A World Without Heroes
Page 60
Jason advanced along the carpet to where it stopped at a raised, circular piece of marble directly before the throne. Jason stood upon the pedestal. Bartley had informed him it was called the Petitioner’s Wheel. It gave an individual on the floor of the throne room the right to address the regent. Only those upon the dais shared the right to address Dolan directly. Currently two men stood upon the dais beside the regent, one dressed as a soldier, the other wearing long blue robes and an oversized tricornered hat, with a silver mantle wrapped about his narrow shoulders.
Standing upon the Petitioner’s Wheel, Jason looked up silently at the regent. Bartley had cautioned him to wait for Dolan to speak first.
“Greetings, young man,” Dolan said. “You claim the title of Caberton?”
“I do, sire.” According to Bartley, “sire” and “Your Highness” were the forms of address etiquette demanded for the occasion. “Your Majesty” was reserved for the king.
“Hold forth your right hand.”
Jason complied.
“Sound the tone.”
A hollow metal tube, like a giant chime, hung from a chain off to one side of the throne. The man dressed like a soldier struck the long tube with a hammer, producing a deep, penetrating tone. Jason could feel his teeth vibrating. The ring on his finger began to glow, as did one of the regent’s rings. Glancing around the room, Jason observed many other rings glowing, including a ring upon Bartley’s hand.
The tone dwindled, and the light faded from the rings.
“Who bequeathed this title to you?” the regent asked.
“My father, who received the title from Galloran.”
Courtiers leaned together, whispering soundlessly.
“While he lived,” the regent said, “Galloran bestowed many titles. Though he was never king himself, with his enfeebled father, the honored King Dromidus, trapped in a cataleptic stupor, it became his right to manage the affairs of the kingdom. Yet I do not recall him bequeathing the title of Caberton, once that line failed.”
“It happened twelve years ago. Galloran granted the title to my father in prison, who passed it to me.”
The regent nodded. “Twelve years ago Galloran adventured abroad. Since he never returned, he could well have granted a title in the field without many knowing it. You do in fact wear the signet ring of Caberton, which Galloran had in his possession. Who was your father?”
“I do not wish to mention him,” Jason said. “He was in prison, an enemy to the emperor, and I have chosen to distance myself from him.”
“Even though he passed the title to you?” the man in the tricornered hat spoke up.
“He passed me the title to a heap of stones for three sacks of flour,” Jason said, using a story Bartley had helped him prepare. “He was not man enough to make something of the opportunity. I will be. I intend to found a new line and to serve Trensicourt well.”
“Will any man vouch for young Jason?” the regent asked.
Bartley raised a hand. Two others, both of whom Jason recognized from playing Bones and Knuckles, also raised their hands.
“Very well,” the regent said. “Jason, do you solemnly swear fealty to the Crown of Trensicourt and to all agents of the Crown?”
“I do.”
“In times of war and peace, through hours of need and years of prosperity, will you defend Trensicourt in word, thought, and deed for as long as you live?”
“I will.”
“Your title is recognized, Lord Jason of Caberton. As of this moment you are free to stand in court when visiting Trensicourt. I fear your holdings are in considerable disrepair . . .”
At this point a titter ran through the assemblage.
“. . . but the few artifacts in my treasury pertaining to Caberton shall be restored to you. And land is land. Make it blossom. Have you any other inquiry?”
Something small pelted Jason in the back of his head. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a pretty young woman in an attractive dress trying to mouth something at him. It was Rachel, her short hair hidden under a fancy, flat-topped hat. Stunned to see her, he tried to read her lips. Now, she kept repeating silently, interspersed with a few other less decipherable words. Her imploring eyes glanced assertively at the dais.
“Has something else captured your attention?” the regent asked politely.
The crowd snickered.
Jason faced forward. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. I have one other request. I would like to challenge Chancellor Copernum for the chancellorship.”
The room exploded with reactions, a clamor of gasps and exclamations. The regent looked thunderstruck. Betraying no surprise, the thin man in the tricornered hat measured Jason with calculating eyes.
“Come to order,” the soldier on the dais proclaimed. “We will have order, or I shall clear the chamber.”
Jason felt dizzy. He hoped he had understood Rachel correctly. How had she gotten here?
The regent spoke as the courtiers quieted.
“Such is your right, as a lord of the realm. When do you propose to hold this contest?”
“As soon as possible,” Jason said.
The regent turned to the brooding man in the tricornered hat. “What say you, Chancellor? Have you any objection to pursuing this challenge in summary fashion?”
Copernum narrowed his eyes. “I have no objection to annexing further holdings, however meager, to my own.”
The regent nodded. “Very well. After a twenty-minute recess Lord Jason of Caberton shall compete with Chancellor Copernum for the chancellorship. You may step down, Lord Jason.”
Jason stepped off the wheel. He watched Copernum, who had turned and was retreating through a door at one side of the dais. The slightly stooped man had a weak chin and a long, narrow nose, giving him an aerodynamic profile.
“Well,” Bartley growled, slapping Jason on the back as he came up from behind. “Turns out I cannot read you as well as our card games have led me to suppose. You are full of surprises! Whether you win or not, you have earned a place in history for sheer audacity!” He shook his head. “Challenging for the chancellorship seconds after the regent recognizes your title—an unprecedented move.”
“You have your questions ready?” asked another man. It was the fellow with the fancy coat from the Bones game. He had been one of the men who vouched for Jason along with Bartley.
“I think so,” Jason said. “Unless you have any brilliant questions to share.”
“No offense,” Bartley grumbled, “but we are going to keep our distance. No man in Trensicourt can afford to make an enemy of Copernum.”
Standing upon the Petitioner’s Wheel, Jason looked up silently at the regent. Bartley had cautioned him to wait for Dolan to speak first.
“Greetings, young man,” Dolan said. “You claim the title of Caberton?”
“I do, sire.” According to Bartley, “sire” and “Your Highness” were the forms of address etiquette demanded for the occasion. “Your Majesty” was reserved for the king.
“Hold forth your right hand.”
Jason complied.
“Sound the tone.”
A hollow metal tube, like a giant chime, hung from a chain off to one side of the throne. The man dressed like a soldier struck the long tube with a hammer, producing a deep, penetrating tone. Jason could feel his teeth vibrating. The ring on his finger began to glow, as did one of the regent’s rings. Glancing around the room, Jason observed many other rings glowing, including a ring upon Bartley’s hand.
The tone dwindled, and the light faded from the rings.
“Who bequeathed this title to you?” the regent asked.
“My father, who received the title from Galloran.”
Courtiers leaned together, whispering soundlessly.
“While he lived,” the regent said, “Galloran bestowed many titles. Though he was never king himself, with his enfeebled father, the honored King Dromidus, trapped in a cataleptic stupor, it became his right to manage the affairs of the kingdom. Yet I do not recall him bequeathing the title of Caberton, once that line failed.”
“It happened twelve years ago. Galloran granted the title to my father in prison, who passed it to me.”
The regent nodded. “Twelve years ago Galloran adventured abroad. Since he never returned, he could well have granted a title in the field without many knowing it. You do in fact wear the signet ring of Caberton, which Galloran had in his possession. Who was your father?”
“I do not wish to mention him,” Jason said. “He was in prison, an enemy to the emperor, and I have chosen to distance myself from him.”
“Even though he passed the title to you?” the man in the tricornered hat spoke up.
“He passed me the title to a heap of stones for three sacks of flour,” Jason said, using a story Bartley had helped him prepare. “He was not man enough to make something of the opportunity. I will be. I intend to found a new line and to serve Trensicourt well.”
“Will any man vouch for young Jason?” the regent asked.
Bartley raised a hand. Two others, both of whom Jason recognized from playing Bones and Knuckles, also raised their hands.
“Very well,” the regent said. “Jason, do you solemnly swear fealty to the Crown of Trensicourt and to all agents of the Crown?”
“I do.”
“In times of war and peace, through hours of need and years of prosperity, will you defend Trensicourt in word, thought, and deed for as long as you live?”
“I will.”
“Your title is recognized, Lord Jason of Caberton. As of this moment you are free to stand in court when visiting Trensicourt. I fear your holdings are in considerable disrepair . . .”
At this point a titter ran through the assemblage.
“. . . but the few artifacts in my treasury pertaining to Caberton shall be restored to you. And land is land. Make it blossom. Have you any other inquiry?”
Something small pelted Jason in the back of his head. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a pretty young woman in an attractive dress trying to mouth something at him. It was Rachel, her short hair hidden under a fancy, flat-topped hat. Stunned to see her, he tried to read her lips. Now, she kept repeating silently, interspersed with a few other less decipherable words. Her imploring eyes glanced assertively at the dais.
“Has something else captured your attention?” the regent asked politely.
The crowd snickered.
Jason faced forward. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. I have one other request. I would like to challenge Chancellor Copernum for the chancellorship.”
The room exploded with reactions, a clamor of gasps and exclamations. The regent looked thunderstruck. Betraying no surprise, the thin man in the tricornered hat measured Jason with calculating eyes.
“Come to order,” the soldier on the dais proclaimed. “We will have order, or I shall clear the chamber.”
Jason felt dizzy. He hoped he had understood Rachel correctly. How had she gotten here?
The regent spoke as the courtiers quieted.
“Such is your right, as a lord of the realm. When do you propose to hold this contest?”
“As soon as possible,” Jason said.
The regent turned to the brooding man in the tricornered hat. “What say you, Chancellor? Have you any objection to pursuing this challenge in summary fashion?”
Copernum narrowed his eyes. “I have no objection to annexing further holdings, however meager, to my own.”
The regent nodded. “Very well. After a twenty-minute recess Lord Jason of Caberton shall compete with Chancellor Copernum for the chancellorship. You may step down, Lord Jason.”
Jason stepped off the wheel. He watched Copernum, who had turned and was retreating through a door at one side of the dais. The slightly stooped man had a weak chin and a long, narrow nose, giving him an aerodynamic profile.
“Well,” Bartley growled, slapping Jason on the back as he came up from behind. “Turns out I cannot read you as well as our card games have led me to suppose. You are full of surprises! Whether you win or not, you have earned a place in history for sheer audacity!” He shook his head. “Challenging for the chancellorship seconds after the regent recognizes your title—an unprecedented move.”
“You have your questions ready?” asked another man. It was the fellow with the fancy coat from the Bones game. He had been one of the men who vouched for Jason along with Bartley.
“I think so,” Jason said. “Unless you have any brilliant questions to share.”
“No offense,” Bartley grumbled, “but we are going to keep our distance. No man in Trensicourt can afford to make an enemy of Copernum.”
