He awoke at precisely 7:03 A.M, every day. No earlier, no later. He rose in a smooth but slow way, like a stone sliding down a path of moss. His bed was always an otherwise empty one, and while this left a sort of a tugging sensation at the back of his mind, one that almost seemed to urge that this was a thing not quite right, it was something that Adam often forgot.
He went about his morning routine always in the same way: dressing in his favorite midnight velvet dining robe, grooming himself, and taking his morning tea (with exact amounts of mint and lemon) in his oaken chair, next to the big window that displayed the lovely garden outside. He often relished these brief moments of relaxation and quiet contemplation, though he never got much contemplating done.
Right at 9:46 A.M., one of his aides knocked on the large, mahogany door that led into his room, and Adam put down his almost-finished tea and went outside to his duties. It was convenient that his place of work was in the next room over, where his councilors and viziers were always waiting for him, dressed in their colorful and exquisitely-ornate robes of office.
Adam Quinn much relished his career as His Altitude the High Provost, Sovereign of the Republic, Defender of All that Lies Within. The list went on, of course, and it was all said whenever he entered the room, all nine pages, each page representing a year of his reign. Adam quite enjoyed thinking of new titles to give himself in preparation for his awaited tenth year.
Once the Reading of the Titles was complete, Adam sat down on his beloved blackwood Chair of Office and set to work managing the realm. Magistrates and advisers pelted him with all sorts of queries, complaints, and suggestions, and Adam took them all in, fingering the seam of his dining robe as he listened and didn't listen, waiting for the chance to speak.
"...and it is for this reason, Mr. Quinn, that we are in dire need of new sources of iron production. As it stands, our own supply is most exiguous..."
Adam brought up a hand, silencing the room. "'Exiguous'?"
The councilman, a smaller, stockier man, looked at him quizzically. "Y-Yes, sir. Exiguous."
"Whatever could that mean, dear legislator?"
The poor magistrate's left eye twitched, fearing the wrath this would undoubtedly bring. "I-I apologize profusely, High Provost, it was not my...my intention..."
Adam could hardly tolerate it. He would not permit such an errant word, enigmatic and strange. "Summon the Royal Dictionarian!" One of the aides bowed and quickly left the room.
The mood of the room changed in an instant. Most of the councilors let out soft sighs, some having experienced such an event before, others because it made no sense that there would be a Royal Dictionarian when there was no royalty. The newer councilors, oft-placed on a rotating schedule of administration, as per Adam's decree, were mostly oblivious as to what this could mean. The magistrate who first uttered that mysterious word was one of the experienced members, and moved to stop Adam in his tracks. "My dear Mr. Quinn, surely there is no need..."
He was interrupted by the opening of the main door to the modest assembly chamber, a young man of college age striding in. He was dressed in the official trappings of the Royal Dictionarian, which Adam had declared to be no different than that of any other young man of college age. What differentiated him from his peers, however, was that he carried a large leather-bound tome under his right arm - much larger and grander than any other book that young men of college age bore on city streets - which was labeled very clearly in golden calligraphy, "Royal Dictionary." The Royal Dictionarian walked over to Adam's right side and saluted. "Y-You have need of me, H-High Provost?"
Adam looked on the Royal Dictionarian fondly, reminded of how he had always wished he had held the office when he was that young, despite the fact that the position had only been brought into existence when Adam took office, much later in life. Still, he was envious of the young man's opportunity. "Royal Dictionarian, define for me the word...however was it pronounced?"
One of the younger aides, likely in an attempt to curry favor, enthusiastically spat, "'Exegesis', sir!"
An older aide, with lines of storm-cloud gray in his luxurious facial hair, groaned, "It was 'exeunt,' High Provost."
The original word-utterer, who was resigned to his inner prison of reason and logic until now, raised a stopping hand and sighed, "'Exiguous'. The word was 'exiguous'."
The Royal Dictionarian nodded excitedly and set the tome onto the large redwood Table of the Assembly, making a large slam that resonated through the nearby hallways. He deftly searched for the word, scanning through entries like a navigator plotting a course. The mood was tense, at least for Adam, as he watched the young man work, always afraid that the grand Royal Dictionary would not hold an uttered word, an event that would require either the marshaling of the entirety of the Republican military and a declaration of extreme emergency, or a summoning of the Grand Transcriber who would then add the word and its likeliest definition into the seemingly-ancient compendium. Adam found himself holding his breath, refusing to let it go as a matter of dramatic principle.
"I have found it!" The Royal Dictionarian declared, and Adam did indeed resume the act of regular respiration. The aide continued, "Exiguous, a member of the His Altitude's Adjectives..."
"A most noble group," Adam added.
"...defined in this most majestic guide as 'scanty in measure or number.' It may also be synomized as 'extremely small, diminutive, minute. So ends the definition."
Adam nodded in understanding. "I thank you for your services, Royal Dictionarian. You have once again provided me with the enlightenment that only you may provide. You may consider yourself relieved, and I bid you return to the Stacks, before they find themselves too lonely of your presence."
The Royal Dictionarian smiled and closed the Royal Dictionary. "I wish only to serve, High Provost," he said, bowing. He was then given leave to exit the room, doing so with the same stride as he entered with. Adam watched his departure, a hint of longing in his bright hazel eyes.
"That man holds more power than any other in this room. He has been given the authority to define all our language's vocabulary, whether it is as mundane as the common cobblestone, or as significant as Death Itself. On a whim, he could subtly redefine any word, and I would trust him implicitly. His is an office of honesty and truth, and yet it could bring down the very foundations of this world." Adam clasped his hands together. "A fascinating position, to be sure."
"But," Adam said as he returned his gaze to the assembled councilors, "where were we?"
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His Altitude the High Provost Adam Quinn is a character I originally planned for a steampunk campaign that I ran this past summer. Unfortunately, I had to cut out because I couldn't manage to fit him into what meager sessions I wound up having. I based the character mainly off of Auberon Quinn and Adam Wayne from G.K. Chesterton's fantastic The Napoleon of Notting Hill, hence the name. I loved the character too much to simply let him go, so I decided to write this little story. Hopefully there will be more to come.
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