Marquis Urik allowed his dazed eyes to pursuing the rather complicated contents of the reports page, grey optics half-lidded with boredom as his astute brain quickly and efficiently compartmentalized the information held therein. The subject of the page was not really so important; some minor courtier was arguing for increased revenue in his district to build a more efficient well management system. Urik mentally crunched the numbers: they didn't add up. What was more likely was the man was looking for noble money to continue funding whatever drunken guests he found most entertaining on the cold Whiteland evenings. A swift stroke of the pen later and the request was denied, with an addendum to send inspectors out to view the progress on the [i]last[/i] project the man had requested money for. Urik now had his doubts that project had ever gotten off the ground. Sadly these days the enormous amount of corruption in the Whitelands was almost untenable, with most of it stemming from the courtiers and minor nobles; men of influence were smart enough to avoid the marquis' mighty pen. That was, unless, they were working for him. 

Shutting the report Urik side-desked it, wiry fingers delving underneath the various papers that littered his desk for a second bound notebook. The particular book was much more intricately designed than the one he'd previously set down. For one thing it was actually bound and the front contained a series of burnt-in designs depicting the sprouting and growth of an enormous flower. To the Marquis his day-job as Master of the Exchequer was really just a sometimes interesting diversion from what he actually did hour-to-hour: enrich himself beyond everyone's imagination. 

He'd started small at first, skimming a little here and there from public projects. The real problem with the system and the reason there was so much corruption was because there was very little oversight built into it. It was basically just Urik and his retinue of maybe twelve men accounting for the finances of an entire demosne; things tended to get lost or forgotten rather easily. Over time Urik had learned to use this to his advantage. He wasn't really accountable to anyone. Maybe the Duke dropped by every now and then to ask how things were going and to see if he had enough money to keep up his various military endeavors but there was not really anything beyond that. But then again, how could there be? Being Master of the Exchequer was an extremely taxing affair which left time for little else; the only way Urik was able to get away from his scheming and still have time for other things was because his scheming was merely a function of his larger position. It was too time intensive for the Duke or his family to get involved, ergo the creation of Urik's position in the first place.

The particular tome in the Marquis' hands detailed the extent of his treachery, basically being a log of the otherwise unaccounted for money flow which traveled beneath the lazy eye of the ducal kingdom. The Marquis himself in some cases stoked or looked over corruption, but only when those involved thoroughly swore their allegiance directly to the Gallatin family. By now he and his brother, Gerrik, had managed to build up quite the extensive network of clients and friends though it was still nowhere large or overt enough to be a threat to the Duke or his family. Gallatin supposed this was probably why no-one had discovered it yet. That and his extensive network of spies and informants who worked to prevent that very thing from happening. 

Controlling the purse strings had made Marquis Urik a powerful, cunning, and deadly man.

Before Urik could venture any further into his duplicitous affairs a knock on the door roused him from his reverie. The Marquis casually placed the book back beneath a nearby pile of papers before summoning the servant inside; he wasn't much worried about the items discovery, it contained a long series of vague mathematical notes which would be next to impossible to decipher without foreknowledge of what one was reading and beyond that most of the actual words within were written in a sort of short-hand code. 

[i]"Marquis Urik, an urgent message from his lordship the Regent of Whitelands. [/i] With a bow the servant approached and gave to Urik a small, wrapped scroll. Unfurling it the now Lord of the Castle reviewed his orders. Hm', how fortuitous. Urik had long been aware of the delicate balance of power which had been maintained, sometimes violently, between his own home of Whitelands and their neighbor the Forklands. To see that another bloody set of skirmishes was about to break out was not particularly surprising. Actually, for the Marquis it was quite fortunate. The chaos of a campaign could allow him to expand his network even further; perhaps now was the time to begin garnering more overt support? The Weade dynasty was beginning to weaken, the death of Rikard and his second son Joakim's inability to be a charismatic leader were certain signs. Even experience men like the late Duke's brother Favrin were seen by some as pushovers; Favrin had not even tried to establish his own sphere of influence in the death of his brother, even though he was the most experienced candidate. Dissatisfaction would come to many soon after the news of Rikard's death broke; the transitioning of royal power was delicate and could be easily disrupted.

The first thing to do would be to begin sowing doubt. There were a fair number of religious men in the Whitelands and Urik intended to start there. Dismissing the servant Urik began work on a new piece of parchment, scrawling upon it orders for a friendly mystic, friendly to Urik at least, to accompany the train of Joakim and do his best to upset the various supernatural entities which obviously shaped the course of human destiny. This done, the unmarked and unsigned document could be handed off to a loyal spy and dispatched post-haste. Leaning back Marquis Urik allowed his serptine lips to curl into a cunning smile, all but forked tongue flickering behind the facade of steadfast loyalty. His time was coming. . .