Orb ,Sceptre ,Throne

Studlock’s shoulders fell. ‘That is regrettable. Who will I test it on?’

Torvald frowned. ‘So, now what? What do I do?’

‘You should register your appointment with the clerk of the Council, I imagine.’

‘Ah. Thank you. How very … practical.’

The castellan bowed. ‘My only wish is to serve.’

Torvald had never been to Majesty Hill; indeed, had never dreamed he’d have cause. The Wardens at the lowest gate stopped him to inspect his paperwork. Before him rose the stairs that switched back and forth up the flank of the hill, lined all the way by monuments, family shrines, plaques commemorating victories — real and invented — and other grandiose pronouncements meant to impress the reader with the virtue and generosity of their sponsors. All no more than base self-aggrandizement, Torvald reflected, once you boiled it all down.

He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on the worn heels of his old boots. Perhaps such an attitude was precisely what was not welcome on yon prestigious hilltop.

A clerk bowed as he handed back the scrolled paperwork. ‘Welcome, sir. My apologies for the delay. We do not see many councillors here at the gate.’

‘No? You do not? Just what do you see, then?’

‘Petitioners mostly. Appellants and other claimants summoned, or hoping, to address the assembly. And minor functionaries, of course.’

‘Ah. I see.’ Torvald wondered, vaguely, whether he’d just been insulted in some very sophisticated indirect fashion. Considering where he was headed, he decided that he’d better get used to it. ‘So, just where do the Council members enter?’

The man bowed — unctuously, it seemed to Torvald. ‘These days most take the carriageway from the south.’

‘Ah, well. Perhaps many would benefit from coming in this way occasionally, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, beyond a doubt, sir,’ the man agreed smoothly, his face straight.

Good at his job, this one, Torvald reflected. This gate must be where most of the squeezing of petitioners takes place. A coveted post. He bowed a farewell. ‘I’d best be going then.’

‘A sound decision, sir.’

Torvald walked away, wincing. Damn, drubbed by a bureaucrat. It’s going to be a long day.

Eventually, after rather a boring walk up an unnecessarily long set of stairs, he entered what appeared to be a main reception hall lined by many doors. It was … deserted. Is the place closed? Yet someone was here: noise reached him, a muted roaring as of many voices shouting. But where was it coming from?

A door slammed and a robed clerk appeared, sheaf of papers in hand, reading as he scuttled quickly across the hall.

Torvald cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me — could you tell me …’

The man disappeared into another side door. Torvald lowered his arm. A gods-damned rabbit warren. He poked his head into that door to see another hall, also lined by doors, albeit far less ornate. It occurred to him that a rather large old friend of his would know exactly what to do to a place like this. The sound of another door opening pulled him away. Another functionary was walking the hall. He planted himself before her.

The plump woman nearly ran into him before halting to blink up confusedly. ‘Yes?’

He wordlessly offered his paperwork. She examined it, then bowed. ‘Welcome, House Nom. I shall see to it that these are registered with the proper offices. You are no doubt come for the assembling of the emergency steering committee.’

It was now his turn to blink his confusion. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘This way. If you would, sir.’

Torvald followed the woman down the long hall, round a series of turns, to a tall set of double doors. Two city Wardens barred the entrance. From behind the doors came a riotous roaring such as Torvald imagined must prevail before the gates to Hood’s old realm.

The guards’ hands went to their shortswords. ‘This is a closed emergency session,’ pronounced one in what sounded like a carefully rehearsed line.

The woman bowed her agreement. ‘And Councillor Nom is here to participate.’

The guard’s brow furrowed. He licked his lips while he appeared to be frantically digging through options. The brows unfurled and he smiled, reciting, ‘Chambers are closed.’

‘Open those doors!’ a bull-roar echoed from behind Torvald, who spun.

A great bhederin of a fellow was hurrying up, unshaven, finery askew, a hand to his forehead, grimacing in pain. The clerk bowed. ‘Councillor Coll.’

Torvald stared despite himself. Great gods, the Councillor Coll? The man was a legend in the city.

The councillor cocked a bloodshot eye at Torvald. The clerk murmured, ‘Councillor Coll, may I introduce Councillor Nom, newly invested.’

The bleary, watering eyes widened. ‘Indeed … may I ask after the mesmerizing Lady Varada, whom I have seen only from a distance, across the assembly?’

The stale bite of cheap Daru spirits wafted from the man and Torvald struggled not to change his expression. ‘Ah … her health precludes her participation … I am come in her stead.’

‘My regrets to your family, Nom. And may she soon recover.’

Torvald frantically cast about for something equally well-mannered and sophisticated. ‘Ah, our thanks.’ Wonderful! Off to a dazzling start, you are.

But Councillor Coll’s attention had shifted to the closed doors and the guards. ‘You’re still here?’ he demanded.

‘Of course you may enter, Councillor. But this other …’

Coll snatched up the sheaf of papers held by the clerk: Torvald’s documents. He waved the flapping pages, complete with wax seals and coloured ribbons, before the faces of the guards. ‘You see these certificates? This man is as qualified to sit as I!’

The guards eyed the sheaf, all in the tiniest spidery penmanship, the way those manning a wooden palisade might dread the approach of a siege onager. Resistance collapsed and they stood aside.

The clerk pushed open the twin leaves. And as they passed within, it occurred to Torvald that an impenetrable bureaucracy was in truth more powerful than any sword.

They stood high in a semicircular amphitheatre of seats. The view reminded Torvald of a depiction of one corner of Hood’s realm: an immense prison for kings and despots, all arguing over who was in charge, when in truth none of the dead outside cared what went on within its tall walls.

The floor of the amphitheatre was crowded with the cream of the city aristocracy. All were standing talking at once, many red-faced, some waving their exasperation. Occasionally thrown papers fluttered over the crowd, or some particularly loud yell penetrated the din, but mostly it was an unintelligible gabbling of voices.

‘Welcome to Council,’ the clerk said, shouting to be heard though she stood right next to him.

‘How very inspiring,’ he answered, to himself of course, as none could have possibly heard, or cared to hear, for that matter.

The woman backed out, pulled the doors closed. Councillor Coll took his arm and hurried him down the stairs. ‘My thanks,’ Torvald offered.

‘You can thank me by swearing to give me your first vote.’

Such a vow struck Torvald as extremely dangerous, but he also knew that honour would dictate that he had no choice. Best to pretend that such was the case, then.

A loud, exceptionally sharp knocking sounded which Torvald identified as coming from a slim man standing on the raised speaker’s platform, banging a stone on the lectern.

‘Order!’ he bellowed in a surprisingly commanding voice. ‘Order!’

The clamour slowly diminished and the councillors stood silent, leaving only a single old fellow waving his arms and shouting, ‘I tell you, everything would go so smoothly if only everyone would just do as I say!’

‘Hear, hear!’ someone shouted in answer and they all burst into applause.

The old fellow peered about myopically then hurriedly turned away, red-faced.