Chapter 712: Parade Plan
He slept late, as usual.
When he opened his eyes the room was lighter than his own room — different window angle, different morning — and Anna was already gone. What remained was the slight depression in the pillow beside him, a few pale strands of hair caught on his sleeve, and a faint warmth in the air that might have been the residual heat of the fireplace or something else entirely.
On the bedside table: his breakfast. A covered dish, still warm. And a note in her precise, unhurried hand:
I know you like sleeping. I’ll leave you to it. Eat before it cools.
He lay there for a moment, looking at the note, and felt something he had no particular interest in naming.
She had gotten up, as she always did, as though the same morning schedule applied regardless of what the previous night had contained. Dressed quietly, retrieved his breakfast from the kitchen, come back, put it down, written the note, and left without waking him. The water in the basin was still warm when he used it to wash his face.
He carried the dish upstairs.
Barov was already in the office when he arrived. Edith was at the window. Nightingale was in her chair by the fireplace with a picture-book — an illustrated guide to witches and their abilities that someone in the city had produced — a strip of dried fish working its way across her fingers while she read. She looked up briefly, returned her attention to the illustrations.
“You’re early,” Roland said, and sat down.
“Your Majesty.” Barov settled into his preferred posture for reporting — spine straight, papers organized on his knee. “The logistics preparation for the Southernmost Region offensive is complete. Recruitment for the reserve battalions is proceeding on schedule. The First Army will reach seven thousand soldiers by next spring. No force in the Kingdom of Graycastle has reached that scale.”
“No force in the Kingdom of Graycastle,” Edith said, from the window. The precision of the correction was entirely her own. “The opponents His Majesty needs to prepare for are not the knights and nobility of Graycastle.”
“Correct.” Roland opened the report. Iron Axe’s plan: one thousand soldiers, the force divided between five hundred veterans marching from Neverwinter and five hundred recruits already positioned at the Fallen Dragon Ridge, converging before advancing on Iron Sand City along the Silver Stream Oasis route. Two 152mm Longsong Cannons accompanying the force. Against Iron Sand City and the Sand Nation’s conventional military capacity, that was more than sufficient.
But the strategic objective wasn’t the city. Controlling the Sand Nation required winning the holy duel — the combat form their culture recognized as settling questions of legitimate authority. The First Army’s role was escort and order maintenance, the necessary frame around the decisive moment. Everything else was logistics.
The logistics were good. Barov’s office had accumulated enough accumulated experience across three actual campaigns that the details now organized themselves to a level Roland rarely had to intervene in. The situation where every supply line and ration calculation required his personal attention had been gone for some time.
“This is approved,” he said, closing the report. He looked at Edith. “You came with more than logistics.”
She moved from the window. “Iron Axe mentioned the cannon exercise you’ve planned. I have a proposal regarding it.”
“Go ahead.”
“Open it to civilian spectators.”
Barov made a sound. “The explosion scenes—”
“Will be more effective with an audience than without one.” Edith’s tone was not unkind, simply faster than his objection. “If His Majesty’s subjects witness what Neverwinter’s weapons can do — genuinely witness it, not hear about it secondhand — the effect on military enrollment enthusiasm and civil confidence will be substantial. Fright is manageable through preparation. Even fear of something becomes something different when you understand it belongs to you.”
“A God’s Punishment under His Majesty’s control,” Barov said flatly.
“Exactly.” She gave him a nod that acknowledged his phrasing without crediting the skepticism behind it. “Fief lords have held martial competitions for centuries precisely because this works. A tournament shows the subjects that their lord has capable defenders. The same principle applies here, at a larger scale.”
“Cannons are not wooden practice swords.”
“No. They’re considerably more persuasive.” She folded her hands. “Here’s how the logistics work. The city wall’s western section provides adequate viewing territory — sufficient elevation for visibility, naturally bounded. The Security Bureau marks the viewing zones and stations police at the boundaries. Admission by ticket: two silver royals. This serves two functions. First, it controls the volume — people who’ve purchased a ticket and chosen a position won’t surge unpredictably. Second, it generates operating revenue.”
She continued without pausing for the objection that hadn’t arrived yet.
“The target audience: fifteen to thirty years of age. These are Neverwinter’s primary workforce and future military eligible — the people whose confidence matters most for the next ten years of city development. City Hall officers, including department heads, should attend as a mandatory function. The Battle of Divine Will is not a conceptual threat; making it visible and manageable changes how the administration approaches it.” She paused for the first time. “I’ve drafted the ticket allocation and queue management framework if you’d like to review it.”
Roland put his breakfast fork down.
What she had assembled, without using the word, was a military parade — the functional architecture of it, scaled to what Neverwinter actually had, combined with a revenue mechanism and a civic investment calculation. This was not something that came out of the same operational tradition as everything else on his desk. This required a different kind of thinking.
The talent for military administration reform might be standing across the desk from me right now.
“Do it,” he said. “Exactly as you’ve described. Bring me the framework this afternoon.”
Edith nodded, and for a moment her expression showed the particular quality of someone whose proposal has been accepted before they expected it and who has not yet adjusted.
“I’ll have it ready.” She glanced at Barov. “With your office’s cooperation on the City Hall distribution.”
Barov looked at the fire for a moment, then at his papers, then up. “Yes,” he said, with the careful tone of a man deciding not to have the argument he’d been building toward. “Of course.”
The crowd in the square had gathered around the noticeboard.
May noticed it from half a block away, slowed, shifted the basket of Bird Beak Mushrooms to her other arm, and walked over out of the mixture of curiosity and theatrical boredom that was becoming her characteristic relationship with Neverwinter’s civic events.
A publicity agent was working the crowd in front of the board with the cheerful aggression of someone who’d been given a script and had decided to exceed it.
”— His Majesty the King is conducting an open cannon drill, three days from now, on the western section of the city wall, where Neverwinter’s defenders meet the demonic beasts face to face! Have you ever wondered what happens when Neverwinter’s finest artillery is directed at a target? Do you want to feel the shock of it — to stand inside the sound of it and know it belongs to us? Bring your identity card and two silver royals to City Hall! Qualify, purchase your ticket, and claim your seat before they’re gone! Limited spaces! The western wall! Three days!” He took a breath. “If you miss this, you’re waiting until next winter!”
May tilted her head at the noticeboard, read the formal version of what he’d just said, and allowed herself a small private expression.
This was new. She’d seen quite a few new things in Neverwinter, but she hadn’t yet encountered military exercises being sold to the public like theater tickets. Someone had thought about this with some care, she noted — the two silver royals were precisely the right amount to seem accessible to someone who could afford it and exclusive to someone who couldn’t.
Carter would want to see this. Carter would almost certainly be there regardless of tickets, standing somewhere near the front in his capacity as Chief Knight, probably trying to look professional rather than excited.
As for herself: she’d seen enough things explode in her time. She had a play to finish rehearsing and a basket of mushrooms that needed to reach the kitchen before noon.
She adjusted the basket, turned away from the crowd, and walked on.