The library was full of books unpublished in Peterny, detailing the histories of Britaca’s tributaries, the Ten Castles – eight, since Peterny had taken over Plock and Worster within two years of their creation. Matthard tried to read them, but too many of the books were on people killing one another, horrible betrayals, complicated politics, and he gave up after the third beheading, deciding that Plock and Worster had been lucky to be invaded while there was still hope for their civilians. Landria had started off with a good king in Macleese and so had some of the other Castles, but most were ruled by corrupt or insane officials.
Treburn fared worst, with a king who had decided to marry a duck and appoint a family of swans as his chief executioner, treasurer, and royal advisors. Britaca had wisely avoided confronting him, probably because their last messenger had returned covered in beak bites.
That, unfortunately, had been the most entertaining part of the book Matthard had tried to read. Everything after that was beheadings and Matthard had trouble enjoying those. He tried talking to Ire, but the younger man was deeply involved in his reading, surfacing only when Matthard asked where the privy bucket was, or if they could yell at the peasants in line from here. He ignored all questions about the election and Matthard decided that was a telling ignorance.
“If I win, what will you do?” he asked. In the past hour, he had adopted the phrase ‘if I win,’ though he didn’t particularly want to think about what would happen if he did.
“Oh, clap, I suppose,” Ire said distantly, turning a page.
“Any special services? Ceremonies?”
“I suspect we’ll elect you with a funny circular hat and people will swear their swords and services and codpieces at you.”
“I think that’s for kings.”
“Is it? I’ve never known the difference.” Another page turn. Ire was a suspiciously fast reader.
