Bog Standard Isekai

Brin followed the [Herald] who had a certain bounce in his step after seeing how nervous this invitation was making Brin. They headed straight towards the carriage drop-off, and Brin wondered if he was going to be riding with the [Herald] or if he'd be allowed to hire his own carriage. Hopefully it would be neither and Tonin would be able to arrange a ride in Hogg's vehicle. His [Valet] was currently doing work for the Tower since Brin had told him he'd be staying late, and was nowhere to be seen.

Thankfully, Bedelia found him first. She appeared out of nowhere, suddenly walking alongside him as if grown from the hallway's faint shadows.

"We'll be taking our own carriage. It's fast," she snapped at the [Herald] with uncharacteristic sharpness.

"As you wish," replied the [Herald]. When they arrived at the carriage drop-off, the black Hard Light carriage was already waiting, as was the [Herald's] white horse, which he'd left right in the middle of the walking path. The man hopped on and galloped away without another word or backwards glance.

Brin added illegal parking to the list of the [Herald's] crimes.

"Hop in," Bedelia ordered, and then followed him inside. Jeeves was already waiting in the cab, and the carriage took off without a driver.

"First off, agree to everything. If he asks for something unreasonable, we'll deal with it later, on our own terms. Don't deny the [King] anything to his face," said Jeeves.

"First, first off, no jokes. No innuendo, no insolence, no cheek. He will not appreciate these things. He will appreciate them less than Princess Gracia," said Bedelia.

They looked exactly like Bedelia and Jeeves normally did, but from their posture and the tone of their voices, Brin thought that Hogg and Lumina were piloting the constructs.

"No, actual first off, what should I expect here?" Brin asked.

"A quick chat, nothing more, just as the [Herald] said. There's absolutely no reason to be worried," said Lumina from Bedelia's mouth.

"Just nod along, agree to everything, be affable but not witty, and you'll be fine," said Hogg as Jeeves.

"If anything goes wrong, don't resist arrest. Imprisonment is solvable, but immediate execution is not," said Lumina.

“You’re not completely defenseless. I’m sure you think of [Kings] as absolute, but even Lancarote has people he won’t offend carelessly. The Master of Magic, General Grimwalt, and Ciprian of the Fist Bank of Steamshield to name three,” said Hogg.

“Although it’s not obvious to everyone that the Master would be offended should something happen to you. You've been telling people he disfavors you,” said Lumina.

“And the general hates you,” Hogg admitted. “Also, don’t bring up [King] Metlion if you can avoid it. It's a sore subject with His Majesty. And don’t preach the gods to him.”

The two of them peppered him with advice the entire way, much of it contradictory. How could he agree to everything and also make no promises? How was he supposed to not worry but also remember that a single mistake could ruin his life? These two had sent him into battle against [Witches] and worried less.

The carriage ride ended all too soon, and armed with nothing except for more worries than he would’ve come up with on his own, Brin exited the carriage.

He found the same [Herald] waiting for him. The man turned and began walking without even checking if Brin would follow.

The trek across the palace grounds went by in a haze, with Brin barely noticing his surroundings. The garden was in an extremely baroque style, where everything was perfectly manicured in geometric patterns, so carefully artificial that it was hard to believe that the trees and shrubs were really alive and not mass-produced plastic statues.

Rather than enter the palace itself, the [Herald] guided Brin around the outside of the building, until they reached a secluded garden, surrounded on three sides by the palace walls.

The king, his Majesty Lancarote, was down on all fours, digging in the dirt with his bare hands. He couldn’t be anything but the king, even in that position, just from the sheer weight in the Wyrd. Everything was pointing towards this man. The Tower, the city, the country, it seemed like even the land itself knelt in obedience.

And he was gardening. He wasn’t dressed for it. He wore a long and heavy outer robe despite the heat, covered in tassels and ornate patterns. It split at the side to reveal skin-tight trousers that were nearly lewd in the way that they displayed his legs. At the end of his feet were dainty little platforms, vestigial memories of shoes, like wings on an ostrich.

His hair looked like it should’ve been a wig, it was so curly and frankly massive, but Brin thought it might actually be the man’s real hair. He wanted to smile. It was absurd that he was intimidated by this man. And yet he was.

Brin bowed. “Your Majesty.”

“Ah yes, young Lord Mistaken. Let me make one thing clear from the beginning: I do not recognize New Edelor, nor do I recognize [King] Metlion’s claim on the lands rightfully conquered by the sons of Frenaria, you among them. No, you are one of my subjects, with all the rights and responsibilities that entails.”

That was completely unacceptable. [King] Metlion was his sworn liege, a redeemed [Paladin], and his rule was endorsed by the gods themselves. The most diplomatic thing Brin could bring himself to say was, “I understand your position, Your Majesty.”

Lancarote stood and stretched out his back. He indicated the ground where he’d been digging with one hand, still stained black with dirt. It looked unnatural there; dirt was a curiosity to this man, seen only rarely and from a distance. Brin had the strong impression that this might be the first time he’d ever actually touched it himself. Already a servant was arriving with a silk handkerchief and a pitcher of water to clean it off.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re seeing me in such a state. I thought I’d give it a try. Gardening, that is. You see, I’ve been using it as a metaphor for years. I like to say that a king is a gardener, not a lumberjack. Historians remember us by the things we do, you see, and I don’t think that’s right. The measure of a king isn’t by the wars we’ve won or the laws we’ve written. When I pass and the gods see fit to write down my score, I hope they won’t have a list of my accomplishments. I hope to say: Ah, but look at the things I’ve grown!”

Lancarote had a musical, and almost feminine lilt to his voice. The word foppish came to mind. Clownish, even. Brin shoved those words down, deeper into the dirt than whatever Lacarote had been planting.

“A very intriguing sentiment, Your Majesty. I don’t believe I have a proper response, only the assurance that I will ponder these words for many days,” said Brin.

“Yes, I think you should,” said Lancarote. “And now let’s have a look at you.”

He walked around Brin in a circle, peering at him up and down while Brin stood at parade rest, not knowing what else to do. “Foreign enough to be exotic, but local enough to be acceptable. A war hero. An intellectual. Unsociable, but not obtuse. A fashionable affiliation with a cult, but not to excess. It’s as if someone fashioned a perfect suitor from the ground up. Is that what you are?”

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“Not to my knowledge, no, Your Majesty. Although my mother took great care in my upbringing,” said Brin.

“Both of your mothers, I should imagine,” said Lancarote.

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” said Brin. He was starting to feel it now. Even slight verbal agreements to the [King] were sending hooks into his mind. They were impossible to resist because they were built on concepts he valued and agreed with. Justice. Law. Duty. Filiality. Civilization was built on these things.

He wasn’t going to be so rude as to try to resist the mental compulsion now. Hogg’s first piece of advice was the best. First, survive the meeting. He could fix the damage later.

“Tell me. Do you have designs on my granddaughter Gracia?” asked Lancarote.

This man didn’t look like he could be a grandfather to a twenty-three year old. He didn’t look a day past thirty.

Brin tried to answer honestly. “I imagine that pretty much everyone in the Tower has a design or two involving the princess… Oh, you mean romantically! Then no. Less than zero. Absolutely not. Your Majesty, that is not my station nor my desire.”

“Oh, good! I can see you’re telling the truth, and it’s a relief to hear it.” Lancarote patted Brin on the chest reassuringly, using a napkin so that he wouldn’t actually have to touch him. Then he twirled and idly strode the other direction, hands behind his back. “This will be fun for me! I want to explain the next part in a way that conforms to your Arcaenean sensibilities. It’s not often I get a challenge like this.”

“I see myself as culturally Frenarian,” said Brin, and immediately felt a stinging punishment in his mind for even that slight contradiction.

Lancarote chuckled. “See yourself however you wish!"

He crouched down and began plucking weeds from the flowerbed. This garden was unique in that it still had things that needed to be done. Apart from the weeds, there was a bush that wasn't nearly as artfully sculpted as the others and a tree with a few dead branches. They'd probably left it for him, just because he'd said he'd like to try it.

Lacarote placed his plucked weeds first into his napkin before realizing what he was doing and shook them off onto the ground.

"How many of my subjects fell to the undead incursions, do you know? Care to guess? Take what number you're thinking of and multiply it by a factor of twelve. A tragedy, truly. But in this, I have an opportunity, one that many [Kings] could only dream of. You see, the fallen are not uniform; they are mostly the ones who went out to fight, or the ones living on the edges of society. Travelers, vagabonds, Rare classers. The disaffected, the ambitious, and the troublemakers. Those who are left behind, they all saw their share of death as well, and they took it back home with them the knowledge of exactly how short and uncertain life can be. Now, I can see that explaining this in strictly utilitarian terms isn't sitting well with you," said Lancarote, still plucking weeds.

"I am grateful for the imparted wisdom of a [King] in any terms, Your Majesty," said Brin.

"Of course," said Lancarote, as if that were so obvious it was annoying that Brin had even said it. "But you feel dismayed at the callous framing. How interesting. In Arcaena, idealists always latch themselves onto the teats of the [Witch Queen], but you've found something to believe in regardless. It's admirable, in its way. But let us return to my original point. What do you think will happen to my kingdom next?"

"Reconstruction. I foresee many decades of prosperity," Brin said. He started to think he could be kind of good at this.

"Demographically," said Lancarote.

"I... suppose it would be natural to expect a baby boom," said Brin.

"A baby... what?" asked Lancarote. He stood so that Brin could take in the full display of his perplexity, acting out shock in overdone courtly manners. "I could certainly never call it that. Someone would try to please me by arranging such a thing, and I won't have anyone detonating infants. No, I simply will not have it!"

"A population explosion?" Brin ventured.

Lancarote laughed. He had a silly laugh. He laughed the way Brin would if he were trying to mock some of the self-important noble ladies in the Tower. Brin smiled along, trying to convey shared humor with none of the mockery.

"Can you see why that's just as bad?" asked Lancarote.

"I can see it now, Your Majesty," said Brin.

"A [King] must be very careful with his language."

"Indeed, Your Majesty."

The [King] allowed his hands to be washed again, and then put a hand to his chin, inspecting the bush and the tree. "Your efforts to restore Nhamanshal are doomed to failure, you know."

What was Brin supposed to say to that? He wasn't trying to restore Nhamanshal specifically, but there were a lot of lost technologies that could improve the lives of the people in this world. But of course, Lancarote probably knew that. Brin responded with, "Indeed I did not know."

"You think that invention is something that needs to be built, but that's not quite right. Looking at history, there are no very small and very advanced societies. A high technology base arises naturally from a large population. It can't be built. It must be grown. It won't happen now. But multiply my population by five with every generation, and we might be at that glorious state in as little as sixty years. In fact, I believe that efforts must be made to facilitate that noble dream." Lancarote paused briefly, and then sniffed in amusement. "Ah, I see that I've trampled across your Arcaenean values. I've offended you. No! Don't deny it. Say that I wish to avoid the worst of what Arcaenean propagandists accuse us of. I shan't wish to force anything upon my subjects, no, not at all! I'd rather gently guide the culture with persuasion, incentives, and most importantly to this conversation, example."

Brin was starting to dread where Lancarote was going with this. He really wasn't ready to get married.

But rather than drive the dagger home, Lancarote held out his hand, and a servant placed a pair of pruning shears into them. He began to prune the dead branches off the tree.

"No one ever explained to me how to do this, but I believe I have an instinct for it. I should remove the dead branches, the weak and sick ones. The ugly as well," said Lancarote.

"I have also never learned, but I believe that to be the case, Your Majesty," said Brin.

"Then why is it that everyone always expects me to do this?" Lancarote lowered his pruning sheers to the bush, and with a single click, lopped off the strongest, healthiest branch. It had a flower jutting out from the rest, just on the cusp of budding. It was dead now, though it didn't know it. "Because this branch is stronger than the rest, is that unfair? Because it's healthy, it must be draining life from the failed branches around it?"

Was this about Cobol? But there was only one correct answer. "It doesn't seem right, Your Majesty."

"No, it doesn't. Perhaps people imagine that if it grows too fast, it will present a threat to me. But how could it? I grew this flower from the ground up. I know everything that it is and is not, and I know how to control it. It's mine."

Lancarote raised the branch from the bush and brought it up to the tree. Brin could see now that a real [Gardener] had already cut a branch from the tree and prepared the spot for a transplant. Lancarote placed the healthy branch from the bush there, and sealed it with enchanted gardener's tape.

He turned back to Brin. "I'm sending Lumina with an army to restore order to the duchy of Cobol. When she returns in triumph, she'll receive a hero's welcome. She has done great service to this kingdom and this will be her crowning achievement. I'll see her efforts rewarded. Indeed, I will make sure she has her happily ever after, with all that that entails. Tell me, is she seeing anyone? Romantically."

Brin's mouth went dry. It wasn't him who was in danger of a forced marriage. "Not to my knowledge. I don't know if Lumina's 'happily ever after' includes marriage and children."

"I'm not speaking of Lumina the person, but rather Lumina the ideal. Isn't it she who calls herself the future of her people? The 'Light of Humanity'? That is the use of light, to shine the way before us so that we might see where we're going. She is an inspiration to us all. So mustn't I ensure that she inspires us in the proper direction? Towards a future that gives me the numbers to contest Prinnash. There will be nothing stopping their... baby boom. Ha! What an image."

"I see, Your Majesty," was all Brin could say.

"I knew you would. Now, one last matter, and then I can send you on your way. What would you expect to inherit, should the worst happen and Lumina were to pass? Imagine this is several years from now, after she marries into an estate," said Lancarote.

Brin wanted to object to the idea that Lumina was going to be married off in the first place, but Hogg and Lumina had been insistent that now was not the time to resist. Agree to everything. Answer every question.

Any potential suitor of Lumina’s would see Brin as an obstacle, and the [King] wanted Brin to present as small a stumbling block as possible. "Gold, perhaps, though I could manage without. I'd like to accept any sentimental or magical objects that Lumina specifically sets apart for me. I wouldn't expect to inherit anything Lumina gained from marriage, and I don't think it wise for me to own any land in..." He stopped himself from saying Frenaria. "South of the barrier mountain range."

Lancarote nodded and turned his attention back to the tree. "The correct answer. You may depart."

The influence on Brin's mind was such that his body moved and he left the garden before he'd even fully processed that the conversation was over.

Hogg's black carriage was in front of him, hopefully still holding Jeeves and Bedelia as puppets of Hogg and Lumina. He wasn't looking forward to breaking the news to them.

There was one last thing to do. Now that the [King] was out of sight, Brin latched onto the mental hooks with his authority in the Wyrd and yanked them out of his brain.