The Dread Lords Rising

by J. David Phillips

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Merchant

  Two weeks later, guests began arriving early to the Sartor estate. Niam, Maerillus, and Davin “volunteered” to work with the staff handing out glasses of wine and showing newcomers around. If Maerillus felt any sting at having to work as one of the help, he didn’t show it. In fact, he seemed happy to be doing this. Niam discovered that there was a maid on staff named Betsy who kept showing up wherever Maerillus was.

  A good part of the afternoon Niam fetched coats and escorted visitors across the courtyard from one room to another. That was how he most recently caught them in a storage room with their heads bent together as they whispering quietly and giggled like children. Both times Maerillus blushed, quickly parted from Betsy and walked away as if the seat of his pants were on fire.

  At least his friend seemed happy. But Niam did feel a stab of regret for Betsy. Sartors never married beneath their status. That was just how it was among nobles and wealthy merchants.

  Niam pushed Maerillus and his newfound romance out of his mind because there were stranger things afoot today than love. Over the past week, Maerillus had warned him numerous times about the trade conference, he was sure of it . . .

  Well, pretty sure.

  Unfortunately, as Niam searched his memory he distinctly remembered a conversation going something like this:

  Maerillus: “blah diddley blah, and blah blah blah diddley blah.”

  Niam: “Um-hmm. I see. Yes I’m listening. Are there any more of those creamy pastries in the kitchen . . . ouch! Why did you hit me?”

  While ignoring Maerillus might have made time go by more easily when he got started about upper society, Niam was beginning to suspect that he ought to have listened more. At least about the trade conference and the big ball that was held at the end of the thing. He did remember, however, that there had been a number of warnings about the plotting, scheming, and public showmanship.

  From Joachim and Jolan Kine as well.

  As Niam watched the visitors to the Sartor estate, he remembered that Lord Joachim frequently said that people often waged war without resorting to fire, steel, or arrows. “A sword is easier to deflect than a word, and a word is easier to guard against than a look,” the count was fond of grumbling whenever someone in the capital piqued his ire.

  Men and women of significance talked in pairs and in groups, often loudly enough to be deliberately overhead by others nearby. Niam knew this sort and wrinkled his nose. Most of them seemed to be jockeying for the best locations to be seen or overheard. Niam only had to watch long enough to see where a person’s eyes went once a conversation was done. Lingering eyes spoke volumes about lingering desires.

  Others were more secretive. Niam listened as men and women greeted familiar guests warmly, only to say rude things once they parted to mingle with other groups.

  Who, of course, greeted one another warmly.

  Did they really think that just because he was part of the “help” that he didn’t exist or notice? Niam saw two ladies in dresses that left little to the imagination nearly fight over the attention of a gallant young officer with dark, smoldering eyes and a strong jawline. He knew for a fact the women were in attendance on behalf of husbands who weren’t.

  Niam blushed and turned away whenever he saw them! In Pirim Village—even in Kalavere—women had more sense than to act like that. The men were just as bad. He gawked at the large wigs some men wore that reminded him of horses’ manes; only, horses would have worn them better. Flowing across their shoulders or tied back with ribbons, the wigs held a generous peppering of small, jeweled baubles that glittered or sparkled in the light. As if trying to outdo the poor fashion choice of wigs, the faces beneath were powdered, and often their cheeks were dusted with rouge. To Niam’s eye, this gave their pallid features the artificial warmth of painted corpses.

  Some faces, though, were downright garish. A few were made up in the hollow grinning likenesses of skulls. These made Niam uncomfortable. Whether these men laughed or smiled, the effect was the same: Death mocked life in a carnival atmosphere of trade, social showmanship, and hidden plots of one-upmanship.

  One man in particular seemed to leer at servants with a gimlet eye whenever they approached him. His face was dark, as if he had been born with a scowl made to intimidate anyone he did not wish to please. But even among the lords and merchants he associated with, when his scowl fled, it left an orphaned expression never parented by any sort of good will.

  Niam knew who the man was. Garrolus Kreeth. He had an unpleasant reputation even among many here in the Lake Valleys, and his main estate was just on the other side of Lord Joachim’s property. No one living nearby wanted to work for him. Rumor was, Kreeth recruited desperate people who had fallen on hard times, and once he had them in his service, treated them severely. Joachim had tried numerous times to introduce legislation into the House of Peers on behalf of workers suffering under men like Kreeth. But Kreeth had too many connections, and the bills died stillborn before ever having a chance at receiving a royal stamp.

  At some point Niam found Davin in the Kitchen. A beatific smile stretched across his face as he ate a crusty loaf of bread sandwiching a hunk of roast that dripped with dark juices. Niam made himself some food, then walked over and leaned beside Davin and ate. When he was done, he exhaled a long, tired breath. “What do you make of all of this?”

  Davin rolled his eyes. “Feel sorry for Maerillus.”

  “Agreed,” Niam muttered quietly so none of the staff heard him. “But he doesn’t seem too displeased. Have you seen him with Betsy?”

  Davin gave a large, knowing grin.

  “We’re going to have fun with this, aren’t we?”

  “You know it.”

  Just then, Maerillus walked around the corner, saw the look in their eyes and froze. Red splotches blossomed across his face. Quickly, he turned and sped away. Niam and Davin looked at one another and burst into gales of laughter. As Davin wiped tears from his eyes, he said “I haven’t laughed that hard in a while.”

  “Me either.”

  Davin looked at him suspiciously. “Are you doing okay, Niam?”

  Niam shifted a bit where he stood. “I don’t know,” he told him. “I feel numb, mostly. Mom and Dad didn’t even ask for me to be there with them.”

  Davin spoke over him. “Don’t do that, buddy. They knew you’d be better off here.”

  “But that’s just the thing. I don’t care,” he said flatly. “Not anymore.”

  Davin gave him an uncertain look.

  “I’ve lived with this for so long, it seems like more of a relief that they found his body. Now I want to find out who did this and kill the bastard.”

  When Davin gave Niam an awkward look, Niam could tell that his friend didn’t like what he saw. But there was nothing Niam could do about that. “We have to find this guy, or this thing, or whatever it is and stop it. Maybe this is why these weird things are happening to us. Maybe it will stop all of this stuff rolling around in my head.”

  Before Davin could ask what stuff was, someone shouted, “Hey Hapwell, more fruit!”

  Davin rolled his eyes. “Looks like I’m up!” He gave Niam a searching look, then with a hearty slap on the back, left.

  Niam was glad he was gone. He wasn’t ready to talk about the dream where he saw Sara’s murderer. That was just too much. The experience was still too fresh. As he strolled toward the largest ballroom, the food he had just eaten began turning in his stomach. Stomach pains suddenly knotted his guts into a tight fist. The pain came on so swiftly that he wasn’t paying attention to anything but the way he felt. He rounded a corner and collided with someone coming the other way, let out a loud yelp and fell backward.

&nb
sp; “You imbecile!” The man he collided with shouted. Niam’s gut lurched. He stammered an apology and looked up. Garrolus Kreeth glowered at him. Their gazes locked, and for a brief second, Kreeth’s eyes narrowed in reptilian hate. “Sorry,” Niam gasped, and launched himself into the nearest washroom, where he found a basin just in time to be sick.

  Afterward, he slipped down to the floor and ran his fingers shakily through his hair. His insides burned with the humiliation of getting sick like that in front of someone like Kreeth. The taste of roast clung to his mouth, and Niam wasn’t sure if he would ever want any again. Silently he cursed. He should have known better. The food was too heavy but had smelled really good!

  As he sat there, his mind began to turn. Perhaps Davin was right to worry. Seth’s body had finally been found. Shouldn’t he be mourning? Once the initial blow from the news wore off, Niam only felt an empty detachment. He and Seth had never been especially close. Sara was the middle child and always acted as a bridge between the two. Seth was already near adulthood when Niam was still a child. The love Niam felt for his brother came from the fact that he had died trying to save their sister. And because he couldn’t mourn him like he could Sara, Niam hated himself.

  But not today, Niam thought to himself. I’m not doing this to myself today. Slowly, he picked himself up off the floor. His stomach felt calm now. As he left the washroom, Niam remembered he needed to find another tray for wine glasses, and he went in search for one. When he opened the door of a storage room, a flicker of motion caught his eye; at the same time his stomach clenched as if he were about to throw up again. Gagging, he looked across the room just in time to see Garrolus Kreeth and Betsy almost locked in an embrace on the other side of the room. The merchant pulled a hand away from where it had been brushing Betsy’s hair. Kreeth looked over at him, startled. Fury flooded his face.

  Niam’s own face flushed. “Oops,” he stammered.

  Kreeth raised his hand angrily and started to say something, but Niam closed the door and hurried away as fast as he could. As he moved through the narrower hallways used by the servants to go about their chores, the waves of nausea cleared and his unhappy stomach settled. The image of Betsy and Kreeth lingered, however, and Niam wished he had never seen that.

  Now, instead of Betsy, it was Maerillus he felt sorry for. He knew servants sometimes tried to bed people with money. But Betsy never seemed the type. And Kreeth? Niam’s mind spun furiously for an explanation that would not lead to his friend’s heart being broken. But he couldn’t find one. Kreeth certainly hadn’t been forcing himself on her.

  Suddenly, Niam felt drained. He decided he was calling it a day. The conference could attend to itself without him. Niam shrugged his shoulders sadly. He didn’t think he could say a word to Maerillus about this.