bathis shouted loud enough to be heard through desperately blocked ears. “I mean, we are knights – one in ten thousand or so. You don’t see a hundred in the same place everyday, not even on the battlefield. We went through seven years of hell to get here. Even college students get a real graduation ceremony. All we get is another chance to sweat.”
“Maybe they’ll have something for us at the capital,” Yunas said hopefully.
“Naw,” a burly knight nearby responded, “them high nobility won’t care for the likes of us. In court, we’re the lower class. Some of us were commoners before taking the test to enter the academy, so as far as the court nobles are concerned, we’re all somewhere between being a commoner and being one of them. Imagine that, eh?”
But the civilians nearby were not completely without awe. Citizens of the land were taught at an early age to distinguish a knight’s insignia from that of a common soldier. Children on adjacent platforms stood gaping, tugging at their parents’ clothing, and pointing at them. To the youth, a group of knights was a novel sight akin to a flight of brekas. Most adults, however, were more cautious. They had seen more knights in their day, so they responded with respect and space rather than excitement. A few young women waved cordially. Some of them a bit more than cordially. After seeing a pair with shapely form and endless legs wave directly at him, Tayron reminded himself to step up his practice with social interaction. He wanted at all costs to avoid the awkwardness he felt, especially when one of them stared fixedly at him for a full minute. There were women at the academy, but frankly not like these. Tayron was convinced that any attempt to voice any of his thoughts at the moment would be an unqualified disaster.
Bathis was less self-conscious. “Gods, I’d like to have one of them. This is more like it. The girls at the academy were more man than I am. Give me a day’s leave in the city, and I’ll be a happy. What do you think of that bunch there, Yunas?”
Yunas looked singularly rattled. “I don’t think the academy girls were all that bad . . .”
“Please, focus. What about them over there? Don’t tell me they don’t scream heat to you.”
“I . . . I don’t think they’d take me seriously.”
“Oh, now, come on,” Bathis said patronizingly, “don’t make excuses. Women love the boyish charm. Trust me. It’s Karitan that’ll be worst off. Women’d be afraid he’d crush them. He doesn’t even have nobility going for him. Anyway, this is not exactly fireworks, but it’s more than we expected.”
Tayron worked hard to weld the image of the two girls onto his memory for future access. Breaking his concentration, a man shouted to the knightly gathering “Welcome to our fair city, young knights. I am Councilor Jaksen, manager of the king’s court and your direct employer, before the king himself. If you’ll follow me, there is a special municipal train waiting on the street outside to take us to court. I will give you further orders when we arrive. Be sure you have all your luggage, and follow me!”
They obeyed. Tayron examined Councilor Jaksen, who had approached quite unassumingly, despite the two burly bodyguards behind him. He was one of the better-known ministers in the land, and the crowd on the platform was suddenly a notch quieter after his announcement. In fact, next to the king himself, Tayron could not think of a man people were more in awe of. If nobility established the value of the city, only the king added more to the city than Jaksen.
To see Jaksen as a man instead of an idea was new, since few people would have recognized the councilor by sight, but Tayron felt that Jaksen’s bearing and voice only reinforced what he was known for. The Councilor was taller than average, slim, and gave the impression of intense energy. Flowing silver-blue hair, touched with a few collections of golden brown strands, epitomized his old age vigor. He had to be over eighty years of age, but he seemed more boisterous than the knights, who were a fourth of his age. Even his wrinkles seemed to have the sole purpose of framing a perpetual smile. Yunas might have guessed that the opposite god to his own protected the man – one who kept people youthful on the inside rather than the outside.
Bathis guessed at Tayron’s thoughts. “He’s good at catching people off guard. His impressiveness is all about throwing people off. If you want to get your family a name in court, you stick close to him. That’s my plan, and ought to be yours if you have any ambition. If he tells you to do something, you do it and more – really go above and beyond the call, and he’ll reward you. That’s what I’ve heard, at least.”
“What god is his family under?” Tayron whispered back. They were not in Jaksen’s earshot, especially given the noise of the station, but Tayron was not prepared to take chances.
“Don’t know. It’s a court secret. Everyone in court understands the importance of that knowledge, so it’s carefully guarded. A court superior always demands knowledge of his inferiors, but the king is Jaksen’s only superior. He’d be the only one who’d know, and his family records would have indicated the god Jaksen’s family was given anyway. But, mind you, there are plenty of spies at court, and if another noble found out, he wouldn’t be likely to say anything about it.”
Tayron nodded his understanding as the troop of knights stopped next to the municipal train and took the opportunity to set down their bags for a moment. Unlike the train from the academy to the capital, this one was publicly owned, so there would be no lectures from a protective owner. After a few words with the operator, Jaksen ordered the knights to board.
Their luggage was a serious problem. There was simply no place for it, so most of it cluttered the aisles. The train smelled stale, the seats had rents with escaping springs standing menacingly, and all cloth was worn and puke colored. Most of the knights stood. When the train jerked into movement, a few of them fell over the bags they were surrounded by. They recovered themselves, mildly embarrassed. Knights prided themselves on a firm battle stance. To be brought to the ground by a cheaply built train was inexcusable.
An expectant silence pervaded over this second train ride. Some people stared out at the sights. Tayron just closed his eyes and tried to relax. Yunas had been quiet for a while now. Tayron decided not to wonder about this, and focused on himself.
It was a subdued bunch that was greeted by the magnificence of the castle when the train stopped at the tourist station outside its walls. The East Wall tower loomed over them as they removed themselves from the stinking sardine can that had brought them to their destiny. The monumental tower blocked the setting sun and provided the knights with soothing shade. The stone wall prevented a view of the palace inside. Jaksen led the knights along the wall to the North Gate. The layout of the castle and palace was famous since most other city centers imitated it, as did almost all households of the high nobility.
The North Gate was a pair of triumphal towers, meant not to keep people out, but to impress them as they entered. The towers had on them, and inside them, painted sculptures that depicted the details of every major victory in the land’s history. New victories resulted in added levels at the top, so the artwork most visible to the knights was also the oldest. The towers stood as a monument to the continued prosperity of the land and, as parents would often explain to their children, how well the gods protected the land and the king. Even in historical memory, the capital had never been attacked. While the kingly line occasionally failed to produce an eldest son as heir, there had always been a clear successor. The gate brought all this to Tayron’s mind, along with a realization of the magnitude of what he was walking into. He and his fellow knights approached one of the most potent symbols in their lives, one that had been programmed into them since the days they were read bedtime stories.
As they entered through the symbol, the knights fought to tear their eyes from it to gaze at the palace. Great-tiered fountains lined the path, and the gardens behind were almost forestland. Soon after they entered, the path turned into a white arcing bridge under which a calm creek no wider than three strides flowed.
This greenery was mirrored and enhanced by the compound that centered it. Three buildings constructed completely from marble of varying colors were visible from the path. The building at the center, to which the path was leading, had a pleasant greenish tint that complemented the gardens without camouflaging the structure. This was the palace. To its left, a building of blue marble reflected the stream. To its right, a flat, diminutive structure was dressed in brown, associating it with the trunks of the trees.
At the front of the palace, a dozen statues stood solemnly, columns without a roof to support. Five times life size, they depicted the great heroes of ancient times. Some of the knights murmured comments to those nearby about the heroes they most recognized or admired.
“And that,” Bathis said after nudging Tayron to get his attention, “is your ancestor, who won you the name Tayron, your status as a noble, and your god Tayl. This is the first and last of your family that did not fall flat on his or her face - until you, perhaps.”
Bathis was pointing to the second statue on the left. Tayron was stunned, speechless, and awed. This response was very visible, and Bathis was pleased by Tayron’s hanging jaw.
“I’m not surprised you didn’t know,” Bathis continued. “We only have the stories of six of these heroes, and the first Tayron is not one of them. We only know it’s him because the name is carved at the statue’s base. Otherwise, the story of Tayron is lost, and you wouldn’t have known since there was nothing to tell.”
“Would’ve liked to know that my family had been honored, that we had a statue to us,” Tayron protested slowly, his eyes fixed on his ancestor. “Guess it’s been so long since we’ve been to the capitol . . . .” There seemed to be some family resemblance. Tayron was sure that, given the same armor and the longer hair of his ancestor, he would look exactly like the marble figure.
Bathis whispered as they passed the colonnade and approached the open entrance to the palace. “Are you going to be satisfied with a statue for your ancestor, or will you get some new glory for your family? There’s no point obsessing about past triumphs, especially when an ugly bastard like them did them. I mean, you know the guy did something really impressive, ‘cause his looks couldn’t have gotten him any popularity.”
Tayron ignored the lame insult. “I want to make my family more than . . .”
“Exactly. Statues don’t do anything more than look pretty. That’s why our family has kept quiet, when we’ve had plenty of potential. We don’t want statues,” Bathis said with coy amusement, “we just want to have fun.”
Tayron shook his head in disbelief and caught sight of Yunas for the first time since entering the palace grounds, and the youthful knight looked satisfied and bemused as they neared the entrance guards. Yunas wasted no time, explaining, “Bathis might not want monuments, but my family is made by them. We were the palace architects. That’s why the king gave us the protection of a popular god. He wanted more.”
Tayron did not have time to respond. Passing the guards unchallenged, they had proceeded into the first of the tourist atria. It contained the newest additions to the palace collection – the armor and portraits of the recent kings, gifts given to the current king as tribute from other nations. Among the most ostentatious gifts was a set of silverware inlaid with the hide shed by rare golden humlas – awkward burrowing forest dwelling creatures that lived only in the forests in the far north. As they continued toward the reception hall, they were greeted by such magnificent preservations as the skeleton of the first breka ever flown, the crown of the legendary first king, Ryniuz, and the sword and staff of the founder of the first school of magery, Da’main. Larger and more complete museums could be found within the capital city, but few collections could reveal a more intimate connection to the center of power.
“Wait here,” Jaksen ordered, leaving them in the last atrium. He rapped tree times on the closed doors ahead of them. They opened for him, and shut behind him.
While they waited, Karitan approached Tayron. “Looks like Bathis has taken an interest in you,” he growled shortly. “Just be on your guard. That vulgar shadow crawler cares only for his own amusement. He’s as likely as any to be recruited as a court assassin.”
“Still sore, Karitan?” Bathis mocked in a soothing, singsong voice. “I object to you calling me vulgar, but you’re quite right. I am solely interested in my own amusement. That doesn’t make me dangerous, though. Of course, if you’re offered a job as an assassin, you’d better take it, ‘cause otherwise the guy that does take it will kill you first so you won’t talk – sort of a test run,” Bathis’ voice suddenly turned serious. “The ones you have to watch for are the ones you can’t pin down. Those are to ones that’ll get you – the unknown.”
Tayron could not help asking, but Yunas beat him to it. “How do you know so much about the court and all, Bathis?”
Bathis regained some of his humor when he said softly “it’s always been a fascination of mine – court politics, I mean. For instance, once you, Tayron, and you, Yunas, told me who you were, I knew it would be interesting to keep an eye on the two of you.”
“Why?” Tayron said immediately, with intense irritation and a touch of apprehension.
“You two are unknown quantities – nobility that hasn’t been seen in court in centuries. You’re knights, so unlike Karitan and other commoners, you can easily climb the ladder and threaten the higher powers. I doubt I’m much mistaken when I think that courtiers will be aware of you, and will be eager to keep potential enemies close. For heaven’s sake! Suddenly the descendant of the man who designed the palace and the descendant of a man whose statue stands outside of it appear in court, and you don’t think people will notice? That’s why I told you to stay close to Jaksen. He’ll recognize your names immediately and . . .”
Bathis’ hurried whisper was interrupted by the return of the regal councilor, who himself spoke quietly to the knights as he poked out of the door. “You may enter, but please remain silent. The king is dealing with a very important case. This will give you a good chance to see court proceedings first-hand, but you must remain silent.”
Jaksen then motioned for them to follow him, and they passed through the doors that blocked mere tourists from gaining proximity to the king. The first chamber they entered was completely bare and unoccupied except by themselves and a few guards. Jaksen halted them again and whispered authoritatively “set down your luggage and any weapons you may be carrying here. Anyone entering the reception chamber with a weapon will be killed instantly. The doors of the chamber have charms placed on them daily by the king’s best mages, and they will obliterate you if a weapon is detected. No food or drink is allowed in the chamber. If you are seen eating you will have to spend three days in the dungeons without food.” He waited for them to get their baggage settled, then asked “everyone ready?”
There were no objections.
“All right, then. Follow.”
The guards at the next set of doors opened them at a hand gesture from Jaksen. The knights began surveying the decorous interior the second they caught sight of it. The abundance of gold was overwhelming. The element had been mostly absent so far, but every panel of the king’s chamber was adorned with it. The room glowed, not only from the universally coveted metal, but also with the carefully positioned mirrors and lighting. A combination of electric bulbs, flame torches, and candles was attentively employed.
The carpeting was so fluffy Tayron longed to take off his boots and sink his feet in it. The entire place exuded comfort. The knights were silently instructed to sit on the carpet in the back-left corner of the hall. While that was pleasant enough, many men and women in the room sat on randomly arrayed couches made from the skins of exotic creatures. Some skins Tayron recognized, but most were alien. The king and his councilors sat on elaborately cushioned thrones. The king’s was large enough to be slept on, and Tayron was certain that it had a reclining mechanism that set the back to the exact position the king preferred.
The king currently set it so that he seemed to be leaning more forward than back. He was staring with severe and disdainful eyes at the only man in the chamber who looked uncomfortable. All the other courtiers looked on with attentiveness, as did the knights.
The king was clearly waiting for Jaksen to take his place on the raised platform among the rest of the king’s inner circle. Jaksen hurried up the slope with a firm stride, and seated himself with a flourish. The king nodded to him and he bowed back, mumbling a few words of apology.
His majesty turned back to the man, once again piercing the figure with his unearthly gaze. Tayron remarked to himself how much the king looked like everybody’s image of the standard grandfather. The king was, indeed, quite old. The hairs on his head were white and few. This was immediately striking since the room was filled with heads adorned with hair of every shade of color, in every style. He also had a look that betrayed the fact that he was usually serene, and not prone to the anger he was displaying now. It only made his wrath more terrifying.
“Prest’l Draedon,” the king said in a croaking voice that projected remarkably, “we will now continue to examine the accusations of treason against you . . .”
Prest’l Draedon, looking completely ruffled, was held roughly by a guard. He was kept upright, prevented from falling to his knees in supplication. He might have been crying.
“But sire, I . . .” the panicking man started.
The king silenced him with a gesture. “We have heard the testimonies against you,” the monarch continued, and it was clear that he was speaking to update Jaksen. “They gave evidence that Rath’rainol’s breka riders have been using harnesses and equipment made by your company. The exact innovations for which we granted you a title of nobility, and the protection of one of the eleven gods of inventiveness, you have sold for mere money to our enemies. For what price, I ask?”
The king’s tone was even, measured, and harrowing.
“Sire,” the cowering man said, “the soldiers that you heard testimony from were mistaken. There were only three of them. If what they claim to have seen was accurate, then surely more of the king’s knights would have been aware of it.”
“Is that your whole defense?”
“No, indeed, sire,” Draedon said, with some surprise. He had not expected to be allowed to state his case. “But sire, before I do make my defense, I would dearly like to know . . . to know who has brought the accusation against me. I am new to the nobility, but as I understand it, only a peer can bring a noble to task. Surely, it is not on only the testimony of these three alone that you call on me to defend myself. They may be knights, but they are not of rank, so my word should be adequate for my defense.”
The aged king nodded solemnly. “A fair request. It is Lord Jaksen who brought the case forward, in the capacity of court liaison to the knights, and commander of the knights-in-court. The commander of the three knights brought the case to him, and he saw the merit in it. Now, continue with your defense.”
Draedon was now shaking. He had not expected the need to challenge the word of Jaksen. “I see,” he said weakly, thinking quickly. “Sire, I would first state in my defense the good service I have provided this court and land. My industries have worked tirelessly to produce superbly safe riding harnesses, safe even when riders perform aerobatic feats such as flying inverted. The wind shielding spells our mages developed are second to none. My new industrial model has allowed us to sell harnesses commercially, at a price affordable to the middle class, and more than satisfactory for the military budget. These achievements are what your majesty so generously acknowledged ten years ago when you granted my family nobility. Is not such devoted service for the good of the nation incompatible with the treason for which I have been accused?”
At this point, Jaksen chose to speak. “Yet we do not know whether your inventiveness came from a desire to do service or a desire to seek profit.”
“That was not a question ten years ago. Why should it be a question now?” Draedon burst out, genuinely offended.
“Why not a question ten years ago?” Jaksen said, leaning forward like the king, but with a bitterly amused smile on his face. “Do you believe that honors are given only to those who do honest service? No, Prest’l. The court notices when a man is gaining great profit and is favored by the gods. The king, in his infinite wisdom, gives titles of nobility in those cases not for service done, but to secure future service from one who is clearly able to provide it. Again displaying his omniscient wisdom, the king does not say – even to me – whether in a specific case he gives nobility to honor provided service, or to secure future service. So, tell me, what service have you done while a noble? Given ten years under a god of inventiveness, have you invented anything new for us?”
“But you, Lord Jaksen, do not know for which reason the king honored me,” Draedon said quickly, “and unless his eminent highness will now tell us . . .”
“I will not,” the king said simply, deeply interested in the exchange between his chief councilor and the accused.
“Then you have no basis to question my service, Lord Jaksen.”
“I do, Prest’l, I do. You see, if you were devoted to his majesty, you would not rest on the laurels of service rendered, but continue to devote yourself to your craft for the good of the nation. You use service in your own defense, yet you have performed none in the last ten years, even though your ability to do so has increased. This is a very poor defense.”
“My researchers have not found ways to improve the existing systems. I assure you, they work tirelessly.”
“Tirelessly, no doubt, since you’ve cut your research and development so that it’s only a quarter of what it was five years ago. Tirelessly, since to come up with anything at all, your researchers have to put in extra hours of work – to compensate for the drastic understaffing in their division. Tirelessly, since the man who was once the principal researcher – yourself, Prest’l – no longer participates.” Jaksen flashed a wickedly righteous smile. “You see, I looked into your business practices before making my decision to take up this case.”
“You say all this, but dismiss the fact that no other producer of breka equipment has improved one bit over my designs. I had cut costs in every division in order to decrease the prices that his majesty’s people would have to pay. Surely this is a service? An innovation? Better business practices?”
“Then why are your factories producing so many more harnesses than either the king or the people of this land are buying?”
Draedon visibly paled. “There was an error in an army requisition order. Of course, not wanting to impose on his majesty, I did not take issue. Only this week I drastically reduced production to compensate. It will still cost me some money, to the sum of about two million imperials. Not much of a burden for my industry to weather, I assure you. However, if his majesty would, not that I have brought it to this attention, see fit to reimburse my company, I would by grateful. I will make certain that all the money is put toward research.”
“A lie!” Jaksen boomed with a ferocity that echoed throughout the chamber. Draedon cringed, but replied defiantly, “it is no lie! The Lord Jaksen underestimates the trouble an extra zero on an order form can cause. It is especially troublesome since it is not verifiable. The army demands that we destroy all orders. As you would be well aware, Lord Jaksen, the army is paranoid that a petty worker could take those forms to the enemy. That’s your policy, Jaksen, not mine. It’s your paranoia. Don’t use your own orders to condemn me!”
“Your majesty” a new voice, to the king’s left and Tayron’s extreme right, addressed.
“You may speak, Lord Quenari,” the king drawled.
“Lord Jaksen seems obsessed with assassinating Draedon’s good character,” Quenari, a blue-haired nobleman in his prime said guardedly. He had a precise, high-pitched, staccato voice that was reminiscent of a particularly annoying parrot. “I feel personally insulted, as I sponsored Draedon’s ascent into the nobility. Any attack on his character is an attack on my judgment.”
“Your right to speak on this case is well established,” the patient king said formally, “please proceed.”
Quenari stepped down from his seat on the platform and slid dramatically to Draedon’s side, facing the king. “Your divine majesty, no real evidence has been presented against Draedon. The testimony of the three knights would be striking, had it been from three who had no knowledge of each other. But these three were in the same squadron. It was a squadron well-known to be composed of the children of Lord Jaksen’s most valuable clients.”
“Do you question the honor of the knights?” Jaksen said forcefully.
Quenari returned with his own bitter tone. “No, they only follow orders. I question the one who orders them. Lord Jaksen, can you explain your interest in this case? Is it only because you want to diminish the presence of my clients in court?”
“Enough!” the king snapped. “Sit down, Quenari!” Quenari did as instructed, but not by returning to his seat. He sat down on the carpet next to Draedon.
“The king of this land is not blind,” the troubled monarch began, “and it is his sight that gives him leave to judge others. This, then, is the judgment of the king of Ferth. Prest’l, given the name Draedon, shall not hold that name of nobility any longer.”
There was a murmur among the gathered nobility, which the king silenced with his favorite gesture. Both Jaksen and Quenari sat through the decree with stone-faced muteness. Draedon had broken into tears.
“No other penalty shall be given,” the king continued, “for Lord Quenari is correct in saying that information is insufficient. If more concrete evidence surfaces, this case will be reviewed. However, Lord Jaksen has well established that Prest’l has not shown that he would put the god Drael to any use. Until Prest’l reasserts his merit to this court by improving his goods, Drael waits for a new charge. If and when Prest’l chooses to continue his great service, the title of nobility shall be restored. Let me assure you Prest’l, that this court will look at you and your kin unfavorably if you do not prove your loyalty.”
“But, great king,” Quenari said standing up, picking up on an issue he could use, “surely it is not traditional for nobility to be given and taken on a whim? I have not heard of a peer that held title for only ten years. A family new to our ranks should be able to expect at least three generations of nobility. Is this a good precedent to set?”
“Would you rather that I order your client executed as a traitor, Quenari? So that he can keep a title of nobility?” the king asked, his face now wearing the grandfatherly amusement that a subject would have expected from him. Prest’l did not see the expression on the king’s face, so he took the comment seriously and sobbed louder. “Times are changing. The corporate leaders live for the moment, and, while the institution I represent had stood as long as memory, when I deal with them I must make accommodations. This is a precedent I am willing to set.
“I also happen to agree with Lord Jaksen that Prest’l could have made significant leaps in innovation. For instance, while his company has made family harnesses, there are no harnesses for mass transit, even though we have brekas that could easily carry two-dozen men. It would be nice to eliminate the need for those blasted trains, and our breka breeders will eventually be able to get brekas carrying four or five-dozen. That is what our best biologists tell me. Also, the wind shielding charms could be improved. Just three days ago, I rode on a breka with Prest’l’s best harness installed, and in level flight with moderate speed I felt a wind of strength enough to blow my crown off, not that I was wearing it, of course. With their high-speed maneuvers, our military riders must still be hampered by this. Improved charms are not only necessary, but possible. These are some suggestions of ways you may regain our favor, Prest’l.”
Prest’l regained some of his composure. “Thank you, my king. I apologize for my display. I have worked all my life for the honor I have just been stripped of. I assure you that I will obey your prescription. I have every intention of regaining what I have lost.”
“Very well. You are dismissed.”
Prest’l bowed, still shaky, and was escorted out by the guards.
“Next order of business, Jaksen, please,” the king said.
“Will the knights newly entering the court service present themselves,” Jaksen ordered.
Tayron and the rest of the knights stood and moved to the center of the chamber. The king quickly looked them over and said, “I hereby admit you into the court service. Jaksen, I’ll leave you to deal with the particulars.”
“Thank you, my king,” Jaksen said, rising form his seat and, with his default buoyancy, said to the knights “follow me, please.”
Thus ended Tayron’s introduction to court politics.