He has no customers at the moment, so I stroll up to the counter. Offering my cheekiest grin and a wink, I set down just over exact change for the man’s highest quality coffee. He regards me warily for a moment, then dips down under the bar. At my encouraging nod, he brews the cup, then hesitantly smiles as he hands it over.
I flip him another coin and glance around. There’s only one open seat, and it looms across from the pinched face of nobility. The chair scrapes as I settle down across from the noble near the window. His pointed beard and slick mustache are in line with the current style, his strong jaw no doubt a testament to his bloodline or some other nonsense. His clothes suggest wealth, so I eye him with due respect as he eyes me with the exact opposite. He may be a few years older than I am, but he’s not some elder statesman.
“Thanks!” the bartender calls behind me. My tip was generous.
Without turning from the man across from me, I give him an affable wave of my hand. I cock an eyebrow at the man, then turn and put my back to the wall, stretching my legs out into the aisle between the tables.
“I’m waiting for someone,” the man says, his voice cutting clearly through the ambient sound. It’s a voice that is accustomed to being paid the highest of attention, deep and confident. I glance at him, nodding, and sip my coffee with a contented sigh. “That means your seat is taken.”
I look at him again, then down at myself. With an incredulous look on my face, I nod slowly. Of course it’s taken.
“Oh, ha ha,” he says with annoyance. He stares at me for a long moment in silence. “Alright then, boy, what are you doing here?”
I place my hand on my chin and gaze off into the distance.
“Thinking? Philosophizing? Can you speak?”
I nod my head, a helpful smile on my face. His eyes narrow thoughtfully.
“Are you going to speak?”
I shake my head ruefully, and he sighs theatrically. I take another sip of my coffee, starting to enjoy myself. He studies me for a moment.
“What would you do about the growing rat problem in the city? They appear to have moved out of the Corpses and into the city proper,” he asks suddenly.
It’s just the kind of pointless question they ask in the Tavern of Fours. Who cares about rats? Regardless, I adopt a thoughtful look, then blink, sticking my finger in the air. I stand up and hunch over, madly stomping my feet all over the floor. The man struggles to contain a smile.
“As useful as that might be, somehow I don’t think we have enough feet between us,” he says, spicing his voice with languid sarcasm. “My people are developing a new type of poison, but tests have shown that it could hurt us as well as the rats, so the inhumanity of it all has set back my plans weeks.”
He waves his hands frivolously, but I see through his façade. The man genuinely cares about the safety of the people in the city. He has no real reason to care aside from, I don’t know, possessing a small modicum of humanity, which places him squarely outside of my experience of nobility. I find myself warming to him. He stares at me pointedly, and a superior smirk spreads across his face.
“What, my dear friend, do you believe the stars are made of?”
I frown. I have absolutely no idea. I’ve heard stories from religion to suns to the souls of the dead. After a moment’s thought, I elect to go with the one I can explain with hand motions the best. I mime a dagger to the heart, then raise my arms, fingers waving, staring at the ceiling with rapture on my face. The man laughs out loud, slapping his thigh.
“I thought I had you with that one. Yes, I’ve heard the departed theory. I fall somewhere closer to the small suns myself, but I do find something quaintly romantic about the idea we live on in the stars…”
From there we’re off, our conversation ranging from petty politics to the nature of the Creator. I waggle my eyebrows, shift uncomfortably, and even flash the occasional rude gesture to explore my means of communication. A crowd forms. One by one, the other conversations in the room stop as I continue to argue in absolute silence. We move to a new table as our audience grows to nearly a dozen. Suddenly, he asks me a pointed question in front of the ever-growing crowd.
“What do you think of our illustrious Sealord?”
I grimace. If the man is a royalist, I should probably lie and try to appease him. If he isn’t, I’ll lose his trust. I glance around at the crowd, each of them focused on me, and I cringe inwardly. Any one of them could be a spy. This might be a decent chance to start that fight, though. Throwing caution to the winds, I make an exaggerated frown, slump my shoulders, and mime a whip cracking across my back.
“Strong words. Not many are bold enough to speak out like that,” he says, a thoughtful look on his face.
I start shaking, silent laughter reverberating through my entire body. Words.
“Oh, ha ha,” he says again, a smile twitching its way onto his face. He leans in a bit closer. “Sadly enough, I agree with you. While science and medicine may be flourishing, the constant censorship and oppression is starting to wear even on the upper classes. The free movement of ideas was open, even encouraged under the Shaper regime. This king, however, has restricted everyone who isn’t writing propaganda for him. There are murmurs of rebellion in other parts of the kingdom.”
I nod gently, my respect for this man growing. The faces of the men around us are thoughtful, and I don’t detect any hostility directed at my new friend. I genuinely like this man, and our conversation has proven that we are of like mind. I respect Reknor enough to follow his wish, though. So, Eternal damn it, fight it is.
A man is leaning particularly close over my companion’s shoulder, closer than is necessary. I hold up my hand for silence, and all eyes settle on me. I point at my adversary, then at the man leaning over him. Making a circle with my hand, I move my other finger towards it, a question in my eyes. The man beside him doesn’t get it, but several men in the surrounding crowd do. They cough out laughs behind closed fists. Caution? From these men? My course is set, however, and my companion answers with a slightly clenched jaw.
“I do not know what you do behind closed doors,” he says, and the men chuckle lightly. “But I am happily engaged to the Lady Eleanor Torgue.”
I recognize the name, though I can’t place it. Mind racing, I adopt a shocked expression. I point at him, then at three or four other men around the circle. With a conspiratorial glance around the room, I point at myself. Everyone looks confused, so I indicate my opponent and make horns upon my head, the universal sign of a cuckold. I grin arrogantly, leaning back in my chair. The muscle in his jaw begins to jump reflexively.
“I’ll ignore that slight. This time. I know her true fidelity. But watch your tongue.”
I stick out my tongue and cross my eyes, doing my best to watch it. The room erupts into nervous laughter, and his cheeks turn crimson. It won’t take much more. I meet his angry gaze and deliberately roll my eyes. I hardly hear the chair screech before he’s coming over the table, murder in his eyes.
***
Outside the coffee shop, my entire body aches and the corner of my jaw throbs in time with my pulse. My assailant, or friend, or whatever he is, sits next to me. We lean against each other for support. I still haven’t spoken, and he’s fallen into a reticent mood himself. When the brawl finally got going, a dozen other men joined in and the place was close to wrecked. All of the pretty boys with their elegant fashion actually ground out a fair imitation of a bar room brawl, though broken coffee mugs and distress over soiled cloaks are generally not a part of your typical taproom fight. The owner didn’t complain once, however, as the soldiers came and dragged our useless carcasses outside. They recognized who my companion was, and they immediately backed away, bowing and scraping furiously with several ‘milords’ thrown in.
So we sit in front of the coffee shop. He glances over at me, and I look back at him, eyebrows raised. I have to blink once to get a bit of blood out of my eyes. He smiles to himself and shakes his head, looking back dow
n at the cobblestone street.
“Thank you,” he says, not looking up. “There are few men who’ll act like I am a person, instead of a title. For good reason, granted, but still. There are even fewer who would insult me. Again, thank you.”
I give him a short shrug and a smile. Whoever he is, I get the feeling I should be bowing, scraping, and begging for forgiveness, too. But… this man is genuine. He really is thanking me for giving him the black eye already swelling to puffy fruition. Even the high and mighty, no matter how high and mighty they might be, are just human. Something about this moment echoes faintly of the lesson I learned from Juliet. A man may look one way on the outside, but it’s surprising how little his appearance may reflect his soul, good or ill. Just as not all evil is ugly, not all good is pretty either. Even though I judged him to be a sniveling noble who had been gifted a perfect life, he’s still a man, one way or another.
“Well then,” he begins. “As much as I’ve enjoyed our exercise, I have other responsibilities to attend to. Unless you would be amenable to a short luncheon?”
What could the harm be? I don’t have anything else to do, and it feels like this man just needs a friend. I nod, standing with a quiet groan and offering him my hand. He takes it with a grimace, gingerly leaning on me as he sets off down the street towards the intersection at the center of the city. I pace him, not bothering to conceal my limp as my knee jolts with each step.
“Did you have to hit me with that chair? I always thought they broke when they struck people,” he grumbles, rubbing at his lower back.
I nod, miming a breaking and shrugging. I always thought they broke, too. Pointing at my knee, I adopt an outraged expression.
“Well, can you blame me for retaliating? I admit the table leg was a bit under the belt, so to speak, but you had just hit me with a chair.”
I chuckle, throwing an arm across his shoulders and pulling him a bit more upright. He gives me a pained smile and brings his arm up over mine. We lean heavily against one another, and our aching bodies offset, allowing us to walk in a reasonably straight line as we slip into the stream of humanity. A dozen steps in he straightens to his full height, glancing around in the crowd.
“Those damnable attendants are always underfoot when you’re trying to get anything done, but they aren’t around when you actually need them!” he mutters, pushing himself up for a better vantage with my shoulder as his leverage. I groan as my wounded knee buckles, and we both stumble and fall. Lying in a tangle on the ground, the crowd parting to either side of us, we don’t bother moving.
“Is it bad that I don’t want to get up?” he muses, staring up at the sky.
I shrug awkwardly as I lay on the ground.
“My lord!” The voice is distant, but urgent.
“Funny how you never look at the clouds. They really are peaceful, if you take the time to look. I’ll have to remember that,” he says, a smile on his face.
“My lord! My lord!” the shouts grow louder, and I crane my neck to see what’s going on. The crowd regurgitates a man in fine blue servant’s clothing with a mostly bald head and a thick white beard.
“My lord!” he gasps as he falls to his knees.
“Watkins!” my friend says, his voice cheery. “Just the man I was looking for. Would you be so kind as to bring the carriage? My legs aren’t working quite right at the moment, and I’m growing ever later for a luncheon at Miranda’s.”
“Sir! Are you hurt? Can you move them? Are you well?”
“No, Watkins,” he says solemnly. “I’ve lost the use of my legs entirely. In fact, I’m dying. My last wish is to taste something truly sublime, and Miranda’s is the only place close enough for me to make it.”
“My lord! What has happened?” Watkins cries, kneeling down and cradling my friend’s head. He grabs Watkins’ collar, pulling him close.
“Nothing, my dear man. I am in perfect health. I’m just, well, resting here. But I really do have a luncheon planned at Miranda’s, and I really would love for you to bring the carriage here.”
Watkins shoots him a betrayed look, but stands and melts away into the crowd.
“Wonderful fellow, isn’t he? The carriage will be along shortly, and so we are left here to gaze in wonder at the clouds. Ah, do you see? That one is a bear. Even down to the claws. Remarkable.”
I look up and see, for all intents and purposes, a few puffy white clouds. Nothing resembles anything like a bear, so I just nod amiably and close my eyes.
***
Miranda’s establishment resembles a nobleman’s estate more than a restaurant. In my thieving days, I would have been happy just chipping some of the golden paint off the doorframe. The place is opulence incarnate. I couldn’t be more out of place if I ended up at the King’s Ball.
Watkins runs before us and opens the door, disappearing inside. My friend and I continue at a more sedate pace, and I gawk in open wonder at the manicured gardens and an aisle of elegant marble statues. Every petal is perfectly arranged, every lead in its proper place, a fountain burbling on either side. I’ve just entered a dream of paradise. Reaching down my shirt, I pat my purse and struggle not to frown. Something tells me I don’t have nearly enough money to eat here.
The door opens again as we approach the step, and a man in pressed satin holds the door open and bows low. I have to struggle not to turn away and run. What the hell is this place? I haven’t ever been treated as much of anything beyond, occasionally, a normal person. No one bows to normal people. As we enter the foyer, a striking, enormous woman in luxurious silk who can only be Miranda swings down a sweeping staircase, elegant in spite of her bulk.
“My lord!” she calls, her throaty voice appealing and, subtly, seductive. “We have reserved our best room for you! Right this way.”
“Thank you, Miranda. You’re the only reason I continue to return, of course,” my companion says, taking her hand and kissing it. Miranda blushes even through her white makeup, and I grin. He’s suave, I have to give him that.
“It’s not the food or the service?” she asks, playfulness stealing into her voice.
“Mere icing on the delicious cake,” he says, winking.
Miranda fans herself frantically as she turns back. Her hand comes up like she wants to touch his face, but stops just short.
“What in the Creator's name happened to you, love? Your beautiful face...”
“Nothing, Miranda. Just a bit of sport,” he says, turning to me and mock-scowling.
“Is the duke’s room prepared?” she calls up, and a servant appears at the top of the stairs, bows low, and nods.
Duke… Engaged to the ‘the Lady Eleanor Torgue’… I’m standing next to Duke Torlas Graevo. One of the most respected, wealthy, and powerful men in the entire kingdom. He sits as one of the eight men on Helikos’ inner council. And that number includes Helikos and Kranos. He could not only have me arrested, but could stab me in a public place, wave his hand, and porters would run up to make my body disappear. He’s considered ‘untouchable.’ I sway slightly, and I have to take some deep breaths through my nose to clear my spinning head. I hit a duke with a chair. I insulted him, degraded him, and hit him with a chair. My knees go weak as my body tries to force me to my knees and pray to thank the Creator.
“Well, shall we?” Torlas asks me, elegantly gesturing towards the stairs.
I struggle not to change how I’ve been acting. I’m utterly shocked that he hasn’t challenged me to a duel or had me killed after some of what I implied. We’d even brawled like common folk… Creator save me, if he’s going to be honest and well, actually seem to like me, then I won’t change.
The room itself establishes a new bar for wealthy waste. Every fixture, from the candlesticks to the plates to the glasses, is made from some sort of precious metal. Gold dominates, but silver, platinum, and metals I don’t recognize make shining appearances. The walls are a deep blood red, and the chairs themselves are crafted works of art. No less than eight servants stand at
various points around the room, and each of them wear a uniform to beggar anything that I’ve ever touched, let alone worn. A man steps out and slides chairs from the small, two-person table in the center of the room. Torlas’ hand comes down on my shoulder.
“I understand. The first time I ate here, I was too busy admiring everything around me to speak,” he says.
I shoot him a look and smirk with confidence I don’t feel. His eyes light up, and he throws his head back and laughs in such a genuine way that I can’t help but relax. We take our places, the chairs drawing in behind us perfectly, cloth of gold napkins in our laps and a glass filled with an opaque amber liquid in our hands before I can blink. Torlas hefts his glass, inclines his head to me, and drains it in one swallow. I follow suit, and liquid fire ignites my tongue with the tastes of caramel, coffee, and a wooden nuttiness I can’t place. When I swallow, the fire races down and warms me to the tips of my fingers. I sigh audibly, and Torlas grins.
“And all we did is prepare the pallet…” he says, nodding over my shoulder.
A dozen men file in with golden platters covered in golden domes. They set them in a dizzying pattern on the table. With a careful flourish, the lids spin away to reveal a dozen small, crafted dishes. A halved tart allows an unfamiliar spiced fish to spill out in a steaming yellow cream sauce. Exotic noodles wrap around a sausage bursting with juice and spices. A pheasant crafted to hold a cinnamon-baked apple lies posed among a heap of hearty vegetables. Each dish is a work of art beyond my imagination.
“The privileges of rank,” Torlas says, slicing a bite off of a steak so rare it bleeds. “And to think, Miranda’s normally requires reservations to be made months in advance.”
The Crux of Eternity: Eternal Dream, Book 1 (The Eternal Dream Saga) Page 25