Yes, he had definitely fallen a few rungs down the tree. It was mostly cold - some even embarrassed - looks that greeted Riveh upon stepping back out onto the Palace's veranda. An older gentleman averted his gaze when their eyes met. Excepting this depreciation of his social stock, little seemed to have changed in his absence. People still wandered the magnificent grounds, some chatting and drinking amongst the topiary, others relaxing and wondering at the avian gallery beneath the pavilion roof.
Well, there was nothing to do but climb that tree, he supposed, and with that the ifrit stepped forward, birdsong lilting in his ears.
"Cautionary: I do hope that you will guard your conduct henceforth, Master. Minkai proverb: The reputation of a thousand years may be determined by the conduct of one hour."
Little changed - except that Factor-12 now floated by his side. Knight and dame having been given their own tasks to see to, the inevitable had opted for accompanying its master. After all, he clearly needed its guidance, or so it seemed to believe. The orb drew some looks of its own, most of them thankfully merely curious. Magical familiars clearly weren't unknown to this crowd.
Riveh surveyed said crowd. There was the Count Lotheed, still deep in conversation about something no doubt very complicated. Lady Crabbe had rejoined her husband and daughter. Baroness Voinum was currently frowning at a shrub in the shape of a lion. Staunch Baron Okerra appeared to be humoring some academic, nodding along whilst the other spoke. And Baron Telos... was still nowhere to be seen.
Before the Geminus could decide who to approach, an unknown party took this decision for him.
"My lord, a moment of your time?"
He didn't manage to catch who was speaking before the figure curtsied, and deeply at that; the hood of her pure white cloak fell over the dark hair. Only when she rose again could he see who was addressing him, although Riveh gleaned less from the plain face than the hefty necklace hanging below it: the solid gold links culminated in a stylized key, the holy symbol of Abadar.
"I am High Enumerator Paril of Lotheedar's Guilded Altar, an honor, my Lord Betony."
The head priest of the local Abadaran temple? Meratt might not be the most significant of counties, but the woman standing before him still seemed a bit young for her station; early thirties, perhaps.
"Forgive me any indiscretion, but I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't receive Meratt's newest lord with all due respect. I welcome you to our community, and wish you all fortune here. Please know that if there is anything the Guilded Altar may do for you or yours, my door is always open."
She carried herself well, this slight woman, and this despite a slight vacillation in the otherwise steady voice - it plucked at her vowels like a pick on strings. Before the ifrit could consider this incongruity, however, the priest pivoted to his right to give another bow, this time to the machine-spirit of all things.
"Greetings to you as well, warden of the Eternal City."
"Greeting: Salutations, meatbag."
Her polite smile faltered a little.
Riveh had never met a leper, or even seen one but he felt like the proverbial outcast. Not ignored, no that would be easier, but warily watched. Clearly dramatically jumping into fountains is considered a possibly contagious hobby that few want to contract. Building up alliances would be difficult if his fellow lords thought him one stalk short of a sheaf.
It is a sign of the time when the young priestess greets him. From dealing with ranked nobles to chatting with very young court hanger-ons. Disappointing but still, needs must when the devil drives. Besides, this slender woman might actually be able to help him. Abadar goes in for civil engineer, right? God of Walls and all that?
"Thank you for your kind words,High Enumerator Paril." Riveh said, deciding to just ignore Factor-12's address. "I recently had the joy of seeing your faith's high temple in Oparra. It was quite the sight, I have to say." And then, with only a touch of flattery, "Very efficiently run too."
Then, to business, "Actually, High Enumerator, there is something you can possibly help me with. I am in need of an engineer with a background in water drainage and pumps, to help improve the lands in my new domain. Do you know any reliable men in the city, or close by, who might be interested? I confess I am unsure how to start looking for such individuals."
With surprise , and a bit of concern, Riveh spotted the Baron Okerra trying to make his way over. The young ifrit was torn if he should make it easy for the older man. On one hand, the Baron would make the perfect ally. Practical, experienced, honorable and less likely to be taken with the Lotheed's style of rule.
On the other hand, he had met Riveh before and might, despite the slight change of complexion, recognize him. If recognized, this whole charade might blow up.
On the...third hand, snubbing a fellow Baron might be just as damaging. Best to ride it out and see how things go. He couldn't avoid the Baron forever.
Offer a hand and they'll take your arm. Although a cynical adage, Paril did look just a bit surprised when the young lord leapt at her proffered hand like a starving wolf, and this after only the most perfunctory of pleasantries. Was Riveh stumbling from one faux pas to another?
As it happened, no. For the high priestess's slim face actually lit up at the nature of his appeal.
"Of course, my Lord Betony," she managed only after reining in a delight more permissible in an acolyte than an apostle. "I would only be too happy to relay your request to the Guild of Hammermen. Will that suffice?"
The ifrit had to profess his ignorance. Would it? He had no idea who the Hammermen were, exactly. "Forgive me, my lord. The Hammermen comprise one of the tradesmen's guilds of the area, specifically builders, architects, carpenters, stonemasons and the like. Hence the hammer." Paril lapsed into an apologetic smile, a gesture that seemed to come naturally to her, before reconsidering. She filled the awkward pause that followed by tucking her hair behind her ear. "Our temple, the Guilded Altar, houses every major guild in Lotheedar, so it would be no trouble at all for me to reach out to them on your behalf."
Huh. Riveh just got the pun. He had first heard 'gilded' when the cleric introduced herself, and naturally so: gold was the livery, lifeblood and logic of the Abadaran faith. Except the local church was apparently also a collective guildhall for diverse tradesmen - a 'guilded' church for the god of commerce. The name 'Guilded Altar' was then a witticism. Should he be concerned? Perhaps not, judging by its leader for she herself appeared to be battling embarrassment as he put two and two together.
"I won't be so uncouth as to pry into your faith, Lord Betony," she went on, he suspected deliberately, "but know that I believe your presence here part of Our Father's designs. Stachys has long been in desperate need of a protector and guide. Frankly, the state of it has been outright sha..."
Riveh could only agree that the state of Stachys was a crying shame, but it wasn't for his sake that Paril held her tongue. Rather, he caught her pale eyes flicker over the gathering to its center: Bartleby Lotheed remained the eye of the storm, as it were; every other guest moved in accordance to the serene epicenter he embodied, drifting nearer and further in pursuit of his favor. The young Geminus understood. In lieu of a Betony, the custody of Stachys had fallen to the Lotheeds. And Paril was wary of speaking ill of how they had managed that responsibility.
"... Suffice to say, I am very glad to hear you speak of restoring your land," she smiled diplomatically.
It was as he suspected. Clearly all weren't entirely happy with the Lotheed leadership. Should he expect an ally in the church of Abadar beyond some help finding a potential engineer? Speaking of, where was the Dame? He had asked her to search the party for one such; perhaps he should tell her of this and relieve her.
Trant was quick to spot, she towering over the other guests like a swan in a flock of ducks. She appeared to be rapidly losing, if not her patience, then her will to live in the face of some dusty-looking scholars who clearly weren't accustomed to counting young women as part of their audience, and were making the most of the opportunity. She caught his eye in turn and mouthed, 'I HATE THIS, I BLAME YOU'.
"May I... Might I be so bold as to make a request in turn?"
Riveh had to look back towards the high priestess. Making demands of a landed lord? Perhaps the woman wasn't quite as meek as first suggested. "You see, just a few miles west of your Stachys sits Gold Canyon. Have you passed it before?"
He had not, he had to admit. "The gorge is not natural. Rather, it is the result of strip-mining the vein of gold found there centuries ago. Entirely exhausted now, of course. Most pay it no mind in crossing the bridge there connecting Stachys to Jambis. Except with so much of Taldor coinage originating from there, it has become something of an informal holy site for Abadarans across the nation. My plea is this: two of my acolytes - Mise and Maladus - departed for such a pilgrimage over two weeks ago now. I am yet to hear from them. Truth be told, I am beginning to fear the worst. Would you make inquiries about your township for them?"
"The Guild of Hammermen seems ideal for my purposes, yes." Riveh said honestly, hoping it would prove to be true. "Sounds like exactly the type of organization I needed." Something finally going right ? The ifrit's spirits lifted somewhat, floating on the hope that a competent engineer might be available (and outside of Lotheed control). Now just to convince him to work for little more then promises....
His mood only raised farther when Paril only narrowly avoided blaming Bartleby Lotheed for the current obvious mismanagement of Styachs and the surrounding area. Perhaps Riveh was not the only one putting 2 and 2 together? The other lords might be blase about it, but perhaps those who actually had to live with such conditions.....If he could find evidence of deliberate misdeeds instead of simple neglect...
It was hard to imagine such neglect of course, standing in the middle of this earthly paradise of a yard. How quickly though, one took it for granted. Riveh barely heard the liquid birdsong above, felt the springy grass under his boots, smelled the distant note so jasmine and orange on the air. Was all of this paid for (at least in part) by drug sales? It was hard to believe. Riveh would need some very good proof, if that was the case.
He could only grin at Trant's back when he spotted her. Perhaps he no longer needed an engineer but no need to call her back. Who knows what else she might discover? The woman was imposing among the desiccated scholars and sometimes throwing a big stone gained better results. Also, it was just a nice change of pace to watch someone else flounder for a bit.
His attention came back to Paril when mention 'Gold Canyon'. For a wild moment Rive had visions of a gold mine on Betony lands, untold riches buried in the earth, just waiting or pick and shovel. Gold!
And then his dreams were cruelly dashed and instead of imaging stocks of gold coins, he was forced to contemplate the blasted, polluted zone left behind by mining. One probably filled with monsters, bandits and two dead acolytes.
Still, he couldn't exactly say that, could he?
"Of course." Riveh said, and he meant it. He might be new at this, but surely the safety of two holy woman fell under standard noble duties? Granted, he didn't have the usual retinue which meant it would fall to him to trek around the deserted wastes of the former strip mine. Somehow he doubted many of these nobles did that sort of work.
Maybe that was the problem?
Things actually going his way? My, this was a rare pleasure. Alright, so Riveh wasn't sitting on a literal gold mine, but the dual wins of a noted leader of the community being sympathetic to his cause and said leader sending some skilled laborers his way were nothing to scoff at. It was enough to make her asking price seem the trifle she phrased it as. In truth, simply asking his seneschal whether the two acolytes had come through town was no great task, and, to be fair, ensuring safe passage through his lands was part of his duties as lord regardless. The high priestess wasn't being unfair.
His thoughts were interrupted by the crystal clear clatter of a champagne glass being clinked by a silver spoon. No searching was necessary to find its source: the lord of the lands, Bartleby Lotheed himself, quickly emerged from the crowd like a proud galleon through morning mist. He climbed the veranda stairs and soon stood before the ornate glass doors Riveh had entered from earlier, looking out to the rapt audience that was his guests.
"I apologize for robbing you from conversation, edifying and pleasant as I have no doubt it was," he began humbly, voice no less clear than the crystal. "Duty demands, however, that I take this opportunity to formally welcome you all to the Birdsong Palace, and thank you for attending my inauguration ball."
An appreciative murmur rose over the gathering as waiters fanned out among it, this time all carrying champagne for those without other libations. A toast appeared due.
"I am especially grateful for your attendance given the tragedy that has befallen our nation, and the war that threatens to follow in its wake." The dignified brow grew more solemn still, valiantly holding ground against a depth of feeling his station did not allow. It was quite the display, understated as it was, one more than a few appeared taken it, Riveh noted. A complete sham, of course. Right? "My own father did not pass in our capital, yet it seems the gods do not play dice in claiming both him and our beloved Majesty in quick succession. They being so close in life, it feels almost appropriate that the two of them journey to the Great Beyond side by side. Pharasma's gates will have to swing wide for such titans of the nation."
A 'hear, hear!' or two were heard.
"Even so, I dare wonder whether the powers that be have thought this through." The smirk that played at the lips was as meditative as it was benign. "Between the Grand Prince's magnetism and my father's ingenuity, they are all set to carve out a piece of the Heavens for themselves."
Polite laughter followed, including from the High Priestess beside Riveh. She quickly caught herself, however, probably realizing that giggling at sacrilege wasn't entirely appropriate for herself. As for the ifrit, an image of Grand Prince Stavian as he appeared at the Exaltation flashed before him: a shabby wastrel of a man, paranoid eyes darting to and fro - he had looked like a drunkard off the street given robe and crown. The only 'magnetism' afforded the man was the repelling kind.
The toast was boarderline offensive, to be perfectly honest. Slimy and self-satisfyingly, the man was virtually celebrating his parents early demise. Hells, Riveh wouldn't be surprised if the pale man hadn't bumped them off to speed up his own rise to the seat of power. For a moment he wondered what Martella might think if she heard this little toast.
Probably nothing pretty.
Worse he was reminded of the Exaltation, that all too familiar flashback of blood and screaming, of panic and fear. How long would these dark memories lurk on the edges of thought, pouncing out? For the rest of his life? Would they linger, just like the deeper memories of rounded triangles and infinite lines of the Great Beyond?
His stomach churned at the thought, the ground under him swaying slightly. The birdsong skipped a note, his eyes misting slightly.
Get it together! Riveh sternly commanded himself, trying to repel these sudden onslaught of bad memories. The moment passed, as it always did, but for a moment the young ifrit was ignorant of everything done or said.
The moment did not pass.
The screams in his ears, the fear rising in his gullet, the hot blood of a fellow guest cut down spattering onto his face. For a moment Riveh recalled the outbreak of what was now known as the Exaltation Massacre so perfectly he felt his body react in accordance. Pulse quickened and nostrils flared as whatever blaze burned within the fire-touched young man flared up; he was reminded that beneath the veils of civility - cloth and social - lay something animalistic, survival instincts honed over millennia yet so fragile they could be triggered at a recollection. He told himself to calm down. It was just a memory.
Expect the moment did not pass. A scream sliced through the air.
What was happening? Lost in thought as he was, Riveh found himself jumping at the cry. Others joined it, and he was immediately deafened; a maddening chorus the like of which hadn't been heard outside the demon jungle of Ahvoth-Kar erupted on the veranda as panicked yelling provoked frightened birds and vice versa, the cacophony stacking onto one another with every screeching second. He felt the high priestess grip onto his arm. If she said anything, he couldn't hear it. Riveh thought he understood, however. The woman would likely have been taken off her feet at the rush of people without some support. Every person standing before them had turned to flee in fright, nearly taking him with them. But with this human wave out of the way, he could see what had stirred it.
Bartleby Lotheed still stood at the head of the veranda. And a crossbow bolt had blossomed on his chest. It was a testament to just how practiced his mask of propriety was, that even now it allowed nothing but mild surprise to show. The green eyes simply stared uncomprehending at the rod piercing him. Then they rolled up into oblivion. His glass shattered on the ground before he followed it in a heap.
"Down! Everyone down!" Okerra bellowed somewhere behind the ifrit; he recognized the voice even swelled into a command meant to be heard over a battlefield. Some even obeyed. One figure was anything but still. Somehow managing to navigate the disordered throng of bodies as surely as a gust of wind came a blonde blur, it reaching Riveh and Paril in seconds. "Priest!" it commanded sharply which was when he recognized it: the blue eyes of Sir Gul Gusairne, the Lotheed seneschal, glowed with equal fury and impatience in dragging the high priestess forward. Utterly befuddled, she managed to collect herself enough to stumble along up to the downed Count.
The ifrit felt no less dumbfounded. An assassination? Had the Count just been assassinated?
"Cautionary: Master!" Glowing geometric lines briefly surrounded him before fading out, his familiar apparently not eager to see its master share the same fate.
It takes Riveh's mind more then a few moments to process what is happening, to neatly line up cause and effect. A crossbow bolt? From where, by who? What was going on? People were shouting, running, startling the menagerie who meant the air was not only full of human voices, but the scream of geese, the nervous snort of hogs and the low bray of mules. It was enough to unsettle anyone, let alone the young ifrit who had just been contemplating a massacre.
All that said, his first clear thought was not one he was proud of.
Seeing Lotheed Bartleby taking a crossbow bolt to the chest?
Someone is trying to do my job for me
No, not very charitable at all. Still, Riveh wasn't exactly overwhelmed with pity or concern at the thought of the man dying. Sending the young master off to Gray Lady might make his life simpler, after all. House Lotheed in confusion, upset of power....
No time for that now. Riveh just had time to accept Factor-12's magic as he darted past and followed Gusairne, who was still dragging the obviously totally confused Paril. Good instincts on the seneschal's part though, grab a healer and drag her to the spot. Even if the young priestess wasn't the most killed, even a basic spell might staunch the bleeding and prevent poor old Bartleby from expiring on his own porch.
What a shame.
Riveh followed closely, using the utter chaos as a cloak. If the timing was right, maybe he could influence events.....
Following in the hurried heels of seneschal and cleric, Riveh rushed up the few steps of the veranda, an entire taxonomy of avians warbling in his ears all the while. There the two kneeled down beside the downed count. Gusairne looked furious, though whether his ire was directed at the unseen assailant for his audacious attack or himself for failing to prevent it, the ifrit couldn't say. Paril meanwhile wore the face of someone not accustomed to bloodshed, an expression familiar yet almost quaint to a now battle hardened ifrit.
"Heal him!" the half-elf snapped.
The priest's hands shook in pulling the sleeves of her white robes back, and Riveh thought he could see what had her rattled. He didn't need training as a healer to surmise that the Lord Lotheed was suffering something beyond a crossbow bolt to the chest. The unflappable Count's handsome mug remained its austere self, but only because it had seized stiff. Riveh could see his neck muscles straining beneath the pale skin. Spasms periodically pulled at his limbs and he was beginning to foam at the mouth.
"I think he's been poisoned!" cried Paril.
The seneschal's reply was as swift as it was savage. Tearing the bolt from his master's flesh, he grasped the head priest by her hair and repeated, "Heal. Him." Somehow the snarl was perfectly audible over the squawking birds.
"I-I can't remove the poison! I don't have the magic!" Paril sounded near tears. "Just... help me get him inside. I think I can help him."
At this, Gusairne sneered, seemingly angry and exasperated in equal measure. He began throwing furious glances about, craning his blonde head back and forth. Was he looking for the assailant? Did he fear another attack?
In Paril's defense, Rive had seen more bloodshed recently then he'd like to admit but his stomach did a slow flip as well. The crossbow bolt was plunged deeply into the man's chest, surrounded by a rising wreath of blood and torn flesh. Add to that the man's jerking anf foaming and well...maybe it said more about Gusairne that he wasn't bothered.
The man's declaration of poison amde sense, but Riveh was no expect. Couldn't the man be reacting so because of just blunt trauma? Still, one would expect someone shot to maybe scream a bit. Then again, could a Lotheed even feel pain?
Seeing Paril's panic, Riveh's hope rose. Maybe the man really would die, without any extra assistance needed. Might be ideal. He would have to follow them inside....
A line of frothy spittle travelled slowly over the downed Lotheed's cheek while his seneschal stalled, frustrated. Riveh could practically hear the risk assessment being performed beneath his high forehead. The half-elf's eyes were easy to follow, pale blue against pure white, and right now they were darting to and fro like an angry wasp underneath a cheese bell. He was trying to spot the assailant, weighing the risk & reward of moving his lord inside when an enemy marksman could strike again as soon as they raised him.
But then his gaze came to a dead halt. Riveh followed it. He had to crane his neck back; Gusairne was staring at something high up. "Field assessment: Hostile detected," Factor-12 intoned above him. Yes, there it was. The sun reflected brilliantly - blindingly - off the many large windows of the Palace of Birdsong, including one on the second floor that stood open just a hand's breadth. The ifrit could barely make out a crossbow peering from this crack. His pulse went from allegro to vivace as he realized it was aimed right at them.
"You!" the seneschal snapped with all the bite of a whip, and like a whip Riveh almost flinched as he understood it was aimed at him. "Make yourself useful! Help the priest carry him!"
Help carry the Lotheed inside? Riveh had already decided on following the man to make sure of his fate, but he didn't particularly fancy making himself a target doing so. Before he could respond, however, Gusairne leapt to action. He was an agile one, that much was clear. First laying his palm onto the Count to mutter something, he sprang forward from this kneeling position to grab at Paril's cloak, swiftly pulling the clerical vestment off her as if in some disrobing harlequin routine. All this he managed to make look like one smooth motion, now holding the white cloth outstretched to shield Bartleby from the shooter's line of sight. Only now did the ifrit notice the faint golden shimmer momentarily playing across the felled Lotheed. Had the seneschal placed some protective charm over him earlier?
"Hurry!" the so-called High Enumerator begged him, she taking the Count by one shoulder and leaving Riveh to take the other. He could feel the rigidity in the man's body as soon as he took hold of him. Every muscle was seized tight. "Move!" barked Gusairne. Even given the severity of the situation, the ifrit noted the irony of him now very literally supporting the despot he was hoping to overthrow. Riveh had to do most of said supporting as well; the priest wasn't particularly able and the Lotheed was no string bean. Shuffling across the veranda with what felt like a statue, they were a prime target for another poisoned bolt. And yet no further shot came.
Once back inside the cool halls of the Palace, the half-elf dropped the sacred vestment without a care to rush further inside. "Get the woman whatever she needs!" he commanded in passing some very befuddled guards. Riveh realized he was heading for the stairs. Was he going to apprehend the assailant upstairs? Not for the first time, the ifrit felt his curiosity tug at him. Who the heck was up there? Who was this, dare he say, kindred spirit who hated the Lotheeds enough to kill the young Count? And was he curious enough to follow the seneschal to find out?
Riveh staggered a bit under Batleby's weight, feet sliding on the smooth polished marble of the palace floor. The gleaming surface was soon scuffed with dirt and blood as the ifrit and Paril manhandled the injured man over the threshold. As Riveh watched Gusairne head for the stairs, the oracle wasted a moment or two considered motives.
Who was trying to kill Lord Lotheed and why? Was it a personal matter, some subject who felt slighted by the cold, unfeeling Lord? Another family member, a blood relative who had not taken their grudge quite so productively as Martella and instead bought a crossbow? Perhaps another agent set in motion by the Princes, a fall back incase Riveh failed? In a deep heart of hearts, Riveh even pondered the idea of a Geminus loyalist holdout, striking back at the Lotheed usurpers.
All seemed unlikely, but it had to be somebody.
But now Riveh had a choice. Did he stay with the seemingly helpless Lotheed or try and follow the embattled seneschal. The half-elf had given him an order but that was easily dismissed, Gusairne had no command over him. Following could easily be considered a logical attempt to help, a concerned noble protecting his liege-lord. It would give him a chance to see just who exactly this assassin was.
Or he could stay here and watch his target battle death. Even, if circumstances allowed, help tip that battle into murder. A tempting choice, Lotheed's death handed right to him on a silver platter.
What to do?
No time to waste, had to decide!
Shaking his head, Riveh took toward the stairs, staying behind Gusairne but not making his following very secretive.
"Ooh!" Paril gave a little cry of alarm, she suddenly having to bear the insensate count's weight by her lonesome. No matter; the palace guards would be with her in a second. Riveh was rushing down the marble hallway, his feet momentarily airborne in leaping over the clerical vestment still on the floor where his target had dropped it. Said target, Gusairne, had nearly reached one of the two grand staircases. The ifrit passed servants with anxious faces, maids with hands raised to their mouths, all a blur as he hurried past and hurry he must if he was to keep pace with the sprinting seneschal. His earlier impression of the man held true. Heavens, he was quick.
By the time Riveh reached the second floor, Gusairne was nowhere to be seen. But the trail of stupefied, even scared, staff told him all he needed to know, as obvious as a great cat trundling through snow. Yes, this should be right, the young man thought, shoes clacking loudly against polished wood - he was heading for the eastern wing of the palace which fit with his mental map of where he had seen the assailant earlier. Another corner crossed and...
It was a solarium, bright, open and airy. The blue firmament above was visible through the vaulted glass ceiling while below tasteful furniture spoke to the room's function as an entertainment space. Here Riveh came to a halt beside a lounging couch, his breath heavy. The Palace of Birdsong was a big place. He joined Sir Gusairne, the two being the only occupants here. There was no assailant to be seen. Instead, the half-elf was standing over a strange contraption pointed out one window. It looked almost like an elaborate crossbow stand, complete with weapon, excepting additional parts like something pulled out of a grandfather clock. A little spoked wheel seemed the central mechanism, an arm extending from it to the crossbow's trigger. The whole apparatus had the air of something assembled from bits and bobs, yet all the more impressive for its utility.
"Evaluation: A spring wound countdown mechanism. Crude."
The tinny voice was only barely audible through the glass of the sunroom; Factor-12 floated outside the parlor, it apparently having chosen to follow its master, if taking a more direct route. The seneschal looked up from the device at this, pale blue eyes wandering from the orb to the ifrit. He seemed just a bit surprised at seeing Riveh had followed, but recovered quickly enough. Or rather, like a tear into the roiling sea, this fleeting boggle was subsumed within the greater exasperation claiming him at the moment; the man was fuming.
"I would appreciate it if you would call off your minion, Lord Betony," he said, voice quaking with frustration just as much as with the exertion to suppress said frustration. "I'd rather not have evidence tampered with."
His attempt at maintaining decorum was just that: an attempt. Free from a crowd and with the fruitless chase over, Riveh could consider the count's right-hand man. His elven heritage was more obvious than that of his own seneschal's. Sir Gul Gusairne was everything so endemic to the fair folk's blood, being tall, slim and comely. Perhaps too slim. Although undeniably handsome, his face was unfortunately narrow, giving his pointed nose and little mouth the impression of being drawn in an almost-sneer. He looked like he'd just been told he would have to share an opera box with Stig.
Gusairne drew a long-fingered hand up and over his high forehead into cornsilk yellow hair. "I'll have to interrogate the entire staff..." he muttered.
For a moment Riveh looks at the nearly empty solarium with rather obvious disappointment and discouragement. The young ifrit had expected a daring chase through several rooms before finally cornering their elusive quarry, creating a tense stand offs where upon the assassin would (helpfully) declaim their entire manifesto and motive. A bit of a manly scuffle and then capture, to be interrogated later.
He had not expected an empty room. How...mundane.
Factor-12's and Gusairne's words brought him out of this temporary gloom however. Evidence. Not an empty room....just a puzzle. Who had stood here? had they left any trace behind? Riveh's eyes swept the room for clues.
Riveh said, "Hardly my 'minion'." Turning to the floating orb, Riveh added, "You say a crude mechanism. Any chance you can tell how long ago it was set or how they intended to aim it? The attack seemed quite accurate for just a blind firing." Riveh took a step toward the crossbow and while he did not touch it, examined it closely.
Riveh had never had need for corrective lenses, but he imagined this was what it was like to slip such on. As soon as he finished the simple incantation, the world just... come into focus. Except instead of minute details becoming clearer, it was the emanations of the arcane that became visible to him.
Before he could utilize this sight to investigate the scene, however, an all too material barrier stood in his way.
"As I said, Lord Betony," said Gusairne, voice as soft yet foreboding as a lion's paw, "I'd rather the evidence wasn't tampered with." They were no great cat's claws, but the half-elf placed his long fingers against the ifrit's chest, very literally barring him from going further.
The stories he'd heard about the man were evidently true; Gul Gusairne must feel quite comfortable in his position to raise his hand against a landed lord, even in such a minor way. But then why shouldn't he, being seneschal for the largest town in the county, right-hand man to the leader of said county, and sainted tax collector for the county? A lot of power for one man. Riveh considered the situation. Did he have the authority to challenge him? Under normal circumstances, yes, arguably so. But then these were all but normal circumstances. The Geminus heard the gibbering of a still very fearful crowd somewhere below the solarium. He thought he recognized the booming voice of Okerra urging people to calm down.
Then again, perhaps the Abadaran could be forgiven. He looked into the man's face, his well practiced mask of everything polite but stern. It could not hide how on edge he was. This was, again, only natural. An assassination attempt had just been carried out against his lord right under his pointed nose. And neither of them yet knew whether said attempt should be called a success.
But this wasn't all Riveh saw. Gusairne might be able to bar his way, but he could not stop his sight. The arcane still lay bare for his enchanted eyes. He saw glittering threads of pure magic woven into the fabric of the seneschal's cloak - it being of an embroidered quality not usually available to those without titles, he noted. He saw a faint emanation of pure Order about Factor-12, just as much part of its construction as the bolts in the brass chassis, a tight and ordered gridwork of ley lines surrounding it. What was the word? A dodecahedron? Something like that. And he saw... nothing - nothing at all magical with the crossbow contraption.
This came with more than a few implications which the inevitable confirmed.
"Answer: A simple clockwork timer using spring and dial," it replied to his query. It wasn't looking to Riveh, the blue lens instead staring into the half-elf. Although utterly without expression, he thought he could read some animosity there against the seneschal for daring to lay a hand on its master. "I cannot be sure without testing, but I estimate the mainspring cannot hold more than one of your hours."
Gusairne appeared a bit annoyed. "Quite. Which is why I must interrogate the staff. The device was presumably placed here very recently and left to count down. Only those familiar with the Count could have aimed it such beforehand to strike where they knew he would stand."
The seneschal's theory was that the attacker knew precisely where the Lotheed would be one hour in the future? Riveh looked to the apparatus again. Hm. It wasn't particularly well concealed, only a potted plant hiding it from sight. This supported the idea that it was placed here recently. Someone, especially the staff, should have seen it otherwise.
Riveh glances down at the pale fingers lightly grazing his chest, and then back up at the tense face of sir Gusairne. After a moment's debate the ifrit decides on a compromise of reaction. He leans back slightly, to break the contact and says in a soft voice.
"You will unhand me, sir." Riveh says, only giving a hint of the aristocratic threat that weaves all of Taldor together, that underpinning of bloody violence and privilege.
"But very well." Riveh says after the moment passes, wooden floor squeaking ever so slightly under his weight. "Then I will leave you to your investigations."
Meanwhile, his head was spinning. Who and why? And how? Some many options, not enough data. The killer must have been here only moments ago, they had seen him...hadn't they? Or had that just been the crossbow and the outline of a person a figment of imagination? Then Riveh had a thought.
What if the killer was below, helping finish the job while they blundered about up here? The guards might not be a help...one of the guards could *be* the killer. The attack may not be done yet.
Not hurrying, but firmly, Riveh left the room and headed back down toward Paril and her wounded charge,
"You will unhand me, sir." Riveh says, only giving a hint of the aristocratic threat that weaves all of Taldor together, that underpinning of bloody violence and privilege.
A moment passed between them that druids of the Tandak Plains would recognize: two rival lions sizing each other up before vying for the pride. Mercifully, it didn't last long. This momentary confrontation, tense as a garrote wire, ended with Gusairne withdrawing his hand though like that murder implement, it was all the more notable for its brevity.
"My apologies, Lord Betony."
He offered no further explanation, no excuses on how the circumstances necessitated a firm touch to best do his job or the like. Riveh suspected that despite the apology, the man felt wholly justified in manhandling whatever lord in whatever manner he saw fit, an impression only strengthened by the look in his eyes: it remained hard, frustration boiling beneath a frozen lake.
No matter. The young man wasn't convinced the assailant had left anything to find in the solarium - nothing that couldn't wait, anyway - and Gusairne apparently agreed; he followed Riveh out only to lock the double door to the place. There were matters more pressing than investigating a crime scene. On this at least they were of like mind. Riveh was already marching back down the hallway before the half-elf could turn the key. Bartleby Lotheed. Was he dead? Because if he was... well, then that rather changed everything.
Steady footfalls took him from polished wood to mirrored marble as the ifrit descended the stairs, returning to where he had left Paril and her ward. From there, however, his ears guided him the rest of the way. They led him back to the ornate glass doors leading outside, still flung open, his stride now careful so as to hear all occurring there. Notably, what he didn't hear was the frightened babble of the guests. These had been stilled by the one voice that could allay them: the Count's himself.
"... assure you that the occasion proceeds as planned. It will take a great deal more than a craven subversive hiding behind a pen name to do anything more than delay a Lotheed."
There he was. Riveh managed to catch the tail end of whatever assurances the Lotheed had just delivered to his rapt audience, promising them that everything was fine, that he was fine and the festivities would continue. And damn it all, he really did appear perfectly fine. Bartleby Lotheed was his implacable self, stolid as a statue. If the ifrit didn't know any better, he'd almost say he looked bored! Hell, in what seemed an almost willful defiance of the last few minutes, he was quite sure the man was occupying the exact same spot on the veranda as when he'd been shot. Even his torn and bloodied suit was now impeccable. Not a trace of the convulsing quarry, spittle running down cleanshaven cheek, remained.
No, that wasn't quite true. The Geminus noted how the thick brown hair was ever so slightly disheveled, how a new, almost imperceptible stoop had entered his otherwise perfect posture. Upon first meeting him, Riveh had noted how his foe didn't carry himself as any other mortal. Rather, he felt more like some luminary of old had stepped out of his own portrait, idealized and flawless. That was the thing with perfection, though; any flaw stood out all the more clearly. Riveh wondered whether the Lotheed wasn't more shaken than he let on.
He knew Paril was, certainly. The High Enumerator stood by the Count's side, pale and haggard. And to his other side... Who was this? Standing with one comforting hand on Bartleby's shoulder was a woman of advanced years, perhaps in her seventies. She was well-kept, though, seemingly hale and hearty, not in the least the lesser to her dress, it being fit for royalty. And he should know; he'd met the Princess.
"Lord Betony." In turning from his guests, the Lotheed noticed him. "High Enumerator Paril tells me you came to my aid earlier."
What a total disappointment. Riveh hadn't really been expecting the killer to be standing above a dead Bartleby, giving a full speech on motives but this was even worse then he expected. At the least Riveh had expected his foe to be incapacitated for awhile, which might have even been more helpful to his plans then simply dying. But hearing that hale and hearty voice dashed all such visions of a power struggle over a comatose Lord.
Either Paril was a gifted healer or the Lotheed was made of stern stuff. The man didn't even have the decency to look ill. The man looked more annoyed then anything, more like a disgruntled restaurant guest then a dying man.
Blast it all.
His eyebrows raised at the sight of Duchess Veleto Lotheed. She was an awfully big fish to be way out in the Meratt sticks. Somehow Riveh doubted this was just a doting older relative here to celebrate a favored scion's party. Surely there was some political reason. Did old Bartleby here need the matriarch's support?
Or perhaps his role inside the family was not as secure one might guess?
Or, even bolder, they had guessed there would be trouble? Having Veleto on hand would have staved off the worst, even if Bartleby had bit the Big One and went off to the great family reunion in the sky.
Curious.
Rousing himself from his tangle of thoughts, he heard his Lord address him.
"Of course." Riveh says, bowing. "I just wish I had noticed something sooner, might have avoided the attack altogether. I went upstairs with Sir Gusairne in pursuit but all we found was a timer. No sign of the actual assailant." The ifirit paused and then ventured, "You look better then I expected, my lord. For a crossbow bolt to the chest, I mean."
"Thank the gods the High Enumerator is so gifted."
"So I gathered," was all the Count had to say on Riveh's findings. The statement was as vague as it was final, a certain edge having entered the man's otherwise so level voice; he clearly had no intent on elucidating. Perhaps equally curious was the simple assenting nod given to the ifrit's remark on the Abadaran's capability. While the Lotheed's little dip of the head was delivered with all the gravity of a headsman's swing, Paril reddened, looking for all the world like a schoolgirl chastened by her two teachers. The poor thing really wasn't the most commanding of head priests.
"I commend you for your courage, Lord Betony," the lord of the land suddenly went on, "and would reward your loyalty, but you must all excuse me for now; I would speak with my seneschal. Please see me in my office after our evening meal. As newly introduced gentry to Meratt, we have matters to discuss."
The curt pronouncement preceded a curt bow to the Duchess, the woman he owed respect both familiarly and feudally. He then strode inside to find the half-elf, his gait just a bit more stiff than Riveh remembered it.
"I hope you find it in you to forgive my grandnephew his solecisms."
It was that selfsame Duchess who approached him now, a heel clicking against marble somewhere beneath her expensive dress. "This despicable attack has him more shaken than he cares to admit, I'm sure. He takes his station very seriously and is devoted to the... feudal spirit, loath to show any vulnerability." A little sigh escaped the thin lips before they lifted into a cordial smile. "As is only right, of course."
The smile suited her, Riveh noted, almost literally so; the lines of her face fell into place when she smiled like the feathers of a swan. They really weren't very much alike, grandaunt and nephew. Which was to say that he could see the family resemblance: even in her advanced years Veleto Lotheed had the slim features Bartleby had built upon. Heck, he thought he recognized something of Martella's playful gleam about the green eyes. But where the Count carried himself as something so dignified as to be alien, the Lotheed matriarch felt far more approachable, even in her finery. She had the air of a kindly grandmother decanted into the dress of a queen dowager.
Which for all the Geminus knew was precisely her devious design, putting him off-guard. He once again found himself wondering what such a woman was doing here, at what was - in the grand scheme of things - a fairly insignificant soiree. A courtesy offered a favored nephew? If so, she had come a long way in dangerous times, and alone at that; the only other Lotheed Riveh had seen here was that ass Titus. It was all the more curious given that she was a person of considerable means. Women might not wield all the political power of their male counterparts - such as her husband, the actual Lotheed patriarch - in Taldor officially, but that often just meant their influences were all the more artful when employed. Riveh had had the dubious fortune of witnessing more than one such woman at work.
"Well, given how the young Count failed to make introductions... A pleasure to meet you," she introduced herself, not belatedly so much as nonchalantly. "I am the Duchess Lotheed. How do you do?" A curtsy made second nature through decades followed. Riveh saw little evidence of her age in the motion despite her being at least seventy. Then again, with the curatives rumored to exist for the seniors of high society, she might be older still. "It was Riveh Betony, was it? I had the delight of meeting your predecessor on a few occasions. An eccentric, to be sure, but the dearest thing I ever met."
Whatever conversation the two might have had was cut somewhat short, however. While the grand dame betrayed no sign of being anything other than happy to converse with this young lord, her eye drifted to the staff, these men and women still clearly finding their stations after the attack. "Pardon me for just a moment, young man." This said, she turned to the guests and asked for their attention, something readily given her; most appeared aware of who she was. Proclaiming that the hour was ready and that 'the kitchens never rested, come anarchy or End Times' they should reconvene to the dining hall for a much needed meal. Her words found fertile soil and seemed to instill both guests and staff with new purpose.
"Shall we?" she said affably in extending a thin arm for Riveh to take. Their conversation resumed in walking back inside the Birdsong Palace with the others. "I must say, I wouldn't have suspected homely Meratt of all places to house something as theatrical as a vigilante."
Riveh noted how both Stig and Trant found their way near him, almost like actual loyal agents, without being too obvious in the crowd.
Matters to discuss. Riveh wonders what they might be. Just the usual formalities to greet a new vassal lord? Or was it something more tied to Stachys? Perhaps a hint to keep away from the growing drug trade? Doubtful, Bartleby seemed far too reserved for such a blatant arm-twist.
Riveh quickly realized he found the Duchess Lotheed far more dangerous then her grandnephew because she clearly had that ever-so critical skill old Bartleby lacked. Charm.
Against his will Riveh felt a part of himself enjoying the older lady's patter. Dangerous.
Still, the oracle kept wondering. Just why this major political player hanging out in Lotheedar? Not to take in the sights...
Riveh barely had time to say he did not know precious old Aliss before she effortlessly commanded the kitchens. After he found himself back in her capable grip. Careful not to reveal much Riveh was something sparing.
"I think vigilante is a strong word." Riveh allowed, "Just a honest citizen hoping to help. Surely even Meratt has it's fair share of those?" Pausing Riveh went on, pushing a bit, "Any ideas who might have done such an attack? I saw your ordered the kitchens to press on, you don't fear they might press again today?' Riveh did his best to smile, "I don't want to have my turtle soup interrupted by another terrorist."
“I beg your pardon?”
The grand dame came to a halt. Her tone was as polite as her phrasing, but both carried a rigidity also evidenced in her form; the slim arm held by Riveh had gone stiff. It was a bit like a metal gauntlet had abruptly fallen to the floor, and the Lotheed wasn’t sure whether she should come to the clumsy knight’s aid or prepare for a duel to the death. She looked to him to know whether she should be offended. Fortunately, the misunderstanding was easily cleared.
Harder to shake was the feeling that despite her calm demeanor, the septuagenarian had been fully prepared to answer any offense in kind.
“Oh, no no, young man,” she laughed, seemingly genuinely; he felt the tension leave the arm. “I was referring to the assailant. He fancies himself a vigilante, you see. He’s even adopted a proper nom de guerre. I expect he spends his evenings fretting over a costume as well. Boys at play...” A click of the tongue followed. “He refers to himself as the ‘Night Swan’ in his letters. As I said, theatrical. That’s what he does, I’m given to understand: send threatening letters. I believe every landed lord here has received at least one by now, although this marks his first real offense. And what an introduction. He might as well have sent his own writ of execution.”
There was an honest to goodness vigilante roaming Meratt, then? And one targeting the county’s nobility at that? For what reason? “I have no claim to this land and have only arrived here recently,” the Duchess continued as they moved with the hungry crowd. “As such, I have not had the dubious pleasure of welcoming a missive of my own. But I understand he has anarchist leanings, or so his letters read; perhaps a malcontent emboldened by the… late unpleasantness.” Another ripple in the lake from the boulder that was the Exaltation Massacre. This all sounded rather serious, even if that severity was undercut by the light tone of Veleto Lotheed.
“You are of course right, young sir,” she quickly acquiesced to his concerns, “but I think we can be at ease for now. For one, it is my experience that these dramatic types – true to their histrionic temper -tend to consider their forays as performances: effect is foremost in their minds, not results. This is why they choose to lay low a lord in the midst of his speech, right before an audience, rather than slay him in the privacy of his sleep. It’s the stagecraft of the moment, you see. And that moment has passed. For another, should I be wrong and the so-called Swan has more attacks in store for us, I very much doubt they’ll go off unhindered. Make no mistake, countermeasures are in full swing behind these walls. Your turtle soup, for example,” she said, a playful tug at her thin lips, “is assuredly being visited by some magical whatsit checking it for poison as we speak. And if I know the good ‘Sir’ Gusairne right – and his is a simple soul – he and his men are currently searching the Palace furiously for further threats. I suspect the guards won’t sleep tonight. I know he won’t. Should the Swan manage another attack, it might as well be against the seneschal himself for whether success or failure, his pride would never survive it.”
These assurances had to be paused to make way for an impressed murmuration passing through the guests; they had reached the ballroom. As could only the expected at this point, the Palace of Birdsong’s ballroom was a resplendent affair, all gilded fittings and polished marble. Of particular note was the high, painted ceiling and the tall windows – nearly 20 feet – that reached up to it, giving one the sense of having stepped into some amalgamation of cathedral and dance hall. Here a long table, long enough to seat the entire party, had been set up. Riveh reflected that it was probably the only room spacious enough to seat so many people as one. His attention was brought back to the matriarch at his side, however, she not having finished.
“And thirdly,” she said, patiently, realizing the young man’s focus was momentarily elsewhere, “so what?” The Geminus now had to actually use said focus to follow the Lotheed’s words. So what if a masked avenger wanted them dead? Had he understood that right? The benign aspect never left the woman, but she looked to him with more intent now. “We are the aristocracy. We are the leadership of Taldor, the nation all others on Avistan are modeled after, whether through admiration or necessity. Even on the brink of destruction, even with a murderer’s blade at our throat, we must never falter, never in front of our subjects.” She cast a meaningful glance round the assorted guests. “Appearances matter, Lord Betony. I hope this is a lesson you learn quickly.”
To guard one’s conduct? Riveh could not help but wonder whether this lesson was responsible for her grandnephew having all the poise of a statue with about as much humor. Happily, the grandaunt was clearly more blessed with the latter as her more serious tone faltered beneath an almost self-deprecating smile. “Forgive me, I promise I am not in the habit of giving lectures. They make me feel old. Silly too, in this case, given how a young gentleman as handsome as yourself must have no need for reminders on the importance of appearances! Still, one feels obliged to pass these things on to newly minted lords...”
The reappearance of that aforementioned grandnephew drew the collected attention of the crowd, Bartleby entering into the ballroom cool as anything. He didn't have much to say, merely apologizing for the delay and inviting everyone to take their seats. People did just that and gratefully so. Riveh was obliged to do the same, and the dinner was underway within minutes. They were effective, the Palace's staff. Pork, beef, venison, lamb & mutton, wild game and more; the table quickly became a confusing array of mixed sights and smells as the until recently very alive beasts were served out as individual dishes. Given the nature of the feast, comparing one's chosen fare quickly became the chief amusement along the table. The ifrit noted how swan and peacock appeared to be particularly popular, likely because eating these was usually a privilege reserved royalty. Just another benefit to being stewards to the crown. Of course, he received his salad as ordered, a meal not many others, if any, had opted for. It drew some curious eyes.
What Riveh hoped wouldn't draw unwanted attention was his table manner, not this time. True to her word, Trant had taken a seat opposite him where she subtly tried to help him navigate the silverware. He saw her prod at a salad fork with her pinkie, waiting to see whether he followed before tackling her own dish, some variety of poultry.
Salted pine nuts crumbled beneath his teeth while his tongue enjoyed the fresh bite of what he guessed were some sort of nettles boiled and dried until their venom was rendered merely pleasantly spicy. His dish might not be popular around the table, but it was really a pretty darn good salad. If only the company was better. Riveh found himself seated next to some sort of physician eager to explain how he made his fortune reigniting the loins of older gentlemen.
"The trick is in the great apes of Garund, you see! I sew these testes into the pouch of the subject, and voila! Gratification is guaranteed!"