Three Acts of Penance [01] Attrition: The First Act of Penance

by S. G. Night

  ——

  After circling around to the northern side of the island, the Scorpions on Brahn’s boat had to wait in line behind the vessels of several other guests before being allowed to dock. Once the lines were tied off, Toren lowered the gangplank onto the pier and Brahn shuffled gawkily up to Nelle, holding out the crook of his arm.

  “Um…milady?” he offered with a distasteful grimace.

  Nelle struggled to keep from gagging as she slipped her arm through his. While she didn’t have one-tenth of the hate for this man that Rachel did, she wouldn’t hesitate for a second if Racath asked her to feed him to the sharks. Putting a flawless, showy smile on her face, Nelle allowed Brahn to escort her down the gangplank and onto the wharf.

  The end of the pier was blocked by the checkpoint of six Arkûl guards and a smallish Human servant sitting at a small desk.

  “Name?” the man whined as Brahn and Nelle approached the checkpoint.

  “Patrician Brahn Martell, and guest.”

  The Human made a show of shuffling through the parchment on the desk, looking over what must have been the guest list. After finding Brahn’s name, he nodded and recited:

  “Please present yourself to the Arkûl for the search. Weapons of any kind, whether for decoration or utility, are not permitted inside. If you are carrying any such weapon, you may check it in here and pick it up when you leave.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Brahn said to the servant as the two of them stood before guards.

  Nelle was caught somewhere between disgust and amusement as the Arkûl searching her fumbled in an attempt to conduct a thorough investigation while staying well clear of any sensitive regions.

  “Thank you,” the man sniffed when the search was finished. “Are you docking here with us this evening?”

  “Yes,” Brahn told him. “My vessel’s tied off down there at Number 13. My crew will remain aboard until we return.”

  “Very well. You may proceed.” The Human handed Brahn a slip of paper with his name on it. “Present this to the Arkûl at the front door and they will grant you access. Have a pleasant evening; the Baron Monger welcomes you and appreciates your attendance tonight.”

  Slipping her arm back through Brahn’s, Nelle walked with him past the checkpoint and onto the stone path leading up to the house.

  “So…” Nelle said conversationally once they were out of earshot of the guards. “Is there anything I should know before we go in? Social niceties, and what not?”

  Brahn glared at her. “You’re asking me this now?”

  “Yes…?”

  Brahn snorted. “The games of the court aren’t something you can learn in the five minutes it’ll take to get to the house!”

  “Give me the short version, then.”

  Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Brahn thought for a moment then said: “It’s complicated. Even more so for you. Officially, you’re a commoner. You have no rank. Which means you’d be expected to perform a full curtsy for every guest we run across — and if there are any members of the Demonic gentry, you’d be expected to grovel on the floor, face down, until they’re out of sight. You would call no one by name or title, only by the appropriate honorific.”

  Nelle frowned. “Please tell me there’s a but in there somewhere.”

  “But,” Brahn affirmed with a nod. “You’re with me, which puts you at equal rank with me. The Baron granted me the title of Patrician a few years ago, which puts us above the ranks of knight and esquire. But that doesn’t really count for anything as far as you’re concerned, since you’re not technically with me. Come to think of it, as the Baron’s summoned consort, I don’t think you’re actually anything at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Brahn oscillated his shoulders back and forth. “You exist separately from both the gentry and the peasantry. It’s not that you have a certain rank, or even no rank at all — it’s that rank doesn’t even apply to you. In the eyes of the court, you aren’t a person; you’re the Baron’s property.”

  Nelle bristled. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

  “Think about it like the house itself,” Brahn explained, gesturing at the mansion at the top of the hill. “The house, too, is the Baron’s property. He is its master, and in a way, the house obeys his will. But it will not — cannot — bow, or curtsy, or grovel before another member of the gentry. No one other than the Baron can assume control of the house without some kind of formal ruling, and anyone who tries to claim it or vandalize it would be violating the Baron’s privileges of property.”

  “So what does that mean for me?” Nelle asked. “I’m not a house.”

  “If you were just a simple commoner, any member of the nobility here could do as the pleased with you,” Brahn said. “But as the Baron’s property, none of them have the right to even touch you without first consulting him. Just like his servants or his slaves.

  “You have no obligation to call anyone by their honorific, or to curtsy to anyone — accept the Baron himself, of course. And you should always refer to him as My Lord. Everyone else…you probably should call them by their name and title. For example, you would call me Patrician Martell, not Brahn. You may speak freely in conversation, offer opinions and comments, and so on. Do your best to be social and engaging with the other guests. But do not speak to any of the Demonic gentry without first being spoken to.”

  “I can handle that,” Nelle said. “What about the Baron? What can you tell me about him?”

  Brahn grunted and shrugged. “He’s forceful. Likes to be in control. But his mood varies, particularly when it comes to women. Sometimes he wants something to resist him, a girl he has to dominate and control. But on rare occasions like tonight, he wants someone like you…or rather, who you’re pretending to be. A girl with a strong personality, one who wants to here, dressed up and hanging from his arm. Someone who’ll take the lead out of his hands.”

  “Huh,” Nelle muttered. “Great.”

  “What name will you be using, anyway?” Brahn asked her as they approached the massive front doors. “Wouldn’t want to call you the wrong thing in front of the Marquis of such-and-such and piss all over myself?”

  “Oh, just my real name,” Nelle answered. Looking up, she could see the balcony jutting out from the side of the mansion, hanging dozens of feet directly above the front porch. “It’s not like I’m on the census or anything like that. My name probably won’t mean a thing to them.”

  ——

  The guards took the authentication slip from Brahn and ceremoniously pushed open the tall front doors. The two of them were greeted by the murmuring buzz of activity within. The antechamber was decorated in even more lavish beautifications than usual; the marble floor was freshly waxed and polished to a reflective sheen, mirroring the flickering lights of candelabras that lit the ornamental columns along each wall.

  Humans dressed in quality attire milled about the wide floor space. They congregated in groups near the sides of the room chatting, laughing, and fussing at their neatly groomed hair and made-up faces. They left the middle open for transient guests to roam from one conversation to another. Servants dressed in black and white meandered around the room bearing trays laden with all manner of assorted delights: dark Dírorthan wine in broad glasses beside tall flutes of sparkling Dírorthan champagne; appetizers, such as steaming cubes of sizzling meat on sticks or bite-sized servings of freshly-caught fish; napkins and warm handkerchiefs; and so on.

  “Follow my lead,” Brahn whispered in Nelle’s ear, plucking a glass of wine from a passing tray. He led her by the arm into the throng of nobility.

  Nelle caught snatches of conversation from groups they passed by, snippets of gossip spoken in droning, whining, or surreptitious voices.

  “ — hear the latest about Esquire Sutton?”

  “Good gods, what’s that buffoon gotten himself now?”

  “Well, the way I heard it, he and the—”

  “ — this wine tastes l
ike the piss. I can’t believe the Baron would serve something so foul.”

  “Now, William, there’s no need to be vulgar! Monger’s hospitality is beyond extravagant, I say.”

  “Decorate it anyway you want: piss is piss. I wonder where he keeps the brandy…probably got it all locked away for—”

  “ — you know when the Baron is supposed to arrive?”

  “No idea. He likes to keep us waiting for a good year or two before inviting everyone up to dinner. Probably hoping we’ll ferment a little before the meal.”

  “I know what you mean. Honestly, the man can be so tiresome. I can’t understand why so many people like him.”

  “He’s rich. He’s powerful. He’s part of the lesser Demonic. That should be enough reason for anyone.”

  “He bores the piss out of me.”

  “I only come for the head-wash.”

  “And of course, he saves that for the very end of the—”

  “ — the Milonok situation? Any news on that front?”

  “Not since the Dominion’s last botched attempt to retake the slums a few months ago. Nothing comes in or out of those walls anymore. It’s like they’ve got their own little slice of the world sealed away from the Demons.”

  “Good riddance, I say. The Burrows have been an eyesore for the last five decades, now. No productivity, just a lot of dirt and trash. It’s not really a loss at all. No wonder the Dominion isn’t too keen on taking it back.”

  “But what about the one who started it all? This…what do they call him…Dragon character? The one who started the riot and blew up the Bridge. They say he’s a ghost.”

  “After that explosion, they’re probably right—”

  “ — really, how dare you, Edmund!”

  “Oh, don’t play dumb with me, Rutherford. It’s no secret you’re estate is hanging by a thread. Everybody knows. Words like bankruptcy and buyout have been hovering around your name for the past three months. You’ve got blood in the water, Rutherford, and the sharks are circling.”

  “What concern is that of yours?”

  “It’s my business to make things like this my concern. Look, everyone knows it’s getting harder to sell fishing licenses on the southern end of the Bay. But I can offer you an out. A clean getaway.”

  “I’m not interested in anything you have to offer, Edmund. I’ve heard about you and all your shady backdoor dealings. I’d rather cut off my own thumbs than owe a favor to someone like you.”

  “You haven’t got much of a choice, Rutherford. It’s either me, or the sharks.”

  “Why don’t you go faul a—”

  “ — What no one talks about is that it was us, the gentry, who gave Io over to the Demons in the first place.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “My dear father, rest his soul, was alive during the invasion. He told me when I was a boy, after the Demons sacked Litoras and killed Nivad IV, the gentry offered them control of the country in exchange for our surrender. We got to keep our money, our stations, and our lands, and all they asked in return was our loyalty and our submission under the lesser Demonic. So we took the deal. Ordered the troops to lay down their arms and surrender. Then they built the Wall, butchered the Majiski and sent the fair-folk off into the mountains.”

  “Keep your voice down! Do you realize what could happen if someone hears you talking like that?”

  “I’m not saying the Dominion hasn’t done a wonderful job keeping the country together. We’ve all done just fine under the Demons. But the peasants complain.”

  “Screw the peasants.”

  “I already do—”

  “Brahn? Brahn Martell!”

  The voice jolted Nelle back to attention. Brahn had led her over to a small group of nobles consisting of a portly gentleman with a monocle and a broad mustache, a dark-haired woman in a green dress, and tall, thin man with a bald head.

  “Gods above and below, Brahn, is that you?” the plump man said again, switching his ornamental walking stick into his free hand so he could give Brahn’s a fervent shake. “How the hell are you, man? I haven’t seen you at one of these in ages! Have you been well?”

  “I am doing better than well, Darren,” Brahn said with a counterfeit smile.

  “That so?” the man said, his eyebrows disappearing into his bushy hair as he raised them questioningly. “I’d think the opposite, to tell you the truth. I figured you had your plate full, what with that incident concerning your man up in Dírorth.”

  “Nasty business, that,” the woman commented in a breathy voice.

  “Hammon’s death was untimely and unfortunate,” Brahn admitted. “But Westward Trade’s recovered without a scar to speak of.”

  “I imagine that took some effort,” the bald man said with a faint hint of derision. “Tell me, Brahn, what is it exactly that you do for Westward Trade? I’ve never been quiet clear on that.”

  “Oh, well, that’s complicated…” Brahn scratched the back of his head nervously, not meeting the bald man’s eyes directly. “I handle special orders for the more important clients.”

  “Which is how our boy here got himself a title and an invite from the Baron!” the fat man said, rubbing his hands together. “But, how rude of us, we’ve neglected your guest, Brahn!”

  “Ahh, yes!” Brahn turned to Nelle. “My dear, these are two of my fellow Patricians: Darren Hurst and Jonathan Sumner.” He gestured to the fat man and the tall bald man respectively. “And this is the lovely Esma, wife of the Ritter Musgrave. Everyone, this is Nelle…” he trailed off, looking at a loss. “Um…”

  “Aritas,” Nelle supplied. “Nelle Aritas.”

  “Charmed,” Hurst said, inclining his head to kiss her hand. “A lovely lady you’ve caught here, Brahn.”

  Brahn gave a dramatic sigh. “Alas, she’s not mine to claim. I’m escorting her until the Baron arrives.”

  “Ahh, so you are the Baron’s catch for the evening,” Esma said directly to Nelle.

  Nelle gave her best flashy smile. “Indeed so.”

  “You’re in for a treat,” she intoned suggestively. “I’ve ridden that horse before, if you’ll pardon the expression. Good times, my girl, good times.”

  “Esma!” the bald man, Sumner, gasped, appalled. “Your husband is just ten feet away! Have you no shame?!”

  “My husband is a pompous lout who lacks the fortitude to meet my needs,” Esma said remorselessly. “And that’s not a secret. If he can’t put two and two together, that’s his fault.”

  “Moving on,” Hurst interjected. “New topic, please.”

  “Agreed…” Sumner murmured, casting a disdainful glare at Esma, who huffed indifferently. “Does anyone have anything worthwhile to discuss?”

  Nelle took the opportunity. “I hear the Esquire Sutton caught syphilis from Viscount Thorne’s chamber-maid when he visited last month.”

  “Oh-ho!” Hurst exclaimed. “That’s a good one! Where’d you hear that, dear?”

  The conversation devolved into insipid tittle-tattle after that. Nelle’s sharp ears and good memory helped her keep pace, and she blended quite easily with the nobles.

  After some time, there was a tinkle of a bell and a clearing of a throat. Heads turned toward the staircase at the end of the antechamber.

  Rodgers, the Baron’s thin manservant stood on the second stair, tucking a silver bell away into his waistcoat. “Your attention, please!” he called out over the guests.

  The crowd hushed gradually until there was silence in the antechamber.

  Rodgers spoke again. “I present to you your host! Lord of Territh Umbra and the surrounding waters, noble of the Lesser Demonic gentry — the Baron Monger.”

  Rodgers stepped aside, signaling the crowd to applaud as an enormous man descended the stairs.

  So there he is, Nelle thought with a chill in her blood. The Baron Monger. The disguised Duke of Dor’mon. Tayran, the god of war.

  He looked almost like a Human to Nelle, but he was too mass
ive to be anything other than a Demon. His mane of long, freshly-brushed crimson hair fell like fire around the broad shoulders of his dark coat. His beard was trimmed, framing his molten-red eyes.

  Monger held out his enormous hands as the applause faded. “Friends!” he boomed. “My esteemed colleagues! Welcome! It is a privilege to have you with me on this fine evening. Would that I could greet you individually, but I am sure you would die of hunger before I could finish!”

  A murmur of courteous laughter rolled through the crowd.

  “That in mind,” Monger continued. “Please, join me upstairs, where awaits a feast in your honor! Rodgers, show them the way.”

  Rodgers climbed the steps and the nobles began to file forward toward the stairs. Nelle and Brahn quickly became separated from Hurst and the rest.

  “Come on,” Brahn said to Nelle. He led her by the arm through the crowd, heading straight for the enormous Demon on the stairs.

  When they stood just a step below him, Brahn bowed deeply to the Baron. “My Lord.”

  “Ah,” Monger grunted. “Brahn. How good to see you. Hikshaa has had some lovely things to say about you recently.”

  Brahn ignored the jibe and presented Nelle to the Baron. “My Lord, this is the order you requested. Delivered in person, just as I promised.”

  Monger gave Nelle an appraising stare, his red eyes sliding up and down her body. Nelle wasn’t comfortable with the places the Demon’s gaze lingered, but she did her best remain collected.

  “Hmm…” the Demon uttered pensively. “I see.” He stepped around Nelle, circling her on the stairs like a wolf sizing up his next meal. Nelle didn’t move. Once Monger had completed a full circle, he stopped and stood in front of her.

  “What is your name, girl?”

  Nelle conjured her dazzling smile and curtsied like her mother had taught her so many years ago. “Nelle Aritas, at your service My Lord.”

  Monger’s grin was wicked. “Really? At my service, now?”

  Nelle allowed the same wicked glint to flash in her own smile. “If that pleases you, My Lord. If you like it better, you can be in mine.”