“Well, the schoolmen rule in the city, but the old nobles are still a power in the countryside. Every town and village of note in Seren is sworn to Kirondaal, have been for at least two hundred years. But now they’re taking sides in these disputes between the schools, swearing for one faction and the other. A man like me, who goes along the country roads to trade, is now asked who he stands with, and Heaven help if he gives the wrong answer!”
“They really care about those arguments between wizards and witches?” Fenn asked sipping from the cup again. Hmm...not that bad, actually…
“Shh!” The merchant looked around. “Don’t say those words where a schoolman can hear them! They take it as an insult...but no, in truth it all just posturing for their own benefit. But here’s the thing that is really troubling: the nobles are recruiting men to their private armies. If you go outside these walls it’s all hills and valleys, and nearly every hill has a castle on its top, and they are all filling up with armed men sworn to one noble house or another. The Council is so busy fighting among themselves, they don’t see the storm gathering outside the city.”
Fenn nodded. “A terrible thing,” he said, picking up the cup, and to his surprise finding it empty.
After that he went down to the docks, where he found a tavern marked by a pair of crossed pikes and an anchor. No mercenaries filled its tap room, word had gotten out that this was a place men like them should avoid. Crowded around its tables and leaning against its bar were men of the city, citizens who once served in the militia, now fermenting in cheap wine and their own resentments, and more than happy to tell their troubles to a willing ear:
“Bloody spellslingers.” A burly fellow with a balding pate and knife scars on his arms drank from a cup filled with a rough red wine that seemed to fog the air above it. “Everything’s gone to hell ‘cause of those narrownecks! Wheezy sods with soft hands, never done a man’s work in their life! Any wonder this city is turning to shit?”
Heads nodded all around, a few of his friends adding in their own observations. “Bastards, every one!”
“Sold us out after all we done for them!”
“Our blood and sweat we gave to Kirondaal, and what do we get for it? Booted out the door, our place taken by a pack of swaggering jackanapes, sellblades who’d whore out their own mothers for an extra penny!” The ex-militiaman’s face flushed, the scars on his hands becoming ever more visible. He grimaced, ready to sit it seemed, then caught the warning glance from the barman and calmed down.
“Anyway, that’s how I feel about it,” he mumbled, taking another swig of his drink. Someone called out from the corner of the taproom and he pushed off, joining another mob of unemployed veteran gathered around a table, where one of them rattled a pair of dice in a hand.
The barman placed a cup before Fenn and poured in a measure of rotgut. “Apologies for that,” he said, in a voice that was far more educated than his position suggested. “Corporal Borric looks like a human mountain, but you out two drinks into him and his tongues loosens more than it should. Caused all sorts of trouble in the old days. Now...ah well, who cares?”
Fenn took the wine and then took a sip. His tongue burned at the touch, but he forces himself to swallow a thimbleful. “Smooth,” he said with a cough, setting it down.
“It’s swill,” said the baman. “Best this lot can afford, which is why I stock it. Back in the day, I was their commander.”
“You were an officer?” Fenn asked, a bit surprised. Standing behind the bar of a dive like this was the last place he expected to see a man of his rank…
The barman shrugged. “I was. Captain of the Fourth Company. Jassoc Du’Ryliac.”
“Fenn Aquila.”
“From Galadorn, I take it?” Jassoc raised an eyebrow. “There’s a touch ot in your voice.”
“I've heard that,” Fenn answered, though in truth it was a surprise to him. First time anyone mentioned he’d had an accent… “I just came here two days ago. Finding a town full of hiried blades wasn’t what I expected.”
“That’s understandable.” Jassoc picked up Borric’s cup and started to clean it. “Well, here’s the short version. About...oh, fifty years ago, give or take, Kirondaal was ruled by a Council of its nobles, leaders of the greatest families and so on, men of rank and status. My own family was among them, though I descend from a lesser branch that never had the wealth or power of our cousins… Anyway, this collection of titled fools and inbreds ran the city as well as one might expect...in other words they ran it poorly. A similar arrangement prevailed in Galadorn at the time, or so I understand.”
Fenn nodded. “Yes, until Prince Dorrus overthrew them.”
“And now his son Markus rules. Something similar happened in Kirondaal not long after...bad harvests, riots and so on. The nobles tried and failed to reassert themselves, and were opposed by the Great Schools.”
“The Arcanists?”
Jassoc nodded. “The Tulip, the Chrystanthemum, the Hyacinth and the Rose...each focused on a different element of the Aethyr. All opposed to one another, but their put their differences aside and stood as one. Not that it would have been enough, mind you...Arcanists have power, but against the private armies of the nobles they would stand no chance, So they forged an alliance with the city militia, and together they drive the nobles out of the city. The people celebrated, since it means the restoration of peace.”
“But the nobles still control the countryside. Why didn’t they try and retake the city?”
“Oh, they tried. But the great houses hate each other even more than they hate the Arcanists, and it wasn't too difficult for the schoolmen to play them against each other. An agreement was struck...the Schools rule within the walls of Kirondaal, while the nobles hold sway in the countryside and vassal towns, and swear allegiance. Peace would reign, all would be well.”
“Didn’t work out, I take it?” Fenn observed.
“For about a year. Until the Schools put aside any pretence of unity and returned to their old hatreds. Though in truth, it was manageable enough for forty years - the old Grand Master’s knew how close they could get to the edge before going over. But now they are led by men who’ve never known a world where they did not rule. Tt's made them stupid, and the rivalries between the Schools have turned murderous. Obscure academic disagreements turned into struggles for power. Every one of them approached the militia, trying to win us to their side, but our captains refused to get involved in their bickering...which made every one of the Schools afraid that one of their rivals would change our minds. So, in their last act of unity, they declared the militia disbanded and hired Ludovar Mora and his rascals to take our place. We were disarmed at spear point, given our final pay and shown the door. Now the schoolmen are trying to get Mora to pick a side...and are fouling themselves at the prospect of who it might be, because why wouldn’t he?”
Fenn nodded. “Or he might decide to push out the lot of them. Rule the city in his own right.”
Jassoc shrugged. “More than a few in Kirondaal wouldn't be displeased by this. The nobles in the countryside might feel different...or maybe not. However it goes, those who served this city with honor for years won’t have a part in it. We’re just here...drowning our sorrows.”
Fenn picked up the cup and took another sip from it. “Seems an odd place for an ex-officer,” ehs aid, “especially one with noble ancestry...behind a bar on the docks.”
“Well, stranger from Galadorn, as I said, my family has only its noble ancestry. No lands or estates to speak of. And besides…” Jassoc waved a hand around the room. “They may be a mob of drunks and brawlers, but they are my drunk and brawlers. Someone has to keep an eye on them...damn it all! Pardon the interruption…” He flipped the cleaning cloth over his shoulder and vaulted over the bar headed to the table, where an argument between Borric and the other dice throwers was about to get out of hand.
Fenn watched as Jassoc swiftly settled things, a few sharp words enough to make the others drop their
fists in embarrassment. Hands were shaken, apologies proffered, and Jassoc returned to his place behind the bar, shaking his head ruefully.
“Sorry about that...refill your cup?”
“No need.” Fenn swirled the drink around, the hard reek assailing his nostrils. He set it down. “That happen often?”
“More than I care to admit.” Jassoc was clearly angry. “These men had a purpose, and it was taken away by a pack of blind scholars who would rather burn the city down than see one of their rivals come ahead. Stripped of their patrimony...and there is nothing yet found that can replace it. I tell you now, stranger…” And here Fenn saw the seething resentment in the man’s eyes, no different than the others in the taproom, “Some of us have had our fill of this, this...dishonor. They talk of taking up their old arms and colors, and taking the city for ourselves.”
“Lord Mora might have something to say about that.”
“So what? Better to die with a blade in hand, than grow fat and sodden behind a wine cup!” Then the anger faded, replaced by resignation. “But it’s just talk, in the end. Who would lead such a thing?”
Fenn shrugged. “You never know. Heaven has a way of making its will known in these matters.” He placed a copper penny beside the wine cup and left the inn, lost in thought as he pondered the possibilities…
Three days later.
Fenn stood behind Ludovar Mora, dressed in black, armed with a dagger and keenly watching the surroundings for any sign of danger. The special duty turned out to be a bodyguard detail, for the General was going into a place of great danger, where both his enemies and allies would be in close proximity...and it was hard to tell one from the other or where they stood at any given moment. Violence was a possibility, anger and hatred stirred by the presence of enemies and rivals, and given extra force by strong drink. A dangerous place, as lethal as a battlefield in its own way.
A masked ball, held in the General’s own house, a stones throw from the imposing palace where the Council met. Mora sat at a table, clutching a glass of wine and raising in greeting every so often, while Feddor announced the names of new arrivals. Minor nobles and prominent merchants got a nod. Men of higher rank, the holders of great estates in the countryside, the masters of great trading houses or craft guilds were afforded the privilege of a raised glass. When the names of the Grand Masters of the Four Schools were announced, Lord Mora rose to his feet and bowed, a true mark of respect.
The house was big and growing crowded. Resplendent costumes vied with one another for primacy - shimmering silks and rustling velvets, diamonds and pearls string around necks and arms, inlaid in coats and bodices. Then there were the masks, some hiding the whole face, others only the part above the mouths, framed in brilliant feathers, painted with the visages of gods and monsters, reflecting the light of the hundreds of candles burning in the sconces and the giant chandelier above. Bodies moved in the patterns of a dance as a band of musicians played a merry tune in a corner, while still others gathered around tables groaning with fine food and an endless river of wine, exchanging the days gossip, plotting and scheming.
Shoulder were being worn bare this season, as far as the women were concerned, and necks concealed behind wide chokers that often as not glistened with precious stones. Some were the wives of the great men who had come at the invitation of the man who controlled the only force of armed men in the city. Most were their mistresses, for it was understood in those days that a masked ball was something of a scandalous affair, an invitation to all kinds of debauchery. Hide someone’s face behind a mask, where none could see who they were, and who knew what kind of mischief they would get up to?
As far as Fenn could tell, such mischief consisted of eating too much, drinking even more and idle talk that amounted to little. His own face was hidden behind a black, featureless mask, staring out through the eye holes.The overabundant frippery presented all too many places where a dagger might be hidden, the masks hiding the visage of an assassin just waiting for the moment to strike. Every time someone drifted too close to the table, his hand drifted to his knife, and he tensed, ready for action, only to relax when they merely wished to have a word with the great man. Mora himself had a mask, held on a stick in his left hand, though he left it lying on the table for the most part, accepting each bit of flattery with a gracious now. Receiving every notable of Kirondaal’s elite, seeking to curry his favor.
Or compliment him on the beauty of his mistress.
Fenn wondered how they could tell. He met the woman briefly, introduced by Mora when she entered the banqueting hall in a cloud of silks and feathers. A smiling mask completely covered her face, and a wave of blond hair spilled down her back. Her dress was a provocative piece in scarlet had white, high necked in contravention of the prevailing fashion, but making up for it with a large oval space cut around the breasts, exposing a general expanse of cleavage. Such a rig would have been shocking even in Galadorn, here it left stunned silence in its wake, men staring through their masks eye holes in poleaxed silence, women staring daggers and whispering to one another.
“Isn’t she lovely?” Mora spoke softly, glancing up at Fenn. “My Kiala...a goddess made flesh! And a mind like a knife...I tell you, if every man I knew had half the brains she did, who knows what I might accomplish in this world?”
A moment’s pause, and Fenn realized the man was expecting an answer. “Very lovely, sir,” he said, keeping an eye on the crowd.
“Too focused on your duty.” Mora laughed, turning away and watching his mistress work on the room. Even as the high society of the city stared daggers at her back, they clustered around her like moths of a flickering flame. GIven that this was a masked ball, everyone’s identity was supposed to be secret, or at least that was the fiction everyone here kept up (even though they all knew, or had a fairly good idea, who everyone was, at least when it came to those who mattered…) Compliments were paid, and once the woman lifted her mask in response to particularly flattering remark, though her back was to Fenn and he could not get a glimpse of her face.
A man approached the table, clad in a red-colored robe, hs mask that of a grinning demon with four curling horns rising from its head. Escorting him were two other men wearing a similar rig, though their masks sporting only two horns. “My lord,” came the voice from inside. A moment later the mask was removed, revealing a narrow-faced man with a wispy goatee and a balding head covered by a black velvet cap.
Fedder appeared by his master’s side, leaning to his ear. “Sircha Scanthi, Grandmaster of the Rose School.”
“Grand Master Scanthi,” Mora said, pitching his voice so half the room could hear. Many heads turned, including those from rival schools. “Will you share a cup of wine?”
“It would be an honor to share wine with a man of your stature!” Without being asked, the Grand Master plumped himself down on the chair. Fenn glanced at him then at the acolytes standing behind, both of whom kept their masks lowered. One held a small round orb in his left hand, with a glowing rune embedded in the top, barely an inch from his thumb Fenn had no idea what it did, but could guess it was not something pleasant.
“Did you receive my gift earlier this week,” Scanthi asked.
“I did! Lady Kiala was most pleased with the basket of apples and oranges, as am I.”
“And the...ah, note that was included in it?”
Mora let a slow smile appear on his face. “I did. Your donation towards the food and drink bill for my men was most generous. Ten thousand Galadornian aurins...that will go far in keeping them in bread and wine!”
“Your happiness is mirrored only by own,” Scanthi said. “The School of the Rose only ever has the good of Kirondaal in its heart, and that includes your wellbeing as well.”
“Rest assured, the School of the Rose can count on my friendship and support...now and in all other future endeavors.” He met Scanthi’s gaze, the implication clear.
“I’m glad we understand each other,” Grand Master Scanthi replied. “
Well, there are others who desire a moment of your time...until we meet again, my lord.” He stood and bowed, putting his mask back on and headed back into the throng.
Mora waited until he was out of earshot before he let out a chuckle. “Ten thousand aurins! The simpering twit…”
Fedder cleared his throat. “My lord, another man approaches.”
And indeed, another fellow came, this one trailed by five acolytes, dressed in dark brown robes that resembled those of monks, while he himself wore a plum-colored cassock reminiscent of those worn by certain monastic orders in Avexin, and a mask shaped like a foxes face.
“Petro Yussa, Grand Master of the Chrysanthemum School,” Fedder whispered in his master’s ear.
“Grand Master Yussa!” Mora stood and spread his arms in greeting. The Grand Master removed his mask, revealing a florid face, red and sweaty, with bags under the eyes, the face of a man who enjoyed his food and wine far more than was wise.
“Lord...cough...Mora!” Yussa covered his mouth with a cloth and engaged in a generous spate of coughing. “My apologies...cough...some wine went down the wrong pipe, I fear.”
“Your presence at my party is the highlight of this night, Grand Master.”
“Your invitation...cough...is...cough...honor enough.” Another pause while the man nearly bent over, clamping the cloth over his mouth. Fenn edged back slightly, as did the acolytes following behind the man.
To the surprise of all, the man did not drop spit out what was left of his lungs and keel over dead. Instead he straightened, his small eyes sharp and shrewd. “So my lord,” he said, “I have considered...cough...your proposal. A shrine dedicated to Saint Segion is a most emin...cough...emine...cough...eminent idea, and I would gladly be willing to donate to such a cause. Fifteen thousand aurins would be a most pious and appropriate...cough...offering, wouldn’t you say?”
And Fenn was glad the mask hid his expression. Lord Mora for his part did not bother to hide the smile. “It is a good start,” he said.
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