Handbook
One of the distinct advantages of being the wealthiest man alive, or for that matter who had ever lived, was that Chancellor Penbury could live where he pleased, and in choosing Firena he was able to indulge his two greatest loves: food and gardening. Firena was placed on the busiest land and sea route in the known world, and accordingly everything that was of any value eventually passed through. It meant that nothing of gastronomic or floral interest escaped him.
Additionally, the weather was good all year round – a fact attested to by the pleasant sunshine that warmed the flowerbeds he was currently weeding. It was an activity he enjoyed for a number of reasons. Foremost, it wasn’t often he got his hands dirty in a literal sense and the feel of earth on his fingers was a pleasure he found hard to explain. There was also a certain meditative quality to weeding. It was not as though it required his gargantuan intellect to perform, yet it did require attention to the finest detail. A weed could not just be plucked but had to be dug out, its deepest root removed to prevent its return. The Chancellor was more than pleased when on leading guests through his garden they would remark on how his flower beds were perfectly clear of any weed or blemish. This was compounded when they were genuinely surprised that he attended to the weeding himself.
This attention to detail extended to all areas and so when Chidwick slid into the garden the Chancellor knew what he was going to be told before the unfortunate man had said a word. The dirt on Chidwick’s boots told him he had not changed but come straight to him. It meant he had important news. The grosser elements of body language were well hidden – Chidwick was a master of many arts – but Penbury was also a master and he noticed the slightest departure from normal behaviour. In this case, Chidwick blinked as the Chancellor caught his eye, and Chidwick never blinked.
It gave the Chancellor the head start he needed, so that while Chidwick gave his news and filled out the details, he was racing ahead. It had been pure chance that Chidwick had gone to pick up this lad, Morden, to squash his beer enterprise, only to find something potentially more serious. Chidwick was well versed in the danger signs: black robes, skulls, thrones, brooding stares, minions and so on.
Much like messiahs, pyramid schemes and eat anything diet plans, in the Chancellor’s experience, a Dark Lord rising was not something to be too concerned about but deserved attention nevertheless. There hadn’t been one for five hundred years, and for good reason. At the merest mention of one making an appearance they had been snuffed out by the Chancellor and his predecessors. Amusingly, without fail, the so-called Dark Lords met their fate protesting that it wasn’t fair. ‘Whatever happened to following the rules?’ they asked as they were dragged off. In the archives there was even mention of a school for Dark Lords, where promising defilers and bringers of death had been nurtured. Burningham, the Chancellor of the time, had shut them down with a health inspection and locked up the leaders for failure to register an educational establishment. It was all quite pathetic.
From Chidwick’s description, and Morden’s escape, there was a good chance this lad was indeed a prospective Dark Lord. Chidwick had done well to spot the dragon pendant and recognise its import, and done even better to leave it well alone. It was obvious the boy had no real idea what he was or what was going on. The Chancellor approved of the hands off approach Chidwick had taken. Something as explosive as this Morden had to be handled with care.
Outwardly though, the Chancellor presented a gruffer demeanour. He tutted, furrowed his brow and pursed his lips as Chidwick’s report came to an end.
“I am disappointed in you, Chidwick,” said the Chancellor. “Most disappointed.”
The words had their intended effect and
One of the distinct advantages of being the wealthiest man alive, or for that matter who had ever lived, was that Chancellor Penbury could live where he pleased, and in choosing Firena he was able to indulge his two greatest loves: food and gardening. Firena was placed on the busiest land and sea route in the known world, and accordingly everything that was of any value eventually passed through. It meant that nothing of gastronomic or floral interest escaped him.
Additionally, the weather was good all year round – a fact attested to by the pleasant sunshine that warmed the flowerbeds he was currently weeding. It was an activity he enjoyed for a number of reasons. Foremost, it wasn’t often he got his hands dirty in a literal sense and the feel of earth on his fingers was a pleasure he found hard to explain. There was also a certain meditative quality to weeding. It was not as though it required his gargantuan intellect to perform, yet it did require attention to the finest detail. A weed could not just be plucked but had to be dug out, its deepest root removed to prevent its return. The Chancellor was more than pleased when on leading guests through his garden they would remark on how his flower beds were perfectly clear of any weed or blemish. This was compounded when they were genuinely surprised that he attended to the weeding himself.
This attention to detail extended to all areas and so when Chidwick slid into the garden the Chancellor knew what he was going to be told before the unfortunate man had said a word. The dirt on Chidwick’s boots told him he had not changed but come straight to him. It meant he had important news. The grosser elements of body language were well hidden – Chidwick was a master of many arts – but Penbury was also a master and he noticed the slightest departure from normal behaviour. In this case, Chidwick blinked as the Chancellor caught his eye, and Chidwick never blinked.
It gave the Chancellor the head start he needed, so that while Chidwick gave his news and filled out the details, he was racing ahead. It had been pure chance that Chidwick had gone to pick up this lad, Morden, to squash his beer enterprise, only to find something potentially more serious. Chidwick was well versed in the danger signs: black robes, skulls, thrones, brooding stares, minions and so on.
Much like messiahs, pyramid schemes and eat anything diet plans, in the Chancellor’s experience, a Dark Lord rising was not something to be too concerned about but deserved attention nevertheless. There hadn’t been one for five hundred years, and for good reason. At the merest mention of one making an appearance they had been snuffed out by the Chancellor and his predecessors. Amusingly, without fail, the so-called Dark Lords met their fate protesting that it wasn’t fair. ‘Whatever happened to following the rules?’ they asked as they were dragged off. In the archives there was even mention of a school for Dark Lords, where promising defilers and bringers of death had been nurtured. Burningham, the Chancellor of the time, had shut them down with a health inspection and locked up the leaders for failure to register an educational establishment. It was all quite pathetic.
From Chidwick’s description, and Morden’s escape, there was a good chance this lad was indeed a prospective Dark Lord. Chidwick had done well to spot the dragon pendant and recognise its import, and done even better to leave it well alone. It was obvious the boy had no real idea what he was or what was going on. The Chancellor approved of the hands off approach Chidwick had taken. Something as explosive as this Morden had to be handled with care.
Outwardly though, the Chancellor presented a gruffer demeanour. He tutted, furrowed his brow and pursed his lips as Chidwick’s report came to an end.
“I am disappointed in you, Chidwick,” said the Chancellor. “Most disappointed.”
The words had their intended effect and
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