A Notch of Aspiration

Renard returns to his house, in an oddly tranquil state of mind after that weird encounter with Isobel.

Though not inclined to meditate on his own opinions, or even his own observations about her bizarre behaviour, he has become strangely inspired in a way that sees all these doubts as pointless.

He investigates maps of Sebilles for its counties, and which families hold claim to each region. Armed with this research, he goes to the castle and requests audience with the Queen.

She must not be busy today, as he is summoned shortly after to the throne room.

It is with incredible consternation that the Queen regards him from her throne. A puckered lip and stony eyes wrinkle her face’s composure. Renard is not a thorn so insidious as to pluck, but certainly annoying to her rule.

He’s insubordinate. He’s disloyal. He’s disrespectful. For the last decade he’s openly called her a fool and a skank, while atrociously representing Lacren as one of its knights abroad in his spiteful demeanour and conduct.

But, he is valuable. His insane success in ghoul-slaying has bolstered the region noticeably and earned him civilian, noble, and mercantile popularity, even across borders. To claim him benefits Lacren in politics, more than ousting him that another would swoop him up. So, despite everything, the Queen has continued his stipend and kept him a knight, while resigning him as too unruly to use as a hand of the state.

“Sir Renard, your presence in this hall is a rare pleasure," she speaks, her words thick with congenial sarcasm.

“Of course, my lady." Renard gives a quick bow.

“You seem in chipper spirits."

“Indeed, I’ve chipper thoughts."

“Glorious." She blinks heavily and rubs her temple. With more pleasantries back and forth, she asks what Renard wants, aware his correspondences over the past decade have all been to beg for money.

“Not today, my lady, I’ve ambition more than a pittance." He raises his finger. “It was offered to me, quite some time ago, a barony I’ve come to collect."

“A barony?"

“As offered to me by Lord Herjas, a representative of your brother’s at the time."

The Queen frowns. She knows not of the Iron King's dealings, but asserts that, even were there a barony waiting for Renard all this time, which is something she would need to scour her archives to confirm, it is still within her discernment to say whether Renard would be eligible before the crown for the title. What brings him to raise this now?

Renard thought owning a house only suitable for a noble, which is what his knighthood has made him.

The Queen leans back in her seat, surprised, but not unpleasantly.

Or are my deeds not greatly on par with those born into the blood? Renard draws Kingslayer, twirls it in a lazy arc to display his total familiarity with the blade, and smoothly sheaths it again in one motion.

No, you exceed most all as a swordsman, The Queen answers unpretentiously. You’ve also achieved greater glories, and done greater service, than many in this nation. In those terms, I’ll freely call you suitable to hold a title. However, the military skill and valour you possess is not one that necessarily translates into statecraft. Particularly, your finances — I understand they are rather poor.

“Ho, but may I invest?"

Yes, answers the Queen, grateful that he understood. The upkeep of even a small estate drains the coffers quickly, and if you haven’t income consistent enough to pay workers, you will not have the labour to sustain yourself on the land. Do not, she warns, pointing her finger, think you may tax people out of their homes so you may stay in yours. Such a position is a responsibility.

“I knew the lord of my own village; he treated us well."

The Queen holds her stern stare, then relaxes. “Good," she says, and emphasises again that alongside the tithes he would be obligated to send her, he would need to maintain industry and economy enough in the area to self-sufficiently cover his own costs of living. She falls quiet again, intensely considering him.

“Yes, yes," he dismissively states. “Where is wood, ought be axes, where is stone, ought be picks, and where is soil, ought be ploughs."

Done thinking, the Queen straightens her neck. She comments that it’s more intricate than that, but Renard seems to grasp the basic gist of what he needs to do: find what is valuable on any hypothetical land he would own, harvest it, use it, maintain it, and sell it. Bright enough, and amenable enough to the idea that she even sounds surprised herself, she announces that she’ll put serious thought into this proposal and come to a solution by the end of the week.

Though the delay irks him, Renard bows.