The private chambers of Dublin's high seat were quiet. The room had once belonged to Viking jarls, adorned with pagan talismans meant to ward off sea-curses.
Ragnar had cleared them all out.
In their place were three lanterns, casting a white illumination across detailed topological charts, production ledgers, and architectural drafts.
Ragnar sat back in a high-backed chair, his collar unbuttoned, cleaning the cylinder of his revolver with an oiled linen cloth.
A soft knock rattled the door.
"Enter," Ragnar called out without looking up.
The door swung open, and Richard stepped into the room.
Behind the Frankish tactician walked three native Irishmen from Dublin.
Unlike the mud-caked peasants of the rural cantons, these men were dressed in clean, tailored woolen tunics.
They carried massive armfuls of sheepskin scrolls and ledgers, their faces pale.
