At the chancellor's question, Goodwin, Æthelwulf, and Horst all shook their heads—no urgent matters required reporting.
"I—I have a proposal, Lord Chancellor."
It was Paphes, the Master of the Palace. He presented a neatly written document in both Latin and Nors. Vig skimmed it quickly.
"You need this much stone for what?"
"To repair the palace and the royal estate outside the city. His Majesty's orders."
Is that so?
Vig wasn't convinced, but after a moment's hesitation he signed and sealed the request.
With no other business raised, the first council meeting adjourned.
Orm stretched with a yawn. "My lords, I've hired an Italian cook recently—fine craftsmanship. Come to my house tonight. We'll celebrate our new Chancellor."
Colleagues drifted away.
Vig looked over the two approved documents again, then returned to Ragnar for confirmation.
"Good. Carry out what's written," the King said, stamping them before walking off, yawning.
Both queens exchanged glances and followed him with a trail of maids and guards, leaving Vig alone in the great hall—momentarily dazed.
Wait… as Chancellor and Treasurer… where exactly is my office?
Still confused, he stepped outside and found a small, thin Anglo clerk waiting, holding a stack of files under one arm.
"My lord, I am Loch—your secretary."
He wore a respectable black robe with an emerald brooch.
His pale hair was combed meticulously; his nose was sharp; the faint curve of his lips looked like a smile—but his eyes definitely were not.
Following him, Vig walked toward the western wall of the palace.
There, a small guarded gate led them out.
They crossed a drawbridge, followed a narrow road, and finally reached a stone-walled compound.
"This is your Chancellery Residence."
Inside the courtyard, white-blossomed clover (a variety of trefoil) spread across the ground—half-dormant and slightly yellowed.
"The former Chancellor preferred clover—easy to maintain. If you dislike it, the gardeners can replace it with calendulas, roses, lilies, irises—"
Like reciting a menu, Loch listed flowers endlessly until Vig raised a hand.
"No need. The clover is fine."
Loch pointed to a two-story building on the south side.
"That is the main house—your residence and office."
Then he gestured toward the long row of cottages on both sides.
"I saw more than forty followers with you at the palace gate. These rooms should be more than sufficient."
"Bring them over," Vig said, stepping into the main building.
He handed Loch the two approved documents. "His Majesty signed these. What's next?"
Loch grimaced, offering a polite yet pained smile.
"Well… a small piece of bad news. The treasury is empty."
Damn it.
Sensing the sudden spike in anger, Loch flinched like a startled sheep and hurried to explain:
"Please don't worry. Before his passing, the former Chancellor negotiated a loan.
A merchant is waiting in the guest room. I shall bring him—"
He had taken only two steps when Vig grabbed the back of his collar.
"Not so fast. I'm the Treasurer as well. I need a full picture of the kingdom's finances."
Savage Viking…
Loch cursed internally—outwardly too terrified to show irritation.
"Last year, royal income was eight thousand pounds. Expenses reached twenty thousand.
The deficit totals twelve thousand.
"Of that:
— regular expenditures were around eight thousand, roughly equal to income.
— ten thousand went to the northern campaign: supplies, overtime pay, rewards for Nordic nobles.
— the last two thousand funded the reorganization of the Household Warriors.
Their armor and weapons were heavily damaged during the expedition and needed replacement."
A cold premonition crept into Vig's chest.
"So… we owe twelve thousand already.
Does the treasury not keep reserves?"
Loch shook his head.
"No. His Majesty is generous by nature.
When hunting, he often gives coins to poorly clothed peasants—sometimes sits to drink with them.
If guests come from afar, he hosts lavish feasts.
The former Chancellor tried to restrain him many times… to no avail."
Resigned, Vig went to the upstairs study to receive the merchant.
The man's name was Sancho—an elder of the Berber Trading Guild and the largest spice dealer in Londinium.
"Lord Chancellor, do you still remember me?"
"I do. I bought spices from your shop—until your Rus competitors smashed it." Vig invited him to sit and firmly refused any gifts.
Sancho's terms:
— a loan of 2,000 pounds
— five-year repayment
— interest of 1,500 pounds
— plus expansion of the guild's premises to twice their current size
"Any chance you could lower that?"
Sancho refused outright. So Vig threatened to borrow from the Rus guild instead—who would surely jump at the chance to expand their presence and undermine the Berbers.
Under pressure, Sancho grudgingly reduced total interest to 1,300 pounds.
"For cross-country lending, that is the lowest possible."
The agreement was written in Arabic, Latin, and Nors.
Vig signed with mixed emotions—never thought his first day in office would involve taking out loans.
"I'll fetch the silver from the guild myself," Sancho said.
With permission granted, Loch followed him out.
Vig remained in the study, poring over Pascal's final fiscal reports.
A long time passed before a knock came at the door.
Utgard and Sebert Stormwind entered.
"My lord, we've settled in. What are your orders?"
Utgard—knight of Glasgow—had been appointed Captain of the Chancellor's Guard for his rigid, reliable temperament.
Sebert was a civil official, accompanied by twelve clerks forming Vig's private staff.
"I've warned you all enough times already—avoid trouble.
Utgard, take charge of security.
Sebert, start accounting review—focus on last year's expenditures."
He pointed at an enormous chest stuffed with receipts and records.
Sebert scratched his head with a wry smile.
"Master… this feels like old times.
When four classmates and I went to Dublin to help Ivar with his ledgers."
At his complaint, Vig rubbed his tired eyes.
"The training courses last year emphasized this:
Taxation and finance are the foundation of any ruling power.
As Chancellor, I'll be buried in numbers whether I want to or not. Pascal probably worked himself to death doing this.
So I'll need you to shoulder as much as you can."
—------------------------------
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