Ch#137
==================================================
Armed men lined the perimeter of the room, guarding the portals and stone. Their features were recognizable to him, yet the one face he expected to see was missing. That man remained at Woodpecker, his survival a matter of pure speculation.
Claude had once again swapped his personal protector. Perhaps the prince was making a point of never letting anyone get too comfortable in the role. It was a shrewd move; by withholding his confidence from everyone, he ensured he could never be betrayed by a confidant, while simultaneously forcing every social climber to beg for the opening.
The environment felt alien. Despite his long life, he had never stepped foot in this specific hall. His memories were tied more closely to the corridors of Pallesa Palace or the wilder reaches of Woodpecker.
Four individuals were gathered around the massive table. While three were familiar enough from passing encounters, years had slipped by since he last looked upon the Countess.
Claude studied the Count’s features in the silence. A fresh mark marred his cheek, suggesting recent trouble. Beside him, the Countess sat like a statue. She possessed the delicate beauty of a flower, yet she seemed drained of all vitality—less a blooming plant and more a brittle, preserved specimen kept for show.
Another figure stood against the wall, a mirror image of that same fading grace.
The resemblance was likely lost on no one in the room.
Despite the connection, the two women refused to acknowledge one another.
“I have served alongside the Count for a significant time, yet Grimaldi has remained a mystery to me until now,” Claude remarked, shattering the quiet.
“Since your life has been centered in Ionad, I didn’t presume to extend an invitation, Your Highness.”
“I find the atmosphere here quite agreeable,” Claude replied. “The chill is refreshing. It might make a fine location for a summer retreat.”
“In days past, the friction with Thuringen made this a dangerous place for a holiday. But we live in more peaceful times now, and the climate is indeed pleasant for rest. If it pleases Your Highness, I would be honored to construct a private residence here for your seasonal use.”
“The Count’s devotion is truly remarkable.”
“I am merely a humble admirer of your sovereign grace.”
They traded these empty pleasantries with practiced ease. In a setting like this, hollow words were the only currency available.
The cuisine mirrored the standard fare of Ionad. Though he had been warned that northern cooking was flavorless, the spread was surprisingly opulent. Beneath the surface of their polite dinner talk, hidden agendas swirled.
The Countess ate with a strange, quiet intensity. She consumed far more than was typical for a woman of her rank, her appetite defying the expectations of noble etiquette.
Claude turned his attention toward her, shifting the flow of the conversation. “And what of you, Countess?”
“Do you find this gathering to his liking?”
“I do, Your Highness,” she answered.
The timbre of her voice only strengthened the resemblance.
“I finally grasp why the Count has attended the capital’s festivities alone all these years,” Claude mused. “With a bride so exquisite, it is only natural he would want to keep her hidden from the world.”
The Count’s posture sharpened with irritation, but Claude remained indifferent. Though his words were flirtatious, his eyes remained cold and devoid of any real attraction.
“My health has been fragile, preventing me from engaging in social obligations,” she explained.
“I see.”
His curiosity extinguished, Claude looked back at the master of the house. The Count worked his knife through a portion of venison, casting a sidelong glance at his wife. Yvette Grimaldi offered no sign of having heard him. She continued her meal with a face as blank as a mask, appearing entirely hollow of feeling.
“Tell me, Count, do you have a strategy in place?”
The Count looked up.
“I am referring to the assistance for Thuringen. Word is the crown is seeking local levies rather than using the royal guard. You will be expected to provide a contingent.”
“We are bound to follow the King’s decrees.”
The room was thick with the knowledge that he had no intention of being helpful. The Count’s initial compliance was a mere formality. “However,” he added, proving the suspicion correct.
“As you are well aware, Your Highness, are there not legal grounds to decline a royal mandate?”
“A few exist, certainly. But surely you aren’t claiming a religious conflict or a broken vow of fealty?”
“Nothing of the sort. But I have a primary obligation to the safety of my own borders.”
“But we are not currently engaged in hostilities, are we?”
“On the surface, perhaps. But the reality is far more complex. Consider the tension between the Kingdom of Dalkatir and Thuringen. Our borders have always been a flashpoint, yet the Royal Family maintains a strange affinity for them. They are the only ones in the Central Continent pushing for this aid, despite the overwhelming disapproval.”
Claude let out a short laugh. He had been a vocal critic of the plan. His own circle—those betting on his eventual rise—had stood firmly against it, as had the northern and coastal lords who remembered their old blood feuds with Thuringen.
The King, however, had ignored them all.
“If we provide soldiers, other territories can simply sail to the front. But Grimaldi is perched on the cliffs; we have no harbor. We would have to march through Thuringen’s heartland or cross through Belipeera to reach the sea. We would be marching through lands we fought for centuries. They won’t see us as allies. It places us in a precarious position and leaves Grimaldi vulnerable. They might strike our flank as we leave or invade the moment our gates are poorly manned.”
“If the Thuringen monarch grants permission, your passage should be guaranteed, shouldn’t it?”
“The King of Thuringen is seeking help precisely because he has lost control. Do you honestly believe the southern lords of that realm will respect his signatures?”
The Count offered a thin smile and took a sip of his wine.
“If he had that much authority, he would have quelled his own rebellion by now.”
The lords of the borderlands were often better informed than the city-bound elite. Thuringen was a fractured state. While the capital in the East rubbed shoulders with giants like Tuberosa and Belipeera, the West was a neglected wasteland. The western nobility, tired of being treated as second-class citizens, had no desire to support the crown.
“Those distant lords are busy fortifying their own castles, not helping their King. They are hoarding men and supplies for the coming storm. If I send my men away now, who will stand guard over my people?”
It was a bulletproof argument. Whether it was the truth or a convenient lie, it was undeniably logical.
“Because I must prioritize the defense of my lands, I cannot fulfill the King’s request. I trust you understand my predicament.”
“You make a compelling case,” Claude admitted.
“Then again, a man in your position would find a reason regardless. I expect many nobles are currently drafting their own excuses. But Grimaldi’s justification carries weight.”
“Count Montac is likely facing the same choice. His borders with Ritzport have seen plenty of blood at sea.”
“There is no active war there, though. Ritzport seems preoccupied with its own internal strife.”
“He will blame the pirates. The trade routes from Ritzport to the Western Continent are thick with them, and they harass his waters constantly.”
“So, every man of influence is stepping back.”
“We should never have been involved. Thuringen’s mess is theirs to clean up.”
Claude privately concurred, though the King’s stubbornness was a fixed variable. He secretly relished the idea of the King’s loyalists bleeding out in a futile war. If his father’s supporters were weakened, Claude’s path to the throne became easier. He would continue to publicly oppose the King while subtly highlighting the old man’s failing instincts.
“What of Woodpecker? Your family is expected to contribute as well, are you not?”
“We intend to cite the same defensive obligations,” Yuls replied. “However, I am considering funding a band of mercenaries to go in our stead.”
“Soldiers of fortune are notoriously unreliable.”
“The royal commanders will be the ones leading them. We simply provide the coin.”
It was clear Yuls had no heart for the Thuringen cause either. Claude didn’t mind; he preferred his allies keeping their strength at home.
“I will ensure you both have my full backing in this.”
The King’s blunders were Claude’s stepping stones. Every mistake made by the crown only served to elevate the prince’s standing.
“You’ll need to provide some gold, Count. A legal excuse won’t soothe the court entirely. You must show some token of cooperation.”
“I have already seen to it. The King will find the offering sufficient.”
Whatever the Count had planned would be revealed in due time. The fleets would have to sail before the winter ice locked the ports.
“Enough of statecraft. The subject is tedious,” Claude said, turning his gaze toward Yuls.
“Did you manage to settle the business of your scorched woodlands before traveling north?”
“Is this really the appropriate time for that question?”
“Why not? It seems as good a time as any.”
Claude grinned over his glass. He enjoyed keeping his companions off-balance, constantly probing for weaknesses. Yuls was clearly irritated, but he wasn’t the only one.
“I actually caught wind of those reports,” the Count interjected.
“They say the knight you exiled has been located.”