Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king-Chapter 1049: King of the South(1)

"A fool throws sticks into the river, a brute fights against the current, a wise person builds a bridge over it..."

"Your Grace?" Zayneth asked, his voice cautious, treading softly as if the Prince’s words were thin ice. His eyes flickered toward the slip of parchment resting in the Prince’s hand, a small thing to have summoned such a philosophical mood.

"Who ought to be the one to slash the river? Would you answer me this, Zayneth?"

The Spymaster, the right hand of the Prince of Habadia, eased his posture, sensing the shift in the air. There was no scent of failure here,the prince was in a good mood. "A king, Your Grace."

"Is that so?" Nibadur, son of Girmald, asked. He didn’t look up, his fingers tracing the edges of the letter.

"That is how the old proverb would have it," Zayneth continued, searching the Prince’s unreadable expression. "A fool throws sticks, a brute fights the current, a wise man builds a bridge... but a king digs the canals to water the fields. " He tilted his head. "I find myself wondering which part of the parable is troubling you."

"Why would that be?" Nibadur shifted back into his seat, the movement heavy, as if the crown he didn’t yet wear already weighed upon his brow like lead. "The first three are simple. Only those with a flicker of wit know better than to wrestle with nature. But why must it be a king who directs the flow? Cannot a wise man conceive of the canal? Cannot a brute dig the trench?"

"I wouldn’t presume to know, Your Grace..."

Nibadur’s eyes snapped up, gray and cold as a winter sea. "Do not humor me, Zayneth. I am no porcelain child who will puff and huff when faced with an opinion that differs from his own. I have not allowed you at my side because I find your unshaved face charming or the dark circles beneath your eyes aesthetic." He leaned forward, the candlelight catching the silver thread in his robes. "A man with loyalty but no competence is a luxury for a minor lord. A man with competence but no loyalty is a dagger waiting for a back. But a man who holds both? Gods be true, that is the only thing worth holding dear."

His gaze bored into Zayneth’s, a silent question hanging in the air: Have I judged you wrong?

Zayneth took a moment, to think it over. It didn’t take long."Because the king is the only one with the authority to command the hands that hold the shovels."

"Some opinion at the least," Nibadur commented, a thin, ghost-like smile touching his lips. "But no. It is because only a king has the stomach to be hated for the common good.

A fool gawks at the water and cries when it is cold; a brute beats it with his fists until he drowns in his own exhaustion. And the wise man? He knows the truth, yes, but how can he reason with the fool who has no wits, or the brute who would sooner beat him bloody than listen to sound advice?"

Nibadur stood, pacing the small confines of the room. "Only a king can force people to lose something of their own, their time, their grain, their lives, for the preservation of the whole. Individuals may be wise, Zayneth, but in groups, they descend into a mindless, panicked entity.

There is a reason nobles and kings exist: it is because someone outside the masses must see the horizon. How can the commoner see the sun when the heads of ten thousand others are blocking his view?Those who wish for it each make their way forward and forward until finally they are there. Blinded by the rays of the sun, he is finally able to see the truth of it... and then before he can conceive anything, he finds those behind pushing him out of his place to bathe themselves in the light."

Very few men were permitted to hear the Prince of Habadia speak his true mind. Zayneth was one of the few who could boast of such privilege.

"Only a king can command others to desert their goods," Nibadur continued, his hand passing over his skull as if to smooth his thoughts. "Most men will choose to hold on to the little they have today, even if it means they will lose everything tomorrow. They cannot see the canal; they only see the mud being moved and the arms toiling for the work."

He thrust the paper toward Zayneth. The Spymaster took it, his eyes scanning the lines. And then a smile spread across his face.

"Your plans are coming to fruition, Your Grace. It is war. Total and absolute."

"Aye, even a blind man could see the smoke by now," Nibadur scoffed, letting out a short, dry chuckle. "Though I certainly would have fared better throwing all those silver coins to the blind. At least they would have found a proper use for the metal. We of high blood are meant to be shepherds, yet how many in power are merely peacocks? Arrogant, incompetent puff-fish."

He sighed, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "I wasted tens of thousands of silverii on these princes,first the Herculeian, then the Oizenian, hoping one of them had the spine to put the Fox down. Not a single sign of it.

One more craven and dull than the last. I have had to prostrate my gold before fools just to get them to see what I have seen from the beginning."

He turned back to the window, his reflection ghostly in the glass. "That peasant prince in Yarzat... Alpheo... he is the greatest danger. He is the bridge-builder finding himself in the position of power, Zayneth. He is the one that saw the sun and was wise enough to get himself out of the rabble to see it some more.

And because the rest of the world was too stupid to see it, I have had to set the fields on fire just to make them look in his direction."

Zayneth gave his Prince a long, contemplative look. Since the news of the Battle of the Bleeding Plains had first reached the capital, Nibadur had been hellbent on turned every "spider" in their network toward Yarzat.

Yet, for all their mastery of the craft, Habadia’s web was fraying. Every time Zayneth’s agents tried to weave their way into the Yarzat court, they were ratted out by the very clerks and servants they tried to get to their side. Alpheo’s paranoia was even greater than his. He regularly sent his own agents to offer bribes for low-level gossip, only to drag anyone who accepted into a public square for a swift trial and a long drop from a rope.

Even the kitchens were fortresses; the staff had their family living in separate, guarded quarters, making the traditional route of a poisoned cup nearly impossible as it was not easy to find someone without connections that weren’t held by the crown.

Not that Nibadur wanted the man dead. Not yet.Even enemies served their purpose.

For only when bloodied does the steel make true.

"Your Grace," Zayneth ventured, "you seem to hold the Prince of Yarzat..."

"In high regard?" Nibadur beat him to it, his voice echoing with a hollow, metallic clarity.

"Yes."

"And why should I not? I am not so brittle as that Crownless fool in Ozenia, nor am I so fragile that I take offense at Alpheo’s station. His success is but proof of his skill. I would have thought you, of all people, would understand that merit is the only currency that doesn’t devalue in a storm.It is the only reason why you are my favored after all.."

Nibadur turned back to the window, watching the moonlight catch the wrinkles of the leaves outside. "We may be enemies, but I respect the man. And precisely because I acknowledge his strength, I know the true depth of the danger he poses. We must cut him now, while he is still gasping for air in a weak position. Give him another five years to consolidate, give him time to grow and we may never behold such an easy chanc...."

He stopped, noticing the lingering, puzzled shadow on Zayneth’s face. "Why do you look so perplexed?"

"I had thought... well, I expected you to take it more sourly," the Spymaster admitted. "All the resources we wasted trying to stifle him, all the coin poured into traps that he simply stepped over. Most men would grow to hate the thing they cannot destroy."

Nibadur looked at Zayneth, and for a moment, the silence was heavy with a cold, simmering displeasure, as if he were disappointed that his finest pupil still struggled with the alphabet he had taught him.

"Hate is a poison for the one who drinks it, Zayneth," Nibadur said softly. "There is always something to be harvested from a failure, and always something to be learned from an enemy who bests you. If I had succeeded in crushing him years ago, I would still be the same man I was then, narrow-minded, untested, and blind to the true potential of my station."

He walked back to his desk, the silhouette of his figure sharp against the torchlight. "I am not angry that Alpheo survived my traps. I am thankful. I am thankful that I was allowed to learn so much through his resistance. He has given me the opportunity to realize the true scale of my own dreams.I hate those that failed, not those that have bested them. I, after all, owe that man much more than you may think....’’