The Burning Age by L. J Nicholson

Author:L. J Nicholson [Nicholson, L. J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aryla Publishing
Published: 2019-05-03T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

Abraham Bradbury strode through the halls of the palace, spine straight as a ship’s mast and sharp eyes roving. Following his conversation with Archibald Cleaver, he felt as though he’d placed the Lord of the South neatly in his pocket. Whether his son would marry the Cleaver girl was hardly written in stone… but so long as Archibald thought that they were betrothed, he’d be more likely to support Aron’s claim to the crown.

Fiona Fowler, the Lady of the East, had already offered her support in writing, and in the form of the hundred fighters and engineers she’d sent to help defend the city. That left only one of the great houses that needed to be persuaded, and they would prove the most difficult. Fortunately, Abraham knew he would not need to treat with the Clemingtons in the North. Some of the more distant cousins resided in the capital, and their power and wealth would be enough to help push Aron onto the throne.

Abraham’s path carried him down several flights of stairs, onto the main basement level of the palace. The subterranean floor was used for housing servants as well as storage. No draperies festooned the walls there, and no vases full of fresh flowers decorated the halls. There was less bustle, although Abraham did pass a few servants who bowed or curtsied as they passed. Eventually he wound his way to the door he was looking for. It was not like the other plain oaken doors that lined the hall, but instead carved mahogany, the engravings showing dragons in flight. He considered the silver knob, and then lifted a mighty fist and rapped thrice on the door.

Slow footsteps sounded on the other side, and then the door opened a crack.

“May I help you?” An owlish, elderly man in Clemington livery asked. He peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles at Abraham, blinking rapidly.

“I should like to speak with your lord,” Abraham said, resting a wide palm on the open door. “Is Algernon awake?”

“He is,” The servant said tersely, “but my lord is dreadfully distracted with important matters.”

“I have been charged with protection of the city, and the realm.” Abraham pointed out gently. He pulled the door open further. “Surely he can spare me a few minutes.”

The servant sighed, and then stepped back to let Abraham enter. The Lord of the West found himself standing in a small antechamber lit by lanterns in wall sconces.

“Please be seated, Lord Bradbury,” the servant said, indicating a foursome of padded leather chairs surrounding a low table. Abraham opted to stand instead, and watched the aged man disappear through a curtained doorway at the far end of the room. A few minutes passed, and then a familiar face emerged from behind the curtain.

Algernon Clemington’s little remaining hair had gone almost perfectly silver, a small fringe that surrounded the bald top of his head. He moved like a rickety wagon, but his brown eyes still seemed as sharp as ever. Abraham had never crossed blades with Algernon, for the older man was far more likely to wield a quill than a sword.

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