Firgen roamed the cool interior of the palace with Ebýr, trying to project an air of purpose. Áberd buoyed along at a discrete distance.

“The Húskarlar have increased patrols as ordered and the armoury has begun restocking,” said Ebýr.

“I doubt it will be enough,” said Firgen. “The Húskarlar can’t be everywhere at once.” He ran his fingers along the coarse stone walls.

“I know, Sire, but at least we’re doing something,” said Ebýr.

“Yet we remain vulnerable to every internal and external threat there is. Who’d have thought so many people wanted to be King?”

“Sire.”

“We can’t leave things as they are,” said Firgen. “Gather the Tégemýðe Militia and put them through their paces. Use some of our new gear for citizen patrols. Include at least two Húskarlar in each patrol. I don’t want people running off with shiny equipment because they have this grand idea they can be Rícewelig’s monarch.”

Firgen’s fingers burned from the constant friction. He stopped tracing the wall and dusted his hands on his squirrel fur doublet. The fur was incredibly soft. Much nicer than the wall.

Firgen clasped his hands behind his back, “Send missives to each of the ruling nobles in: Næss, Winterdún, Mánfeld, Wilddéorcynn, Denstów, Mærehwítmór, Béolæs, and Eoforhwætland.”

“So, every county?” said Ebýr.

“There’s no point owning them if I can’t show off and name them once in a while.” Firgen cleared his throat, “I want every city, town, and village to increase their standing levy by a quarter, but keep the new equipment in Tégemýðe. I’ve no desire to arm people who aren’t directly under my eye. You’d best send an ambassador or two to Dúnlic and Burnehálig too.” Firgen’s mouth began to dry out. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d given so many instructions in one go.

“Wouldn’t informing our neighbours of our military build up appear aggressive, or seem like we’re making excuses and are weak?” said Ebýr.

“There’s no point pretending Dúnlic and Burnehálig won’t find out. Even Werodmúða might take an interest. They’ll read what they want from our messages, regardless of what we actually say. We should attempt honesty, even if it may go to waste.”

Firgen removed his ‘every-day’ crown, a thin gold circlet set with a single, huge ruby. He spun it on the end of his finger, “Still, I see your point. Take the more promising militia to visit the borders for exercises and encourage them to sign on with the Húskarlar when you return, no point letting all their extra training go to waste.”

“We’re spending an awful lot of money on caution.”

“I can’t take it with me.” Firgen stopped and gazed out of a window, “If it makes you uncomfortable, think of it as an economic growth program.” Firgen stopped spinning his crown and pressed his head against the small, chilly panes of glass, “This has become more trouble than it’s worth. I thought survival of the fittest would be a good idea. Perhaps I should appoint someone.” Firgen waved his crown at Ebýr, “Will you carry this?”

Ebýr smiled, “I’m not falling for that, Sire.”

“I’ll get you next time.”

“Don’t despair, Sire. There was no way of predicting the current outcome and you still need an heir. Appointing someone could have triggered a civil war. Your competition may still result in the tidiest solution.”

“Not that we’ll ever know.” Firgen turned around, “Any bright ideas on how to save the kingdom, Áberd?”

Áberd approached,“How about a royal ball, Sire?”

He’s like a Burnehálig automaton: a decorative, mechanical doll instilled with enough motions to be creepy, but of little use. “Whatever for?”

“To mourn the deaths of the nobles who’ve lost their sons and daughters.”

“You wish me to celebrate other people’s incompetence?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that, Sire,” said Áberd.

“Then what’s the point?”

“A royal ball is a chance to show understanding, Sire. However, I humbly suggest you keep your understanding to yourself. If the nobility are too busy trying to eclipse each other in costumes and donations, they won’t notice all the trouble.”

Áberd is being rather free with his opinion today. I’ll have to think of something to keep him occupied before he ‘tragically passes away’ from expressing too many ideas.

“Donations?” said Firgen.

“Make it a charity ball, Sire. Allow the nobles to donate money to the increase in security of the kingdom, so their children’s martial escapades for the throne are kept as safe as possible. You could even discover a few nobles who’ve broken the rules, been excessively savage, or lost all their family, then recover their assets and give them away as a thank you to the most ‘generous’ nobles, or even merchants and tradesmen.”

“I feel I should be shocked by your dishonesty Áberd, but it comes as no surprise. I can always trust you to turn a party into a plot.”

“I endeavour to please, Sire.”

“Of course you do, it’s your job. I like the idea. We’ll invite a few diplomats too, much easier to make them come to us instead. Perhaps they’ll bring gifts, I could do with a new soup tureen.” Firgen passed the crown to Áberd, “Hold this a moment.”

Áberd’s singular composure slipped, but he took the crown and whisked it out of sight. Firgen never saw where it went.

Firgen chuckled – I can’t remember the last time I ruffled him. He laced his fingers and stretched his arms outwards; Firgen’s shoulders popped. “You can take my crown back to my quarters, Áberd. Blasted thing is too heavy.” Firgen resumed his walk along the corridor.

Áberd bowed and departed.

Firgen yelled down the corridor at Aberd’s retreating back, “As it’s your idea, Áberd, I’ll let you organise it. Schedule the royal ball for harvest, the food will be cheaper.”

By the time Firgen reached the end of the corridor, he’d convinced himself Áberd had jumped.