Walking into the common room, he saw Petra sat at the usual table at the back of the room with a number of men and women he didn’t recognize. They must be the workers Lady Grey had promised. Petra looked up as he and Dolph walked across the room, but then quickly returned her attention to the people around her.
“Is that all the welcome I get now?” Mareth called as he neared the table. He’d been getting used to the special attention from her, and this wasn’t the greeting he enjoyed.
Petra looked up again, a puzzled look on her face. She squinted and tilted her head as she regarded him. “Mareth?”
“Of course, it is, my sweet! Do I look so different?” he asked before doubt hit him. “Do I look bad?”
“No, no, no. You look very handsome. Like a lord,” she said without the excitement he was hoping for. She sounded full of uncertainty.
“I’m still the same person, Petra.” Mareth opened his arms for a hug, and she got to her feet and came over and returned the embrace. He smelled her hair and whispered, “They may have polished off my edges, but I’m still the same rough diamond underneath.”
“I know, Mareth. I know.” But he could tell she thought he was someone different already.
The carriage had been sent empty to the Royal Oak to collect him alone. Dolph was to stay behind that evening. Mareth rode to the manor house of Lady Grey where she was waiting in the courtyard with three guards.
Lady Grey looked magnificent: a long, black gown down to the floor as befitted someone still in mourning, the plunging neckline, and diamond jewelry probably not quite as fitting. Her hair piled on top of her head and fixed with other sparking trinkets showed her long neck and delicate earlobes. He had to remember to close his mouth and avert his gaze as she climbed up the stairs into the cabin.
As they rode to Eden’s city estate—a journey of less than a mile that took considerably longer than walking because of congestion caused by similar carriages—Lady Grey briefed him on the plan for the evening.
She was to do as much of the talking as possible, making the introductions, providing his background, and he would follow things up with small talk. Any questions he couldn’t avoid by having her answer on his behalf were to be met with a noncommittal response and a promise to get back to them. And so it was they arrived at the entrance to the mansion house, with Mareth having some comfort of how he was going to bluff his way through his first public appearance.
He climbed out of the carriage first and held out his hand to help Lady Grey from the carriage.
“Thank you, Lord Bollingsmead,” she said. Being called “Lord” was going to be a transition for his ears. He hadn’t had a title for a long time. “And may I just add, now that I see you in the light, you do look most handsome.”
He didn’t expect it, but it felt like he’d been waiting for the acknowledgment. “My lady, I am but a moth to your flame.”
She gave a somber smile, and they walked up the steps to the large entryway. The sun was dipping over the city, but the mansion house was ablaze with light from gilded oil lanterns illuminating the vaulted entranceway adorned with high mirrors and shiny marble flooring. There probably couldn’t have been a more pretentious way for Eden to welcome people to his house: mirrors over a few feet in size were apparently extremely difficult to produce, and marble was not native to Edland at all.
Mareth walked half a step behind Lady Grey, and they swept up the grand staircase to the ballroom, which was even more extravagant than the foyer. Walls adorned from floor to three storey vaulted ceiling with fabric, gilded crown moldings framed a fresco of what looked like Eden riding to save a walled city. Tens of staff loitered around guests with wine goblets and platters of food.
A minstrel played by the entrance to the ballroom, and Mareth met his eyes, nodded, and smiled. It was Zaff, and he was playing the music to his song Tin Man.
Earlier that afternoon, Mareth had met with more than a dozen minstrels and bards from the city. Petra and Alana doing the hard work of rounding them up to come and meet with him. He hadn’t expected them to come, but they had, and when he asked them for their help to get the message out between now and the election, he was even more surprised they wanted to help.
Mareth felt somewhat ashamed about their enthusiasm to help one of their own, because if the tables had been turned, he doubted he would have even gone to the meeting, unless there were free drinks. He’d always had a problem with others being more successful… But Zaff was there, playing the song he had taught them, and no one noticed.
Lady Grey guided him around the room, arm-in-arm, and with the slightest of pressure, directed him to the next person with whom to talk. The conversations were all similar. They all said how terrible it was about Hoxteth’s assassination, half of them quickly following it up with something like “But that’s politics for you,” or “Venerable institution, though, the Hollow Syndicate, something we Edlanders can be proud of.” Then Lady Grey would introduce him as Lord Bollingsmead, which confused a good number of people, who thought he was his father or even his elder brother.
He would, of course, say nothing except for some pleasantries and smile dashingly at any wives of greater years. Lady Grey would then explain he had just announced his candidacy for lord protector, inquire if they could follow up with a meeting, and then move on to the next annoyingly similar weak-chinned target.
He had just been introduced to the lord and lady of Rayburn, when he finally caught sight of Eden himself, standing across the room. For a second, the crowds parted, and there was the host, talking in whispers with a member of his staff before looking over in their direction. A series of tiny bells rang around the room, bringing the conversations and the music to silence, and everyone else turned to face the host.
“Lords and ladies, welcome to my home away from home,” said Eden. There was a smattering of applause. He stood in the center of the room, the acoustics of his position under the arched ceiling ensuring everyone could hear without him having to shout. “I wanted to thank you for coming, and I wanted to ask for your help. You, like me, love our country. Edland has long been a glorious bastion of civilization on the Jeweled Continent, but it has decayed. Our influence on the world has waned, though we still have the greatest navy on the seas. Our territory of Redsmoke was stolen, and it was left to me to return it to our control. Our walls don’t even keep our whole city safe anymore. And so, I ask you, what are we going to do?”
Eden didn’t wait for any response, but plowed on. “I’ll tell you what we need to do. We need to expand. We can’t let Pyrfew control the southern continent and expand into the Wild Continent without being challenged. As we expand, we can bring people into the light. Have them pay taxes to the realm, and we’ll build our walls and venerable new institutions. As we expand, we’ll create opportunities for our sons and daughters to rule new parts of our glorious land.” Applause again, more robust this time, and Mareth could see many people nodding around the room.
“Good, good, I’m glad you agree,” said Eden, giving a little chortle and clasping his hands in front of him. “So, enjoy the rest of your evening and join me in ushering in this brave new dawn of opportunity. To Edland!” And Eden raised his glass as his call was taken up around the room.
The combined nobility in the room began to go back to their conversations, and Mareth turned to face Lady Grey as he thought they would resume their conversation with the Rayburns. But she nodded toward the center of the room and muttered, “Eden is coming.”
Indeed, he was. Flanked by the staff member Mareth had seen him talking to before, Eden walked directly toward them.
“Lady Grey, thank you so much for coming this evening. I didn’t expect to see you,” he said with faux warmth. This was the first time Mareth had seen Eden up close. The lord was a good fifteen years older than the bard, but he had remained in reasonable shape. The years had taken their toll on his hair, though, and his skull was shaved to shiny, tanned skin, a bushy, blond mustache being the cente
r of attraction on his face.
“Good evening, Lord Eden,” replied Lady Grey, the poison in her tone so cleverly concealed.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a widow look so ravishing. My condolences on your loss, of course. I was very sorry to hear the news.”
“Of course, you were. I’m sure it came as a terrible surprise,” she said, maintaining eye contact with her adversary. Mareth didn’t know how she restrained herself from punching him in the face.
“It did, it did. But it looks like you’ve replaced Lord Hoxteth with a good degree of haste, my lady.” Eden spoke jovially, but Mareth knew the topic was wholly inappropriate. “Who is this young man?”
“This is Lord Bollingsmead. He’s the newest candidate to stand.”
Eden turned to face Mareth for the first time and looked him up and down. His staff member shadow whispered something into the lord’s ear.
“Are you indeed? I know your father. It’s a shame he’s not here tonight to see you. He has confided in me that he’ll be here within the week, though, and that I have his support.”
“Lord Eden. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” lied Mareth. “I’m my own man with my own support. I have yet to talk to my father. We shall see if he’ll change his mind.”
“Yes, quite. Well, it’s good you obviously love our country too and want to be involved in this process. I don’t think you’ll win, of course.” And he gave Mareth the biggest shit-eating grin seen outside of the Ioth monkey houses.
“We shall see, Lord Eden,” said Mareth, trying to smile, but finding the act was causing a pain in his cheeks. “There are many votes to fight for. And I do intend to fight.”
“Excellent. I do love a good scrap. I think I like you. And because I like you, I do want you to be careful. This business is a little dangerous, you know.” Eden leaned in conspiratorially. “It would be a shame if something happened to you as it did to Lord Hoxteth.”
Eden paused to let it sink in. “Well, I must go. Lots of people to talk to, you know. Very nice to meet you, my boy. And, Lady Grey, it was a very great pleasure to see you again.” And with a shake of their hands, he was steered away to talk to someone else.
“Mareth,” Lady Grey said as she touched him on the arm to attract his attention, “we should leave now. I think we’ve made enough of a stir. We can’t have Eden take further offense and look to call out a duel.”
“A duel? Whatever for?” asked Mareth. He thought he’d been pleasant enough. And he didn’t want to have to use the ornaments he was now wearing, even if his opponent could be old enough to be his father.
“Whatever he decides. This room is his tonight, and he’ll have enough witnesses to call on if he needs.”
Without further pause, they walked briskly out of the ballroom and into the cool dark of the night.
Chapter 23
Broken
“Percival, you look terrible,” observed Hoskin. “Have you even shaved this morning?”
“I’m afraid not, my lord. I do apologize. I was up all night,” said his secretary.
Hoskin was taking his now regular walk to the dungeons through the castle and the underground corridors to the little corner of hell reserved for traitors and people of importance who hadn’t been taught how to share as a child.
There had been no breakthrough yesterday, Bartholomew reminding him it was important to be patient. But Hoskin felt a bounce in his stride this morning, holding sheaves of papers Percival had handed to him as he left his chambers. “So, you were up all night? Why didn’t you call me?”
“I came to see you, sir, but you were sleeping, and so, I didn’t want to wake you. When I received Bartholomew’s message that Master Aebur wanted to talk to you, I thought I could go in your place. Take copious notes and such.” Percival paused. He did not look well, bags under his eyes, but also a haunted look on his face. “My lord, it’s a horrible place you have been going. I wanted to thank you for keeping me away from it before. How do you cope?”
“Mainly by thanking my stars it’s not me in there. And you spoiled my intention of keeping you out of it.” He did feel bad that the impressionable young man had to see the inquisitor at work. He remembered his first time. It wasn’t one of those things you could ever un-see. “So, what did the slime-master have to say?” Hoskin scanned the sheaves of parchment, parsing the neat handwriting he was so used to reading. His pace slowed as he read, Percival matching his continually slowing pace until they eventually came to a stop.
“So, he admitted to working for Pyrfew and has done so for some years? And he has been feeding us misinformation these past six months. Just enough truth to be credible.”
“Yes, my lord. He became quite talkative after Bartholomew removed his big toe.”
“Am I reading this right?” asked the lord chancellor. “Did he say the Pyrfew fleet being built in Ioth is complete, when he’s been telling us we had another two months?”
“Yes, my lord. And worse, currently a force is traveling overland through the Green Desert to man those ships. Sailors, captains, and thousands of soldiers. They mean to attack Redsmoke immediately.”
“Arloth preserve us. Here it says a land force is gathering south of Redsmoke, too. Using their new forts to disguise troop numbers.”
“Yes, my lord. I’m not a military man, but it doesn’t sound good.”
“No, not good at all. I want you to go and get Uthridge and Ridgton and have them in my office in an hour. We need to attend to this now. And ask Jyuth if he could join us, too.” Percival nodded and turned to leave. “Wait, before you go, did you ask Aebur why he did this?”
“Yes, we did. He was very emotional at that point, so it was hard to understand fully, but he said something about Llewdon being in his dreams. Terrible dreams. And he talked about chess, how he was so good as a child no one could beat him. I might be wrong, sir, but I got the impression he thought all of this was a game he couldn’t lose.”
Hoskin sighed. “Maybe he would have won if he hadn’t done something stupid to piss off Jyuth. If it weren’t for the wizard’s servant girl, we’d be royally screwed. And we still might be. Wait, one more thing.” Hoskin flipped through the pages. “Did you ask about why they wanted the dwarves?”
“Page five, my lord. He didn’t have a detailed answer. But he did know each of them expired some months after being taken to Pyrfew.”
“Hmm, that doesn’t help. I thought they’d be trying to get some information. But what?” He snapped himself out of the little trance he’d entered, considering all of the parts on the board. Hoskin thought he had always been pretty handy at chess himself. “Go and get the lord general and the admiral. I’ll be back soon. And, Percival, nice work. Get some rest afterward.”
Hoskin set off again, papers held tight in hand, the receding footsteps of Percival behind him as he went to execute his orders. Percival had been working with him for five years now, and he continued to astound. He was essentially a private secretary before, but now he was effectively treasurer and had started to clean up a lot of the messes that the elephant of life would occasionally choose to drop. That young man would go far. Hopefully, not so far as to have Hoskin hanging in a cell one day, though.
Bartholomew sat on a simple wooden chair outside the open cell when he arrived. The inquisitor sat upright, straight as a rod, but his eyes were closed in sleep. His visage almost beatific. It could have been an oil painting of one of the prophets touched by the light of Arloth, though with arms and apron smeared with blood and gore. Hoskin gently took hold of his shoulder and shook him awake.
“M’lud. Sorry, I was just catching forty winks there. Good morning to you.”
“Good morning, Bartholomew. I believe you had a busy night. I have Percival’s report.” Hoskin waved the papers in the air. “Did our guest say anything else after Percival left?”
“Not much, m’lud. I think he’s empty. He talked when I took the first toe. Said everything. So, I stopped then. I likes to let them talk
when they’re going to talk,” explained Bartholomew, taking pride in his process as much as a smith explaining how he tempered his steel. “Then when he finished, I recommenced. And there was just a whole lot of crying and pleading, but no more talking.”
“Good work, Bartholomew. Take him down and put him in a secure cell. Do you need a healer sent down to attend to him?”
“All depends. How long do you want him alive?”
“I think it prudent to see if we have a use for him in the future. I’ll have someone sent down.”
Hoskin sank into the chair with a sigh and let his head hang back against the cushioned surface. His office was a small haven of peace and solitude, allowing him the opportunity to arrest his racing nerves. Just when he thought he was getting the hang of running the damned country, he now had a potential invasion to deal with.
Less than two weeks, and then he could get out of this place, leave these responsibilities behind. Why could it not just have been easy?
He could just ignore it.
Only two other people knew this information. Bartholomew hardly saw another a human being, and Percival could be trusted with whatever he told him. If he ignored it, then he could just glide on out of Kingshold and go back to the big empty house where he grew up.
Unfortunately, even though he hadn’t been a natural at learning the blade as a child, he had always had a strong moral compass. So strong he wouldn’t even sneak an extra cake or two at the wintertide festivals like most of the other children. Balderdash.
There was a knock, and Percival poked his head around the door. “Lord Chancellor, may I come in?” Hoskin waved him through.
“I have Lord General Uthridge and Admiral Ridgton outside. I haven’t told them anything. I asked Lord Jyuth if he would care to join, but he was with his daughter and said he was busy. He did give me this book to give you, though.”
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