The Royal Workflow

A light look at how corporate bureaucracy would fare in a medieval kingdom.

“Page!” The King was tired and impatient after sifting through the requests from his moronic subjects and even more moronic ambassadors. Irritably, he sealed the last response he was going to write that night. He was fighting a losing battle against paperwork and longed to be out on the battlefield. No one wrote tales of how well kings plowed through paperwork. “Page!”

“Yes, sire?” The young page breathlessly scurried into the study and sank to a knee.

“Page, take this letter to the new ambassador of Wellsbury and then take your leave for the evening.”

“Yes, sire. But what is its nature?”

“Its nature, page? That is not of your concern. Now deliver it.”

“But, sire,” the page pulled a scroll from his belt and began unrolling it, “the Master Scribe has decreed that each correspondence be coded with a sigil from this list based on its nature.” He showed the king a seemingly endless list of pictograms. “Then both the sigil and the date and time of delivery will be placed into a new machine he has created called a Dater Base. With that information, he will always be able to reference the nature and delivery time of the document. He says that when angry nobles or indignant neighboring warlords coming banging on our doors, we can reach inside the Dater Base and provide proof of the nature and delivery of the correspondence. He says we will save a fortune on beheading axes and pikemen, sire.”

“Oh, very well then,” the King sighed. It was late and he wasn’t opposed to keeping his royal fortune in his coffers whenever possible. “The letter is a declination of the Duke of Wellsbury’s request for my daughter’s hand in marriage. Now go so I can get some sleep.”

“Thank you, sire.” The page shuffled out scanning the scroll of sigils with the letter under his arm. The King began to get ready for bed.

But there was a knock at the door not a minute later.

“Yes!” The King growled.

“Sire, the page needs to see you urgently,” a guard called from outside his door.

“Oh, bollocks. Send him in.” He couldn’t have gotten all the way to the ambassador’s quarters, the King thought.

“Sire, I’m sorry,” the confused page said, “but there is no sigil on this list for declining a duke’s request for your daughter’s hand. See, here, there’s a declination of knighthood, a declination of amnesty, a declination of the use of pig’s droppings in the Royal Garden, but nothing about hands in marriage, sire. The Master Scribe says that no letter can be delivered without the proper sigil or we lose our jobs and three of our fingers.” The page was severely distressed.

“Well, page,” the King scrubbed his fingers over his tired face, “what do you propose that we do? Not deliver the letter?”

“Yes, sire. Tomorrow is Sunday, so the Master Scribe will be out visiting his daughter in the country, but I’m sure on Monday, when he returns, he can review the list of sigils and create an appropriate mark. Monday’s are very busy days in general, and this week especially because of the festival, but I’m sure we can have your letter delivered by Thursday at the latest.”

“Page, the Ambassador returns to Wellsbury tomorrow and will not return for a month.”

“Well, sire, we can most definitely have it for him in a month.”

Despite his best efforts at composure, the King’s jaw dropped. “You will deliver that letter immediately, page.” A menacing tone seeped into his voice.

“Sire, I can’t. It’s called the Workflow, and we must stick to it perfectly or our fingers…you know.” The page was near tears.

“Guards!” The King cried, “Get me the Master Scribe immediately!” The page stood, shaking.

“Yes, sire, you wanted to see me?” The Master Scribe was roughly shoved through the door a few minutes later still wearing his night cap and robe.

“Is this Workflow and Dater Base sorcery talk accurate?” the King demanded.

“Well, yes, sire. It is very important for the Royal Records and the High Tribunal and their Army of Law Clerks have found that undeniable proof is needed in their highly prestigious Lity Gate Shons. I have no choice but to uphold them or they will take one of my fingers, sire.”

“Guard! See that the Master Scribe no longer fears for the safety of his little finger.”

Ring. Slice. Thump. The Master Scribe’s head hit the floor and the guard re-sheathed his sword.

“Page, in your workflow, who does it say decides which sigil to use in the case of the Master Scribe’s death?”

The page pulled out another scroll and scanned it feverishly with trembling fingers. “It says here, that the King does, sire.”

“Good. Use that one there. You are dismissed.”

Author's Note

Eh, I dunno what to tell you. Just make something up.

Reviews

[Mr Whiskers]

I like the way you're thinking! Liking the use of medieval kingdom to portray what would otherwise be much less worthy of the time to read it. Being a fan of making things into what they aren't myself, I give you kudos sir.