Week Thirty-Two
Breken was dead, killed at a reach by Kalamite. Kalamite, too, was dead, fallen from the high walkway between the towers. Now Boddy sat on the legere-chair in the Witan Chamber. But he curled his lip at what surrounded him. Gold. Murky’s Curse. Yet rather would he have that gold displayed here, to brighten the cold stone chamber, than to have it hoarded by the lafarden, to be hidden away in their subterranean vaults.
Even more than the gold Boddy disapproved of this enthroning ceremony. The idea of people bowing and offering him obeisance—Yeah-zo! After all he’d said of his uncle. But as Disa had said when he’d erupted, spewing forth his adamant refusal, they’d not be bowing to him. It was the legere-chair they honoured. For that chair, so she’d said, held a power relayed in turn to every lafard-legere who legally sat up it.
“Amend that, sweet scholar,” he’d bitten back. “Not ‘lafard-legere’, but the king who sits on the chair.”
“Ay, well,” she’d allowed, shoulders seductively swaying. “But king or lafard-legere, the lafarden submit to he who sits upon the chair, and he who sits upon it must then in return accept responsibility for them.”
Ghats and rats, man, he’d not liked that either. It took Mikel Awis most of a day to explain it.
More.. https://crimsonprose.wordpress.com/2014/12/23/roots-of-rookeri-51/

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