Chapter 1403: The scepter and the sword(4)

The lingering oddity of the jest melted away into the damp chill of the chapel, and the Archon’s face hardened as he returned to the grim business at hand.

"The factions," he muttered, his lips curling into a sour line. Alpheo could read the subtle distaste in the old man’s expression; Vesparian clearly loathed laying bare the raw, political underbelly of his sacred brotherhood, especially to an outsider. ℴ

An underbelly that he was willing to dive in, and unfortunately for him he needed that outsider’s help.

"There are several," the Archon continued, rubbing his frail temples. "Some are small, fragile things, destined to wither and collapse after the first ballot. Others are long-settled, built precisely for moments like this.It is the dream of every noble family to have their thirdborn reach the Curia."

It seemed there were no lowborns sitting atop the high pews of the Church. Every single man who wore the silk was a son of high breeding, born to ancient houses with long shadows. It was quite the well-spread hypocrisy, the Church preached endlessly in its sanctuaries that all men were born equal beneath the sight of the gods, and so were those that donned the cloth, yet the realities of power proved that beneath every shining, gilded peel, the fruit was thoroughly rotten.

"Rainauld," the Archon began, leaning his weight onto his staff. "He hails from one of the oldest patrician lines in Romelia, uncle to the sitting patriarch of House Thalossos."

Vesparian paused, searching his mind for a delicate way to phrase the rot. "There had been... considerable friction between his bloodline and the Crown, owing to Lord Marcellus’s particular liberties regarding the Emperor’s mother. It is something of an open secret in the capital that the noble lady is currently kept hidden away in one of Marcellus’s secluded estates. But as she is far removed from the levers of court power, no one speaks of it, and everyone pretends not to see."

And clearly pretend not to remember the ill-attempted coup she made, the king thought, tucking that information away.

The old man raised a bony finger. "Naturally, that placed the Thalossos at sharp odds with both the Imperial House and House Achaea. It translated into a chilly isolation for Archon Rainauld’s initial bid. Few of my colleagues were eager to warm themselves at his fire, knowing that doing so meant earning the Emperor’s quiet displeasure."

"Meant?" Alpheo caught the tense instantly, his eyes narrowing. "As in past tense? Is the enmity no longer burning?"

For Alpheo’s ambitions, a faction isolated by imperial hatred was an ideal target. A desperate, alienated candidate was vastly easier to bleed for concessions, and poaching their scattered allies was simpler still. No man wished to go down with a sinking ship.

"Not as bitterly as before," Vesparian corrected, letting out a dry, rattling sigh. "Lord Marcellus recently put down that mad dog of a rebel who had been terrorizing the Romelian countryside these past moons. That bloody bit of work warmed the frost between the two houses considerably. And besides... even stripped of their seats on the Emperor’s inner council, the Thalossos remain one of the great colossi of the realm. Blood and silver do not vanish overnight.Moreover the emperor’s power is no longer the absolute pillar it once was. Where once there was an eagle screeching, now there is only a chicken pecking"

"I see," the King replied, his voice flat, his pleasure evaporating. "And how many votes can this titan command on the floor?"

"Four," the old man answered simply. "Including Rainauld himself."

Four, Alpheo calculated rapidly. Better than I feared, but worse than I had hoped.

It was nowhere near a majority, nor enough to force a quick decision. But on a council of only fourteen Archons, four votes meant Rainauld held nearly a third of the entire room in his palm. That made him a deeply dangerous, king-making thorn in any man’s side.He could very be the Pontifex’s maker with the right circumstances.

"Four is a heavy anchor," Alpheo mused, pacing a slow circle around the altar. "Perhaps something can be forged with him if the price is right. Who else holds the floor? What of the other factions?"

"There is only Alonius that is worth speaking."

The King paused in his pacing, turning a sharp look back onto the Archon. "Apart from carrying the legendary LightBringer’s name on his tongue, what does Alonius actually hold in his hands?"

"He holds the sitting Pontifex’s ear," Vesparian stated plainly, listing the advantages with a grim, rhythmic beat of his fingers against his sleeve. "He commands the genuine respect of half the council, and he enjoys the total, unyielding backing of the Bax familia. Remember, he is first cousin to the Empress herself."

Alpheo let out a low, whistling breath. "So... the current master’s blessing, the future master’s bloodline, and the deep affection of the room.."

The old Archon gave a slow, grudging nod. It was clearly a truth that tasted like ash in his mouth.

"Give me the number, Vesparian," Alpheo commanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous quiet. "How many votes can he count on when the doors are bolted?"

The Archon hesitated for a long, agonizing moment, his cloudy eyes darting toward the cold stone floor before he finally spoke.

"Seven."

"Seven!" Alpheo snapped, his eyes flashing with sudden, cold fury as he stepped directly into the Archon’s path. "Seven is nearly more than half the bloody council! On the very first ballot, he stands two single vote away from a two-thirds crown!"

"That," Vesparian replied, meeting the King’s angry glare with a tired, cynical smirk, "is precisely how being the favorite works, your Grace. He doesn’t need to chase votes in the dark; he merely needs to make sure none of his stray. As things stand, he is virtually bound to win."

"All right, I understand," Alpheo said, drawing a sharp breath to master his temper. Now that he knew the shape of the wall he had to scale, it was time to assess the ladder. "And how many votes can you claim for yourself?"

"One."

"One?" Alpheo echoed, his brow twitching.

"Without counting my own," Vesparian added dryly, as if that made it much better "and the single vote that the Mad Bull will bring me."

Valorous Bull, Alpheo corrected silently.Merelao loathed being called the Mad Bull. But the King did not bother to fix the old man’s phrasing; he was far too occupied with the grim reality confronting him.

He was bankrolling a nearly lost cause.

Emphasis on nearly. They had not dubbed Alpheo the Fox of Yarzat for his gentle nature or his thick fur.

"How long do you reckon the current Pontifex will keep breathing?" Alpheo asked bluntly

Vesparian did not hesitate with his reply. "Given his relentless appetite for fine wine and heavy meats, I would not be surprised if the old man kicks for another three winters." He let out a long, raspy sigh. "Roaches are invariably the last to die in a fire."

Alpheo smirked. So the Archon harbors no great love for his holy master either.

"Well, that is shockingly uplifting news," the King said, rubbing his chin. "Three years is a lifetime in politics. I can work with three years. So, factoring in the vote Merelao will secure for you, alongside your own and Valerio’s, we command three votes."

He scratched the back of his neck, the cold math settling in. Stated aloud, the odds sounded utterly grotesque. Three against eight.

"We will have to begin with a swift, merciless rundown of every man on that council," Alpheo said, his mind already spinning gears. "Some will yield to dark secrets and quiet blackmail; others can be bought with land or southern gold. But with Alonius starting as he does, pulling men to our side is only half the battle. We must gut his foundation before we even think of building your tower. We bleed Alonius, poach his wavering allies, and strike a bargain with Rainauld."

Alpheo turned on his heel, fixing the Archon with a sharp, unyielding glare.

"As for you, Your Excellency, we must reshape your image into something your holy colleagues can actually stomach. First and foremost, the blessing for Merelao is no longer open for debate. You need every scrap of power you can sink your teeth into, fuck the hells if that bothers the fat Pontifex or his minions.

Beyond that, we are going to manufacture a few grand achievements for your ledger. You mentioned earlier that the Curia was wringing its hands over the heretical presence of the Voghondai tribes on my borders, yes?"

The Archon gave a slow, cautious nod.

"Good," Alpheo said, a dangerous grin spreading across his face. "We shall send you north under an elite escort of Voghondai warriors who have embraced the Faith. They will sing your praises to the high heavens, how you walked into their savage halls, preached the holy word, and converted hundreds by the sheer majesty of your grace and wisdom. We will stage that of course, we don’t want to make a liar out of you’’ Yet ’’ Next, word will spread of whole clans taking the cloth under your spiritual guidance. We will paint it as a miraculous triumph of the Church."

The King paused, gaze back toward the marble statues. "Perhaps that will win you some standing with the unaligned. Tell me... how many neutrals currently sit on the Curia?"

"Three," Vesparian answered. "Well, two in truth. The third seat is vacant, with an election pending, so his allegiance remains an unknown variable."

"Then we buy those two and influence the third," Alpheo stated flatly. "Compile everything you know on those men, their vices, their debts, their families, their secret appetites, anything you know you send me. We have a mountain of filthy work ahead of us, I fear. But to be entirely honest, Archon..."

Alpheo looked the old man up and down, his dark eyes gleamed.

"...I have conquered princedom and brought armies lows, against far worse odds than these. Who knows? We might just make a Pontifex out of you yet.I certainly managed to make a king out of a peasant."