Chapter 1250: High Riders (1)
Chapter 1250: High Riders (1)
Ratto dropped to his knees the very instant the heavy oak door groaned open.
How long had he waited for this moment? Ever since the fateful day his king had taken him aside in the shadows and revealed the scope of his aspirations, Ratto had been rehearsing this meeting in his mind.
He had something to ask of him.
"I greet His Majesty," Ratto said, his voice tight with a reverence that bordered on piety.
The King of Yarzat looked just as regal as Ratto had left him, though the violence of the world had just left a fresh signature. A really nice souvenir from the mud and madness of the Ford.
Nearly a month and a half had bled away since that terrible day. The ravenous war-lust that had nurtured the Yarzat legions through the campaign was finally beginning to recede, cooling alongside the bitter winter frost as the vast host began the slow process of breaking down.
The Kakunians had already struck their grand banners, marching northbound back toward their own rugged borders. Before they departed, the King of Yarzat had launched a farewell feast. They had toasted until the casks ran dry, thanking Merelao’s northern host for their timely steel. There, before the gathered nobility, Alpheo had formally announced a grand alliance, swearing a holy oath that they would bring the Prince of Kakunia down so that Wrong could finally be set to Right.
Which, in the brutal lexicon of princes, simply meant killing him and letting Merelao seize his uncle’s seat.
Of course, Kakunia was a complete clusterfuck at the moment. It was a labyrinth of blood-feuds, and trying to understand where the actual lines of that civil conflict were drawn was enough to give a logician a headache.
To complicate the factions at play, several sons of for now loyalist northern lords were currently in tow with Merelao, turning the rebellion into a tangled web of All knower knows what.
Yarzat would likely have to lead a minor expeditionary force to support the Mad Bull soon, which meant the council was already agonizing over the maps. Would they take the familiar Herculian route, or would they perhaps risk a daring strike to the eastern flank to completely sever the lines of communication between Habadia and Kakunia?
Whatever the case, that would be the next war. For now, the realm enjoyed a fragile truce, a brief window to nurture the bloody fruits of their hard labor.
"At this point, we have known each other far longer than we have not." Alpheo said, his voice carrying the warm, smooth cadence of the crownlands. "I have seen you with your hands deep in my men pouched with dirt on your face and your hair. You can rise."
As he spoke, he tossed the heavy parchment he was holding down onto the cluttered desk. Ratto, carefully keeping his posture straight as he rose from the cold stone, couldn’t stop his eyes from darting toward the ink-stained pages.
Alpheo noticed the lingering look and let out a dry chuckle. "A report about our settling efforts in the lower districts. Since you’re so curious."
Ratto felt a sudden, hot flush of crimson creeping up his cheeks. "I—"
"No need to stammer," Alpheo waved a dismissive hand, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Only a fool holds a document he doesn’t want noticed. I’ve spent the last month diving headfirst into this mountain of administrative shit we inherited from Sorza." He reached for a silver chalice, bringing the cool water to his lips. "Tell me, Ratto... do you want to know the absolute best thing about bureaucracy?"
Ratto simply stared, his large eyes blinking in silence.
"Take a thousand wriggling, insignificant worms," Alpheo murmured, leaning back in his high-backed chair, "and in time, they will eat even a grand elephant whole. It’s a nice change of pace to sit back, sign a few seals, and let the petty clerks do my killing for me.Truly bureaucracy is but my biggest invention.I’d be with grey hairs in my thirty were not for them.
Remember this rule, lad: always bureaucratize the government, but never, ever touch logistics with it. Now, that is a box that is better left permanently nailed shut."
The King winked at the young man, a flash of the old, approachable prince shining through his royal veneer. "Logistics by committee will bring a ruler more pain than a spear to the ribs. It is perfectly fine to pass papers around when you are dealing with numbers, aid-requests, and dry political reports.Those can wait. But when you are dealing with grain that rots and beef that goes green in the wagon? Sometimes, a little bit of healthy corruption is vastly preferable to a snail’s pace and a pristine ledger."
It always profoundly surprised Ratto just how easily, how casually, Alpheo could speak of such vices. Ratto was lowborn by blood as much as he could get, but during his time serving the then-Prince as a squire, and later riding under Egil in the infamous Crown’s Hounds, he had developed a keen understanding of how the aristocracy operated.
To the old noble houses, the main objective of rule was always the absolute projection of overwhelming strength and unassailable respect. They masked their flaws behind a theater of opulence, dressing to the absolute apple, riding in heavily gilded carriages, and draping their frames in heavy silks fringed with gold and silver.
Alpheo, however, was the complete antithesis of that ancient theater. He never tried hard. He always seemed utterly approachable in every endeavor, discussing systemic corruption as if it were a plate of honeyed cakes, laughing and smiling all the while. It had been an unsettling shock to many observers just how quickly and smoothly the conquered Oizenian aristocracy had taken to their new master. Chief among those turncoats was Lord Cregan, who now had openly conversed with the very man who had torched his ancestral fields to ash as if they were old childhood friends.
Yet, none of them were stupid enough to mistake the King’s easy smile for weakness. No one in the South was foolish enough to think they could take advantage of the Fox.
Ratto swallowed the lump in his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The King’s casual words about tainted ledgers rubbed against his military conditioning. "Your Majesty... if I may be so bold to ask... is there truly corruption within the host?"
Alpheo froze for a fraction of a second, the chalice halfway to the table. Then, he threw his head back and let out a chuckle that echoed off the vaulted ceiling of the chamber.
"Oh, my dear ," Alpheo gasped "Is there corruption in the army? Let me put it in terms a soldier can grasp: corruption is exactly like shitting after a heavy feast. It is entirely disgusting, utterly foul, and absolutely inevitable."
The King leaned forward, his face twisting into an amused, cynical grin. "A man eats meat, his body processes it, and the waste must find its way out. A state moves coin, soldiers move grain, and a few coppers will always stick to the fingers that carry the sacks. It is a law of nature. You cannot stop a man from taking a shit, Ratto, no matter how grand your laws are. The very best you can do as a king is build a proper latrine to limit the stench and keep the rot from infecting the entire camp.
You watch the wagons. You ensure the sergeants take only their fill of the broth, but never the meat itself. When you face someone who takes the meat, you break them. You use them as a bloody example for the rest. Corruption always follows sovereigns; if a king is thought weak, he will see the rot rise until it swallows his throne. And just as it goes for most things in this world, a terrifying reputation can carry you a league ahead of any law."
He tapped the edge of his chalice against the desk, the ring of silver on oak sharp in the quiet room. "Still, with a bit of clever tweaking here and there, you can limit the damage to what you can stomach. You see, the trick with the regional bailiffs for example is to—" Alpheo paused, catching the subtle, glassy glaze in Ratto’s eyes.
"Oh. I am boring you," the King said flatly.
Ratto’s heart skipped a beat, and he nearly dropped back to his knees. "No, Your Majesty! You never....I was merely digesting the wisdom—"
"That’s all right, really," Alpheo interrupted, waving off the frantic apology with a soft laugh. He looked amused rather than insulted. "I get myself entirely too excited and lost in things other men find drier than desert dust. Just as I can take a quiet walk in my garden for hours, Edric cannot stay put in a chair with a ledger for ten minutes without looking for a throat to cut.
Eh. You’d think it was Egil that brought him up instead of Jarza."
Ratto bowed his head in a silent, relieved apology, his shoulders dropping an inch.
"I did call you here for a specific reason, though," Alpheo continued, pushing the mountain of paperwork to the side. "As pleased as I always am to see you, there hasn’t been much free time for poor king over here. "
Ratto’s eyebrows shot up. "I am certain, there are many lords in the hall outside who would be more than willing to take a part of your heavy workload from your hands."
"No doubt, no doubt," Alpheo said, a smirk playing on his lips as he waved his hand dismissively through the air. "They would take the work, then they would take the coin, and then they would take the crown. No, I prefer my headaches to be entirely my own."
The King leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he locked his gaze onto the young man. A demented little smile spread across his scarred face. "Now, I called you up here for a truly sweet surprise, Ratto. Tell me, what is it that always comes after death brushes close to you on the battlefield?Of course except a missing ear" He shot his highbrows up and made his ears wiggle.
Ratto blinked, his mind flashing back to the blood, the mud,the screaming beasts and bodies piling up like sack of grain after the harvest, and of course, the terrifying wall of iron at the Ford.
"Your Grace?"
"But of course!" Alpheo laughed, "Rewards!"