Sharpe boarded his palanquin and motioned for the bearers to proceed to the palace. As much as he despised the Duke, Sharpe still found his Royal Highness, Duke Galter, High Lord of Eldervost, a constant source of amusement. At the Duke’s expense of course. Always at his expense.
He shook his head, thinking of the old fool’s daily and ridiculous decrees. Just recently he declared that the Royal Naval Engineers would: Undertake the Construction of a Vaste And Stoute Barrier Within The Very Sea That Shalt Circumscribe The Fatherland Of Eldervost!
The dotard had been listening to his courtiers far too much and decided that the answer to their nation’s security concerns would be to build an unbroken seawall around the entire island of Eldervost to keep the Saagardell fleet from assaulting their shores.
The Duke had been so sure of the idea! With the completion of the seawall, no enemy would ever touch Eldervost soil! Unfortunately, Eldervost’s navy would be stuck within the wall with no way out. And no concessions had been given to make a way for trade ships come into the harbor!
Fortunately, Sharpe had convinced him that actually using the might of their fleet for its intended purpose, bringing their enemy to bear and raiding Saagardell, would be a far more efficient use of resources. It would also allow His Grace more ample opportunities to pursue his favorite pastime, that ridiculous lawn game the aristocracy called galimoto.
Approaching the palace through the open and sun-filled streets that led to the ornate gates, guards waved the litter through into the courtyard with barely a glance. Sharpe wasn’t surprised, he had hand-picked these guards and knew they would never question his coming and going. Calling a halt and climbing out, he made his way on foot towards the interior gardens and through the tall topiary hedges.
There, on a green lawn as smooth as velvet and flat as glass, he saw a throng of strangely dressed humans. He stopped, sighing to himself at the spectacle and approached where the Duke held an impromptu court.
Sharpe overheard the Duke berate the crowd, “I don’t need anybody’s club. Mine’s the best, I’ve got the best clubs and I don’t need anybody else’s club”.
Joining the bystanders, Sharpe glared at the latest fashions the aristocrats wore, attempting to emulate the Duke.
The fat old man was in the standard high, golden wig that had barely been in vogue during his coronation. The heat of the sun was melting the Duke’s pale foundation off.
‘Pathetic’, thought Sharpe.
He considered face paint nothing but a disgusting vanity. One of his petty amusements though, albeit unfortunate for the aristocracy, was when this particular makeup was exposed to sunlight, the skin underneath tinted to a burnt orange hue. Thus, once applied, they had to continue to paint their faces with it or look like a farmer who had spent too much time in the pumpkin fields.
To Sharpe’s dismay, the Duke also wore his favorite sporting garb instead of the traditional robe and vestments. Sharpe despised that motley knit vest, even if it bore an embroidered royal crest. Long hose ran out from his breech cuffs and poured into a pair of shined, high heeled boots. All the while, the royal crown remained perched atop that ridiculous yellow wig.
Sharpe sucked air between his teeth and he fought hard to keep his reactions in check. This form-fitting costume was altogether distasteful and its subhuman origins flew in the face of everything that Eldervost stood for.
Sharpe was certain that the goblin trade lords had introduced the Duke to this aberrant activity solely to humiliate the Crown.
The Duke took his club from a valet and waddled over to a flat quadrant of manicured lawn. The lawn was sectioned into eighteen small areas that looked like simple mazes, each terminating with a shallow hole cut into the turf. These mazes had a variety of obstacles; clockwork statues, pools of goldfish, even a windmill that lazily spun in the breeze.
Taking a ball out of his vest pocket, the Duke cautiously placed it at the start of a maze. Standing to one side of the ball, he bent over it while positioning the club behind the ball. With great consideration, he peered at the ball, announcing the various angles it could proceed through the maze. His entourage tittered, letting him know that they were eager to see what he would do.
He took a few practice swings.
The lords and ladies craned their pale, melting faces to see what would happen.
Taking a breath, the Duke brought the club back ever so slightly and then moved his whole body forward so that the club pushed the ball along the length of the maze like a street urchin rolling a barrel hoop down an alley with a stick.
Reaching the end of the maze, he danced the ball back and forth across the hole a few times as the crowd gasped in unison. When it finally fell in, they all clapped and cheered for his efforts.
“A one-hole!” the Duke cried.
Primus Sharpe glowered. Over the past ten years, the Duke had become quite lax in the tenants of the Assembly and far too smitten with unclean and subhuman habits.
Citing ‘Greater Interests of the Economy and the Nation,’ the old fool had allowed subhumans unfettered access to Port Myskatol. He even allowed dwarves and goblins to establish a ghetto outside its walls!
Sharpe silently applauded the Duke.
“Well done Your Grace,” he said flatly as he drifted towards the monarch. “Your prowess at this goblin…” he paused, “diversion grows greater with every visit I pay you”.
“What? Who said that?” the Duke jumped a bit, completely absorbed in his contemplation of the next maze. He turned around and smiled his wide, fat smile. Lips like slabs of liver quivered at Sharpe. The Duke put out his hand for the Primus to take. “Primus Sharpe! What brings you now? Come over here!”
Sharpe grimaced as he took the Duke’s small, sweaty hand and thought, ‘Just let him have his fun. It keeps him out of your way.’
Grasping the old priest’s hand, the Duke yanked him close as he pumped their arms like a village well.
Sharpe fought to keep his balance as the Duke guffawed and slapped his arm.
“Your Grace has, once again, summoned me at his leisure.” Sharpe pried his hand from the buffoon’s clutch.
Over the past five years, Sharpe began regretting more and more that he had installed this jumped-up pig farmer as the Duke. But after the ‘untimely’ death of the previous Duke, there had been a particularly harsh winter. The resulting food shortage that spread acrossEldervost put every soul in peril of starvation.
Sharpe then discovered that Baron Galter had the only remaining livestock in all the Duchy and more than enough grain to last every subject until spring. To secure these provisions, Sharpe quickly installed Galter as the new Duke.
Later that year, after a humiliating visit from some Saagardell merchants, Primus Sharpe vowed to no longer rely on other nations for the realm’s well being and survival. He began directing the sworn lords to plant more than could be consumed and put the rest in dry storage.
At the same time, he encouraged Duke Galter to increase trade and buy up all grain when he could, even from vile Saagardell. So that when the day finally came, Eldervost would be ready to outlast and overcome all other nations into eternity!
But, until then, Sharpe had to smile and nod for the old fool.
“Sharpe!” said the Duke enthusiastically, “To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing your gaunt face! Do you have news about our navy? Have they engaged the enemy yet? Now, I know you didn’t like my idea for a seawall around Eldervost but what about this?” He put his hands out and spread them in the air, Sharpe noted that they too were stained a burnt orange. “We build walls around Saagardell!” He put his hands down and smiled. “That way, we aren’t trapping ourselves in and they can’t send their navy at us!”
Sharpe coughed a little to choke back his initial response and smiled his thin smile, “Your Grace is the consummate tactician.” He guided the Duke away from the courtesans and the Assembly guard fell into step behind him, ensuring that those vying for royal attention would be discouraged
from following.
“But as I mentioned before, the treasury isn’t capable of funding such a venture and would be better off supporting the planned military expedition,” he explained and continued with a chuckle. “Unless you can think of a way that Saagardell would pay for it?”
Sharpe saw the old fool actually stop to ponder that possibility. He rolled his eyes and decided to keep His Grace distracted by veering the topic towards one of the few Royal Distractions that Sharpe approved of. “Your Grace! The Duchy is quite fortunate today as I am able to report a surplus of blackweed in our stores! We now have more than enough to meet our needs for the foreseeable future!”
The Duke smiled a ridiculous frog-faced grin and perked up. “Blackweed you say? Tremendous! You know, just the other day, someone brought me some of the best snuff, amazing snuff, the best. I don’t remember who it was, but their blackweed is simply the very best!”
“Ah, yes, that was me, Your Grace,” Sharpe explained.
“It was you? Ha! Outstanding!” The Duke whispered to Sharpe, “Have you any more snuff? I’ve run out and I don’t know who to ask for more.”
“Certainly, Your Grace. In fact, I’ve just come from the docks and thought you might like a sample of the latest crop from Kazan.”
Sharpe reached into his robes and produced a small ornate box bearing the Assembly Seal.
“This blend is called Kiltender’s Cleansing Snuff, guaranteed to allow the airs to flow freely after a good sneeze.”
The Duke took the box and looked at the seal on top. “What a beautiful design!” he said turning it around in his hands. “What is this little shield on top?”
“It’s your Royal Seal and Crest, Your Grace,” Sharpe said flatly. “The same as your vest.”
The Duke looked at his chest. “Well look at that.”
He turned around and indicated the galimoto course behind them. “Sharpe, would you care to hit a few balls with me?”
“Ah, Your Grace is ever so kind, but I have many of your affairs to attend to and shouldn’t tarry with you any longer.” Sharpe motioned towards his guards and they opened up a path for the court attendees to flock towards the Duke, everyone one of them eager to take the Primus’ place.
He left the palace in a sour mood, the Duke’s usefulness to the Assembly was obviously expended. Everything would have to change soon so that the future of Eldervost could be secured. No longer would his glorious land have to depend on the fickle nature of royalty. It would be strong and self-sufficient for all eternity.
14
Gansel had never been inside a school before, she had no notion of what to expect from The Maiden’s League Academy for Young Ladies. The letter Primus Sharpe forced Warden Wulfgust to read had promised an education in 'Various Scientific and Technological Disciplines’, but it failed to provide specifics as to what she’d actually be learning.
In the weeks leading up to her first day, she imagined that boarding at the Academy during the week would allow her long hours exploring the library, delightful and inspiring professors, and real chances to make lasting friendships. Then, when she'd go home to her mother on the weekends, she'd be able to help with potions and spend time fishing. Maybe she could even try to patch things up with Tymuld? But the memory of Tar’dur’s death still weighed on her conscience and distracted her from her studies.
Now, a month after arriving, she felt foolish for being so naive and hopeful. The school was the worst thing she'd ever experienced.
It started as soon as she climbed the stoop to Sauerdamp Boarding Hall across the street from the academy. A woman, not much older than her mother, stood at the top of the stairs dressed in black lace up to her jaw. She was, as Gansel soon learned, Matron Schraube, Mistress of the boarding hall and all who dwelt within it. Gansel's greeting to her was met with a cold, pinched stare.
"What is that drab rag you are wearing?" the lady asked, pointing at Gansel's shawl. Her mother hadn't been able to afford a full uniform, so decided to leave off the cloak until autumn, but the chilly morning had not cared for that decision.
“Just wear the shawl you usually do, Ganny.” her mother advised as she left the house to collect the day’s washing.
So Gansel now stood mute, jaw slack, her family colors wrapped around her shoulders to ward off the chill, unable to answer the peevish woman before her.
Matron Schraube clicked her tongue and held out her hand. "That is not part of the regulation uniform, hand it over to me. Now!"
Gansel pulled her shawl tighter. "But, ma'am, my Mama knit this for me herself! It's my family's colors!"
The matron snapped her fingers and opened her hand. "No girl shall enter or exit my hall unless they are in a proper state of attire! Now give it to me!"
Gansel's heart sunk, she had been wearing her wrap since she was five. It was one of the few presents her mother had been able to afford. She remembered her mother bringing home the bright yarns and knitting by the fire in the evenings in the months before Winterdark. She hesitated to remove it, but in the end, handed it over.
Matron Schraube ushered her in and led Gansel to her quarters. It was a long dormitory with grey, unpainted walls. Narrow beds with thin sheets stood on either side of the room. Each adjoined by a small nightstand bearing a pewter chamber stick with a fresh taper and a small black leather book.
Gansel stored her bag beneath the bed and looked at the book, Precepts for Purity by the Duchess Herzogina, with a Foreword from his Holiness Primus Morrow Sharpe. She felt a smirk form and hid it behind her hand. Did they expect her to dutifully read scripture every night? She wasn't a little girl afraid of the dark anymore.
Behind her, the matron gave a cough that startled her.
"Just what do you think you are doing?" the woman demanded.
Unsure of what the Mistress referred to, she was at a loss for an answer. "I, um..."
The matron put a hand under the bed and flipped it with surprising strength. Gansel gasped and stepped back. The thin sheets flew off, exposing an equally meager mattress beneath. Both fell to the floor, the bare wooden frame slamming back down on the stone floor. She pointed at Gansel's bag. "What do you think this is? An inn?"
Gansel struggled to answer, still unable to comprehend the woman's intentions "Um, no ma'am?"
"Then why are you storing your luggage underneath your bed like a common traveling merchant?!" she reprimanded. "Unpack your luggage at once and redress your bed! You have an hour to accomplish this. At that time, you're to join your sisters at the school temple. Cloaks are the standard attire."
"But I don't have a cloak yet!" Gansel protested.
Matron Schraube looked at her with loathing. "Just because Primus Sharpe favored you for some reason, pulling strings for you to attend our Academy, doesn't mean you will be treated any differently here."
She paused, "Certainly not any better. The precepts must be upheld!"
She cleared her throat and spoke from long memory "Precept ten dash five alpha, no junior female of the Assembly may attend worship with her head uncovered!"
Walking over to a wardrobe as weathered and gray as the rest of the room, she produced a key and unlocked it. Reaching in and pulling out a faded, threadbare cloak that bore the seal of the Assembly, she held it aloft, glaring at Gansel. "This should do until you are able to adhere to the dress code."
Gansel took the cloak, it was hideous. It was thin and poorly mended in several places with seams so thick they looked like scars. She thanked the matron in a quiet voice.
Schraube gave a small harrumph and turned on her heel. Exiting the room, she called out over her shoulder, "You have one hour to prepare for the temple!"
Since then, life had not improved. Classes weren't much better than life in Sauerdamp Hall. At first, she had been excited at the prospects of classes like Condensation and Compression: A Survey of Contemporary Steam Mechanics and Assembly Approved Alchemy, but she grew disillusioned after only the first week. It was all lecture! No practical
exercises were included at all!
She spent six hours a day in the Ingenerium halls listening to professors read from dusty old books as they stood in front of their classes. The other girls around her took notes. But no matter how hard she tried, Gansel couldn't pay attention for more than five minutes. It was all so very dull and the droning voices ran together, blurring the meanings.
She found herself nodding off during class every day and had to resort to pricking the back of her hand with her quill to stay awake. By the second week, her hand was covered in bumps and black scratches. It looked like it belonged to a sailor from the Royal Navy. She began to focus more on turning the scratches into drawings than the lectures she was meant to be attending to. She dreaded the coming exams. Nothing was sticking in her mind. She was sure that she'd be expelled if she didn't try harder! But what else could she do?
Her only reprieve from the constant doldrums came twice a week in the Viva Sectorium with Professor Schnitzer. On those days, there was a short class on life sciences in the morning followed by an afternoon in the laboratory where they learned to identify and categorize various organic samples preserved in jars of formaldehyde.
She had no problems paying attention on those days, the work was so engrossing! But it felt all too brief and singular. When she was working in the lab, she'd be in the middle of a project and the professor would tap her on the shoulder, alerting her that class was dismissed and everyone was heading to temple for final worship. Every other day at the academy, the lectures made the hours seem to stretch like a piece of taffy that never broke.
One afternoon, Professor Schnitzer announced to the class that next week, afternoon laboratory would be devoted to the arts of vivisection and necrosophy. This announcement was met with groans of boredom and disgust from the other girls. Gansel didn’t understand their reactions and raised her hand. “Sir? I’ve heard of vivisection and preservation, but what’s necrosophy?”
The Necrosopher’s Apprentice Page 14
