The Man in Shadow

by Taylor O'Connell

  “What’s to be done with me?” Sal asked.

  “Done with you?” Alonzo asked.

  “For breaking the Code. I laid hands on a made man.”

  Alonzo chuckled and shrugged. “I must admit, I don’t appreciate that you decided to take one of my collectors out of commission. You’ve made this family look weak, not only that, but indecisive, and not without internal fracturing. I’ll not have that in the future.”

  Sal nodded. Still unable to believe what he was hearing.

  “I will know why,” said Alonzo. “Bruno told me you claimed Pumphrey Tailor was under your protection?”

  Sal took a deep breath. “He is. The man performed work on my behalf in exchange for protection.”

  “And you are aware Pumphrey Tailor pays this family, the Moretti Family, a protection tax as well?”

  Sal nodded. “I was aware, yes.”

  Alonzo’s smile slipped for the first, turning down at the edges.

  “And you are aware Pumphrey Tailor is behind on his dues?”

  Again, Sal nodded.

  “Very well,” said Alonzo, the smile returning, “it’s settled.”

  “Settled?” Sal asked, his heart still hammering in his chest. “What’s been settled?’

  “The debt,” said Alonzo. “Five thousand krom, gold.”

  Sal’s heart plummeted to the pit of his stomach, and he thought he might vomit there and then, yet, he was alive. “Five thousand,” he said, with all the confidence he could manage.

  “Five thousand,” Alonzo agreed with a wink.

  20

  Guest Of Honor

  Sal wrapped gently upon the lacquered oak door. He wanted to attract as little attention as possible with his arrival.

  The door opened promptly. A handsome footman scanned him up and down and moved aside without so much as a raised eyebrow. Clearly, he’d known what to expect. The footman stood by, closing the door behind Sal once he’d entered the grand foyer.

  Sal’s breath was nearly taken away by the beauty of the entrance room alone. It was like stepping into a cathedral, second only to Knöldrus herself, so far as Sal was concerned. The vaulted ceiling seemed to span up into the heavens themselves, light pouring in through every window.

  The footman cleared his throat, and Sal realized he'd been staring at the ceiling. The footman had a bored look on his face, a hand out as though he expected something.

  Sal cocked an eyebrow. Surely the man didn’t expect a tip for holding the bloody door.

  “Your jacket and cloak, My Lord,” the footman said, his voice as emotionless as his expression.

  “Ah, of course,” Sal said, pulling back his cloak to reveal the bottle he’d been holding.

  The footman’s eyes went wide as he realized what Sal had handed him, but he said nothing as Sal removed his cloak and jacket.

  The jacket and cloak were new. Fine pieces of cloth, well stitched and fashionable, though the cloak didn't put a finger to the cloak that had been gifted him by Lilliana months back. Pumphrey had delivered the entire set only that morning. Seven in all, most of them of a conservative cut, cloth, and color, but one of the suits looked almost orange to Sal, and another seemed to be made entirely of pelts.

  Sal didn't know enough of Kirkundan fashion to call the man's bluff if—it was a bluff—and so he was forced to accept Pumphrey's expertise on the matter. Still, he felt he could trust the little tailor, not only for the way he'd defended the man but for the spectacular fashion in which he'd done it. Surely Pumphrey had no intention of swindling a man with the power of wielding lightning itself.

  For this evening's meal, Sal had chosen one of the more conservative suits. It was clearly Kirkundan, though Sal couldn't quite tell what it was about the suit that felt so foreign, only that it seemed to work. He hoped with such good clothing that his acting would be compensated for.

  Before leading Sal into the house-proper, the footman handed him the bottle as though it were a newborn child. He led the way up a granite staircase, and beneath a tunnel of Mynoan style pillars, buttressed to form an archway. A pair of grand staircases encircled a carved marble statue of the Bastian bull, horned head rearing as the beast roared in a ferocious display of raw power. The statue was massive, a head-and-a-half taller than Sal, yet it was not the size of the bull, but the skill of the craftsman's hand, which brought the frozen form to life.

  The footman led Sal up the righthand stair, and through a vast hallway on the right. Chandeliers of gold and crystal hung from the ceiling, pitching light upon the oil portraits that lined either wall. Each of the gold leaf frames was carved with a relief of intricate designs and swirling patterns, some floral, and others done with grasping animals. Upon each of the oils was painted an old man, the next looking more ancient than the last—the lineage of Bastians, no doubt, those who held the title before the current head of the manor, Lord Hugo Bastian. Many of the men resembled Lord Hugo, squat, wide faces, hairlines receding upon their smudged brows.

  The sounds of voices grew louder, though still muffled until the footman pushed through the doors to the dining hall.

  Suddenly, everything went quiet. The eight heads of those seated around the table turned toward Sal, and all attention was on him in a flash.

  “The hero arrives,” Lord Hugo called out, standing. The little lord rounded the table and rushed to the entrance of the dining hall, where Sal stood beside the footman. Bastian put an arm over Sal's shoulder, laughing genially. "Ewan," Bastian said, nearly shouting. "How good it is to see you, my boy, how good it truly is."

  “The pleasure is mine, My Lord,” Sal said, catching Lilliana’s eye for the briefest of moments.

  The footman stepped away, and Lord Hugo guided Sal over to the table.

  “Friends, please allow me to introduce our night’s guest of honor, Salvatori Ewan of Azure Lake.”

  The first man Sal was dragged to, was clearly someone of import. The heavy gold ring of office he wore nearly as apparent a display of his importance as the dismissive look he wore. The woman seated beside him shared his dismissive look, though her pinched face evinced a touch of contempt as well.

  “This is Lord Fabian Talwater, Second Seat of the High Council, Lord Admiral of the ducal navy. And this is his wife, the beautiful Lady Camilla.”

  Beautiful was a generous overstatement if Sal had ever heard one, but he nodded politely all the same.

  Bastian, apparently oblivious to the obvious signals radiating from Lord and Lady Talwater, blundered on.

  "As you may know, Ewan, Lady Camilla has set the trends of fashion for the entire aristocracy these past seven years. Though you are new to the city, I dare say there are few who do not know of her work. It could be that the two of you would have a fair bit in common. But I'll not let you occupy him all night, no, I won't," Bastian said with a wink, guiding Sal to the next pair. "This here is Lord Baldwyn Prescot, lord chamberlain, Fifth Seat of the High Council. His wife, the esteemed Lady Edith, and their daughter, the radiant Lady Gabriella.”

  Lord Hugo paused momentarily after the mention of: Lady Gabriella, a nearly inaudible sigh escaping his lips, a far off look in his eyes. Then, as quickly as the look had come, it passed, leaving no trace of it ever having been.

  The lord chamberlain was a dumpy fellow with heavily lidded eyes, a balding head, and a weak little chin beard that he'd bothered to twist into a point. Lady Edith was round, with a pleasantly plump face and gentle smiling eyes. Her face held a sort of natural beauty, and though rather fleshy, her body bespoke of one that had at one time been quite curvaceous, if her daughter was anything to judge by.

  Lady Gabriella was not beautiful, nor was she unattractive by any account. Despite sharing her father's weak chin and heavily lidded eyes, she shared enough of her mother's look to make her quite appealing. She looked to be somewhere around seventeen. No doubt, her father was being bombarded by marriage offers from every eligible bachelor in the city. And not merely because of her father's status upon t
he High Council, but the ample size of the Prescot fortune.

  “A pleasure,” Sal said, addressing the Prescot family all at once.

  Bastian squeezed Sal’s shoulder, and they moved on down the table. It was clear the fat little lord meant to display Sal like some sort of trophy. A foreigner of consequence that he could banter about and show off to his friends. No doubt, Sal would be forced to recount the tale of how he’d saved the dress and the necklace half a hundred times before night’s end.

  Sal nearly froze when he realized where Lord Hugo was leading him next.

  “Allow me to introduce Marco Horvat, son of Lord Marcus Horvat.”

  Sal nodded, feeling his blood begin to boil. Still, the sight of Marco was nothing to that of Lilliana. She contained her surprise well, though Sal could still see it there in her eyes.

  Was that surprise or irritation?

  "And this, Ewan, is the sparkling sapphire of my life, my dearest daughter, Lady Lilliana. My dear, this is the very man who saved your gifts from the clutches of—” Bastian cut off, only then seeming to make the realization. “Where, might I ask, is the dress?”

  Sal made a show of sighing, his features twisting into a look of pure exasperation. “My Lord, I regret to inform you that I was unable to live up to my boast. I dare say, I shall not fail you in the end. My man will come through with the repairs, and certainly could have patched the dress in the snap of a finger, but you see, he knows my standards. He knows I would accept nothing less than perfection. Therein lies the rub. We are simply waiting for the proper materials to be shipped in from Dahuan. Once the materials arrive, and the repairs are undertaken, I shall deliver the dress with my own hands.”

  Lord Hugo seemed downhearted, the look of disappointment clear in his eyes. That is until Sal revealed the bottle he'd been concealing.

  As he presented the bottle, Lord Hugo’s eyes went as wide as carriage wheels, and he started into a sputtering cough.

  “Consider this a token of my apology.”

  "My—my boy, this is—why, that is most generous—most generous indeed," Lord Hugo said, accepting the bottle.

  “A fifty-four Chatouneff deVioau,” Sal said airily.

  “A fifty-four!” Bastian said, going pale.

  Marco Horvat looked as stunned as Lord Hugo. Lord Baldwyn Prescot craned his neck for a better look. His plump wife went slack-jawed. Even Lord Fabian and Lady Camilla Talwater allowed their looks of dismissive contempt to slip momentarily.

  "My boy, this is too much. A token of your apology," Lord Hugo said, wiping beads of sweat from his brow, "a gift worthy of a king, I would say. I shall cherish it. Come now, let us be seated. This is a feast in your honor, and a feast requires feasting."

  Sal was pulled down into the seat beside Bastian's. At the right hand to the head-of-table.

  Sal tried to catch Lilliana’s eye, but she seemed to be pointedly ignoring him. He was pleased she hadn’t outed him right away. Though, after her reaction, he did wonder if this hadn’t been a bad idea.

  The fat little Lord Hugo clapped his hands, and two footmen entered, silver basins and towels at hand. Each man placed their basin before the opposite heads-of-table—one before Lord Hugo the other before Lord Baldwyn Prescot. The men dipped their fingers into the basins, dried their hands upon the towels and passed the bowls to their left.

  “An old Dahuaneze tradition,” Lord Hugo said, smiling genially at Sal as Lilliana dipped her fingers. “I picked it up in Yardu and have brought the tradition back with me to the city. Become a sort of tradition of its own, I would say.”

  When the plump Lady Edith Prescot passed the silver basin to her daughter, Gabriella, Sal couldn't help but notice the way Lord Hugo watched, with eyes like a hungry hound that had spotted the Fitzen feast hen.

  The footman took the basin from Gabriella and placed it before Sal. The water was warm and seemed scented by fragrant oils.

  “Is that myrrh?” Sal asked.

  Bastian chuckled. "Ah, I wouldn't know, my boy. My butler got the formula from one of their red temples. Told me those priestesses made a Sacrull damned fuss of the thing. Had to bribe half a hundred of the red robes just to get bits and pieces. In the end, I believe he learned enough to make out a mixture of his own. But that’s just the way these things go in Yardu.”

  “And yet, our dear Lord Hugo shares a strange fascination for the Dahuaneze. Curious is it not?” said Lord Baldwyn Prescot with a grin.

  "The ways of the Far East barbarians interest me no more those of the barbarians in the northern mountains," said the Lord Admiral, pushing the basin away from himself in contempt.

  His wife, Lady Camilla Talwater, did not wash her hands in the basin either; rather, she placed her hands on her lap and turned her pinched face away from the basin.

  "I find the Dahuaneze fascinating, myself," said Lady Edith Prescot. "Imagine how wonderous it would be to live in such a place."

  “Oh, My Lady," said Lord Hugo, "Dahuan is a wondrous place indeed. An entire chain of islands, the next even more fascinating than the last. The forests are filled with strange trees and queer beasts. And the people, My Lady, the Dahuaneze, are a beautiful people. Their cities, their foods, my words can hardly do them justice."

  “Yardu is a backwater of the Known World,” said Lord Admiral Talwater. “If those flat-faced barbarians had not come into contact with the First Empire, the savages would be living in straw huts and feeding their children to blood-thirsty Gods.”

  Sal finished drying his hands, and the footman took the bowl. He looked to Lilliana, who seemed not to appreciate Lord Fabian's input on the Dahuaneze.

  “My Lord,” said Lord Hugo, his tone jovial, “but you must make the voyage. To look upon the buildings, the art, surely you would not say such things if you saw the islands with your own eyes.”

  “There is no need for me to make such a voyage,” said Lord Fabian Talwater. “Others have done it before me. Surely you have read the accounts of Brother Requimere, have you not? ‘A backward people are these savages of the Far East. By the grace of Solus alone can we hope to save these wretched creatures.’ And this is from the accounts of a brother belonging to the Holy Vespian Order. I can only imagine what I should think of those monkeys.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell over the table. Lilliana shifted in her seat as though she might reply when two new footmen entered the dining hall, silver platters in hand. Each man placed his covered plater at the center of the table.

  “I do hope you’re not planning to serve us the fare of those savage islands, as well as this Dahuaneze puffery? Or shall we sup on the fare of the north, in honor of your new—” Lord Fabian Talwater paused, and fixed Sal with a contemptuous glare, his nose wrinkled, “your new—friend?”

  Lord Hugo only chuckled. "No, no, not in this house. You know me too well to think I could ever veer from the traditional. So long as we are in Dijvois, we shall endeavor to eat as the Pairgu eat."

  Sal wondered just what it was Lord Hugo thought the Pairgu ate, from his sheltered manor on the High Hill, could he see what was being served in the inns and market places? Could he see what scraps the mothers in the Shoe and the Lowers had scrimped together for their children; their shoeless brats with open mouths and empty bellies? Could Lord Hugo see the urchins of Low Town, huddled together in the cold alleys to share what meager bits they’d managed to steal or beg? And if he did, how much did he care?

  Lady Camilla Talwater huffed, eyes closed, nose in the air. Apparently, she had decided to be displeased, no matter what fare was to be served.

  The footmen removed the lids and stepped back in unison as steam rose in a cloud and dispersed as quickly as it had come. Upon the polished silver platters were hot rolls, sticky buns, and mince cakes, arranged in a spiral pattern that looked almost too elegant to eat—almost.

  Sal's hunger quickly overrode his sense of propriety, and he reached for a mince cake. Then stopped short as he realized no one else had moved.

  Lord Fab
ian Talwater raised an eyebrow, his lady wife looked away, as though to avert her eyes from something distasteful.

  Sal cleared his throat, folding his hands on his lap.

  Marco Horvat, Lord Baldwyn Prescot, and Gabriella Prescot chuckled to themselves, while Lilliana fixed her eyes on the tablecloth.

  Lady Edith Prescot smiled good-naturedly.

  “Best start with this one, Armond,” Lord Hugo said, giving Sal a clap on the shoulder. “He seems the hungriest of the lot.”

  The footman reached out with a short-handled paddle, scooped up a mince cake, and gently placed it upon Sal's plate. The other footman began serving the table at the opposite end. Once everyone had something, to begin with, Lord Hugo nodded to Sal, signaling that it was all right to eat.

  Embarrassing as it was, Sal hoped the blunder would be seen as the simple mistake of a foreigner, rather than for what it was: an imposter playing a role—a role of which he hardly knew the rules.

  As everyone began on their starters, one of the footmen circled the table, refilling the crystal goblets with a gold-colored wine.

  “Sir?” the footman asked, raising the decanter.

  Sal nodded. The wine was sweet, but it had legs for days. The mince cake was meaty, yet, light. Sal quickly found himself wanting another, but he was uncertain how to go about it. Reaching for his own hot bun was out of the question. Would it be rude to ask for another?

  “Now then, Lord Hugo,” said Lady Edith in a sultry tone. “It would seem you’ve invited us to a feast only to promise us a heroic tale and tantalize us with the very hero, and yet tell us nothing of the man or the deed?”

  Bastian smiled as though he'd been waiting for someone to ask that very question. "My dear Lady. I would never dream of depriving my closest friends, such a tale. Though, I dare fear it unjust for me to delve in without the expressed permission of my counterpart. What do you say, my boy, shall we give them a show?”

  Gods, how the aristocracy sickened him—Sal smiled, nodded, and presented his open palms to the fat little lord.