The phrase 'shot in the dark' had never held much weight to the ifrit, not with his supernatural sight. Even so, he suspected this was what the ordinary person meant by it; he pawed at the floor like a blind man, trying to grab hold or even just brush against their invisible prey. Futile. Riveh's mind leapt at another expression, namely that of herding cats. Wrestling with a feline was difficult enough, but one invisible to the naked eye? His fingers simply traced lines in the light dust.
And yet. For a brief second it was as if he touched something. Except the something wasn't in his sense of touch, but rather in the arcane charge thrumming within his hand. It felt almost sluggish, like it had trouble following his limb. He could actually see it as well: the inky black sparks fluttering from his fingers drifted ever so slightly askance, like candle smoke from a drafty window.
No sooner had he noted this strange magical resistance before it was gone.
"Field assessment: The agent is gone," Factor-12 confirmed, not overly helpfully. "I still register its foul Chaos emissions. It has left through the kitchen. Query: Shall I pursue?"
A visibly annoyed Trant moved to do just that when the knight spoke. "I've had enough feelin' like a blind pup searchin' for tit on a shag carpet, thanks. This is pointless. F*ckin' fleabags can go unseen whenever they want. They ain't fightin' unless they're lookin' for a fight. Gotta either provoke them or hem them in. Which brings us back to findin' their nest."
Whilst speaking, he picked up the arrow he'd just fired, inspected it, shrugged and apparently deciding that it'd manage another flight, returned it to its quiver. He then turned back towards the simple wooden door, the one supposedly leading to the cellar.
"Speakin' of. Orb, you said the trail leads here?"
"Correction: I am designated Factor-12. But yes. The quintessence has faded, but while still visible the particles led to the portal."
Stig reached for the door handle and found it did not give. Locked?
"You, woman," he addressed the elf-blooded seneschal. "You have a key for this? Why does a cellar door even need a lock? What's down there?"
"I... am designated Onara Piscum, if you wouldn't terribly mind." The wry bit of humor lightened the small dusty space, just a bit. "The basement is mostly just used for storage, but there is a wine cellar, hence the lock. I have a key here meant for the cook."
She retrieved her key ring again and began rifling through it. And then rifled through it some more. On her third pass through the metal hoop she looked up to Riveh, an anxious tinge to the heavy eyes. "Sir, I swear this held a cellar key, but it's gone."
So the feline trio were thieves in addition to being squatters.
"No other key is missing. But the master key I gave you should open the door."
A kicked-in door didn't have to be added to everything else broken in his manor this evening, then. Small blessings.
Disappointment. Even Riveh's flare of anger was quashed by a black wave of failure. Humiliation. Defeated by a group of cats. Granted, apparently intelligent, magical fey in the form of cats but still. It was galling.
Riveh felt the master key in his hand and looked at the locked cellar door. Was it really wise to keep pushing though? Sometimes, as a wise man once said, you have to know when to hold 'em, and know when to fold 'em.
The ifrit looked up at his dirty and clearly frustrated comrades, and Piscum. "Well, things have not gone so well. Clearly I wasn't expecting to have to clear a house of very stubborn and slippery fey creatures." A heavy sigh, "I think we are going to have to call it a night here, unfortunately. Not only is there the actual danger here, but we have commitments for tomorrow."
He looks around the dirty pantry, "I can't imagine any of us want to stay in a haunted house? The cats might leave us alone but....they also probably won't. I don't think I can sleep waiting for a cat to drop an wrought-iron candelabra on me."
"So unless someone else has a brilliant idea, I suggest we retire, give the fey the victory for the day and get some sleep."
"Oh, what flavor of nut-brown piss are you pouring down my ear now?"
It was almost theatrical, the way the pseudo-knight looked down to the floor in grumbling, as if the Dark Prince himself was the architect of his every misfortune. He still held onto the door handle. Stig lifted his balding head to glare at his young 'ward' with all the frustration of a schoolmaster hearing his very slowest student's reading. Not that Riveh believed the man to have ever set foot inside a school; no, he just looked ready to reach for a cane. "Pampered little sh*t that you are, I nevertheless hoped that you'd grasped the basics of killin' by now. My mistake. Why retreat when the fleabags are on the run? Kill 'em or drive them off, we..."
"Cautionary: Master, I advise against this course of action," Factor-12 interrupted, its trumpet-voice amplified in the small space.
"Great, now you have me agreein' with the machine..." Stig groused. The aforementioned machine took no heed of him, again. "Pacifying praise: While the Master is so very wise and his chassis [*INSERT SUPERLATIVE*] attractive, it will not do to let these abominations live. Agents of Chaos must be terminated wherever found lest space, time along with all accompanying universes with dimensions be undone. I strongly suggest aggression."
Riveh did not budge. It wasn't the first time he'd disappointed these two and he knew it wouldn't be the last, but they'd just have to live with it. This wasn't Andoran; this wasn't a democracy. Even if only nominally, the ifrit was leader of not just their little ragtag group, but all the land stretching some miles around them, however miserable. He had to learn how to put his foot down, for appearances sake's if nothing else.
Gods, speaking of, how had this whole excursion looked to Piscum? Even putting aside the constant backtalk from supposed subordinates, failing to reclaim the ancestral home couldn't make for a good impression. Surely tonight hadn't earned him his sheriff's confidence.
A bit of a surprise then when the sensible looking woman gave him a sensible nod. "For what it's worth, I agree with my lord. You said it yourself, Sir Knight: the fey are notoriously wily. There's no telling what they'll do - nor what defenses they've set up - in protecting their den. You are all tired from your travels. Perhaps this is a confrontation that can wait."
Whilst said knight grumbled further, Riveh's eye reflexively roved over to the Dame, she being the only one of them yet to voice any thought on the matter. She merely frowned at catching his look, crossing her arms in spitting out two flat syllables true to her new sullen self: "Whatever."
Well, that settled that then.
----------
One person without any say in proceedings was Silas the coach driver and he knew it. The humble man hadn't contributed beyond holding aloft a lantern, and this was the role he maintained even now as they all exited the manor. No sooner had the door been closed behind them before he dared a clearing of the throat, meekly announcing that he had something to say.
"Am I to understand then, milord, that I'm on retainer?"
Oh right, Silas was merely an oblivious third party only contracted by Martella to get them to Meratt. His job was done, complete and finished. But seeing as old Aliss Betony's staff was long disbanded, Riveh found himself in need of a regular driver. Huh, add that to his long list of what needed doing: finding an entire house staff. And here'd they'd been talking as if reaching their appointment tomorrow was a foregone conclusion. Did Riveh want to hire Silas?
"Well, milord, I'm getting on in years, and have been thinking o' settling down. Steady work as part of a lord's retinue would suit me just fine, thank you kindly. Granted, Stachys isn't quite what I hoped for - apologies, ma'am," he said nodding to Onara Piscum, "but Meratt is a right peaceful place not likely to get caught up in... the recent troubles. So I'd happily accept if you'll have me, milord."
At least the ifrit had someone's confidence. He wondered how much of that was due to him more or less saving his life back in Prusa.
"Lotheedar is what, some twenty miles from here?"
"Twenty-two," Piscum nodded to the old man.
"Hm." The wrinkled brow gained a few more creases. "Horses haven't had their rest. We'll have to rise early, I'm afraid, but we'll make it for supper, milord."
All the more important, then, that they hit the sack as soon as feasibly possible. Where might say idiomatic sack be, anyway? Following the elf-blooded woman's lead, the group trekked (in one case floated) back to the village, the dark manor house at their back. Knowing now its secret, it appeared not half as foreboding as when they first approached it, yet doubly vexing. Tactical or otherwise, Riveh recognized his own step as a retreat.
If only it led to some refuge. Gods, this village. Most modest of mercies, at least Stachys was small. He didn't have to walk its streets-turned-mud trails too long before reaching their destination. Granted, it felt plenty long with Trant glaring daggers at him every step of the way, she having to continually lift the hem of her dress lest it be ruined, something she evidently blamed him for personally. Even so, her glare might be preferable to those others he felt prickling his skin like so many pins. It was late now, but those same stares the ifrit had spied when first arriving - suspicious looks from behind curtained windows and down filthy alleys - were still about and bore on him now. Worse still, he couldn't shake the feeling that they delighted in his misfortune. The young, handsome Betony heir, here to claim his birthright - now slinking back in retreat.
"Like a regular walk of shame the morning after, eh girl?" Stig muttered, he having noted the gloating as well.
"What's a walk of shame?" she asked mistrustfully.
The air of maliciousness, vague as it was, only added to the misery that was Stachys. They reached their destination not a moment too soon. The destination in question turned out to be the same larger building Riveh had first seen the seneschal emerge from; they were back at the town square. It appeared to be in relatively better repair than its neighboring hovels even if a section of its thatched roof appeared sunken in. It looked nothing so much like a squat one-story tavern, and he realized it was just that upon spying a much faded sign hung over the door. The discolored imagery depicted a woman rising out of water - as near as he could tell - with a name beneath: the Maid in Splendor.
"Pete!" Piscum suddenly called out in a voice decidedly more forceful than any she had used with them. She was apparently addressing a bearded man on the other side of the street. Riveh recognized him too; the old gaffer had been here when they'd first arrived. His amusement was unmistakable even beneath the brier of a beard. "Go to bed! If you don't close those eyes soon, they'll roll out at all this excitement!"
He gave a huff of delight.
"Forgive me, Sir," the professional Piscum went on, slipping in and out of demeanor like a snake did its skin. "We should get inside. It will be an early morning."
Once through its creaking door, the Maid in Splendor looked like so many other Taldan taverns the ifrit had seen on his journey through the nation's heartland. Which wasn't so much surprising as it was disconcerting; had there been a time when a decent tavern hadn't looked out of place in this pigpen of a village? Still, it was clear that the place hadn't served its intended purpose for years.
"It smells in here." Trant summed up her assessment in as brutally simple a fashion she managed combat. Even worse was that she wasn't wrong. The stench of mildew was no milder here than it was outside.
"My... apologies, my lady. I hope it will do for the night, or at least until we sort out the fey. If you'd follow? I'll have to bring out the linen, but the back rooms should suffice."
Oh dear. Riveh hadn't known Piscum long, but ever businesslike as she was in demeanor, any deviation from that norm stood out so much more strongly. And if his eyes weren't deceiving him, a blush of genuine shame reddened the older woman's cheeks at Trant's words. It faded as quickly as it had come; he wasn't sure if anyone else had noticed.
Knowing his companions, would anyone else care?
"Actually, my lord, could I delay your rest just a bit further?" What was this now? "I was hoping we could discuss that small matter I mentioned earlier? Somethings you should know as lord of Stachys."
Oh, right. Imminent dragon attack. Restless undead. Plague and famine. Unpaid taxes. Whatever else could make his station here more wretched.
The path back to Stachys seemed twice as long as it had on their way up toward the manor home. Defeat had a way of lengthening the miles. Giving up had been bad, but to hear the contempt in Stig's voice.....true, the knight was always voicing his contempt (often in interesting and colorful ways) but this time, it bit deep. Riveh had failed right out of the gate on their new mission.
It did not bode well for Lotheed.
The ifirit was feeling so sorry for himself, he barely said much to Silas despite the driver being a stalwart and worthy companion, deserving of praise and conversation. Riveh only roused himself for the bare minimum to confirm keeping him on. Hopefully he could find the money to pay the man....
At least the Maid in Splendor seemed more disused then outright rotting. Which was actually far better then Riveh had expected. A relic of better times perhaps? Still, at least they wouldn't have to literally sleep in the mud. Trant should have kept that in mind while she was griping about the smells.
His mood slipped more when his supposed seneschal (had he seen any papers or documentation about that yet?) mentioned the 'small matter'. If it involved this cesspool of a village, he doubted it was good. Probably not a gold strike or emerald mine.
Still, he was the Lord of this place, even if under a different name. Shaking himself out of his doldrums a bit he said, "Of course. Best to get such things out in the open, whatever they are."
"Could we step aside?"
The elf-blooded woman indicated the darkened common room of the tavern with a tense brow. There was a lot to be read in that brow, none of it good. How much further did this sinkhole go? Riveh was not in the mood for more bad news. The village better not be sitting on an actual sinkhole.
Stig, Trant and Factor-12 ambling off on a hunt for bedsheets, Piscum and himself came to a stop before the cold, dead hearth. The fireplace, what should be a place of comfort for locals and visitors, looked nothing so much like a great starving maw. If the hearth was the heart of a house, the Maid in Splendor formed one large corpse about them all.
"Forgive me, but..."
The honorary seneschal paused to cross her arms, not in hostility nor for warmth, the ifrit recognized, but to encourage herself: a hug of her own making. Oh dear, whatever it was she had to say, it was going to be bad, huh? This felt doubly apparent given Piscum's conduct so far, cool and sensible as any capital office clerk. Now she looked to him with those heavy eyes of hers and looked worried. Such a strange contrast - heavy lids weighed by all too human mortality over eyes bright with elven immortality, a shade of cyan never afforded any pure-blooded human.
"... I don't know much about you, Sir. Lotheedar told me little but to expect you. I understand you wield some magic, but... do you have any experience in management or husbandry?"
Well, this certainly marked a perfect cap to the evening: disappointing his local second-in-command.
"I mean no ill will, Sir, but I would hear your intent for the community if you would. I admit I had certain hopes with the arrival of a new Lord Betony - that we could right all that has ailed Stachys since Lady Aliss's passing. And the Lotheeds rise to power."
Riveh idlily drums his fingers on the unadorned, rough wooden mantlepiece. He (barely) manages to hold in a defeated sigh as Psicum says "I had certain hopes" which makes it pretty plain his current showing had dashed them. Hardly a way to boost his spirits after a long and unsuccessful day. Maybe Martella's and the Princess's hopes for him had been in vain from the start?
Riveh shakes his head slowly, "Management or husbandry?" The young ifrit looked around the musty common room, cold and dead. "I must confess, seneschal" This last word is laced with a fair bit of spite, "I think the problems go a bit deeper then crop rotation or lack of breeding stock." Not that Riveh really knew what crop rotation was exactly, but he overheard it in a tavern once and thought it sounded relevant.
"Perhaps before we venture further, you can tell me exactly what happened here. What has happened to Stachys. Your words, and even this inn, indicate that this was not always the state of affairs? Some plague? Infestation of insects? Magical crop failure?" Not that Riveh had really seen any crops so far, just mud and untended trees. Still, it felt good to throw the accusations in the other direction for a change.
Make Piscum defend this muddy collection of hovels.
There it was again: shame bloomed on the lined cheeks like fire in a worn furnace, the only warmth in this relic of a tavern. No, that wasn't quite true, the ifrit realized a moment later: there was a spark or two behind the heavy eyes lit at his words as well. Laying the burden of guilt at her feet, however flippantly, had apparently rattled ever-professional Piscum, enough so that for the briefest moment he wasn't sure what to expect beneath the mask: remorse or fury.
He would have to keep guessing. For whatever it was that stuck in the woman's craw, she took a moment to very literally swallow it - a gulp heard in the silent space - before uttering, "My apologies, Sir. I forget my place."
There was a note of defeat in the dry muttering. She cleared her throat before continuing.
"You're right of course." And just like that Riveh felt like he was five years old again, being patronized to avoid a temper tantrum; Piscum was trying a different tack with her new lord. "The hamlet's troubles are both administrative and material. To begin with the latter: the marshland. Yes, Sir, you are correct. This was not always the case. The swamp is new."
The surrounding swampland was new? What did that even mean? This wasn't exactly like the odd dandelion sprouting in one's walkway after a neglectful summer. How did swamps just spring into existence?
"The Stachys spur," the elf-blooded woman answered. The what now? "The lowland that was to become Stachys was drained of water and connected to the national canal system through the Stachys spur over a millenia ago. This was accomplished through a great groundwater pump, a system that lasted centuries. I'm told that its magic failed just one hundred years ago."
The sheer wonder of Taldor's infrastructure feats, still the envy of other nations, were easy to forget when they made the basis of one's daily life. By now, Riveh had travelled a fair part of the road network that crossed the entire country, connecting every hovel to every metropolis, and had found more to despair over than admire, what with the shoddy state of what should rightly be called one of the wonders of the world. No less impressive was the nation's canal system making it possible to traverse the heartland by ship as well as carriage. Now he was being told that said canals were also once used for environmental engineering, turning marshes into farmland. Yet another point of pride for the jewel of civilization.
Yet another reminder of how far they had fallen.
"Even without its magical engine, the pump was still worked with teams of oxen, Sir. But in the end, just a year after Lady Betony's passing, the mechanism itself broke. The land has grown increasingly flooded since. Hence, you see, the swamp."
The shadows of the dusky tavern only added to the seneschal's dour look. His land was turning into a muddy morass because of a broken pump? Surely it could be fixed? "It's a complicated piece of machinery from a bygone age, Sir, requiring expert knowledge to repair. I have made the requisition for aid regarding the pump to the Count Lotheed, former and current..." (a sigh, forlorn as only one's own folly can be) "... fourteen times. Fourteen times over the years before I... conceded that no help would be coming. Twelve times with Mercater Lotheed. He gave empty assurances, excuses for delays and obstacles. When his son, the Count Bartleby Lotheed, took the seat, I allowed myself the naivete to hope and contacted him. I did so twice. He didn't even have the curtesy to lie. He never responded."
No blood wringed out of wormwood had ever tasted so bitter as the tone escaping Piscum's tongue. And not without reason; was Riveh to understand that Stachys had simply been abandoned by its own administration? Why? Yes, the Lotheeds had their own hamlet to govern, but without any Betonys surely that responsibility fell onto the de facto rulers of the county. Whatever the reasoning behind this, even cool and collected Piscum couldn't hide her hostility at the fact. It was exactly this she referred to as she forcefully relaxed a clenched jaw to say:
"I beg your forgiveness, Sir. I forget myself yet again. We are of course grateful for the capable leadership of House Lotheed." The ifrit had heard more convincing acting from prostitutes. "But I hope you understand that these circumstances have fostered a deal of mistrust in Stachys for our betters."
Ah. Well, that would go a way in explaining the townspeople's reaction to his, the new Lord Betony's, arrival. What remained of them, anyway.
"Yes, Sir," the seneschal confirmed, "increasing numbers left for other villages over the years as the marsh steadily claimed their farmland. There was nothing left for them. But the troubles go beyond even that." Oh joy. "I described the hamlet's pains as partly administrative. And this is just it: we effectively have no administration. All... power, economic and legal, runs through the aristocracy, and a hamlet's ruler acts as its gateway to that power. Without a lord, governance should have defaulted either to the seneschal - under the scrutiny of a higher power - or to the higher power itself, that being the Lotheeds. Neither happened here. Farmers here couldn't get a fair price for their produce because I was denied the authority to enter trade agreements. Basic civic maintenance couldn't be approved because Stachys wasn't recognized as a legitimate domain under any name, Betony or Lotheed. We live in a legal limbo. In every practical sense we... we haven't truly been part of the Taldan Empire for the past two decades." The fine brow hardened into a scowl. "Not that this has stopped the Lotheeds from collecting taxes from us."
Oh dear. Had anyone known? Had Martella or the Princess had the faintest idea just how dire the straits of this innocuous village were when they had dumped it onto his lap? Because the ifrit was slowly understanding that he had quite the work cut out for him.
But this was it, then? As the false Lord Betony he had effectively inherited a dead hamlet. Surely there wasn't any more brown runoff to this fecal waterfall of a day? Surely?
Nary had he voiced the thought before that guilty look snuck its way back onto the woman's features.
"Well, Sir," she began, slowly, ire towards the nobility that had abandoned the community turning inside-out to point at herself. "I outlined how conventional farming became either untenable or unprofitable here, leading to an exodus from the village. For this reason... for the sake of their livelihoods, those people that remain found themselves with few options but to turn to... alternative crops."
Riveh didn't have to ask. A clearly dismayed Onara Piscum took a deep breath, looking nothing so much like a diver standing before some death-defying leap.
"Flayleaf, Sir."
Flayleaf? Flayleaf the narcotic? Flayleaf the highly addictive, very illegal narcotic? Aroden's ghost, he was lord of a drug den.
Onara Piscum had no way of knowing it, but she had said the exact one thing that would have snapped Riveh out of his self-indulgent, rather melodramatic insecurities.
Lotheed. That lodestone of his whole life, the seeming source of his shame and defeat, both personal and familial. Those dark monsters lurked at the fringes of all his childhood fantasies and, more recently had taken center stage in his life. Lotheed. The reason he was was here, wasn't it? He wasn't really here for Taldor or the Princess or even his own glory and excitement.
What he was really here was for revenge. For justice. And here, if Riveh needed another example, was another righteous example. The Lotheeds had taken this place from his family and for what? To plunder and mistreat it, to play the distant overseer with no care for the underlings. Riveh might think this town little more then a muddy stain on the map, but at least he would have felt shame for governing it, cared about it just a little.
Wouldn't he? Well, he was here now and had some ability to do something about it. Better stop wasting time pouting about a few cats.
"You paint a dire picture." Riveh finally said, the disdain vanished from his voice. Still, he could not over play his hand. "I do not wish to speak ill of the current regime but..." He waves his hand past the walls and over the blighted town. "Stachys speaks for itself. Mismanagement, assuming your version of events is true." But of course they were, what else would a Lotheed do?
Riveh let out a very real sigh and gave Piscum a long solid look, "You have been making bricks without straw out here. Doing your best, I am sure, to help my inheritance thrive. For that, I thank you." Then, shaking his head, "First, let's address the two dragons in the room."
"First, do the Lotheeds have any presence in the town? Anyone who may report? You mention taxes, do they have a local agent?"
'Second, the flayleaf. We both know how illegal that is. Is the operation large enough to bribe officials or is it merely too small scale? Do the Lotheed know...or guess?" Riveh swallowed and added, "Is there a...boss of some kind running it? Or just the hungry farmers?" Please let it be simply misguided and desperate small hold famers and not organized crime. Please.
Then Riveh turned back to the empty fireplace, gazing at the cold dead ash. Without turning he said something very foolish.
"You mention the Lotheed's 'rise to power'. Who came before? How did they govern? Wisely? "
Gratitude was a strange thing, a seed that thrived in barren deserts whilst withering in lush forests. While the right words of thanks from the right person could sustain the unsung labourer, the unacknowledged worker for weeks, those some words might very well sting the duty-bound and proud. “Why do you thank me?” they may ask. “Do you think me so weak as to need your gratitude? Do you question the honour that compels me to my task?”
Riveh hadn’t quite gotten a hold of Onara Piscum yet. He didn’t know why she persisted in what was apparently a thankless job. Nothing much was gleaned as he voiced his recognition of her work here either, she lapsing into silence. Said silence lingered, however, threatening to develop into something meaningful, a pause laden with something unsaid, before she terminated it with a rigid nod. The woman was determined to keep her demeanour firmly professional.
Even so, he could swear she had grown an inch.
"First, do the Lotheeds have any presence in the town? Anyone who may report? You mention taxes, do they have a local agent?"
"No, Sir, no one local. There is someone, however: Sir Gul Gusairne."
"He is House Lotheed’s seneschal, looking out for their interests in Lotheedar. But he also acts as… an enforcer of sorts, a role that coincides with his position as taxmaster for the local Abadaran branch." Chief administrator for the largest town in the county, right-hand man and muscle to the leader of said county, and sainted tax collector for the region? This seemed a whole lot of power for one man. "Sir Gusairne has served the Lotheeds for as long as there have been Lotheeds here, and will likely do so for many decades more; he carries elf blood, like myself."
The young Geminus had to look to his own steward at this tidbit, and to her credit she immediately understood: "No relation."
Right. Taldor wasn't fond of its bastards - as the young Geminus could attest - but of all the many human admixtures walking the land, half-elves were probably its most tolerated. It wasn't too improbable for a county to house two elven-blooded seneschals. This was a curious application of such blood, though: ensuring servants long-lived enough to pass from lords senior to junior. Talk about heirlooms.
"He is responsible for collecting taxes throughout the county," Piscum continued, "including us. He mostly leaves us be, but..." The fine lines about her mouth grew more pronounced. "He's a sharp one, Sir. I refuse to believe that he doesn't at least suspect the drugs to originate here. If I may, I'd advice caution."
"Second, the flayleaf. Is the operation large enough to bribe officials or is it merely too small scale? Do the Lotheed know...or guess? Is there a...boss of some kind running it? Or just the hungry farmers?"
Hurriedly - almost overly so - Piscum answered, and for what was perhaps the first time today it was exactly the answer he'd hoped for. "No, Sir, the flayleaf is entirely a... cottage industry if you'll excuse the term. Merely hungry farmers, as you say, making ends meet."
Small mercies. This day had been light on even those, and yet one niggling doubt mired this one: the objectivity of the old woman. She'd been quick to defend the villagers - her fellow villagers. Could he trust her word as the whole truth?
"Even so," she went on in a more measured tone, "I know some here feel emboldened by the lack of action taken against them. By myself or the Count." Once more shame passed over her face like a cloud against moonlight. "This is to say that I think action is needed sooner rather than later. As for whether Count Lotheed knows... I suspect his seneschal does. So I must assume he does as well. Why he hasn't acted against us, I can only guess at. I... have never had the honor to stand in his presence. He ignores my calls for aid. Perhaps he truly cannot be bothered with Stachys."
Perhaps so. But surely that could not last if this homegrown drug trade truly took off. Piscum's nervous brow indicated that she believed as much. Plenty to think about, so much to mull over, the future of a hamlet - mayhap a nation - to consider.
And yet it was an ultimately selfish matter that slipped his lips in the end.
"The previous rulers?" Ah, bless the woman's business-like demeanor. Whatever she felt at the question - whether suspicion, annoyance at this blue-blooded brat who couldn't even be bothered to learn the history of the region, or just plain surprise - it was buried beneath her diligent disposition. She answered, simply: "That would be the now defunct House Geminus. They were ousted after evidence was presented of the Lord Geminus conspiring with Qadira."
Piscum said nothing more, just looking to him with her curiously contrary eyes, and Riveh got the strong impression that she now - more than ever - was weighing her words. Taldor was a proud nation; she was surely old enough to have experienced House Geminus's rule herself, but sympathy for traitors - sympathy for the archenemy, Qadira - was not voiced lightly.
Riveh taps his fingers against the mantle again and then starts to pace in front of the cavernous fireplace. The chill of the dead inn was seeping into his bones. He glanced toward the yawning dark mouth, and saw some old fire-scarred logs inside. Pausing his nervous strides, the ifrit turned toward the fireplace, and stuck out his hands. Summoning up some innate fire shard of his spirit, Riveh's hands suddenly blazed with pulsing burning flames. At a word it shot toward the fireplace and, splashing with great effect, caught the aged logs. The inferno at his fingers died away as quick as it had come.
After a moment of incinerating spiderwebs, dust and perhaps a mouse nest, the wood started to burn merrily. Enjoying the warmth for a moment, Riveh returned to his pacing. What to do, what to do. Piscum's news demanded action, obviously.
Whatever else his supposed seneschal might think of Riveh's performance so far (and her words about 'having' certain hopes left little doubt) the ifrit would at least not be accused of laziness. "A cottage industry...of drug dealers." Riveh shakes his head, wondering why the Lotheeds don't fall on these farmers like a load of gold bricks. Surely it would be a good excuse to flex some muscle and shake them down for even more?
Unless...
"Piscum..." Riveh says slowly, "The flayleaf farmers. Where do they sell their product? It isn't as if they can use the normal channels. Where does the flayleaf go and how does it get there? There has to be some sort of connection. I doubt the local market would be anything of note. Who is the middle man between our poor hapless locals and depraved urban drug users? " It wouldn't be House Lotheed....would it?
When the half-elf speaks so coldly distant of his own family, he has to turn away to hide his feelings. It would not do to even recognize the Geminus name, let alone have opinions on it. Still, despite his best efforts, it turned his gut to hear her reply. Clearly the scandal (and lies about it. 'Conspiring', really?) trumped whatever wise and good administration they had provided.
A shame, and perhaps an indication of Taldor's priorities.
Riveh stopped and turned back toward the fire, warming his open palms toward the flickering flames. Shadows danced on the walls around them, shifting over the cold stones.
"I assume you have waited for a new lord, for some time? Tell me, what do you think should be done? I would hear it, if you wish to share." Riveh shook his head, "I must press on to Lotheed in the morning, but there is no harm in starting to consider our actions now."
It wasn't the season for it, what with summer nearly upon them, but Riveh was suddenly reminded of A Crystalhue Carol, a childhood favorite of his. Now intrinsic to the winter solstice holiday, in the story a miserly grouch was taught the true meaning of Crystalhue through the intervention of three spirits. It was the last of these spirits, the Ghost of Crystalhue Yet to Come, the young man's mind had reached for. Piscum and he, they had transplanted the characters, two ghosts wandering a drab, colorless netherworld for which doomsday was some time ago. The grey tavern certainly felt more like the specter of one such establishment than the real deal. Drugs. Was it any wonder? Desperate times, desperate measure, and Stachys's most desperate hour had come and gone years ago without a savior. These buildings and people represented little more than dying remains, figurative and literal respectively.
Perhaps in an effort not to go quietly into the night, the ifrit brought life - explosive and bright - to the long dead fireplace, and in doing so saw the pub's rotting innards in color for the first time. How appropriate that the fire rendered it in reds. There was apparently no escaping the morbid doldrum of the place.
Except as his sight drifted downward, the light revealed something not immediately obvious in the previous gloom: shadows danced in the floorboards' scuffmarks. What should have been yet another reminder of the disrepair of the Maid in Splendor instead became a saving grace. For here, in the patchwork of dents, scratches and scrapes, was a recorded history of better times. Chairs pulled out for a drink between mates, heels stomped in a quick jig with a lover, toes dragged over reluctance to leave the warm embrace of the fireplace he now stood before; it was all there for the keen observer to read.
A Crystalhue Carol finished with redemption. Was it too late for Stachys?
"Piscum..."
"Mrs Piscum."
Nary had the name slipped his lips before the woman - uncharacteristically - corrected him, quick as only a reflex can be. For it truly seemed an almost involuntary action, one she appeared almost embarrassed at as she added, a bit lamely, "Please."
Similarly automatically, Riveh's eyes sought out her hand. He saw no wedding band there. Piscum had jumped just a bit earlier, at his flaming display of magic, another sign that her tense demeanor with him was just that. He wasn't sure what made the older woman tick, in the modern parlance, but he was reminded that the Onara Piscum she presented was likely a professional persona. As costumes went, it was one she wore comfortably, but still. At least she was eager to help.
"I admit I'm not entirely sure, Sir," she said in response to his call for clarification of the drug trade, sounding something akin to genuinely regretful. "As I mentioned, the locals share some resentment towards the county's leadership at large. Since I took on the duties of seneschal to the village, some of that resentment was directed towards myself." Whatever the elf-blooded woman felt at being made an outsider in her own home, she managed to keep it hidden. "As such I am not quite as keyed into the specifics of the trade as I perhaps should be. My apologies. But I know that while the trade is still limited, it is growing. People are making increasingly frequent trips to Lotheedar, supposedly for necessities, but I suspect they rendezvous with a... wholesaler of sorts there."
That was likely the middle man Riveh theorized. And in Lotheedar too. His fanciful suspicion, a spur of the moment, grew a notch more credible. No, surely not?
Better to occupy himself with something more solid. What did Piscum, who had been governing the hamlet until now, believe needing doing quickly? Even her greying curls seemed invigorated at the question. She was clearly happy at the least possibility of bettering Stachys, and perhaps even more so that this new lord would hear her thoughts on the matter.
"The pump, Sir," she said simply. "The hamlet suffers a great many troubles, from a ruined infrastructure to a dwindled populace, but they all begin and end with the land. So long as the groundwater pump sits still, the hamlet will continue its slow descent into inhospitable bog. Repair the pump, and... well, then we can begin repairing Stachys."
Right. How was it that one parable went, the one about the foolish man who built his house on sand? He didn't just need to mend a village, nor a hamlet, but the land itself on which these stood. Riveh had his work cut out for him.
An almost pained look crossed the once no-doubt beautiful features before Piscum ventured, "I don't mean to be crude, Sir, and I hope you'll forgive me for asking, but do you have the resources to do this? Repair the pump?" Despite her age, despite her sober conduct, and likely despite her best intentions, a note of hope sang in her voice at the query like that of a child for a Crystalhue present. It was almost enough to make a financially limited imposter cringe.
"I only ask as I do not know your circumstance, my Lord. Nor that of your retinue." His retinue? What did they have to do with finagling this apparatus back in order?
"The marshes... I fear they have become home to creatures inhospitable to you or I."
Things could never be easy, could they?
Riveh warmed his hands by the fire, flexing his fingers as the light danced across them. He glanced at the floor, those silent testaments to a better time. Memories. Taldor was buried in them as deep as a forest drift of leaves. They lay thick enough to make one wonder if the past wasn't the true Taldor, and the present was the pale echo.
Another line from A Crystalhue Carol rose to his mind, of the miser's encounter with the Ghost of Crystalhue Past. Faced with the specter of a lifetime of mistakes, cruelties and missed chances, he had shouted "“Leave me! Take me back. Haunt me no longer!”" Would the memories of Taldor ever cease to haunt? Would the marks on the floor, and the bloodstains in the foundations stop speaking?
It really had been a long day if he was thinking along those lines.
Riveh roused himself, forcing himself to think of the present. Frequent trips to Lotheedar....another brick in that idea. Could it be that the Lotheeds were milking the town dry, in a subtle way that even the formidable Mrs. Piscum had missed (or dare not guess)? Certainly something to follow up on. Such information could be a potent tool.
But as the pump....
"Resources." Riveh almost laughs, still looking at the fire playing over the ancient logs. How many winters had they lain there, worm eaten and dusty? His lifetime?
"I come as you see me." Riveh finally says, turning back toward his elven seneschal. "Well, that and everything you told me. let us hope that is enough. I have an idea in mind, one I can begin as soon as I arrive in Lotheed tomorrow. I agree with you, the pump seems to be the key to unlocking this place." With the pump fixed, the land drained, swampland becomes actual useful land and land...well, as an old wit said.
'Invest in land. They've stopped making it.'.
"Mrs. Piscum, I thank you." Riveh finally said, meeting her eye. "And I will say this. You do not know me from a stranger in the street, but I promise you. I will do my best, within all my power, to rebuild these land. To reclaim the honor of my family and to punish those who misuse it." Mrs. Picsum didn't need to know that went for the entire area and not just Stachys. Well, Oppara wasn't built in a day and neither would his family legacy.
Up from the Roots
They were like the windows of the tavern itself, Riveh realized, the elf-blooded woman's curious eyes. Half-shuttered and set in a frame lined and worn, yet glowing with a light that spoke of better days. And like the tavern, he suspected that it was he who had lit the fire - literal and figurative - in both establishment and person.
Which made it all the more disheartening to see that light sputter at his candid admission of having all the wealth of a cab driver on the river canals. No, this young lord clearly wasn't all she had dreamt of for the ailing community. And yet the near-imperceptible crinkle pulling at the seneschal's thin lips signified that any chagrin was taken in stride. Dreams rarely survived past youth, and Piscum was no spring chicken. She was likely all too aware that her hopes of a new Betony that could fix all of Stachys's woes as if by magic - arcane or monetary - were unrealistic. The young lord's candidness was a welcome trait, and when you'd seen as many lean years as her, you took whatever good fortune you could get.
That was right up until the ifrit, in turning to her, promised on his honor, on his family, to do everything in his power to rebuild the land. At this, that fading fire behind the eyes found fresh kindling. My, but it was a powerful thing, hope. And nowhere more so than in those who had denied themselves its power for too many years.
Despite the chill of the tavern, at no point had Piscum joined him by the fireplace. She knew a servant's place, and it was a full pace behind his master, never beside him. She affirmed her loyalty to that master now. She did not curtsy as women did, but then her position was one not normally afforded women. Instead the woman - slowly, just a bit laboriously - dropped to one knee and hung her greying head.
"Then I swear myself to your service, as I served Lady Aliss before you. To lend you whatever counsel I can, and carry out your will whatever it may be."
Speaking into the floor, the voice was level, factual and, to Riveh's ear, utterly sincere. Well then. This marked as good an ending to a dismal day as he could have hoped for. Time to grab what shut-eye they could manage before departure.
The problem was that he had the uncomfortable feeling there was something she wasn't telling him. Nothing malicious; no, Riveh really was quite sure she meant well. But then the road to Hell was paved with good intentions.
----------
Which turned out not quite enough. Thank the gods he was exhausted. Riveh wasn't sure he could have gotten much sleep in otherwise. The Maid in Splendor being a tavern didn't have much in the way of accommodations. A shamed Piscum did her best, digging up clean bedsheet and more, but it was obvious that much of the place hadn't seen a dutiful hand in years. A resting room once used by staff drew many objections from Trant before being appropriated by the same, it being the best of a bad lot. Of course, anyone else sharing the quarters was out of the question, her being a lady. Stig, Silas and Factor-12 were mercifully not so vocal in their displeasure, whether out of apathy, propriety or just being used to worse. They ended up spread out in every nook and cranny of the building, the new lord relegated to a dusty storeroom. It was almost funny, if the joke hadn't been on him.
Morning arrived far too early with an ache in his cheek where those damnable cats had flung a coffee table at him, more complaints from the Dame, and a scratchy sensation in his throat, no doubt a result of that all-pervasive mildew. That, and the pleasant aroma of freshly baked bead from the kitchen. This was where they gathered over a Piscum apparently intent on redeeming herself. Breakfast consisted of hearty ryebread with cold cuts of spiced jellied veal, and eggs fried to taste in duck fat. Humble fare to be sure, though not without that strange wholesomeness exclusive to country-grown food.
Even so, it was an awkward meal in an awkward situation, Silas excusing himself even before running off to fetch the horses. Breaking bread with a lord was not a situation he dared navigate, not this early in the morning.
After this came dressing for the occasion, an ordeal in and of itself. Though admittedly more so for women. As Riveh stepped outside, knowing that the Dame would be a while yet, the night was only barely giving way to twilight. Stachys was silent. Not silent as the ruin it appeared as otherwise. No, at this hour one could pretend it was just another normal sleepy village. Piscum joined him soon after. He noted an overlooked grey patch of flour on one of her trouser legs. Apparently she hadn't neglected tending to her sourdough starter. But whatever it was she wanted to say to him was drowned out by a gruff voice suddenly breaking the silence.
"Waheeey! 'Allo, 'allo, 'allo! Now wot 'ave we 'ere?"
A figure, square as an outhouse and not too dissimilar in size, ambled down the street, heavy feet stumbling and sinking in the mud. The man who approached them - laboriously, as if his sense of direction kept shifting - was as loud in gesture as he was in voice. Sloshing in one mitt was a bottle of something clear while the other gestured and pointed at the pair. He was stupendously drunk. "G'devenin' to ya!"
"It's morning, Troy," Piscum said, her tone as dry as his was amply soused.
"It's my hour is what it is, and it better behave or I'll trundle it! Harh!" He laughed, revealing yellowed teeth. "Do you know, I've been lookin' fer the Maid all evenin'. Go on, bar wench. Give us a pint of the ol' git beater."
"I closed the Maid years ago, Troy. And you weren't welcome even before that."
"Aw, don't be sour, luv. Issit it the seagull? You still on about that?"
Riveh had to cast a questioning look towards his steward. She sighed. "Mr Gavia Troy here once threw a seagull into the tavern during business hours." He laughed again, heartily. "I still don't know where he found the thing..."
"Don't you worry none 'bout that, gran. Now caaahmooon! Source me a table-like. Is me tab still good?"
"Troy, as town sheriff I am well within my right to arrest you for..."
"Don't gimme that sh*te!" The jocular tone faded from his slurred speech like high-proof hooch. "You's was always a fakkin' lapdog to the bluebloods, but you was one 'o us. I don't take lip from you. I, erh..."
One bloodshot eye found its long meandering way to Riveh. It took some time, but realization bloomed there. "Ooh." The smile returned. "This 'im? This our new princeling? He's jus' a scamp! Harh harh hah!" He stepped closer, and the ifrit realized that he rather smelled like an outhouse too. "Oi, yer majesty, beg yer pardon, but I 'eard you was sent packin' yesterday. Went up to the big house and came runnin' with yer tail between yer legs. S' matta? Yer ghost gran scare ya up there? What, did she used to put ya over her knee? Harh!"
Beside him, Piscum drew her lips very tight indeed. And still she said nothing.
"Thinkin' yer all big an' that. Nawr, sonny jim, we don't need yer kind 'ere. Best ya move on, hear?"
Riveh had been enjoying the early morning, which was unusual for him because he tended to be a later sleeper. Then again the Maid in Splendor was not really a place to linger in, despite Piscum's best attempt.
Watching the sun slowly creep up, Riveh was contemplating the Inn. It had decent bones, as they said, and could be made serviceable once again. Although he told Piscum he was broke yesterday, he wasn't entirely destitute. A fair bit of gold jangled in his pockets. Perhaps he could give her some, clean up the place for their return? New sheets, perhaps a new coat of paint...
The arrival of the inestimable Gavia Troy broke his chain of thought. As the man spewed his crude insults, a (very) small bit of Riveh felt sorry for the man. He was a man trapped in a dying community, caught by circumstance beyond his control. A drunk and probably a flayleaf addict, with no education, no culture, no prospects other then growing old and dying along with his town. Despairing really, a sad story.
But of course, no excuse.
How to deal with it?
His first thought was, maybe due to the reminder of the 'cat' battle, was magic. Riveh had any number of spells that would shut this man up, and his divine well was full after a night's sleep. A splash of the interstellar void might sober the man up? Or maybe blinding him? That might put things in the proper perspective for Troy.
Yet, there was a risk there. Either the spell did nothing and Riveh looked like a fool or the spell worked too well and he killed the man. And despite wanting to make a strong impression that isn't how Riveh wanted to start his rule, or his day for that matter.
Perhaps it was pointless, but Riveh would try talking. Well, maybe with a bit of magic. Carefully he casts Enhanced Diplomacy on himself during the pointless bickering Troy has with Piscum.
"My kind?" Riveh said coldly, locking eyes with the big square man. "You mean washed and polite ones who have an ounce of sense? I'm sorry to disappoint, but I think you may have to get used to such things."
Not turning he went on, "Mrs. Piscum, you mention arrest. I think that sounds like a capital idea. Do we have any guardsmen or do I get the pleasure of doing it myself." Casually, Riveh unslings his morning star from his belt.
"More intriguing is the punishment, Mrs. Piscum. Insulting and threatening his noble liege lord? Serious crime, if I recall. At least a scouring. Say twenty lashes or so? Applied with a will. My driver has a new bullwhip he needs to break in." Riveh paused considering, "But that leaves quite a mess. Maybe something less disruptive to the community. Confiscate his home and property...assuming he has any? "
Riveh narrowed his eyes, "Or even better. Just hang him from a tree branch. "
At this, Riveh dramatically sighed, "But that does seem a bit strict for what might possibly be a mistake. Maybe our goodman Troy here was simply mistaking me for someone else, and had a bit too much to drink. Maybe, if he apologized, I could decide to forgo such unpleasantness such as arrests, confiscations and executions. Maybe. What do you think, goodman Troy. Was it a mistake or do I need to delay my morning business?"
He weighed the morningstar in his hand. Riveh was quite willing to fight this oaf, if the man was sucicidal enough to actually try. Surely his odds against a single drunk peasant were pretty good, after all. Worse came to worse, Stig would probably come out to laugh at him and clean up any mess if things got really out of hand.
"Speak up, the sun is rising, goodman Troy."
And if the man got sarcastic with his apology, that would be just as bad. He needed to assert his authority, although brawling in the street was not how he wanted to start that. Clearly he needed to hire some local muscle. For now, his own morningstar would have to do.
Every vein of the bloodshot eyes was on display as Gavia Troy stared at the Geminus scion in surprise. It took a few seconds for the threat to set in, and this wasn't wholly due to the drink; the man clearly hadn't anticipated such a response. This made some sense, Riveh reflected. The drunkard was an image of degradation, much like the village he apparently called home, but even after likely years of too much substance abuse and too few regular meals, he was still a big man. The ifrit eyed the lank, greying hair brushing the broad shoulders; he had several pounds over him and probably an inch or two as well if only he could stand up straight. Troy must have been something of a specimen in his time.
"Alroight now, big man," he grinned, not in the least convincingly. "Jus' jostlin' ya. No reason to get unpleasant-like."
He took a step back. "Wouldn't wanna scuff yer fancy dress, eh? Nawr. Troy gets it. He knows when he's not wanted. Imma scarper and let ye get on with yer day..."
Which was precisely what he seemed to do, taking another swaying step down the street, looking nothing so much like a beaten dog. Except this was not his intent. Reasoning with the 'Cayden-blessed' could be a tricky endeavor, and though browbeaten, Troy was apparently too dumb, proud or incensed to do the reasonable thing. He did not step back. Instead he merely used the extra distance to get a running start on the blow that followed, wildly throwing his arm forward - bottle first - in a sucker-punch, hoping to catch this upstart noble son unaware.
An effort that failed completely and utterly as Riveh had little trouble following the clumsy feint from its inception. Well then. He had a fight on his hands. What a way to start the morning.
Riveh had to admit he was surprised. Even if the ifrit didn't seem like much by the early dawn light, only half-awake and sore from sleeping in a tavern, he was a nobleman. For a commoner to raise his hand against the upper class....well, that was a death sentence in Taldor and one that was often carried out with a bloody vengeance. Riveh knew they gathered in crowd in Opprar to watch men get hung for such things.
Was Troy that stupid, that drunk or did he think Riveh wasn't a threat?
In any case, clearly the time for talk was over, as the big man barreled down in him. Law or not, if Riveh did something stupid, he would be buried in the cold Stachys swamp with few to mourn him. What an end to a promises career. Still, his diplomacy hadn't been entirely useless, he did have his morningstar drawn, at least.
And yet...Riveh still didn't want to kill him. At least not in the middle of a muddy street with no witnesses but his part-time seneschal. One more chance, maybe....
As the thrust forward, Riveh moved a bit tot he side and grabbed the man's wrist (which felt like it was made out of polished oak and thick as Riveh's forearm). As he made contact, magical energy surged across the connection, a flicker of shadow faster then an eyeblink. In a flash it reached for Troy's eyes, blacker then midnight, dark as the space between the stars.
Like ink in water, that's what it looked like. Murky droplets appeared within the fluid of the splayed eyes, quickly multiplying and growing darker still in a display unsettling for the observer to say nothing of the victim, 'goodman' Troy. Within seconds what had been eyes were solid orbs of black and Riveh knew his magic had taken hold.
"Wot?! Whut's happenin?!"
The drunkard was alarmed, but caught in the momentum of his own attack, he still attempted a wild swing with the bottle made wilder still at the loss of sight.
Behind him, Riveh felt his seneschal act, she jumping forward with a start. He didn't know what she hoped to do - to strike first at the lout, or interpose herself between him and her lord - but she needn't have bothered. One hefty arm went sailing over Riveh's head so far off course any attempt at a dodge would have been superfluous. Gavia Troy might very well be capable of some violence given the right circumstances, but these were not those. Right now he was little more than a blind invalid. As if to illustrate this further, the aforementioned momentum of the missed blow sent him sprawling to the muddy street.
"Whut's happenin?!" he repeated, reaching for his face as if his fingers could find his lost sight there. "What did you do?!"
"Gavia Troy, you damn fool!" Piscum cried in a curious tone. It wasn't simple fury that her voice carried. Nor was it indignation or even righteous wrath. It took the ifrit a moment to place it and when he did, it was an unanticipated image of his mother, brow furrowed, that formed in his mind. Frustration. Exasperation. Disappointment even, the anger guardians - parents - felt for their wards, this was what he heard in Piscum.
This impression was only reinforced as he saw her rush forward to yank at the significantly larger man's earlobe, albeit with such force his head was lifted entirely free from the mud. "This is our lord!" she yelled into the grasped ear. "Do you have any idea what your mother would think of you?"
"Shut it, ya old bat! He was beggin' for a beatin'! Scupperin' up my perfectly nice evenin' actin' up, thinkin' yer all big an' that. Yer not! Neither o' yous! You are rubbish! Barmy, big-headed cock-ups with no place 'ere! Aaurh, le'ggo!"
"Should I bother askin' who the swillbowl is?" wondered a gruff voice from the tavern doorway.
Seeing Stig in formal dress was almost disorienting; one didn't expect it the same way one didn't expect the scruffy mongrel barking at you to be wearing a tie. It helped that he hadn't quite finished dressing, wearing a trouser and vest set without jacket in dark green that admittedly - gods help him - made his dark eyes stand out all the more severe. Riveh noted that he also hadn't shaved. The knight had probably paused in his preening to investigate the commotion.
"Sir Stillhall, could you please help me haul this idiot to the basement?" Piscum asked from her position almost on top of Troy, still with a noticeable edge, only to add somewhat more lamely, "It's our only means of incarceration."
That answered the ifrit's earlier question on whether Stachys had anything like a proper jail. His to-do list of civic improvements was growing steadily longer.
"Hey, I'm donnin' the finery. Can't get it dirtied," Stig groused in reply.
"Sir Stig."
"Yeah, fine."
The two managed to get aforementioned idiot back on his feet, even if Piscum worked with only one hand; Riveh noted now that her other was encased in a knuckleduster. When had she donned that? "Sir," she began, straining with the significantly larger man, "Would it be best if we... delayed sentencing until your return? Your coach is here."
True enough, a steadily approaching canter foretold the appearance of Silas on top his carriage. And he didn't come alone, not entirely. Riveh glanced from the driver to the street itself, slowly lightening with the rising sun. Stig wasn't the only one roused at the brouhaha. From windows and doorways, a few villagers were following the commotion curiously. The ifrit was quite sure they hadn't caught all of it, but still. Well then. Not for the first time, he considered what his reputation as lord would be, indeed should be. Should he be taking care in cultivating it? Did the opinions of these plain people ultimately matter, or should he focus his efforts on the county's aristocracy? Was this scuffle likely to improve or worsen his standing, Stachys already having seen him retreat from his supposed ancestral home?
"Are we ready to depart, milord?" asked Silas in disembarking his perch, removing his hat respectfully.
Riveh couldn't help but be pleased when his magic took hold and temporarily blinded the attacker. He hadn't been looking forward to either trying to wrestle the larger and stronger man, or resorting to more deadly magical force.
Still, Riveh was surprised the man had attacked him at all. It seemed outrageously reckless, even for a drunkard with few prospects or hope. Did Troy want to die? Or perhaps there were deeper reasons.....no time now.
"I think holding him is an excellent idea." Riveh says to Mrs. Piscum, looking thoughtfully down at the man lying face down in the mud. He had fallen down due to outside agency? Curious. Did Mrs. Piscum here have some magic of her own? Seemed the most likely cause unless another invisible cat was about. Another thing to consider.
"A few days to dry out, on bread and water, may do wonders." Riveh said. And then what? A trial? An execution? Or perhaps something more useful. If the man was involved in the flayleaf trade...
Time would tell.
Riveh glanced about and saw more then a few villagers watching him, their faces pale in the growing light. Everyone in this place had a slightly unhealthy look to them, probably born of some miasma brought on by the swamp. Yesterday he had seen it with revulsion and disdain, a petty dislike for the swampy town. A richer man's distaste for poverty. Did these people not care how they lived?
But today...it was mixed with pity. It was not (entirely) their own fault. There were other forces at work here, ones perhaps deliberately keeping these people poor, hungry and desperate. Even Gavia Troy here was a victim, when viewed that way.
The ifrit, looking slightly more pale then reality himself, held the gaze of the small crowd for a moment. Should he wave? Nod gravely? He decided on nothing, but it was clear he saw them and noted them.
That would do for now.
He leaned toward Mrs. Piscum, "Mrs. Piscum. One one more request while I am gone. Could you please go around to the better class of resident and inform them of my...erm, administration? And invite them to a public gathering upon my return. I think a public, general meeting might be exactly what Stachys needs." Riveh shrugs, "If they want to attack me, we might as well get it over with."
A quick smile that fades quickly, "Thank you for your service so far. We have much to do, and I hope to accomplish much in.... the city." Saying Lotheedar was still a bridge to far for the Geminus scion.
Rising his voice to Silas, "I think we are ready, assuming Lady Trant is prepared. If so, let us depart. We have quite a few miles to cover today."
He leaned toward Mrs. Piscum, "Mrs. Piscum. One one more request while I am gone. Could you please go around to the better class of resident and inform them of my...erm, administration? And invite them to a public gathering upon my return. I think a public, general meeting might be exactly what Stachys needs."
"Very sensible, Sir," she replied, trying to maintain her dignity in restraining the much larger Troy, an effort that necessitated her wrenching his thumb backwards. She was a slight figure, as her kind so often was, but Riveh suspected this wasn't her first time wrestling troublemakers. Given her past as a tavern mistress, this made some sense. What's more, despite the terse answer, he suspected she was more pleased at his idea than she let on.
Less pleased was Dame Trant, the towering young woman appearing as if summoned by his call. She looked nice, having apparently finished her preening & primping. The ifrit was reminded of her appearance during their first encounter at the Senate - tall bouffant, conservative dress - albeit perhaps somewhat lesser in some way he couldn't readily identify. Were the frowning features maybe less painted, the hair less layered? Whatever the case, she didn't dignify anyone with more than a glare, striding straight for their carriage.
Except this route took her past blinded Troy, he still protesting feebly. And him she saw fit to gift a modicum of her precious attention.
In passing the drunkard, one lace gloved fist struck out as suddenly as a snake, burying itself in the man's gut, he doubling over at the sucker-punch. The Dame simply strolled on, managing to incorporate the blow into her walk in such a way as to make it appear almost lackadaisical or reflexive - like reaching out to catch a hat in the wind without breaking one's stride.
Reaching Riveh and the carriage, he thought her visage just a tad less frustrated, a bit more at ease. "I'm going to need a handmaiden," she said to him in climbing the box.
----------
"Alright, golden boy," Stig groused, and as surely as the old lout couldn't define 'irony', it still hung on the appellation thick as hair on a dog’s back. "If you've got some master plan, this the time to share it. What are you plottin' for our hon'rable Count Bart? Jus' shank him at the earliest opportunity? Hope that he's a sword swallower and charm his noble britches off? 'Cause I'm not gonna object to a bit o' buggery, but it's not what most think of in putting their ass on the line for king and country."
All the charm of an infirmary bedpan as always. The knavish knight was running a knife across the edges of his beard, having relegated shaving in anticipation of the lengthy ride. He operated entirely by touch, foregoing any mirror, in a manner that demonstrated he was accustomed to shaving thusly. Even so, Riveh couldn't help but cringe every time they passed over a bump on the road. The Lotheedar highway was hardly the worst roadwork they had traveled by now, but still. One nicked artery and the carriage interior would be painted red.
Would denying a hemorrhaging Stig magical healing teach him some manners?
"For that matter, anythin' you want the two o' us to look out for while we're there?"
Hm. Yes, the three of them (four counting the inevitable once again trussed to the carriage roof) would hardly be together throughout their stay at Count Bartleby's. Was there any way he could utilize his entourage? It was something to consider - as was Martella's earlier report on the Count indeed supposedly avoiding all romantic relationships. Could it be? Could - should - he take advantage of this if so?
A sullen Dame Trant distracted the ifrit from such considerations. Because while she still largely refused to speak with him, she now stirred from sulking out one window, her painted lips sinking in bewilderment.
"Is that," she queried, trying very hard not to sound like the naive city girl she really was, "... normal?"
Riveh looked outside, following her confused gaze. Oh, this better not be highway robbers again. Fortunately, it wasn't. It was, however, infinitely stranger. They had driven for some hours now, the sun almost reaching its noonday zenith. Their carriage was now passing what he believed was the edge of Lake Splendor, a fairly significant body of water belonging to the Lotheeds themselves. And there, far in the distance, at what must be the northern hook of the lake opposite them, was... smoke? Steam? Whatever it was, it was off-white and significant, great plumes of gas stretching into the sky like an effervescent stalactite a mile long. Normal?
"No," a perturbed Stig answered simply, not having any explanation to offer. Strange. Not their jurisdiction, but strange.
----------
The Betony estate - comparatively humble - was as classical a country manor house as Taldor had ever produced, as Taldan as jubilee pie, a proper piece of history beyond any fashion trend. It trod that careful line between wealth and rural sensibilities that defined 'old money', a host to patched tweed jackets and pheasant hunts, not high fashion and orgies.
The palace that the carriage finally stopped before was its opposite in every way. Often described as a nation slowly wasting away, Taldor's glory days were seemingly alive and well here at the Lotheed mansion - what had been the Geminus mansion. The opulence had begun before the building even came into sight, being surrounded by an immaculately maintained park stretching at least a mile in every direction. Flower gardens, low hedges, fruit and nut orchards, vineyards - the carriage passed all these and more up the white gravel path to the house, all further beautified with statues and topiary. The park was home to free-roaming swans and peacocks which gave the place its name, the Palace of Birdsong.
Grand as the name was, it did not do it justice. Riveh stepped out into the sunlight, it gleaming on the marble façade of the palace. Exuberant curving ornamentation - stylized birds, angels and figures harder to identify - decorated every surface in between tall crystalline windows. It was massive, an extravagant edifice to Taldor's golden age. He knew it had no less than 50 rooms on the first floor alone, and though it only had two such floors, the palace was so extravagant and lofty that to the outside observer it appeared tall enough to house four. Standing before it now, babbling fountains and birdsong tickling at his ear, it was difficult to imagine it as anything other than a piece of the Upper Planes, perhaps a sliver of Elysium come loose to settle on this mortal plane.
Six guards stood at attention before the grand entrance, all in smart uniform. These lowered their heads in respect, although if the ifrit thought they did so for him, he soon realized otherwise. A figure walked down the marble steps.
What had he anticipated? A mustache-twirling villain? A malformed madman? Any flavor of reprobate perverted through a life of excess? If Bartleby Lotheed was to be his opponent, the nemesis through which he redeemed House Geminus, he had hoped him someone easily hateable. Sadly this was not the man who stopped before him now. In appearance he was, as Martella had promised, a handsome man. The most eligible bachelor in Taldor stood just short of what one might call 'tall', in a fit and athletic package. His hair was thick and light brown, tied back in a ribbon, and though he was in his early thirties, not a single line marred his features.
Nor did anything else. He wore the most curiously open expression, placid as marble, as if he anticipated nothing and nothing could surprise him. The green eyes were similarly fair and free, an open book as the expression termed it. Said book just wasn't written in any cant known to Riveh. Like his eldritch patron, they spoke of an intelligence foreign to him.
"Lord Riveh Geminus, I presume?"
The accent was posh, clearly enunciated and damnably easy on the ear. His voice too spoke to an inner calm firm as the Birdsong Palace's fundament. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Welcome to my home."
He raised a most unwizardly hand - masculine and strong - towards the ifrit who was reminded that the Count Bartleby supposedly didn't shirk the martial for the arcane. On one finger gleamed a golden signet ring topped with the Lotheed insignia, a simple candle shedding light on an open tome. Did he expect Riveh to kiss it?
It was at this moment that he realized: this unearthly composure Bartleby carried himself with - he recognized it. It was the dignity of portraits and statues, something eternal and fixed, beyond threat, the image of nobility. The man carried himself as if he was always sitting for his portrait.
"A handmaiden..." Riveh said, unsure of how to reply. It was a fair question, Riveh (and his entourage) were supposed to be proper, real nobility. Part of that was the rather large staff of servants, maids, help and flunkeys. What perplexed Riveh was...where did one get such people? In stories they tended to just be there, conjured up by family association and status. Did one hire them? Like hiring fall harvest help at the local market fair?
Hoping to sound somewhat intelligent he said to Trant, "We can, um, hire one in Lotheed. Assuming they meet your standards, of course." His hostile attitude toward Trant had mellowed somewhat after both time and her obvious intention to stick around. Besides, the ifrit had a new goal now, the turn Stachys around. This was no time to harp on petty personal dramas.
As they rolled along the road, Riveh wondered how to best answer Stig's question. In all honesty he had no 'plan'. How could he? Did a general plan a campaign before studying the ground? Did a merchant set out on a trading mission before consulting a map? No, Riveh needed more information before coming up with anything as concrete as a plan.
Still....
His eyes fixed on Stig's dangerously exposed jugular vein, the ifrit explains what he has learned about Stachys, the pump and the flaylead problem. He even shares his suspicions about a possible Lotheed connection to the drug trade.
"So that is as far as it goes. Explore a possible Lotheed-flayleaf connection, and build some leverage. As well as find an engineer and somehow convince him to work on the pump in exchange for prime swampland. " Said out loud it seemed naïve, child-like. Still, it was the best he had so far. Somehow though, he didn't think Stig would be impressed.
The Palace of Birdsong aroused divergent feelings in Riveh, as he surveyed the sumptuous surroundings. First was jealousy, of course. This was supposed to be his, this was his birthright, his inheritance. Far more then slimy, stinking Stachys, this was the world the Geminus had built. One that had wanted to leave to him.
Alongside this was a anxiety with a trickle of fear. This is what he was up against? A family that could operate such a palatial estate. With a army of gardeners, groundskeepers, servants and handymen? Even though Riveh knew this is what the Palace was meant to do, inspire awe and wonder, it still worked on him. Could he really hope to topple such majesty? With what, his own two hands?
He choked this down as the rather tall handsome Bartleby Lotheed approached. The lord's appearance, manner even his bloody accent, fit the setting perfectly. The man seemed as part of the Palace as did the statuary or the gilded door trim.
Was that what Riveh had missed out on? Would he have been this polished, this commanding, if he had this home as a backdrop? Or was Martella's brother simply a perfect fit by chance? Dragon or the egg....
Stig might disagree, but some things hurt worse then a knife between the ribs. Actions that cut deeper then any arrowhead. Choices that hit harder then any spell. Looking up at those cool green eyes and that gleaming emblazoned ring.... was one of them.
For a wild moment Stig's suggestion to 'shank' the Lotheed lord came to mind. It was very appealing, in a deep rooted animalistic way. Just slash this man's neck, and watch the blood flow. Not just because he was a Lotheed and was everything Riveh had spent a life time hating but there was something else. Bartleby was too...perfect, too sernee...to confident. Even in these last few seconds, Riveh got a sense of casual, supreme arrogance.
Some people just liked knocking statues over.
Riveh mentally shook his head at the insanity. He had to be on his best behavior here. He had to at least play nice, even better if he actually impressed. Still....kiss the man's ring? Then again, what of it? What better way to seal his own oath to Piscum, to Martella, to the Princess....to himself?
"My excellency, it is an honor." Riveh said, troweling on the flattery a bit too much to be honest. He bowed and then leaned forward toward the ring. In his mind, the ifrit swore, "By my name and house, I will take this all from you. Every title, every coin, every last stick of furniture. I don't know how or when, but I will. By the Gods I will."
And kissed the ring, quickly and neatly.
Withdrawing he bowed again, "Lord Riveh Betony, here to pay my respects and offer my services at your convenience. I am a distant relative of the late Lady Aliss Betony, and her apparent heir. This is Malphene Trant and Sir Stig of Stillhall, my companions and friends."
Then, hoping his voice didn't betray him offered another dollop of flattery, but this time sincere, "Your home is quite a thing to behold, my lord. The Palace of Birdsong lives up to its name and legend in song."
Like smooching a hair-clogged drain. It took a not insignificant mental effort aided by promises of sweet retribution to come, but Riveh managed to put lips to ring, kissing the insignia of his hated adversaries. Mercifully, the Count did not make more of a show out of this than necessary. Seemingly satisfied, he withdrew his hand, his expression of supreme dispassion never having wavered for an instance. Nor did it do so as the young man introduced himself and his entourage, although the placid brow raised but a fraction in acknowledgement at Stig and Trant, specifically at how they both carried titles themselves.
"You keep respectable company."
On cue, as if waiting for his acknowledgement, the Dame curtsied for their host. "Your Grace." Practiced as the motion clearly was, it still looked strangely meek on a stature such as hers. Even so, the Lotheed apparently saw something to like as he deigned her with a "charmed", and a nod of his own before looking to the knight. Stig, likely electing to err on the side of caution, simply echoed Trant before bowing. Except this time the Count was not so gratified.
"You have never learned how to bow, Sir."
The expression remained calm as ever. Riveh was starting to think he'd seen statues more animated. But a quiet intensity, like distant thunder, had snuck its way into the voice. "Bowing is not an acrobatic maneuver. We do not swing our hips like peasants in their dance halls. Brace your back and legs, and bend using your pelvis as an axis. Again."
It wasn't often that loutish Stig evoked sympathy. Seeing him now, however, equal parts bewildered, humiliated and angry, and straining to keep all these contained, it was difficult not to feel for the man. He squared his shoulders and bowed once more. "Again." The third bow resembled the maneuver of some lifting machinery more so than any human motion. "Better. You must practice."
"Right. Thank you," the knight managed to huff, making the ifrit briefly wonder whether he should be appreciative he wasn't the only one to swallow his pride before the Count. Should he be cursing Stig? The aim was to impress the Lotheed after all. Then again, the man didn't appear at all annoyed at the impromptu lesson in etiquette. Bartleby remained his serene self even if this didn't mean much; who knew what thoughts brewed behind the smooth brow? Best to remain on one's best behavior.
Which was precisely why the introduction of Factor-12, a being with all the social graces of a hurled rock, could be seen as a step in the wrong direction.
"Greeting:" it blared in its customary tinny voice, just a bit too loud for Riveh's right ear which it now floated by. Silas must have let it loose. "I would bow to you, Count Bartleby Lotheed, if my design but had the extraneous limbs."
Yet contradictory as it seemed, where Stig's minor faux pas had evoked reprimand, Factor-12's hail instead stirred the placid expression for the first time and not adversely so. A ghost of genuine interest passed over the attractive features. Somehow finding it in him to ignore the creature itself, he looked instead to its apparent master. "An inevitable," he said, recognizing the machine-spirit for what it was. "Your familiar? Are you a practitioner, Lord Betony?"
A practitioner of the arcane? Riveh recalled what Martella had said of her brother's interests, how, "at the few social events he cannot avoid, he gravitates towards those with whom he can discuss magical theory, favoring the practical over the esoteric." Right. This fit, then. Bartleby probably hoped he had found a like-minded lord here in Meratt. Well, he was to be disappointed as the ifrit's magic was not the result of year-long research and schooling so much as mystically bargained for. He was no academic and could hardly fake the part.
Could he?
Then, hoping his voice didn't betray him offered another dollop of flattery, but this time sincere, "Your home is quite a thing to behold, my lord. The Palace of Birdsong lives up to its name and legend in song."
"But of course. Any domain reflects its caretaker."
It was a credit to the Lotheed's easy confidence that he actually managed to make this boast sound merely factual.
"Come," he continued in turning towards the stairs. "You and I will find time to discuss your own domain, Lord Betony, but you have travelled a fair way. The staff will find you accommodations, and you may freshen up before joining the other guests. Yours is the last party to arrive, but you are not so late that you cannot select your supper."
Select? Was there a choice of menu?
Riveh felt grimly pleased as the Lord Lotheed humiliated Stig. Not because of the activity itself, the man's chilly condescension and scorn was reprehensible but because it confirmed one thing. Stig would now, for sure, be on board with any plan to bring this man down. Riveh still had no idea what the knight's deeper motives were (feminism?!) but attacking Bartleby Lotheed would rank near the top of the personal list for awhile.
When Factor-12 comes up, Riveh pauses. It was a careful line to walk. Riveh wanted to make a good impression, be seen as a worthy vassal lord but he didn't want to go too far. Riveh didn't want to stick out or become notable. To be liked and dismissed would be ideal. He didn't want this cold, marble-like man to concentrate on him. The termite does not want to be noticed while it is gnawing at the foundation.
"I am afraid not, my lord." Riveh says casually, waving a hand at the robot. "Just a trinket I picked up in passing." Let the man assume this also meant he had no magical abilities. Outright lying was difficult work, better to let Lotheed do the work for him.
"Thank you for your kindness, removing the soot of the road would be welcome. " He glances up at the sky, seeing it is only just afternoon. Riveh risks a small frown, "I did not know we were running behind. My apologies."
He wonders what dinner will entail. Surely it will not be a marathon like that horrid business with the spiders. Who had that been? Lady....Vitellia, ah yes. At the least Lotheed doesn't seem so...eccentric. That would require having a personality.
Trinket? This most perfect of constructions from the perfection that was eternal Axis, actualization of perfect such-and-such and so-and-so? A trinket?! Riveh could hear the machine-spirit's objection before the dismissal had left his mouth, literally so in fact: Factor-12's vocabulator was buzzing and popping like a beehive on fire, a sure indicator that it was seconds away from launching into a righteous protest. Fortunate then that the outsider was as devoted as it was conceited.
With the Lotheed walking ahead, back momentarily turned, he managed to quickly shoot Factor a glare that in no uncertain terms promised an ignoble fate as spare parts for that damnable pump if it so much as uttered a word. He did not need his facade as respectable and above all else normal nobleman broken now. The great blue lens that was its eye glowered back at him, but the inevitable remained silent.
"I see," said the Count, apparently none the wiser of the potential social blunder. Granted, some of the door guards were now looking at the ifrit a bit funny, but if that was the price he had to pay...
"Thank you for your kindness, removing the soot of the road would be welcome." He glances up at the sky, seeing it is only just afternoon. Riveh risks a small frown, "I did not know we were running behind. My apologies."
"Paulatim sed firmiter," his host went on, still not turning back towards him. Ancient Azlanti? Really? As if the man wasn't difficult enough to read without a language barrier. What had he even thought at Riveh's denial of being a magic-user? Had he been disappointed? The ifrit honestly couldn't tell; the Count seemed his stolid self even if that earlier hint of intrigue had disappeared entirely. He wasn't an easy man to figure out, assuming he had anything more going on upstairs than sheer self-importance.
Such considerations had to be put aside, however. Upon stepping within the Palace of Birdsong, Riveh himself couldn't muster much thought beyond admiration. Beautiful. No mere foyer, the entrance led to a central gallery in marble stretching out in all four cardinal directions. So light, airy and lofty was this midpoint of the mansion, that it felt more like an atrium despite being entirely enclosed. Multiple doors exited here along with two grand staircases to the upper floor, one to the east and west end each, while the last corridor opposite them led to a back veranda. True to its expansive design, the gallery was hung with multiple paintings and dotted with many busts. At a glance, the ifrit recognized many of these as Grand Princes of the past. Common to all of them was incorporation of the landscape and natural bounty, some of which he even suspected was local. Confronted by a dozen dozen stares of bygone emperors, what truly surprised was Bartleby Lotheed himself. For in walking these halls, heeled shoes clacking crisply against the marble, he looked like he belonged. Among dignified gazes hewn out of stone and noble stature highlighted in brush stroke, he bore himself like a state portrait come to life.
Those servants they passed did not look upon them, whether attending their post or hurrying to a task. And yet when the Lotheed abruptly stopped, a well dressed manservant was quick to abandon his station to bow at his lord's side. It seemed an unspoken understanding reigned here.
"Have Sir Stig and Dame Trant here escorted to the guest cottages." Guest cottages? Were the guest housed in outbuildings? "Then show Lord Betony to his accommodations. One of the planetary suites should suffice."
The what?
As abruptly as he had stopped, the lord of the house walked off again, this time alone. The manservant snapped his fingers, summoning another so similar in appearance that it could very well have been his brother. This one bowed to his companions while the former led Riveh, again without a word, to one of the staircases. They passed one of the eight intricately carved pillars carrying the lofty ceilings in doing so, and Riveh recognized them for what they were in doing so: the columns were representations of the Great Taldan Armies of Exploration, one for each of them. He knew this because he recognized the legend of General Gerefein of the Seventh Army in the pillar, how he had ended a clash of legions with one single, impossible shot. A shot from the very same crossbow he now wielded.
His earlier impression held true: Taldor's glory days had never ended in the Palace.
----------
"The salon of Triaxus, Lord Betony," the servant said in opening the door for Riveh. They were the first words he had spoken to him, and this without ever having looked upon him. Did the staff recognize their betters entirely by their shoes in this place?
No, never mind the Palace servant/master relations for now. Not with such a visual bounty to feast upon. His stroll here had confirmed that the mansion wasn't all marble, thank the gods. That would have made for some awfully cold accommodations. Instead the young Geminus had been treated to an abundance of light paneling and gold fixtures, extravagant to be sure, but almost to be expected. This 'salon', however? The spacious guest suite he stepped into was dominated by color, light blues and verdant greens specifically. It would almost seem patriotic, harkening to the national flag, if it wasn't for the two being kept strictly separate, one half of the room ranging from azure wall highlights to baby blue decorations and icy fixtures. The other half did much the same with every hue of green, with the added asymmetry of hosting a minor greenhouse's worth of plants by the lofty windows. Many of these appeared quite exotic too; Riveh eyed a palm-like something that nearly reached the ceiling. The asymmetry didn't end there. Where much of the Palace walls featured elaborate ornamentation, here geometric shapes - particularly circles - were drawn twisted and lopsided as if pages of a math textbooks could melt and warp. It was dizzying and had no doubt required much artistry to execute, but wasn't particularly pleasing to the eye.
The same could not the said of the paintings. Heavens above, dragons. The numerous pictures, most notably that painted directly onto the ceiling, depicted dragons of every coloration in all-out warfare. These were the sort of epic scenarios only operas dared hint at, yet here they were, as glorious as they were terrifying. Curiously, the dragons themselves were not the true focal point of the conflicts. For every one of them had a rider on their back, reducing them to steeds in this war.
The salon of Triaxus? What a strange, strange space. Utterly luxurious, though.
And Trant agreed. "There you are," she huffed from the doorway, led by a servant of her own. "I got your missive from the flying waffle iron. What do you... Aroden's ghost, what bedlamite designed this room?"
Yes, he had had Factor-12 float off to find the Dame for him. Given private quarters in the Palace, Riveh thought this as good a time as any to have a conversation probably overdue.
While Riveh waits for Trant's guiding servant to leave, he gazed at the rather stunning décor. Casually he walked over and knocked a knuckle against the trunk of the towering palm tree. It thumped quietly under his blow...it was real all right. He wondered casually if they had a druid on hand to maintain this or if this was done the old fashioned way, with hard work and stumpy gardeners.
When alone, Riveh answers, "Triaxus, Trant. The Wanderer." He walks slowly around the room, taking in the verdant plant growth, the strange geometric artwork and the stunning oil paintings depicting the battle of dragon riders. "The seventh planet from the Sun. Do you know anything about it?" Riveh keeps walking, his eyes dancing over the strange theming. How much had it cost? Was this an innovation of the chilly Lotheed or did this scenery date back to the Geminus administration? Either way, his parents may have stood in this very room.
Strange.
"It is a strange, planet Trant. It has a very unusual orbit....takes it very far from the Sun and then back again. This weird path causes great changes on the surface, or so the sages say. Imagine our seasons but a hundred fold stronger." He touches a blue wall hanging, "Icy winters colder then Ulfen blizzards....changed to steaming jungles." he indicates a verdant green lampshade, ringed with carved leaves. "It is not fast, of course, taking many years. But eventually, slowly, changes does come."
For the first time, he looks at Trant, sober and serious, "Up From the Roots, Trant. That is my family motto and is it any true more then now? Standing here, in the house that my family built? Hoping to reclaim it, from nothing." Then the ifrit shakes himself, gets himself together from the welling of emotions just under his control.
A ghost of a smile, "Sorry. I was passionate about the stars and planets as a boy. A misspent youth, perhaps? They seemed to promise so much..." Another shake, back to the moment.
He takes a step toward Trant, now unsure. He didn't really want to apologize. Riveh had been the wronged party....hadn't he? But also this rift was unpleasant and not just because of how dangerous is made this mission. Simply put, Riveh didn't like being at odds with the strange, towering woman. Their 'relationship' was unusual, but he felt better when they were friends. or at least friendly.
Then, what better way to be friends then the truth?
"I am going to need your help, Malphene." Using her first time in a rare move, calculated only to show how serious he was. "This world...all of this. It's a bit overwhelming. And I want to stand against it, to plot against it? I feel a bit sick, just looking at the manicured gardens, the polished enameled bannisters, the impeccable servants. This is not my world." His glance toward Trant implied the obvious. It was hers, at least in a way. She was the scion of a mighty Oppara family. Maybe not quite on this scale, but still a real life noblewoman used to the creations of the upper elite.
At the very least she wouldn't be amazed by more then three forks at dinner.
With sudden feeling he sat down on a perfectly polished and cushioned ottoman,"Alone, it is too much. There I admit it." he gives Trant a small smile, "Just never tell Stig I said that."
"Triaxus, Trant. The Wanderer. The seventh planet from the Sun. Do you know anything about it?"
The question had nary left his tongue before Riveh realized he might as well have asked Trant how familiar she was with Aliforn's fifth theorem of allumetric transmutation. Hell, he was surprised there was no audible crash the way her brow plummeted down in dismay.
"No," she sighed. "No, I can't say I'm too familiar with the seventh, eight or indeed twelfth planet from the sun." Crossing her arms, she elected to squint mistrustfully at an icicle-ringed chandelier over looking at him.
It wasn't even as if astronomy was that obscure a subject among the better educated. Unusual, yes, but many had at least some cursory knowledge of their solar system. Surely the very room room they occupied, part of an enfilade of sister 'planetary' suites, proved a common curiosity for the stars. Then again, he supposed such esoteric studies weren't part of many women's schooling, even the high-born's. The Princess's promises of a more egalitarian Taldor had plenty to address.
He excused his exuberance as the boyish attraction it was. "It's fine," came the significantly more composed assurance. "It's... good to have interests." As sentiments went, this was a bland one and Trant knew it; she seemed momentarily annoyed at her own inability to voice whatever it was she had hoped to say, and fell silent.
Why was it that so many of their interactions turned awkward, whether friendly or adversarial? Whatever the reason, the ifrit preferred them of the friendly variety no matter their outcome and so set out to mend this proverbial bridge. At his approach, she looked up again, like an animal sensing hunters.
Trant listened. As he made his appeal, she remained stock-still, the blue of her eyes slowly softening from sparking sapphire to merely stormy seas. It was the usage of her first name. The young woman wasn't good at hiding her thoughts at the best of times. Moreover, Riveh felt he'd gotten adept at reading her some time ago, and it was his usage of her first name that saw her lower her guard. Trant wasn't just hearing him; she was listening. And still it wasn't enough. She was proud like few others. Whatever damage to their friendship that one talk in Prusa's park had done, she - somehow - held him to blame and wasn't about to forgive him just like that.
Still, he had reached out and this meant something. It was, perhaps, something she was incapable of. The first brick of the bridge had been laid.
Picking up a snowflake patterned snuffbox from a table, she fiddled with it for a moment. Riveh recognized the twiddling as the base comfort it was. "I'm here, aren't I?" she asked with feigned casualness. "I follow you wherever you go. I do whatever you tell me. I kill whoever you say must die." This last assertion - this deadly serious assertion - was delivered with a wan smile. Incongruity. An attempt at humor. It failed. It failed not least because of the angry flush brightening the high cheeks. No, no angry, Riveh corrected himself - upset. There was a fine difference. The young woman collected herself to ask, softly, "What more do you want from me?"
Riveh had once heard that wolves exposed their necks to each others in a show of vulnerability so as to build trust. He had done much the same here with Trant for much the same reason, showing himself as vulnerable. Predictably, the proud Dame refused to do so for him in kind, but it was showing through all the same.
Quietly, as if the question wrested itself from her lips against her will, she queried, "What do you want from me, Riveh?"
It was not the same question repeated. The rephrasing was so very slight and yet it betrayed the confusion, the doubt that roiled at her core: what did these two want from each other? Maybe even for each other? And this was when he finally realized: it wasn't that Trant was so awful at lying. Her depth of feeling just made her that awful at lying to him.
The ifrit rocked on the padded footstool for a moment, feeling the down stuffing shift below his backside. The fabric was smooth and well maintained, perfectly presented, just like everything else in the sumptuous room. From outside the sound of birdsong could be faintly heard through the closed window, a liquid trill promising beauty and harmony. Right now though, he was ignoring it, ignoring the wealth of a thousand villages like Stachys. Ignoring everything.
Because Riveh had to admit, Trant's question was a good one.
What did he want? Their relationship had always been a strange one. Silas, for example, was simply hired help. Factor-12, an otherworldly servant ruled by his own standards. Stig was Martella's creature, an ally of convenience. But Malphene Trant? Bully of the Senate. What was she to him?
An comrade in arms? A willing adventurer? A fellow destroyer of the status quo? Gods forbid, a lover?
No, and the answer came to him even as he absently stared at a bewitching maiden riding a bright green dragon over a cragged fastness of rock and snow, a grim looking warrior hot on her tail.
"I don't want anything from you, Trant." Riveh said simply, standing up and knocking some of the dust off his knees. "I think we are past that. What with resurrecting fathers and saving lives among a crumbling empire. No, I don't need a killer or a follower."
A deep breath and then Riveh said what would probably have been painfully obvious to anyone else, "What I want is to be your friend. And you to be mine. That's all, although I realize that is asking a bit much."
He waved a hand at the room around them, somehow also encompassing the vast immaculate grounds beyond. And more, the entire Taldane empire, lock stock and barrel. An entire world tottering on the brink of destruction and war...as well as (maybe, JUST maybe) hope and renewal.
"A friend to help me deal with all of....that." Which seemed a bit grand so he brought it back with a joke, "Or a friend that at least can tell me how to slurp soup correctly at dinner. That too."
"What I want is to be your friend. And you to be mine. That's all, although I realize that is asking a bit much."
Gods help him, he really might be asking for too much.
The response his petition engendered was curious to say the least. That the young woman was ruled by humors not hers to control had been made abundantly clear by now - a defect Factor-12 had once ascribed to all mortalkind - but he now saw these declare all-out war against each other, their battlefield the fair face of the Dame. And she was so very set on not revealing a single clash, not a skirmish of the conflict. She failed. Trant looked away from him, regal form rigid. The mouth drew tight and the warrior there was named Temperance. Hers was a difficult lot, fighting back every other combatant, among them Ire, Desire and Capitulation, each visible in flashes and jerks across the brow and eyes. For a moment Riveh imagined them as the fantastical beast riders decorating the space about them, a crash between dragons obscured by a thin sheet. How could the Dame ever hope to contain them? Their wings and breaths played across her proud features, and Despair rode a great Red, a wyrm older than ages.
The suite was silent save distant birdsong. She swallowed. It constituted the first real motion she had made for a good while, and the ifrit knew a victor had been declared. A most unwholesome aspect dominated her for a moment, like that of the last bee on earth acknowledging the futility of swarming on its lonesome. Then it passed, replaced by a strained smirk.
"Well, then stop being so damn mawkish! You don’t make friends being weepy. Honestly, you sound like the third act of a two-copper theater."
Good-natured ribaldry. Entirely feigned, of course. Was it preferable to whatever emotional turmoil the young woman had just swallowed? Fake camaraderie vs. true animosity - there was a question for philosophers. "Friends..." She cleared her throat only to start again. "Gods, you're such a woman. I'd call you the prissiest little princess I ever met if the one we work for didn't carry a sword wherever she goes. No more of this nonsense. Let's just... move on."
Ill at ease, yet willing to cooperate. What was Riveh to make of it? Nothing perhaps, so long as the Dame would work alongside him. Which she apparently would, she considering his plea for help in minding his manners in polite society.
"Riveh, you say that as if I’ve ever been anything but an embarrassment at every party I've set foot in..." she replied, managing to keep her tone more so speculative than spiteful. "Right until my father found a new use for me."
Putting hands to hips, Trant eyed a rubbery plant in thought. The air about it was fragrant and spicy. "You should offer him your condolences."
He should do what now?
"The Count’s father just died, didn’t he? It’s the whole reason for there being an inauguration ball, right? Then give him your condolences. He’s clearly a stickler for etiquette. I mean, you saw him upbraid that hoodlum Stig. Whether he actually cares for your sentiments doesn’t matter; it’s proper and he’ll appreciate the gesture. That's what I think."
True as this might be, the ifrit had certain reservations about showing any sympathy for the architect of his house's downfall, his father's murderer in all but act. Kissing the Lotheed insignia had been challenging enough. Saying a single kind word about the departed Lotheed patriarch? He had doubts he could even make it sound convincing.
"Get a grip on yourself." The words were unkind. The face was not. "From everything you've told me, I know he was a lying, two-timing rat. He… What was his name, Mercater? It doesn’t matter. He’s dead, and the only way he can do further harm to your house is if you allow your hatred of the man to dictate your actions. His son wears the crown now. Focus on him."
He had asked the young woman's advice. She had rendered it. Moving over to brush a finger against the mottled leaves of a delicate lily-like flower, Trant queried:
"What did you make of him? Bartleby Lotheed?"
Something loosened in Riveh's chest at Trant's words. A tight ball of stress and concern he didn't even know was there, something that now let him breathe just a bit easier, a bit more deeply. Strange, that it wasn't the palatial estate, the perfectly appointed room or even the fragrant wafts of garden sweetness drifting in the window that had done this. But a couple of bluff jokes from a towering woman he had only known for a few weeks.
Very odd.
Still, Riveh felt better. Even if Trant was still more comfortable with stilted jests and self-ironic disparagements.....the ifrit would take it. It was a step in the right direction and besides, he doubted he was ready for anything more serious anyway. Her point was well-made anyway, it was all a bit meldramatic, wasn't it?
"Then move on we shall." And then they moved right into another arena Riveh had just as little knowledge about as friendship. Proper social niceties among the nation's elite.
Offer his condolences? What did that even look like? The problem of being a young man, he hadn't had to deal with death very much yet. How did one gracefully bring up the subject? "Ah, sorry about your father, old chap. Bit the big one, eh? Went off to the great palace in the sky?" Riveh knew, among the simple townsfolk in his childhood home, people often brought food to a grieving family or widow. Maybe he could offer Bartleby a nice casserole?
Focus on Lotheed? Well, that wouldn't be hard to do. To smash in his perfect marble face-
Riveh notes he has been, slowly, tearing apart a lace doily into tiny white threads. He puts it down and shrugs at Trant's question, feigning detachment.
"I don't make much of him. Another aristocrat who would happily sacrifice an entire village to make a few crowns. Someone who takes this picture perfect life for granted in every way. " Riveh paused, realized he was ranting and went on in a normal tone. "Intelligent, calculating and probably is convinced he is the center of the known universe. How does your own opinion match up?"
"I don't know," she shrugged in turn, though only after cocking an eyebrow at Riveh's own description of their host, it running a bit heated. "Not too far from your own, I suppose. I want to say that I've seen his type before in Oppara: dignified little men too self-important to be impressed by anything as trifling as the world about them. But I don't know..." The Dame grimaced. "He has a certain... gravity to him."
Oh dear. Did whatever hold the good Count supposedly had over the fairer sex extend to Malphene Trant? Hopefully not; if nothing else, their mission didn't need any further hindrances. Even so, the ifrit understood what she meant. 'Nobility' was a quality many of their class practiced through manners and dress. Comparatively few were those who had it in spirit. Pluck a swan of its feathers and put it among similarly doffed geese, and it'd still stand apart. Whatever else Bartleby Lotheed was, he certainly carried himself like a man apart.
Trant's eye roved from the shredded doily to himself with something like a knowing glint. "Come here."
From careful caress to swift yank, she plucked the lily she'd been admiring from its stem and moved to nestle it in its new bed of Riveh's lapel. "I understand that you're... tense or whatever. You finally have your end goal in sight, obstacles and all. Which only makes you worry how you're going to ruin it all. Am I right?" She wasn't wholly wrong. "I don't know what to tell you except to go out there and do it. The more you think on it, the more jittery you become. So think less and do more. You'll feel better once you're actually working towards that goal, once you feel like you're doing something. So we're going to finish this dumb conversation, and you're going out to hobnob with the other local lords, win them over to your side and undermine Lotheed or whatever it is you're hoping for. There."
The young man wasn't sure whether the last exclamation was to underscore her counsel or in finishing his new boutonnière now blooming on his chest. Trant stepped back, giving him a quick survey. "You look nice. The lily goes with your lighter complexion from the mask." She didn't smile. But she attempted one in concluding: "'Up From the Roots,' right?"
This concluded, the two exited the curious quarters that were the Salon of Triaxus, neither quite the same as when they'd first entered. Making their way back downstairs, they thought they knew the magnificent gallery that formed the Palace's throughway should lead them to the back veranda and the rest of the party proper. Before they got that far, however, the Dame excused herself, citing a want to 'freshen up before being introduced to anyone else.'
"Relax, baby bird," she mocked before he could voice any response. "Your mother hen isn't going too far."
And already Riveh was beginning to regret asking Trant for help.
"If you want my help, you have it," she reassured him in a more promising tone, "but I'm sure you'll manage on your own for a few minutes. Besides, it wouldn't look right for the two of us to be introduced together."
Ah. Yes, the intergender politics of Taldor's aristocracy being what they were, he supposed she was right in this regard. And with this said the young woman strode off in her way - high as she was mighty - in search of a washroom. Right then. Where was this party he was due to be the life of?
----------
Whatever the last Geminus had expected out on the Palace's veranda, it wasn't this. He heard the party before he saw it. Chatter, polite laughter. And animals. Stepping through the tall glass doors - these featuring clear glass sections set in the image of avians with all the artistry of a stained glass window - the first thing that struck him was the sheer space. The veranda was large enough to host not just an orchestra, but an audience to go along with it. It ran along nearly the entire northern perimeter of the Palace, several hundred feet of smooth marble lane beneath a high outcropping roof, all in white. More surprising still that much of it was occupied. Not by guests, mind you. Oh no, the actual people in attendance numbered no more than thirty at a glance. The Exaltation Gala this was not.
Instead they were outnumbered - a dozen to one - by birds. From one hundred hooks hung one hundred gilded cages housing well over one hundred birds, each more exotic and colorful than the last. It formed an avian gallery, a kaleidoscope of vibrant feathers a feast for the eyes as surely as their song regaled the ears. They were suspended under the roof or by the wall quite strategically, Riveh soon realized: not so densely that spectators could not easily navigate the veranda, and not so near each other that their chatter turned too cacophonous. The Palace of Birdsong continued to live up to its name.
And yet this was not the worst of the animal calls. For the immaculately maintained plain outside was here beset by temporary pens containing... well, the mind boggled. Brawny cattle; rotund pigs; buoyant sheep; anxious hares; lumbering turkeys; even skittish deer and combative boars; Riveh nearly did a double-take upon noticing the nearest fountain swimming with turtles. All of these the guests milled around, commenting and making observations before conferring with a white-clad waiter, and it was only then he comprehended: they were picking their menu for the evening. So that's what the Count had meant when he'd said they weren't too late to choose their supper.
Or was this a melding of the genteel and the folksy? He knew that rural landowners sometimes displayed their wealth and expertise by flaunting their most impressive livestock, whether at events or even immortalized in painting. Owning the largest breed of cows, the fattest breed of pigs was a point of pride, and in casting his eye about the pens, Riveh noted that every beast in attendance was in fact an imposing exemplar of its kind. Meratt was one of the breadbasket counties of Taldor. Did this strange little zoo serve the dual purposes of culinary event and allowing Bartleby to showcase the bounty of his land?
A slight clearing of the throat distracted the ifrit in his scrutiny. A particularly well-dressed servant standing beside him by the veranda doorway was squaring his shoulders in preparation, and Riveh knew what was coming: this man was an announcer. Lord Betony was about to be introduced to the gathering. Ready or not, all eyes would soon be on him.
Except this wasn't quite what happened. Instead the servant fell silent as his host, lord and nemesis Bartleby Lotheed glided his way over, having politely excused himself from conversation. The Count waved away the staff. "Lord Betony, allow me," he said, perfect face still so perfectly impassive. "Just as it is a parent's duty to introduce their progeny to better society when of age, it falls to a ruling lord to introduce their juniors."
And how perfectly pompous. He turned on his heel, facing the crowd alongside his young guest in placing what was to all appearances a paternal hand on his shoulder. None but Riveh felt how the limb was tense as any of the well-muscled oxen's. "Ladies and gentlemen," he called out in his clear voice. It took but a moment before all was quiet save for the occasional animal putter. "It is my distinct honor -" (he didn't smile, he never smiled) "- to introduce Lord Riveh Betony, heir to the departed Lady Aliss Betony and new lord of the township of Stachys. May his rule be able and long."
Applause followed peppered with the occasional 'hear, hear!' It was as warm a welcome as the rules of etiquette allowed for. "I hope you enjoy the festivities, Lord Betony," said his host before departing from the crowd again. Well then. Riveh was now officially recognized as a member of Meratt's high society, and a fashionable one at that being its newest inductee. Many still eyed him curiously. He supposed this marked the start whistle for his mission: namely pulling this entire county out from under its current lord. The only question remaining was where to start?
It would be impossible to look past Lady Crabbe, one half of the rulership of Moost, one of Meratt's six townships. Impossible, because she was currently waving a plump hand excitedly his way from where she stood beside a caged parrot of sorts, the bird being the lesser in coloration between the two; the Lady's dress was extravagant to say the least.
Not too far from her Riveh spied her aforementioned half, the notably less excited Lord Crabbe. Martella had been thorough enough to include sketches of his peers alongside their files which was how he recognized the man, although there was little to mistake with the Lord's wild hair and moustache. He attended a young woman who the ifrit suspected was their daughter.
But over on the opposite side of the veranda stood a figure he had no trouble recognizing, sketch or no. They had met before after all. Baron Okerra, ruler of Pensaris, looked his towering self, little changed from the Exaltation Massacre. But then if stories of his military career were true, he was no stranger to bloodshed.
Where were the other local lords, Riveh wondered? Only after scrutinizing the crowd for a while did he spot the lanky form of the High Tribune Baroness Voinum herself. A curious character in Taldor's aristocracy with a no less curious title, her rise to ruler of Voinaris had been, so the stories told... curious. At the moment she wandered the turtle fountain, avoiding the other guests.
And... Hm. No, try as he might the ifrit could not see the last landed aristocrat of Meratt anywhere present. Was Baron Telos not attending? Strange.
Regardless, the question now remained who to grace with his presence first? But before Riveh could answer this query, he stopped in his tracks. He could feel the gaze before he found its owner. A man, blonde and elfin in aspect, stood alone at the very edge of the party. The sheer weight of his scrutiny was such that one almost felt it on the skin. Who was this? Not one of the landed lords, this much Riveh knew.
Gravity was the right word for Bartleby Lotheed, a certain weight. It was that sense of sublime inevitability, that effortless confident inertia that was currently overwhelming the young ifrit. How could he go against this young perfect lord? Maybe in a fistfight he'd come out of top (or maybe not, the man looked awfully fit for a detached nobleman) but in the subtle world of political maneuvering?
His hopes seemed very foolish, naive.
Which is why Riveh was surprised that his spirits rose at Trant's words. Why? It wasn't her more positive attitude. It wasn't her compliments, although that was welcome. It wasn't even her support. It struck Riveh that it was her solid, practical advice. There was an old saying, Work sooner started, was work sooner finished, and it was no less true about toppling an undeserving noble then it was about weeding a potato field. It was time to stop moping and worrying, and time to get to it.
When Trant excuses herself, Riveh doesn't blame the noblewoman. He had exposed a good deal of emotion back there, among the dragons and glaciers of Triaxus. if she needed some time to decompress, well that was fair enough> he wished he had the same grace himself.
But he didn't because suddenly he was smacked full in the face with yet more opulent splendor. The marble expanse seemed as large as an acre to the surprising Riveh, and the bubbling fountains, gleaming stained glass seemed to merely add more weight behind his insecurities. Such wealth and power....
And then he saw the animals.
In their own way of course, they were a display of might as well. To have, one an apparent social whim, a collection of the finest animals Taldor had to offer was a serious exhibit of Lord Lotheed's prestige. Even one of these animals would have been the highlight of a village, a carefully treasured pride of an entire family. And here, were dozens of them casually strewn about with faux disregard.
Yet, despite his nerves and worries, it sparked a memory in Riveh, one that Bartleby Lotheed had most certainly not intended.
Young Riveh had few social events in his youth, his mother a forgotten about recluse, suffering an imposed internal exile. She had forbidden most of the outlets another young nobleman might have had, the dances, the tea parties, the carefully organized play dates. But there had been one even even his mother had allowed.
twice a year, at the local market town, the Great Auction was held. A time when all the landowners from the area, some at quite a distance, brought their best livestock to sell. Both lords and peasants alike mingled here, in that most rare of atmospheres, a tense equality. It was the one place a humble farmer might be congratulated for raising such a fine pig, or where a minor landlord would be praised for bringing the largest pumpkin in recent memory. It had been a major social and economic event, and a young Riveh had loved it. The people, the sights, the sounds...
And Riveh, looking over this meticulously crafted simulacrum was struck by a single image. Bartleby Lotheed in another life, was a prosperous but rural farmer. Big leather boots, wide star hat, seriously pondering the likely weight of a prize pig in a pen, or solemnly contemplating branching out into goose farming. Those bright eyes fixed on a horses gait, and maybe a twig of straw between those perfect teeth?
The absurd juxtaposition was so sudden, so striking, so downright amusing Riveh almost burst into laughter, even as the lord introduced him to the assembled crowd. All of the pomp, the carefully presented display of potency popped like a bubble. Bartleby was no more inevitable then anything else, no force of nature. Just another man. Riveh felt a little bit of that weight fall off of him. This was still serious and difficult, but at least he wouldn't fail for not trying.
Faced with the choice of who to approach, Riveh is divided between two. First is lady Crabbe because anyone who actively [wants to meet him is a refreshing change of pace. True, perhaps the woman was an empty headed lover of colorful birds...but perhaps not?
And Riveh was also drawn the strange unknown figure on the edge of the party. The elfin observer who seemed very interested in him. Why? Did the man sense something was amiss about Riveh's background or his face? Or just a strange loner?
For now though, accepting the obvious invitation from another noble seemed wise. Riveh headed over to Lady Crabbe, bracing himself for the worst sort of mindless small-talk that Taldane nobility could produce.
"The secret to aging right is putting on just 10 pounds. Just 10 pounds, mind you! The extra weight smooths out the wrinkles, you see!"
Riveh was only just returned from his brief hiatus to the not so distant past, busy market noises still fading from his ears. Perhaps that was why, in bearing for Lady Crabbe, another memory managed to flutter his way through the recollection. The outspoken tavern matron who had first shared this dubious secret to aging gracefully could have been a fellow of the woman now waving him over. For while Martella's notes on the noblewoman claimed she was 39 years of age - and had remained so for the last six years - there was not a crease to be seen on the round face, gracious smile be damned.
"Hellooo, my dear," her sing-songy voice called out at his approach, visibly startling a parrot sitting in a cage beside her. "So good to finally meet you! Oh, we have been just quaking in anticipation for your arrival. A new Betony, how exiting! And so young! Ah, just look at you!"
Lady Parthena Crabbe was a large figure in every way: large in gesture, large in presence, and large in frame. This was an impression only aided by her dress, a voluminous, crinkly affair so aggressively salmon-pink its aquatic namesake might have considered it a provocation. It enhanced her plentiful physique, a physique that despite it all never evoked such labels as 'fat'. No, the Lady was full-figured, and, while not tall, was broad enough to carry her weight rather well.
She also happened to have the largest bosom Riveh had ever seen.
"I am the Lady Crabbe, but please call me Parthena. After all, you're a member of our little family now!" She laughed at what was apparently a joke. This introduction prompted another gentleman, one the ifrit thought to have been conversing with the Lady before his arrival, to introduce himself. He did not get far as she, dismissively, waved her fan as if to shoo away a pest. At no point did the smile fade. "You simply must tell me all about yourself. It is so rare we receive guests of worth out here. Where are you from, dear? Oppara? I think I recognize capital fashion when I see it!"
Riveh could not help but note how she did not curtsy for him, but then they were equal in rank, lord and lady. Even so, the woman was overbearing in more ways than one. Was her friendliness feigned? The dark eyes that now roved his clothing in appreciation seemed almost too simple for layered deceptions. Then again, he'd been fooled before. Harder to fake was a tan; complimenting the noblewoman's buoyancy was a healthy tan unlike that of so many vampiric aristocrats, it harmonizing further with a youthful exuberance to her round cheeks that wasn't entirely owed the plentiful rouge.
She couldn't possibly owe her complexion to working her township's trade, could she? Moost was a farming community like every other in Meratt, but notably was most famed for its sugar beets. They wrung raw sugar from these, and even had a well-established confection industry as a result. Hm. The latter would at the very least account for her figure.
There was one thing worse then shock and surprise, the sudden twist of fate. The unlikely danger striking out without warning or expectation.
The crushing boredom of the inevitable.
Riveh could actually feel his mind slowing down as Lady Parthena Crabbe was everything he expected to be. An apparently vapish lady concerned with gossip and fashion. Not to mention her roving eye sizing up martial connections. His mind jumped to the probable daughter, twenty feet away. Forget the animals, Lady Crabbe was apparently casting her eyes on more humanoid stock. The vision of her bidding and selling did not engender mirth but resignation. She was probably used to getting her way.
Not only would this conversation be boring but dangerous, considering her desire for information. The last thing Riveh wanted was to tell this somewhat stout woman 'everything about' himself.
No, he needed to deflect.
"Not from Oppara, but I did pass through recently." The young man plucks at the clothes, "So your eyes are not playing tricks. Thread Rare, actually. I bought them just before.." Riveh does not need to feign the darker emotions that swirl on his face for a second, "The events at the Senate."
Now, time to redirect things away from himself.
"You know, Lady Crabbe, I must admit. It is also exciting for me to meet you. I really must confess something." Riveh lowers his voice to a faux conspiratorial whisper, a smile on his face. "I have wanted to visit the Moost Candy Works since I tasted my first Moost Mum."
The Moost Mum, of course, was the Candy Works most famous export. An entire mum flower, petals, buds and seed, dusted with sugar and then dipped in honey. Crystalized to become translucent, the preserved flowers were shipped all through Taldor (and beyond) and were considered a suitable treat for even the most spoiled and sugar hungry child. Riveh had actually not tasted one for some time and even this small aside actually re-awoke that old children desire.
So it was with actual interest that he added, "Are they really made with magic? People always said so but I don't know...it always seemed more appealing if it didn't. If it was an art, not a spell." Another smile, "Or is it a family secret?"
" my dear, dear boy, you were at the Senate?!"
Heavens preserve him, Riveh thought he had actual ringing in his ears for a second at the Lady's outburst, so aghast was she at his disclosure. Of course, said ringing was rather drowned out by the squawking, thrilling and crying from a dozen of the nearest cages, the birds all startled by the noblewoman. Once again the ifrit found himself the center of attention as people turned at the commotion.
Attention that Parthena seemed oblivious to. "That something so horrid should befall such a sweet, well dressed, young man," she went on, apparently genuine. "The jealousy of anarchist animals against their betters truly is a frightful thing."
There was a lot to unpack in that statement, but anarchists? The Massacre had clearly been engineered by the Grand Prince himself! Had the truth of the matter really been suppressed so thoroughly that not even the aristocracy knew what truly happened? Or did Taldan nationalism just run so deep that acknowledging such a shame was impossible?
The thought was headache-inducing and so he moved on. The Geminus needed at least half, preferably all, of Meratt's landed lords on his side to take the county for his own; it was with this in mind that he reached for plain old flattery. Lady Crabbe seemed the sort of vapid beldam susceptible to such techniques. And he knew his estimation was right when she leaned in almost childishly at his conspiratorial tone.
"The Moost Mum?"
Riveh swore he saw the woman expand like a hot air balloon at the light he lit under her. The image was only aided by the voluminous dress. "That settles it," she said, suppressing a smile and coquettishly batting her fan his way. "Consider yourself invited to Crabbe Manor, Lord Betony. At the earliest opportunity! No, I won't take no for an answer. It's been far too long since I've had a chance to lay out my periwinkle porcelain. A great shame! You have of course heard of my famous candlelight dinners." He had not. "I shall show you everything your precious, young heart ever wanted to know about our Candy Work." She theatrically feigned at looking about her for those who would listen in. "And should anything be a family secret, well... As I said, you are family now."
She winked at the great private joke they now shared.
"Ooh!" the Lady cried again, throwing up her arms in an exaggerated display of remembrance that, not for the first time, made Riveh feel like he was standing on a stage speaking to an overly dramatic - if enthusiastic - actor. "Here we are having such a wonderful time, and I haven't introduced you to my family. You will want to meet my husband, of course. He's a great genius! Everyone says so! And my darling daughter. Did you know her tutors all foresee bright things for her?"
"Hm?"
Lady Crabbe listened patiently, if a little quizzically, at the young man's query on the strange elfin man he's spied earlier, the gentleman with the hard stare. How could this possibly take precedence over meeting her nearest and dearest? "Oh, well, that can only be Sir Gusairne, dear."
Gusairne? There was a name Riveh recognized. Piscum had spoken of him - warned of, really - just yesterday. The Lotheed seneschal and Bartleby's right-hand man. Yes, she'd said something about him being elf-blooded as well.
"He is the seneschal to House Lotheed," the noblewoman went on, notably lowering her otherwise so powerful voice. "A very dutiful man, but of course not one of us." Oh? "It's the peasantry that call him 'sir', as a mark of respect I suppose. He's not actually of good birth. Personally, I object to our laurels being used so flippantly by commoners. It robs the dignity of millennia-old houses! But it's not my place to reprimand him..."
She shook her head gravely. "If there is one thing I can't stand it's snobbery and one-upmanship, people trying to pretend they're better than others. It makes things so much more difficult for those of us who actually are!"
The ifrit needed a second to process that one. Was it possible to have an aneurysm from sheer irony?
Riveh is not overly shocked that Lady Crabbe had only a garbled understanding of the Exaltation Day Massacre. The ifrit had been there and still wasn’t sure what had been going on during that sudden orgy of blood and madness. Still, he was surprised at her instant blaming of ‘anarchists’. The Geminus scion had assumed the entire thing was being written off as more elite squabbling trending toward civil war, that at least the basic facts had been understood by all. Such as the fact the Grand Prince himself had physically started cutting throats?
But anarchists? Even the word itself was strange. Did Taldor even have anarchists? That was a word used to describe either Galtish radicals or Andoran idealists. It was hard to imagine such beliefs taking hold in ossified, hierarchical Taldor. Riveh wondered who was controlling the rumor mill these days and for what ends. To label the Princess’s reformist ideas as radicalism, perhaps? Or just to muddy the waters of the emerging fault-lines in the empire? Curious.
Riveh was torn away from that problem to a much more personal horror. The contemplation of a private candle-lit dinner with Lady Crabbe, and being considered ‘part of the family’. The young ifrit wondered if he would make it to the (probably delectable) dessert without being betrothed to the charming younger Crabbe. Probably not, Parthena did not seem the type to waste time or mince words. Moost and Stachys would be bound that evening, if the formidable gossip had her way. Best to avoid those treacherous waters. The last thing he wanted to have to fend off marriage entanglements on his first day.
Still, the faux Betony had work to do. Besides, Lady Crabbe could still be a font of information. So that was Sir Gusairne, then? Curious. Riveh had , for some reason, expected a hulking enforced, a sort of burly version of Stig. Jumped up to an undeserved station due to skill and violence. But this man seemed more the watchful and guarded type. Dangerous, that seemed clear enough. Riveh thanked his fortune he had steered clear of the formidable seeming man. A one-on-one conversation with Lord Lotheed’s right hand man seemed unwise.
At Lady Crabbe’s words, Riveh decided to plant a few seeds of his own. Or maybe just to test the depth of the soil.
”I am sure Lord Lotheed had his own reasons for according such honoroed rights and privileges to such a trusted…servant.” Riveh says dutifully although his tone leaves just a bit of doubt there, as if to ask ‘what reasons could it be?’ ”I am only just arrived to ‘our little circle’ but I am sure the masters of the Palace of Birdsong are well loved and received by all? They seem so….wise and powerful. I mean, just look at this event, it seems quite splendid to me.” Come on now, you little gossip, spill the beans. Who hates Bartleby’s guts? Anyone?
Conversing with Lady Crabbe was not unlike reading a Calistrian pamphlet in that there were kernels of interest here and there if one just got past all the pretentious wank. But enough of such tidbits! Riveh wanted to get at the good stuff. Namely, he wanted to get at any seed of discontent in Meratt so that he might help these flower into great big oaks of revolution! He wanted to hear this gossip dish the dirt.
He was, as is so often the case, disappointed.
"But of course!" the noblewoman thrilled at his open query on the Lotheed's popularity. "Count Lotheed is such a brilliant young man, so dedicated and fair. One cannot help but admire him! So like his father, precious old Mercater, in that regard. Do you know, we really should appreciate this little get-together as the rare occasion it is. Dear Bartie - I call him Bartie, you see - is so committed to his office that he normally skips out on social engagements altogether, even my own! Why, the times he has turned down my candlelight suppers with periwinkle porcelain solely because his people needed him."
Somehow the ifrit wondered whether Bartleby had other reasons for avoiding the Lady.
"And still I persist. I want him to know, you see. I want him to know that in this hectic world of ours, amidst all the responsibilities of our class, he will always have a refuge in me."
The Qadirans' Dawnflower herself had never looked so gracious in redeeming the wicked as Parthena Crabbe did in this moment. "As do you of course, my dear. I like to think of myself as a calm in the storm of our busy lives." She was blustery alright. "Which is why I'm so glad it was a clever young man such as you who joined our little community. I'm sure the two of you will get on swimmingly! Just don't mind his occasional cold spells. It's an eccentricity endemic to his kind. I should know, my husband is brilliant! In truth, he's just shy, the poor dear."
Once again, Riveh seriously doubted this assertion. He looked out to the white gravel pathway leading from the Palace, it being only just visible beneath the guests roaming it. Having a higher vantage point from the veranda, he could just spy the Count, looking as serious as ever and seemingly engaged in a very serious conversation with some serious looking older gentleman. Bartleby was doing all the talking. The ifrit briefly wondered who these guests might be. They looked the academic types to him, all bespectacled and bearded and unsure what to do with their hands.
Which was when he realized. It was the noblewoman's mention of "his kind" that set it off. Riveh hadn't paid the pack of gathered guests any real mind as of yet, but now that he considered them, oddities stuck out. The crowd was overwhelmingly male, for one. Most were also older, middle-aged at minimum. And while dressed for the occasion, not many wore the sort of ostentation he had almost gotten used to among the aristocracy.
Martella's words came back to him regarding what sort of people the Count gravitated towards. Were these all academics?
Riveh was disappointed but not utterly shocked Lady Crabbe chose to sing Bartleby Lotheed's praises. It was too much to hope for that his enemy was disliked by all and teetering on the brink of collapse. The ifrit did wonder at Parthena motives though.
Was she really so deeply enamored with the powerful young Lotheed? Did she merely not consider herself a political player, preferring the social arena? Or was speaking poorly of Bartleby a sure route to disaster here? Riveh simply did not know and it would pay to walk quietly here, at least until he knew the lay of the land.
Riveh glanced up at the rather imposing group of clustering academics who, quite literally due to the landscaping, stood above the gathered lords and ladies of the grounds. No mistake, probably. Whoever designed this should work for a theater house. The ifrit wondered briefly who the assorted sages were, but had so little to work with, dismissed the thoughts. All in good time.
Gracefully, Riveh managed to disentangle himself from the Lady Crabbe ( 'Oh, I really must see the others. I know, but appearances!'). But who to talk to next? High Tribune Baroness Voinum was, at least alone. An easier target then some of the others.
Riveh wandered over to the turtle fountain, casually soaking up the sights and sounds of the busy grounds. More like a barnyard then anything else, to be honest.
A cow tall enough to look him in the eye did just that as Riveh passed it by. Aroden's ghost, what did they feed the beasts out here? Disentangling himself from the painted pincers of a most disappointed Lady Crabbe had taken some time - and a promise to visit Moost promptly - but he now wandered the edge of the soiree. Eager as the woman was to chatter, he wasn't sure how much of it was worth listening to. Besides, there was other prey here for him to target.
Hm. Was 'prey' any way to think of potential allies? Perhaps the plentiful fauna was getting to him. Riveh looked over a sturdy pen at some less than pleased boars. This was wild game, and yet they too looked hale, hearty and humongous. Had they been caught on the Count's land or were they straight from Verduran Forest, he wondered? For that matter, where had the turtles his current target ambled near come from? Surely those weren't local fare.
High Tribune Baroness Adella Voinum. She roamed a cherub adorned fountain with slow, deliberate strides. Deliberate because such was the step of any soldier of worth. Slow because she was merely killing time. Baroness Voinum walked alone, no other guest seemingly daring to approach her. The ifrit could see why. She wasn't exactly the approachable sort, so much so that he had to wonder whether this was deliberate on her part. In appearance she was... Heavens help him, this wasn't the kindest comparison Riveh had ever drawn, but he couldn't help but think her like a female Stig. Stringy. Hard. Hatchet-faced. Like the knight, she wore something like a perpetual scowl. She was scarred too, lines of white running over the bridge of a hawkish nose broken more than once. Unlike the knight, her posture was impeccable, straight as the pikes she had once commanded in the Taldan Phalanx.
A military woman. Taldor's gender norms being what they were, few women served in its armed forces. Fewer still attained any rank of note. And yet Adella Voinum was only here today because of her military history. She did not inherit the township of Voinaris through the title of Baroness; she took it forcibly as a High Tribune of the Phalanx. The Geminus remembered being rather astonished at reading the file Martella had prepared for him on the woman. Much of it was incomplete, shrouded in sealed court cases and private family meetings, but enough remained to paint a picture. And what a striking portrait it was. Born the younger sister to two brothers, Voinum had never been set to inherit the township. Her lot was to marry a partner of good standing whilst, at most, enjoying whatever stipend her parents saw fit to pass onto her at their deaths. The fate of so many other ladies of standing.
For reasons unknown, the Voinum took extreme umbrage with this, going so far as to join the military. She had learned of obscure bylaws in Taldor's impenetrable legal framework that, while not allowing her to inherit as a woman, could allow for her to requisition land as a ranked officer. Just like that she switched petticoats for army fatigues as she went from daughter of a noble house to foot solder. Riveh could hardly imagine what hardships she had gone through in her mission - working her way up the ranks, earning trust in a supremely male dominated space, decades fighting to say nothing of the ridicule - yet here she was. Through court cases, backroom deals and supposedly more than a few favors called in among the Phalanx's top brass, her brothers had relented. She was now High Tribune Baroness Adella Voinum.
And allegedly a bit of a c*nt.
An impressive resume. Certainly enough to make Riveh hesitate before greeting her. Driven by a need for his own birthright, however, the white gravel soon crunched beneath his heels again. She looked up from a wine glass at his approach. She was tall, he realized; tall for a woman, anyway. Trant hadn't warped his perception of height just yet.
"Well? Speak up."
He hadn't even crossed the fountain to greet her. Her voice was rough, rendered harsh through years of barking commands across a battlefield. A turtle gently dove beneath the water surface, as if fearful. The Baroness's gaze was no more kind than her voice. No makeup obscured the lines of the weathered face, and her greying hair was similarly unadorned; no barber would take credit for the short locks. The austerity was carried on into her dress: fine, but simple clothes in deep blue. Knowing what he did, that she wore trousers over a skirt was hardly even surprising to Riveh.
Lady Crabbe to Baroness Voinum. From one extreme to another or, Riveh thought as she approached the isolated former soldier, from one stereotype to another. After reading Martella’s files, he had expected a gruff, imposing woman who did not suffer fools but this seemed almost too on the nose. At least she wasn’t wearing an actual military uniform that might have been taking things to the level of parody.
Her rasping words caught the ifrit off guard, perhaps more than usual after the bubbling (false?) cheer of Lady Crabbe. It was very direct, almost to the point of downright rudeness. Riveh was briefly offended, had the Baroness not heard who he was? Surely a fellow Merratt landowner deserved some respect? But days of dealing with Stig had taught the young man well, and it took more than a bit of bark to throw him off his game. Well that and having Trant around made towering women of formidable nature somewhat more familiar.
Although for one wild moment Riveh almost saluted. But instead of that, or being offended or retreating, Riveh simply nodded as if this was a normal way for two nobles to greet each other.
"High Tribune Baroness Adella Voinum. As I am sure you heard, I am Lord Riveh Betony, heir to Stachys.” Doing his best to prove himself Riveh took a step forward and offered her a hand, in workman-like fashion. Let’s see what she makes of directness. To most nobles the move would smack of undesirable peasant virtues but maybe to a no nonsense woman like Voinum, it would appeal. Maybe. Or maybe she’d be offended at his effrontery and beat him. Riveh got the feeling, despite his advantage in age and magic, she could stand him on his head if she really wanted to.
”I am glad to make your acquaintance. I am hoping, since our districts border each other, that familiarity may breed benefits to both of us. One should always get to know one’s neighbors.” Riveh said plainly, meaning every word of it. The young oracle got the sense that disassembling or roundabout language would do him no good here. Treating this woman like Lady Crabbe would be a disaster. Be honest, and don’t waste her time.
”I have much to learn but I can only imagine having an active lord would be beneficial to the previous neglect of the region.” Riveh does his best to cast about for a suitable topic, wondering if he should shut up. "Voinaris is famed for its wine and vinegar industry, as well as its effective soldiery. Something to be proud of, for sure.” A slight pause, "Hopefully I can turn Stachys into something to be proud of, some day.”
Was he laying it on too thick? The weird part was, it wasn’t even empty flattery. It was the truth, Riveh really did want to take the squalid little swamp village and turn it into a thriving town (dare he hope small city?) with industry, hope and pride in itself. Would the Baroness see this honest desire or just assume it was a self-centered way to try and butter the old military leader up? He couldn't blame her, not really but it would be a shame.
Interpersonal relations were a complicated thing. Like the oceans to the moon, favor between people would wax and wane by status, age, familiarity, attraction, fame and a million other factors only the bards seemed to have an true grasp on. And yet Riveh did not have to wait long to get a sense for what his relation to Baroness Voinum would look like. For she did not grasp his proffered hand.
Recovering from such dismissal - if not outright disrespect - wasn't the easiest of social maneuvers, but the young man made an admirable attempt. Under the stern stare of his fellow lord, he introduced himself, a gesture he rightly assumed really shouldn't be necessary. He expressed admiration for her township, hoped for cooperation with his own, and worked what Martella Lotheed so succinctly had named "the Geminus charm." The woman merely scowled at him. Underneath the knitted brow, the eyes were like flint. No, harder still. These were eyes that spoke of being broken on the wheel of the military machine only to be reforged in its image. These were the eyes that met military recruits. The severity he saw in them was the same one that broke them in turn, turning boys into men.
He almost felt his courage falter. And yet he managed to say his piece, and this without the Baroness having interrupted him once. She merely looked at him. A tense moment passed, the spray of the fountain somehow sounding all the louder in the silence.
"No, you're not."
The three syllables cut like frayed garotte wire. He wasn't what?
"You're not a Betony."
The frown of the thin lips formed a perfect semicircle.
Once, as a young man, Riveh had heard a phrase out of an old story.
Where would be the merit if heroes were never afraid?. Riveh had always liked it, something about the innate humanity of all people and that the wooden legends of the sagas lacked something. Something that made them real. Also, that it made his own fear somehow more acceptable.
All of a sudden, Riveh wished he was one of those unfeeling giants of prose and poetry. At the Baroness words a sudden lump of ice appeared in his stomach, at least as large as one of the turtles swimming in the sparkling clear water. Sharp and jagged, it seemed to slice into his organs, even as he stood there, staring at the taunt almost predatory smile. He really could do without that rising panic as he grappled with the import of her words.
Not a Betony?
Around him the birdsong seemed to fade, the bright summer sky dimming. Was the game up? Would his grand deceit end right here and now? Did this woman somehow possess the ability to see through his mask? Or did she detect just general lies? But that couldn’t be right. Baroness Voinum wasn’t even the villain, she was a side character! In the stories the finale always involved the arch foe….surely Riveh’s fate wasn’t to wash up at a garden party? Maybe something else was going on here?
Clinging to that hope, like a drowning man seizing a scrap of wood, the ifrit did his best to school his features into something like normalcy. Perhaps, Riveh’s suddenly frozen brain suggested, the woman was speaking metaphorically? Or something? Anything!
”I’m not?” Riveh said, his laugh awkward and strained, even in his own ears. ”Well, someone should tell the Imperial bureaucracy, they seemed quite convinced when they gave me the papers.” The young man coughed, and his eyes searched the yard for exits. Was he going to have to make a run for it? And what, leave Trant and Stig behind? Maybe they could simply say they were fooled, hoodwinked by this Betony imposter?
The world seemed to slow around him as Riveh waited for the Baroness’s answer. If she uttered the word Geminus, he was going to have to do something clever.
How did she do it? How did this woman make him feel like a pimply recruit standing before a hard nosed drill instructor? The air about her was so tense it wound up one's nerves, as if she had the authority to make you clean the nearby animal pens with a toothbrush for defying her, or at the very least send you to bed without supper. Riveh half expected her to demand so-and-so many push-ups from him.
When she spoke again, her mandate was stranger still.
"I am going to smack you."
The ifrit needed a second for this to sink in. Rightly so, of course. When attending a celebration with the better classes, the threat of physical violence wasn't the first thing one expected. Except this was no threat. The Baroness spoke in the same low and level tone leaders reserved for menials - or indeed a sergeant for foot soldiers: precise, not to be misunderstood. Nor had a single line of the weathered face shifted from the hard to the antagonistic. She wasn't menacing him; these were instructions.
"You will take it on the chin, and I will walk off."
It was the purpose of said instructions that bewildered him. What was this? Had the Voinum truly figured out his identity? Was she angry at the deception? Did she deem him due some corporeal punishment?
"Or take a dive into the fountain. Sing like a canary. I don't care which, just make a scene and look a fool." Riveh had heard of death bed whispers less serious than the Baroness at this direction. "You say you want to improve upon Stachys? Do this, and I will send you 1000 gold pieces worth of Verduran timber to aid in its reconstruction."
Like a man lost at sea, the ifrit searched Voinum for any footing, any indication of whatever this something was she was proposing. The eyes were grey like flint. As hard and inscrutable as the stone itself.
Riveh was a landsman, if there ever had been. He can never even been on a raft in a pond, let alone a great sailing ship. In fact, his trip to Oppara had been his first time seeing those massive bulks, which carried goods from all over Golarion to Taldor. The young ifrit did not know a gunwale from a boatswain.
Which was fitting, because Baroness Voinum had him entirely at sea, surely as lost as any marooned sailor.
What was going on? Did she know? Was this some esoteric punishment for pretending to be a Betony? Riveh’s mind, while still frozen and locked in place, suggested no. Surely the proper procedure for that was either a public denunciation of an infiltrator or to quietly ignore it and inform Bartleby Lotheed privately later. Why inform your target in such a strange, elaborate way?
And what was this about slapping? Jumping in pools?
If the tone had been grandiose or imperious Riveh might have thought it some strange hazing, a weird ritual that the powerful lorded over the newcomers. Keep the new lords on their toes, perhaps. But the woman’s tone wasn’t anything like that. This was the steely demeanor of an inquisitor or teacher, not the sneering disdain of a lord. She was telling him what to do, spelling out a suggested course of action.
Why? To see if he would do it?
And then the offer of prime Veruran timber. Was it extra sweetener for…whatever this was? Or just a Moost Mum held above his head, a tantalizing trap in case her weird words were not enough to drive him to action? Or was she merely testing his resolve about Stachys? Was it merely to see if he would place his new town above himself?
Perhaps the reverse? Would he make a fool of himself for a quick coin?
"You're not a Betony." The words chilled his heart and mind.
Still, it left him little choice. Apparently he was in the hands of this strange woman and she said to jump, he would. What else could he do?
Mind still puzzled, he gave a tiny mental shrug. Whatever game was going on here, was over his head. In for a copper, in for a gold.
Without further ado he said, loudly, ”Then I’ll show you!” And with that remark Riveh threw himself into the bubbling, gurgling fountain. This was not a graceful step or descent into that crystal clear water. No, it was more of a belly flop worthy of a child’s swimming hole, a very loud, very splashy pratfall into that marble laid pool. He hit the bottom, hard, along his back and side. Pain flared, almost making him open his mouth and take in breath. Underwater. Maybe he should just drown himself here and be free of his troubles. Who would miss him? But instead Riveh grabbed a very surprised turtle and clambered to his feet.
Drenched to the bone, artfully arranged lily pads in his hair, Riveh held up the frantically struggling turtle. He ignored the sudden coldness of the air on his wet skin, and the heavy bagging of his soaked clothes. What would that half-forgotten tailor say of him now? The young ifrit spouted a good bit of water out of his mouth, happy it was clean at least.
”And that’s how we do it back home, Baroness Voinum. Learned that trick from a traveling tinker!” Riveh said, overly loud. He fairly brandished the turtle at the former commander, the reptile gleaming like a wet jewel in the sunlight. ’What do you think, eh?”
Well, there goes making a good impression down the drain.
Not for the first time today, Riveh found himself the center of attention. Would that it were for a happier cause. While he hadn't heard it due to the water rushing before his ears, he could well imagine the collective gasp that went through the crowd as the newly inducted lord - so young, charming and agreeable - went headlong into a fountain. Now, lungs tasting air again, he could see how some had rushed forward, assuming some terrible accident. Others had lost their drinks in shock. Shattered glass glittered in the sunlight. All eyes were on him. Somehow he felt their gazes on his skin even more keenly than the water now drenching him. Somehow they were colder than the water too.
Yes, all hopes of making a good impression lay floundering like the turtles he'd cascaded right out of their spring. Brows furrowed and mustaches ruffled as guests understood that the Betony had jumped in of his own volition. The ifrit wondered briefly: was he now assumed as batty as old Aliss, his supposed forbearer? Well, at least his cover remained intact, then.
It was, all in all, not a good showing. Which was why it was a great relief that he'd managed to amaze one person.
'Amaze' was perhaps a strong word. But given how Baroness Voinum seemed as sullen as a halfling with a yo-yo, wiping away her scowl rather felt like an achievement. Granted, what replaced it wasn't exactly approval, more so mild surprise. The narrow face grew longer still, lines disappearing as the raised eyebrows drew the skin tight. It was clear that not much surprised the woman. She gave him the slightest of nods, the most miniscule raise of her wineglass.
"... You shall have your timber, whoever you are."
And with that she - just as promised - walked off to menace some other corner of the expansive Lotheed gardens. The party slowly recovered. The collective gaze turned away from the young man. No one offered to help him out of the fountain.
Not even his own companion, but then that followed; the man was an ass.
"So golden boy floats. Who'da thunk it?"
Stig ambled his direction with hands in pockets, managing to look like a small-time crook off the street even in his finery. Both hands remained firmly rooted even as Riveh made to climb out onto dry land. "D'you wanna tell me what the hell that was all about?"
Before the ifrit could contemplate an answer - did he have a good answer? - a white-clad waiter stepped up to them deferentially, if awkwardly. His social stock had clearly depreciated if even the servants didn't know what to think of him.
"Will, er, that be your main course, my lord?"
The turtle flapped lazily in his grip.
Well, that had solved nothing Riveh mentally fumes as he awkwardly sloshes out of the grand fountain onto the pristine, perfectly trimmed grass of the garden. The water, of course, pooled around his soaked shoes and instantly starting creating a miniature mud pool.
Riveh still had no idea what Baroness Voinum knew, how she knew it or what she intended to do with that unknown information. All he had gained was confusion, a solid dunking and (perhaps) some grade A building material.
Great.
"It's called a bath, Sir Stig." Riveh muttered sourly at Stig's remarks. "Someday you might try the experiment yourself." Riveh flapped his arms, sending a sheet of raindrops at the unhelp ruffian. He was contemplating chucking the turtle at the Knight as well, when the servant came up.
"Of course." Riveh snapped, as if it was perfectly normal for a noble to jump head first into a shallow pool for his dinner. "I want it cooked into soup. Very hot." He thrust the turtle at the bewildered servant, and the ifrit's arm twinged with pain while he did it. Who has a marble-lined pool? And kept it so clean? A bit of mud might have softened his fall. Vengeance on that reptile seemed very warranted.
Then Riveh looked at the slowly flopping turtle, small black eyes blinking wetly. "Actually, I changed my mind. Please release it in the local river. I'll have a salad for dinner." The last thing he needed was the spirit of this turtle haunting him. Things were already going badly enough.
"Do you have anyone on staff that can....magic this water away?" Riveh asked the servant, a bit plaintively. A slow stream of water was still flowing off of him, drizzling onto the grass in a manner that made one think of bodily functions. "Or at least provide a fresh change of clothes?"
"It's called a bath, Sir Stig." Riveh muttered sourly at Stig's remarks. "Someday you might try the experiment yourself." Riveh flapped his arms, sending a sheet of raindrops at the unhelp ruffian.
"You know, you're being real bold for someone still within tippin' distance o' that fountain," the knight grumbled whilst squinting through the droplets flicked his way by his honorable ward.
Riveh was not in the best of moods, understandably so. And yet he managed to temper his irritation before it claimed the reptile flapping in his grip, as innocent a bystander in this drama as could be. Relinquishing it into the arms of the stumped waiter, the man seemed rather lost for words. Granted, he was trained under the axiom of servants always going unheard, but still. For a moment, his lips flapped as lazily as the turtle, likely in considering whether to tell this strange lord that said turtles had been caught out in Star Bay, and that releasing them into the nearest river probably wasn't advisable - for any party. But his training kicked in. Best not to comment.
Instead he merely nodded at the mention of a fresh change of clothes. "I'll... see what we can do."
----------
Yes, this would do. Riveh fastened the last button on the cuff and stretched his arm out. The sleeve was neither too long nor too short. Being used as he now was, however, to a tailored fit, he recognized this suit as being merely adequate on his frame. A 'decent enough' fit. And he wasn't convinced burgundy was his color either.
"F*ckin' hell. Place looks like one o' them winter witches shat all over one side of the room and puked over the other," Stig groused in circling the icy blues and verdant greens of the salon of Triaxus, shaking his head all the while. "Only to have some blue-blood come along and call it posh. F'ckin' hate blue-bloods..."
Having been led back to his quarters at the Palace, the ifrit had had to wait some time before a deferential manservant had presented him with new clothing. Presumably the staff had gone through some effort in order to find him something worthy of a lord. This made some sense; clothing was one of those all-important distinctions between the haves and the have-nots. One couldn't simply dress an aristocrat in just anything, oh heavens no! That ran the risk of exposing the better classes as merely mortal themselves. It was why clothes above a certain standard were outright illegal for the peasantry. Best that everyone knew their places.
The door flew open and Riveh idly wondered at the reaction of the towering invader should he still have been undressed.
"What the hell happened out there?!" an incredulous Trant demanded to know, she closely followed by the floating form of Factor-12.
"That's what I asked," mumbled Stig.
And just like that the gang was all together again, the young man mused while the inevitable breached his comfort zone, nearly bumping into him in inspecting its master for harm. Perhaps this was just as well. They could restrategize. His first foray among Meratt's landed lords hadn't gone overly well. In fact, one might even say it had taken a nosedive. A fresh start of sorts could well be due. Firstly, he should probably thank whoever's outfit this was he was borrowing. A horrid thought struck him: this wasn't Bartleby's, was it? They were roughly the same size.
The question answered itself. For the door burst open once more, depositing a figure that - incredibly, horrifically - Riveh recognized.
"I say," he mocked, momentarily taken aback at the salon's occupants yet recovering as quickly as only the most foolish of foolhardy can. "I came here hoping for a repeat of the Daring Duke's diving act. And to ask him to please disrobe himself of my finery before he does so. I didn't expect him to have brought his entire circus, though!" Pearlescent black eyes grinned in taking in the group. "Who's the follow-up act? The World's Tallest Lady? Or the animated cannonball perhaps? Oh, don't tell me!" He looked towards Stig. "You're a duo, you being the human cannonball!"
Sir Titus Lotheed-Casava. Of all the people to have survived the Exaltation Massacre. How? Why? Why here, especially? Only one mystery seemed clear enough: the two of them did indeed share roughly the same build.
And on the topic of building, Riveh could physically feel the mounting tension in the air about the Dame.
Looking into the leering, mocking face of Sir Titus Lotheed-Casava, Riveh can only think one thing.
They had cooked that turtle. That servant had taken the reptile and was boiling it downstairs in some great copper cauldron. And now the testudine spirit was here, haunting him in the form of this taunting nobleman.
And the worst part was, there wasn't much he could do about it. He'd have like to hit the man, of course, a nice solid punch to the nose would have done the rude jerk some good, but two things stayed his hand. One, the man was rumored to be a wicked swordsman and Riveh didn't really want to be impaled. Secondly, and more importantly, the man was a Lotheed, and Riveh was supposed to consider them his liege-lords. Punching him might look bad.
So, as tempting as it was to let Dame Trant tear him apart with her bare hands.....Riveh simply said, "Excuse us. These clothes need a bit of adjustment." And quickly re-closed the door, nearly right in the man's face.
And Riveh locked it, for good measure. And then placed a chair under the door latch. As he did so he said, off-handedly, "Sorry about that, Trant. The man is a bit of a idiot."
Then, stepping away from the door, lowered his voice and two his two friends everything that had transpired with Baroness Voinum. And then, his past adventures with the annoying Sir Titus.
The former was more important however, so Riveh circled back to that, "I have no idea what she knows and how. So I jumped in the water. It, um, seemed like a good idea at the time." Riveh said, slicking his hair back a bit, feeling it was still damp. He had gotten all the seaweed out...right?
The young ifrit let out a sigh, "Well, how bad is the damage then? Does everyone think I am another Betony loon? I don't really mind if old Bartlby thinks so but I'd rather not been seen as a crazed madman by my colleagues. Probably too late for that."
He look at Stig, "Are you hanging around the party? I was wondering if perhaps you wanted to nose around a bit for information on the flayleaf. Is there a market in the city? Is it available here? Just some rumor scourging. I don't think I can do it myself and you...well, you look the part." Riveh grinned at this last little aside then sobered, "But honestly it is our best lead. if we can put together any connection between the drugs and Bartleby...that would give us something to start."
"The connection probably runs through Sir Gusairne. I spotted him at the party. Looks like a charming guy." Riveh tapped his finger on the table and then glanced at Trant, "Any ideas how to not simply be laughed out of this party? I feel I really put us behind the black ball here, right out of the gate."
Those wise to the world might tell you that patience under misfortune was like flayleaf to the addict; entirely spent in their distemper. And Riveh had suffered some misfortunes this day. So it was that the honorable Sir Titus's jeers earned him naught but a door slammed in his face so quickly the gold filigree nearly sprang from wood to air like so much glitter. Right now, Riveh did not have the patience for silk-stockinged provocateurs trying to establish a pecking order or whatever that sorry display was intended as.
"Analysis: Watching meatbags vie for interpersonal dominance through their primitive rituals always makes me long for the perfect social cohesion of Axiom," Factor-12 chimed in even as the handle of the now locked door rattled whilst faint indignation could be heard on the other side. "Conclusion: Even so, this particular meatbag registers as particularly pathetic."
Pathetic Titus promptly expedited, the ifrit could turn to what actually mattered: salvaging the scuttled HMS Betony. He turned to his allies.
"Sorry about that, Trant. The man is a bit of a idiot."
"Quite," she replied before remembering to unclench her teeth. "How do you know this buffoon?"
The most rapid of recounts later, Riveh had relayed his run-in at the Senate with the Lotheed by name, warts and all.
"Just comeuppance," the Dame remarked, "but then what is he doing here? Shouldn't he be with the main family branch in Cassomir?"
A fair question perhaps. Ever since their takeover of Meratt, the Lotheeds had branched into two, one remaining in their ancestral stronghold in Cassomir and another ruling the fresh conquest that was Meratt. The Geminus knew Titus was married into the family. He hadn't wed one of Bartleby's sisters, had he? Was that why he was here? Riveh honestly couldn't recall how so minor a member fit into the house exactly. Although now that he thought on said household, where was the rest of Bartleby's family? The man had siblings beyond Martella for one, and yet Riveh hadn't seen any Lotheed grace the party except the Count himself. Of this he was quite sure; they'd stand out by virtue of being best dressed.
Curious. But a tertiary - nay, quaternary - concern at most. Right now it was Voinum who loomed large in his mind.
"Are you saying the jig is up already?" an agitated Stig asked deep from an armchair carved in the shape of a mighty tree stump - and in fact carved from a mighty tree stump. "How in Calistria's quim did this hag figure out who you are?"
"Negatory:" a comparatively calm Factor-12 interjected. "It has not been established that the meatbag designated 'Voinum' knows the Master's true identity. Extrapolation: The problem at hand is not a binary one. It is not so simple as the Master being either masked or unmasked. The meatbag claims to know who the Master is not. But her final statement implies she does not know who the Master is."
"Whoever you are." The ifrit recalled the Baroness's last words to him.
"Evaluation: The problem then shifts from one of motive to means. How is it that the meatbag reached this conclusion? And if she intends to expose the new Betony unit as a counterfeit, why hasn't she done so already? Conclusion: I posit that her evidence is either weaker than assumed, or that the Master's position here is somehow beneficial to herself. Both scenarios warrant caution, but not alarm."
While it was impossible to say whether the machine-spirit had the right of it, its coolly rational take on the situation at least warranted consideration. Or it did until a dubious Trant rather threw a spanner into said machinery. "... Do I have to remind you," she said flatly in looking to Riveh, "that this thing couldn't distinguish a horse from a cow just four days ago?"
"Annoyed rebuttal: My databanks were designed with interplanetary diplomacy and surveillance of Chaos incursion in mind! They were not pre-loaded with knowledge of every variety of ungulate on your silly little rock of a planet!"
Right. Advice from the inevitable had to be taken with more than a grain of the proverbial salt.
""Well, how bad is the damage then? Does everyone think I am another Betony loon?"
It was telling that the Dame's eyes drifted from himself to the study of dragon riders at the question. "Well..." she began with the care of a ship captain avoiding perilous reefs.
Stig was not so delicate. "They think you're one syphilitic whore away from the laughing academy."
"That's not true," a grimacing Trant protested. "And even if it was, so what? People don't care what you do so long as you don't disrupt the status quo. If ladies just..." Her hand momentarily searched the air for words. "...have enough powder in morning to be presentable and lords enough brandy in the evening to ignore said wives, no one cares. Heaven's sake, our own monarch murdered half of the nation's aristocracy and the other half elected to ignore it! Wouldn't want to cause a fuss, would we? It's all about appearances. Just... play your part. Show that you're willing to play by the rules. Don't disrupt their perfect tea party of a life, and you could be a gibbon in a vest for all they care."
The young woman let out a sigh so laced with bitterness it threatened to extinguish the nearest potted plant. Only to then offhandedly wave in the direction of the knight. "... For evidence, I present to the honorable court Exhibit A."
Stig didn't care. Stig knew what he was about. As for Riveh, he wasn't sure the social arena of the nobility was quite so simple as that, but then the young woman was colored by her own less than positive experiences within said battleground.
"I was wondering if perhaps you wanted to nose around a bit for information on the flayleaf. Is there a market in the city? Is it available here? Just some rumor scourging. I don't think I can do it myself and you...well, you look the part."
"Considerin' how your kind look so delicate your skin'd crack at sudden noise, I'll take that as a compliment. Yeah, alright. Gusairne - that the bloke eyeing everyone, right?"
It was indeed.
"Typically, I agree with you Trant. Relying on Factor-12 for in-depth analysis on human behavior seems risky." The ifrit said before adding to the inevitable, "No offense, Factor-12, humans just have a tendency to not being very logical or rational which I feel is hard for you to understand."
Riveh shrugged, "But in this case, I agree. Why reveal to me her knowledge? If she was on Lotheed's side, she'd just have kept quiet and told him later. No, tipping her hand to me feels off. It not have anything to do with my real name at all, of course. Maybe the Baroness knows, somehow, for a fact that their are no Betony family members out there. or maybe it is as simple as being able to detect the mask somehow? In any case, there is little we can do about it. I jumped in the water, played her game, and we shall see where it goes."
Riveh plucked at a sleeve. What was the thread count on this? It was slimy smooth, like wet silk. Did Titus really like this stuff? And the shoes are definitely too tight.
Trant's little rant on the lives of the rich and famous was enlightening but not very useful. Clearly she had her own axe to grind with these people. Still, the woman did seem to indicate that certain about of eccentricity was allowable. Perhaps, if done correctly, encouraged. Just as long as he wasn't a threat.....considering he was, that might be a tricky needle to thread.
"Yes, that's the one." Riveh said to Stig. "Let's keep our distance from him, for now. I don't want to bite off more then we can chew, at least to start. Just nose around and see if anything turns up. It could be the entire drug trade is kept very tightly under wraps here."
Riveh looked at both of them, 'We also need to find a suitable engineer, to fix the pump. I am of two minds on this. On one hand, I want to keep it quiet to prevent Bartleby from interfering. If he really does have a vested interest in keeping Stachys poor, he might blow a hole in my plans. On the other hand...that would draw him out a bit.?"
"No offense, Factor-12, humans just have a tendency to not being very logical or rational which I feel is hard for you to understand."
"Correction: On the contrary, Master. I know that what your spongy meat-processor recognizes as rationale is as comparable to true logos as a sigh is to the field of pneumatics. I will admit, however, an inability to consider this problem from your Voinum's meatbag perspective. It is a failing of my design that I cannot stoop to your organic levels. I do apologize."
Not for the first time, Riveh had to ponder the sincerity of his strange companion. While its words and sentiment spoke to the most cynical of sarcasm - something he wasn't even sure the machine-spirits should be capable of - nothing in its demeanor indicated that it was anything other than genuine. Then again, 'reading' its glowing lens, copper plating and tinny voice wasn't exactly easy.
"Addendum: In addition, please know I am of course beyond such feeble mortal failings as pride and offense, but the Master is generous to consider me."
No, this probably wasn't worth considering. The inevitable might be an enigma wrapped in a metal shell, but it was loyal to a fault. Best to just get back into the thick of things.
Stig merely grunted assent at being asked to keep an ear open for the local flayleaf trade, but was not so compliant at searching the shrubberies for an engineer. "Whaddaya mean 'an engineer'? Like some sort of mender? Why would...?"
"Actually, that could be our first stroke of luck here," Trant interrupted him. "I don't know if you've noticed yet, but the guests seem to be mostly all eggheads. The Count's type, I suppose. Perhaps there's someone we can use among them."
The knight looked like he had to consider this before giving an acquiescing nod; he had probably never considered scholars in terms of tradesmen capable of providing anything actually useful.