Ledgers and Legerdemain

    “Welcome, all of you, to humble my court in Greenbough.” He began, smiling in a way he hoped would put them at ease. At first these audiences had been as nerve racking for him as they were for his future subjects, but after a few days of it he’d fallen into a comfortable script.

    “Colm’s told me why you’re all here. If there are no objections, my advisor here will administer the oath and we can move on to the more important discussion - how we can help one another.”

    There was a general mumbling of assent to his suggestion as all eyes swung to Colm. Colm, in turn, looked to Corvane.

    “Greetings, future subjects of the anointed King of Aiane.” The raven began, his sonorous voice startling attendees. Sean noticed that even the man in the back started a bit at the spirit’s address, but he quickly mastered his expression.

    Corvane proceeded to guide the assembled villagers in the same oath those at Greenbough had taken. Through them, their villages were sworn to Sean’s cause, which in turn caused the Chain around his neck to burn hot against his skin.

    Now that he knew how to call upon it, one way he could use the Chain was to access a colossal amount of data on the realm – an encyclopedia, ledger, and biography all rolled into one. He knew who the best cooper was in Heatherdown, the number of stills hidden behind the farrier’s house, and who was at the miller’s wedding twenty years ago. It came to him as a mixture of statistics and trivia, but in the end it handed him everything he needed to know about the people and places sworn to his service.

    Using this knowledge, he could determine how best to cement the villages’ fealty. The Chain’s magic helped forge links in his mind between his life before and the present, but left him to synthesize answers that the folk in attendance could digest. Luckily, his days building slide decks had prepared him well for this type of thing.

    Before anyone else could seize the initiative, Sean grasped the raven pendant and locked eyes with Heatherdown’s reeve. The high infant mortality rates and common domestic use of honey – also one of the village’s chief exports – clicked with an article he had once read on botulism in babies. Faint echoes in his ears of conversations between concerned parents and the village midwife then confirmed his suspicions.

    “Your village is dying, reeve. Over the years its mothers have mourned too many lost little souls. You think it’s a curse from Mother Clover and you’re not far off. Tell your mothers to stop soothing colicky babies with honey and the curse should subside.”

    These presentations had taken some getting used to, but he was finally starting to get the hang of it. Most of these people were smart folks, but they were more used to prophecies than performance metrics. After a couple of rough starts, he’d found they were more receptive if he phrased things a little theatrically.

    Sean turned to the men and women of Knockvale. “Yours is both simpler and more complicated. Half of your rye fields were stunted last season and Farmer Liam has been blaming the soil.”

    Sean paused a moment, both for effect and to take stock of what he knew. The Chain’s second function was to grant him the expertise of his subjects. In this case, he knew what Liam at least believed to be the correct timing to plant his fields. He also knew that the crops had been planted two weeks later than that. It was this last piece that he relayed to the delegation.

    “Why would Liam lie about that, Your Majesty? He’s been working that land since he was a boy.” One of them said, her voice creaking.

Sean focused on the older woman. “You’ll have to ask him why yourself, ma’am. I know what goes on in my domain, but not all of what goes on in men’s hearts.”

    As he had grown accustomed to, a shocked silence filled the room following the demonstration. That was, at least, until a soft clap echoed from the back of the room. The well-dressed man stepped forward, bowing politely.

    “Impressive work, Your Majesty. Though your solutions are untested, even I can tell by their reactions that you’ve pinned their woes true.” The man said, giving Sean an obsequious smile. “But what of Oarhaven? My town’s troubles are greater than the minor concerns of the hamlets and I doubt anyone but I could have informed you of them before now.”

    Sean’s eyes narrowed in response to the man’s challenge. “Your name, mister…”

    “Barley. William Barley, at your service.”

    “Mister Barley, then.” Sean searched through the pendant’s trove. The man was right in that he didn’t know anything about Oarhaven’s problems, but he underestimated what Sean could glean from its neighbors. He just had to follow the chain of woe.

    He saw that Ashford was missing a shipment of pine barrels that was meant to come through Oarhaven’s ports from a city on the island’s south shore. Other towns shared similar stories, both those present and those who had sworn to him in earlier days. Even Greenbough was short a box of fine tools, which Colin had expected to receive the day his children went into the bog. Outbound cargoes were business as usual, but inbound was another story and any inquiries were met with stony silence.

    Sean decided to take a leap.

    “You’re losing ships, Lord Mayor. You have been for a week, maybe more, and you aren’t certain why.” Sean stood from his seat and walked towards the mayor. Up close he could see the man was starting to perspire.

    Sean offered his hand. “Swear Oarhaven to me and I’ll work with you to find out what’s happening. I can’t promise we’ll find an easy solution, but you’ll have my full support.”

    Mayor Barley took it, his smile this time both more strained and more genuine. “As you say, Your Majesty. Have your advisor administer the oath and I will swear it.”

    The door to the inn burst open. Flick rushed into the room, panting.

    “Lad, something’s coming! There’s a foul smell on the wind. Whatever it is it’s close and getting closer.”

    Corvane shifted, shaking out his feathers. “Successor,” he murmured, “the oaths can wait.”

    In the crisp morning air, a warning bell began to toll.