“And doing very well at it, my lord!” Grasp interrupted.

“Yes, yes. I am aware of luxuries being smuggled in. The mud-pirates who live below must be tolerated while they are still able to bring goods that we cannot manufacture ourselves. Our scaffields have not yet cultivated a usable tea crop, and a cup of something warm is no threat.”

“Indeed.” If Grasp nodded any more, his head would fall off. The old fool didn’t half go on.

“But what else can slip in, eh?” The King paused, his eyes resting on the Councillor.

For a second, the Councillor panicked as the silence deepened. He could not stop a flush from creeping across his face like poison ivy. The two bodyguards still looked dead ahead, but was that a sudden tightening of the grip on their weapons? Had he been found out? Was this a trap? “My l-lord!” he stammered. “Nothing … erm … that is, nothing would get past Flint. He is the best.”

King Quercus waited before answering.

Maybe this was the moment. Any second, Grasp expected the heavy hand on his shoulder, the accusation, the bodyguards springing to life like two life-threatening machines.

Finally, the King sighed. “Of course. You are right. I grew up with him, you know. In a fight, he’s the one I would want by my side. I still wonder if Moss-side was the best place to put the armories.”

The young Grasp had known full well how Flint had ended the uprising. The King’s shame at such deeds in his name had been a spur for sudden inspiration. Supported by the other councillors, Grasp had suggested the general populace might feel less threatened, after the years of unrest, if their army was stationed out of sight. It also provided another benefit in that it had given Grasp more power in the capital city. This was his secret and the reason he had prospered as the King had gradually weakened. He hoped Flint would never find out.

The King’s question meant that Quercus was not about to have Grasp arrested. The Councillor pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the sudden sweat from his brow. “They can always be summoned quickly enough if there is danger….” He changed the subject. “Now, I trust the plans for the Harvest Festival are to your favor?”

“Oh please, Ambrosius, less of the formality. The plans are fine. It seems you have it all under control as usual: the music, food, security.”

If only he knew. “Don’t worry, my lord, my men are the best.”

“Good, good. Maybe this is one night when we can celebrate what we hold dear in this little kingdom of ours. Who would dare attack us on such a holly occasion, hmmm?” It would be good for his subjects to have a night off: fresh, roast timber goat, maybe even the odd deepwood boar skewered on the spit, washed down with a little too much to drink.