Baron of Hearts (Master of Monsters Book 2)

by Hadley, Stephen L.

  “You’ve never met my mother, have you?” he asked, just before the silence could grow uncomfortable. “She left Ansiri almost a decade ago. Her family is from Sutherpoint. According to my father, she returned home to care for her parents and manage our overseas holdings.”

  Leo studied the young man for a moment, then turned and closed the room’s overlarge door. Making his way to Petre’s side, he dragged one of the chairs into a closer, more convenient position from which to watch him. He did not speak, electing instead to wait until the youth continued.

  “I didn’t think twice about it when I was younger,” Petre continued, after a time. “My mother had always been… distant. It sounds terrible, but I almost preferred her being gone. She and my father used to fight, sometimes daily. They screamed so loud that none of the servants would dare interrupt them.” He trailed off, shoulders growing more hunched by the second. “Then, when I was older, I started to wonder if that was why she’d left. I suppose I can’t blame her. And she always invited me to join her in Sutherpoint when she wrote, so…”

  “Petre,” Leo interrupted, cautiously. “Did something happen?”

  Petre sat up so suddenly it looked as if he’d forgotten Leo was present. From his newly intimate seat, Leo could see the youth’s eyes were rimmed with pink and he squirmed a bit at the discovery. Mercifully, Petre did not make excuses. Instead, he reached into the jacket pocket opposite the one that held his flask and withdrew two small envelopes.

  “This is from her,” Petre said. He handed over the envelope.

  Leo opened it cautiously, relieved to find the paper within stiff and unmarred by any obvious tearstains. His relief did not last long, however, and vanished entirely as he scanned the terse words written upon it.

  Baron VanAllen, it began.

  Thank you for informing me of your father’s passing. I will inform the administrators of your holdings in and around Sutherpoint that you are to be regarded as sole heir and recipient of all tithes and titles, thereof.

  Cordially,

  Margaret Martin née Engalls

  Leo blew out a quiet breath and resisted the urge to curse on Petre’s behalf as he skimmed the letter a second time. Despite its brevity, there was so much to unpack from the words that he didn’t even know where to begin. The coldness of the impersonal, businesslike language was only reinforced by the lack of condolences or intimate address. Most unnerving of all was the signature, signed in a thin, purposefully legible script that left no question as to its meaning.

  “Martin?” he asked, almost dreading the answer. “Who are the Martins?”

  Petre shrugged. “No one I’ve met,” he said. His voice was thick with emotion. “No one I’ve even heard of.”

  “Your mother and father,” Leo prompted. “Were they…?”

  There was no need to further enunciate his question. Petre’s clasped hands tightened until they shook, white-knuckled. This time, when he spoke, it was through clenched teeth.

  “No,” he growled. “They never divorced. Not officially.”

  “I’m sorry, Petre,” Leo said. To his surprise, he meant it. “This is—”

  “She didn’t even wait!” Petre raged. He paused, just long enough to gnaw at the knuckle of his left thumb. “My father dies and she… she goes and…”

  Swallowing hard, Leo carefully folded the letter and returned it to its envelope. He placed it on the arm of Petre’s chair.

  “At least she had the decency to leave you the estates,” he suggested. “She could have easily stolen your inheritance.”

  Snorting, Petre handed over the second envelope. He did not even look at Leo as he picked up the first and returned it to his jacket.

  “She’d have to get in line,” he said.

  Frowning, Leo opened the second envelope with much less caution. The broken seals on this one were far more familiar to him, displaying the unbalanced scales of Ansiri’s High Court in the golden wax. The letter within shared none of the first’s terseness. Instead, it was full of lofty, official-sounding language written in the hasty scrawl of an overworked scribe. While Leo lacked the patience to parse through every word, a handful of phrases stood out to him, here and there.

  Contested inheritance was foremost among them, followed by official inquiry and summary distribution to legal heirs .

  “What is this?” Leo demanded. “Your father didn’t have any other children, did he? Why are you being summoned?”

  “Because he did,” Petre replied. “At least, that’s what they’re claiming.”

  “This is bullshit!” Leo said. “It wouldn’t matter even if he fathered a dozen bastards with the Duchess herself. I’ve seen the papers. You’re the only legal heir to the VanAllen estate.”

  Petre shrugged and sank back deeply into his chair. For a moment, he seemed to be reaching for his flask, then crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

  “We’re going to deal with this, Petre,” Leo said hotly. “Who filed the suit?”

  “It was—” Petre began, then trailed off. He nodded toward the page in Leo’s hands. “It’s at the bottom.”

  Leo studied the summons a second time, then jumped to the half-dozen seals and signatures that littered the bottom third. It took a moment’s squinting before he identified the correct one, but once he had, the sight of the small, tidy handwriting sent a chill down his spine. And yet, even more than the chill itself, the discovery sparked a brimming excitement that made him want to grin with anticipation.

  The signature belonged to Count Jakob Terras.

  Chapter Five

  Leo’s excitement had not faded by the time he set out a half-hour later, clad in his finest suit, cloak, and with a full purse and rapier. It had been easy enough to usher Petre out the door with assurances that he would begin investigating immediately, but took a bit longer to ensure Brigit could task the newly hired servants with the duties he’d pulled Delia, Mihal, and Nyssa away from. Karran had wanted to come too, naturally, but he’d eventually managed to convince her, with Nyssa’s assistance, that she would be most useful guarding the manor.

  He still was not used to living in such a central location, however. Compared to the miles-long walk from his old estate, the city’s markets and seats of power felt comparable to crossing the street.

  His first stop was the bondservant district, a small, inauspicious row of alternating shops and apartments conveniently sandwiched between the noble and merchant neighborhoods. While serving virtually identical purposes, the various agencies responsible for the sale of bondservants shared none of the slave market’s grotesque spectacle. This was no doubt due in part to the handful of mostly ignored laws concerning the treatment of those in temporary servitude, but it also served a more practical purpose. While some nobles doubtless purchased slaves purely for the depraved opportunities they presented, bondservants were nominally meant to illustrate a household’s refinement. The service contracts of skilled craftsmen or refined butlers fetched a premium.

  That the same was true of young, beautiful maids was undoubtedly a coincidence.

  Though Leo could have spent the better part of an afternoon roaming from one agency to the next, the weight of all he needed to accomplish still hung over him, albeit only slightly. As a result, he ducked into the first of the shops he neared and found himself greeted by a pair of well-groomed young men and an older, bespectacled, but no less refined merchant seated behind a large, oak desk.

  The merchant rose as Leo entered, smiling politely and offering a small, appropriate bow.

  “Welcome, my lord,” he said. “How can I be of assistance?”

  Brushing aside the young men as they attempted to take his cloak, Leo instead waved Delia and the trow inside and then seated himself opposite the older man.

  “I need servants,” he announced. “Preferably women, but old enough to know their jobs well.”

  “And what sort of jobs would those be?” the man asked. He was clearly not perturbed by Leo’s brash manner and s
miled more widely as he patted a large, leather-bound folio that lay to one side of the desk. “I have several hundred contracts available, so I guarantee I can accommodate.”

  “Domestic, mostly,” Leo said. “Cooking, cleaning, washing—that sort of thing. Though I do own a number of slaves, too, so any servants with trades or handling experience would be ideal.”

  The man chuckled softly and pushed his spectacles higher. “Women with domestic and trade experience? I doubt there are a dozen of those in Ansiri, my lord.”

  “Disappointing,” Leo said. He started to rise, but halted when the man opposite him sighed and tapped the table.”

  “Oh, do sit down, my lord.” Sliding the folio into position, the man began to rifle through it. “I pride myself on dealing honestly and forthrightly. There’s no need to bluff and barter here. You’ll find I have several potential servants accustomed to… atypical work environments.”

  Despite himself, Leo grinned and sat.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  The old man smiled but not did look up from his work.

  “I have the honor to be Jefrey Tulken, my lord,” he said. Then, without even bothering to comment or return the inquiry, he pulled a stack of pages from the folio and slid them toward Leo. “Tell me, do any of these intrigue you?”

  Leo accepted the pages and began to skim through them. The longer he did, the more intently he began to read the information upon them.

  Tulken’s contracts were beyond thorough, listing virtually every scrap of information Leo could imagine wanting to know about a potential servant. Unlike the slave auctions, where half the excitement came from guesswork, the man opposite him was thorough in the extreme. True to his word, there seemed to be no possibility of deception. Names, ages, family origin, work experience—every aspect of a prospective servant’s life appeared laid out before him. Even seemingly irrelevant details, such as parental trades had been documented with care.

  Even more astonishing was the relevance with which Tulken’s suggestions matched Leo’s criteria. Among the pages, he discovered Lizbeth, a twenty-two-year-old seamstress whose father had directed golems as a mason’s assistant, until a construction accident had rendered him lame and in dire need of coin. And the following page told of Moll, an apprentice governess who’d fled her mother—one of Ansiri’s most renowned artisans—after the latter’s most recent drunken rage had nearly resulted in a broken arm.

  The more Leo read, the more he became convinced of two facts. First, that any circumstance which saw a free man or woman reduced to servitude was, without exception, full of tragedy or misfortune. And second, that Tulken was a genius at his craft.

  Leo glanced up at the man, frowning slightly over the pages he held.

  “Do you write them all yourself?” he asked.

  Tulken grinned, showing a bit of tooth for the first time.

  “The originals, yes,” he said, then nodded at the pair by the door. “The lads help me scribe copies and other such work.”

  “You picked these so quickly. Do you remember them all?”

  At this, the old man stiffened a bit and looked askance. Then he shrugged. “I do at that. Odd, I know. But remembering such things has always come easy to me, ever since I was a boy.”

  “That must come in handy.”

  “Perhaps. Though, there are times when I’d rather not remember such things.” Shrugging again, the man tapped gently on the edge of the papers and guided them down to the table. “But, to business, my lord? Do any interest you?”

  Nodding, Leo spread the papers out before him and glanced through each a final time. “They do,” he said. “You chose well, Tulken. I can’t see any reason to pass on a one.”

  “Shame I didn’t have more then,” the man joked. “Now, as to the unpleasant necessities. Each of these women has agreed to five-year contracts. The agency fee is twenty percent, due upon delivery. After that, one-fifth of the purchase price must be paid to the servants annually, to be conducted here. If—”

  “Why?” Leo cut in. “If the coin is paid to the servants directly, why do it here?”

  “Bureaucracy, my lord,” Tulken said. “We maintain records. Should a servant ever claim not to be paid, we are contractually obligated to pursue justice on their behalf. And if the barristers become involved, they will inevitably defer to our records. As such, it is simpler for everyone involved if such payments occur here.”

  “How is that simpler?” Leo said. He grinned, enjoying the conversation for some intangible reason. “I might pay a servant here, only to rob her of the coin the moment we returned home.”

  “Which is why most choose to leave their wages here,” Tulken explained. He returned Leo’s grin. “For safekeeping.”

  And with that, the pieces fell into place.

  “Allowing you to profit from the interest,” Leo said.

  Tulken shrugged. “Someone must. In any case, if you dismiss a servant before her contract expires, you must return here to pay the prorated balance.”

  “And if she agrees to an extension?”

  This time, Tulken laughed. “An optimist, eh, my lord? If such a thing happens, simply return for the fifth year’s payment. Any extensions will need to be negotiated between the two of you directly. For today, however…” he paused to consult the papers, then tallied the unwritten sum against his palm. “The agency fee due today for the six comes to two hundred sovereigns.”

  “Two hundred?” Leo exclaimed, recoiling in his chair. “You expect me to pay a thousand sovereigns for six servants? I could buy at least forty slaves for that sum!”

  “But these are not slaves,” Tulken said calmly. “And technically, that thousand sovereigns will be paid to your servants. I will receive only your two hundred.”

  “Still! That’s outrageous!”

  “With respect, my lord. If you wanted slaves, you would not be here. You came here because you wanted something different. You wanted skilled, dedicated workers who don’t need to be watched at all hours and constantly corrected. Am I wrong?”

  Leo glared at the man, fighting the urge to curse him and storm from the building. Everything in him wanted nothing more than to do so. And yet, something stopped him. He glanced down, studying the pages spread out before him.

  Then, he reached for his purse. Spilling a handful of the coins into his palm, he began to count.

  “If you have cheated me,” he growled. “I promise you will regret it.”

  Rising to his feet, Tulken gestured to the young men at the door. Gathering up the contract papers, he handed them over. Then, as he prepared to follow the men out, Tulken paused and bowed low in Leo’s direction.

  “I wouldn’t dare,” he said. “Your reputation precedes you, Baron VanOrden.”

  ***

  Leo was still bristling as he stepped, purseless, back onto the street. Two hundred sovereigns had proven to be virtually everything he’d brought and he’d left the remainder with Delia, instructing her to purchase clothes and other necessities for the new servants with the balance. But, even though the sale had been long overdue, not even reminding himself that he could expect the better part of a thousand sovereigns annually from his Hammond-inherited holdings could alleviate the sting.

  Fortunately, the remainder of his day would not require him to be in a good mood. If anything, an ill-temper suited him perfectly. And so, clasping the hilt of the rapier at his hip, Leo set off at a belligerent march toward the high-towered estate of Count Jakob Terras.

  Mihal and Nyssa did not struggle to keep pace with him as he walked, though he could read in their unease in their body language. They cleaved tightly to him as he made his way toward the palatial nobles’ district. And while most of the passersby gave Leo a wide berth on account of the titles his clothing suggested, the dark expressions of the trow to each side of him accomplished the same from the rest.

  Leo had never needed to visit any of Ansiri’s counts before, save Wyden. And to his surprise, he found the
man’s estate to be even smaller and less ornate than his own. Terras possessed rather simple tastes for a man of means; the two-story manor was among the plainest on its boulevard, with only a pair of modest, well-pruned fruit trees in front. In the shade of the left one, a gardener carefully trimmed the grass at its trunk.

  “Welcome, my lord,” said the guard at the gate. He carried a pike that looked wholly ornamental and wore a blade at his waist that was decidedly less so. “May I ask your name and business?”

  “Baron Leo VanOrden,” Leo said. “I’m here to speak with the count.”

  “Apologies, my lord,” the man said. “I’m afraid the count is not at home. If it is an urgent matter, you might try his chambers at the Ministry of Justice.”

  For a moment, Leo merely stared at the man. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that Terras wouldn’t be here, though such a thing seemed obvious in hindsight. Unlike Ansiri’s barons, the counts actually had responsibilities beyond providing tithes twice per decade. Of course, Terras would be busy.

  “I…” he trailed off, then laughed. “Right. Thank you. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  To his credit, the gate guard accepted Leo’s reply with aplomb. He ducked his head in an approximation of a bow.

  “Good day to you, my lord.”

  Unsure what else to do, Leo returned the man’s bow, turned on his heel, and marched away. Once he was safely out of earshot, he laughed again and glanced over his shoulders at Mihal and Nyssa in turn.

  “Suppose I should have expected that,” he said.

  “Where to now, Master?” Mihal answered him. “The Ministry of Justice?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure,” Leo admitted. He slowed his walk, then stopped entirely and gazed around at the walled manors in every direction. “Davin warned me about Terras. I can’t just blunder my way through this. I need to be cleverer.”

  If he’d hoped for some wisdom or insight from the trow, Leo was disappointed. Fortunately, his own musings gave him all the insight he needed. He chuckled darkly, oriented himself, and set off anew. This time, there was no anger in his steps, only purpose.