Rogan usually kept himself to himself. His was a grim business, gathering information on the enemies of the Free States and acting upon it accordingly. Janessa was under no illusions how he gathered his information, and there were rumoured to be hidden chambers around the city, and elsewhere in the Free States, dedicated to the art of interrogation. Seneschal Rogan himself was said to have forgotten more about the history and techniques of torture than most men could ever learn in a lifetime. Janessa could barely stomach the man, but her father had felt the need to keep him and his Inquisition around for reasons that were increasingly obvious.
A grey-haired figure came striding through the archway to the throne room. His jacket was green, emblazoned with the crown and swords of Steelhaven, and under the crook of one arm he carried a battered helm. Despite his advanced years his back was straight and his chin raised proudly.
Seneschal Rogan leaned in as the man approached and whispered, ‘High Constable of the Greencoats, Majesty.’
Janessa made no acknowledgment. Though she found it annoying she had to rely on the inquisitor for such information, she was grateful for it. No sooner had the High Constable knelt before the throne than she beckoned him to stand.
‘Majesty,’ the High Constable began, his voice gruff from decades of barking orders, ‘this is the third day we have had serious unrest in the Warehouse District. Our grain stores are still intact, but the rabble seems intent on smashing them open and helping themselves. Add to that the recent influx of Free Company mercenaries, and it’s all we can do to stop the chaos consuming the city. Twelve of my men have been wounded stopping brawls in the street and damage to property is in the thousands of crowns. We need more men, Majesty.’
We need more men. Always the same words. We need more men. We need more supplies. We are starving. We are dying.
‘As you know, High Constable, no men can be spared,’ she replied. Words she had grown used to saying in recent days and weeks. ‘I cannot request troops be brought back from the front.’
‘Then we must establish martial law, Majesty. You must give my men the power to punish these rioters and quell the Free Companies with all Arlor’s fury. If not, the grain stores will be overrun within the tenday and there may well not be an alehouse in the city safe to go in.’
Janessa had expected this — Odaka had warned her as much. To decree martial law, to allow the Greencoats the iron grip on her city that they wanted, was something she had hoped to avoid. There had been martial law in the city before, during the reign of Carcan the Usurper and, more recently, during the Long Drought. Neither time had it ended well for the kings involved, their heads having ended up on spikes above the city walls. But it was not her own head for which Janessa feared. Allowing the Greencoats to exact any means necessary might cost as many lives as it saved. If the grain silos were smashed open and the stores lost there might well be starving in the street, but would there be as many dead if the Greencoats were permitted to kill large numbers of rioters? What kind of ruler would she be if she presided over this? Would they call her Queen Janessa the Tyrant? Speak of her as the Crimson Queen who bathed in the blood of her own people. She had known wearing the Steel Crown would not be easy, that her first task was to fight back against a ruthless invader, but she had never imagined quelling the very people she hoped to protect.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘You will have to find another way, High Constable.’
The man’s grey brow creased into a frown as though he might have wanted to argue with his queen’s decision, but his devotion to the Crown held him in check. She admired his loyalty, even had some sympathy for his position, but she would not be swayed in her decision.
‘If I may, Majesty.’ Seneschal Rogan leaned over her ominously. Janessa was aware how much she missed the imposing form of Odaka Du’ur, her one-time regent and her preferred advisor. ‘There may be a way to allow the High Constable the men he needs. Were we to open the district gaols and house the mercenary companies within them, we could contain the violence, allowing the Greencoats to concentrate on guarding the Warehouse District silos.’
‘You are suggesting we imprison the very men who have come to defend this city, Seneschal?’
Rogan flashed her a rare smile. It bore all the warmth of a snake about to consume a rat. ‘Not imprison them, Majesty. Merely house them. They can be as raucous as they please within the confines of the gaol. A danger only to themselves, rather than the wider populace. And it frees up the High Constable’s Greencoats, so they may carry out their allotted role within the city.’
Janessa regarded the inquisitor, trying her best to see a downside to Rogan’s plan. She didn’t trust the man at all, and felt he must have some ulterior motive for offering the gaols, which for the most part the Inquisition controlled. In the end though, she could think of no alternative.
‘Very well,’ said Janessa. ‘Would such an arrangement satisfy your needs, High Constable?’
The grey-haired man looked at her open-mouthed — it was an expression Janessa had seen many times — but he knew this was as good a deal as he was going to get. Janessa had been in this position a score of times since taking the throne, and if she had gained a reputation for anything it was that once her mind was made it would not be swayed.
‘It will have to, Majesty,’ he said, quickly following his clear disappointment with a gracious bow. Then, without waiting to be dismissed, he turned on his heel and marched from the throne room.
‘Most diplomatic, Majesty,’ Rogan whispered. ‘Your skills in statecraft blossom by the day.’
Janessa nodded, but somehow felt she had been manipulated. Rogan had a canny way of advising her, then making her think it was she alone who had made the right choice. It was obvious he was exerting his influence on her, but she couldn’t yet see how he had steered her wrong. Perhaps that was part of his cunning. She knew she would have to keep a close eye on the Seneschal from now on, perhaps even have him followed, although whom she would choose to watch her watchman she had no idea.
No sooner had the High Constable left the throne room, than Janessa could hear marching feet approaching. It was with relief that she saw Odaka Du’ur entering at the head of an honour guard — four Knights of the Blood, bedecked in their crimson armour, each plate gilt-etched as though they were entwined within the branches of a brass thornbush. Since her coronation she had not seen Odaka out of his slate grey armour. His face had become more careworn with each passing day, and now more than ever he looked like a man weighed down by his responsibilities.
‘Majesty,’ he said, kneeling with bowed head, ‘I would speak to you … in private.’
Janessa gestured for Odaka to rise and was about to dismiss those courtiers that still milled about the throne room when Rogan placed a claw-like hand on her arm. He quickly removed it when she glanced at where he had dared to touch her.
‘Majesty, there is a protocol to observe. For matters of state the throne room cannot be-’
‘Out!’ barked Odaka, before the Seneschal could finish.
Every courtier immediately responded to Odaka’s bellowed command, moving through the arch as quick as they could manage. Not one wished to provoke the towering figure.
Rogan raised an eyebrow in disapproval.
‘You as well, Seneschal,’ said Odaka, not bothering to hide his contempt for the man. ‘Your presence is no longer required.’
If Rogan was offended, or indeed thought to argue, he covered it with a mask of apathy. After tipping his head to Janessa in a cursory bow he walked steadily across the chamber, seemingly in no hurry. For his part, Odaka stood waiting, not deigning even to glance in the Seneschal’s direction. When Rogan was gone, Odaka moved closer, lowering his voice and sounding much like the Odaka of old.