by SL Figuhr
His eyes bulged in outrage, and he stood abruptly as her body slave scolded her from the corner.
“I did not come here expecting to be insulted, considering how precarious your situation is. I shall tender my regards to your father, and explain to him I have changed my mind.”
He stormed from the room, snapping at the Sydney slaves to have his horse brought around, his final insult clearly heard by the seething girl and her slave. “I am not spending a minute more wooing a mannerless slut.”
Sally leapt up from the couch, intending to charge out into the hallway and scream what a poor substitute for the advisor he would make. All the slaves present in the room sprang to action, grabbing her. While the young woman fought them and hurled imprecations. They bent her over the back of the couch while one of the male slaves set to guard her came into the room. He proceeded to whip his charge's buttocks with a willow branch.
* * *
Martin and the Sydney steward sat straight-backed at the dinner table, quietly conversing during the meal. Sally cried silently, tears streaming down her face as she carefully shifted, trying to find a spot which didn't hurt. Her buttocks felt as if they were on fire, and stung fiercely, making sitting still an agony.
She half dreaded, half anticipated, the lecture she was sure to receive afterward, confident her brother would understand her position. To her dismay, once they were seated in her father's office, she wasn't given a chance to explain. It was another humiliation as her brother listened to Crystal's report of the suitors. And her charge’s behavior.
“Sally. I sympathize, but unless you plan on being a total outcast, you will have to choose one. Father seems to believe you understood perfectly what your punishment entailed. Baron von Winesburg was the last man who showed honorable intentions, and you gravely—and unforgivably—cast slurs upon him.”
“It's not fair! I am older than you! Why should you be allowed to tell me what to do? Didn't you hear me? He lives—”
“Father doesn't care where he lives. Our laws support the men, no matter what their age may be. No, it isn't fair, but that's the way it is. Your life is to be devoted to your husband.”
“You pig! I suppose you'll expect the same of your wife?” Sally shrieked.
Her brother sighed and shifted uncomfortably. He did not like this part of being an earl. “Sister, I expect when I marry, the lady will be a proper wife. Honestly, I don't know of many men who don't expect it.”
His sister crossed her arms beneath her breasts and pouted. “I won't marry them! Not one! I'm an earl's daughter! None of them is worthy of my hand!”
“That may have been true had you remained pure, but you chose to lie with a man before being wedded. As a noble born, your worth is considerably diminished. Baron von Winesburg has already spread around town about your lack of manners, and how unsuitable you are.”
“But Martin! He called me—”
“Out of the six suitors Father has been able to convince to take an interest in you, four have written to withdraw their suit. Do you know who that leaves? Two. Two suitors.” Martin’s sapphire eyes, so like their father’s, pierced her own lighter blue.
“I don’t care. Lord Nicky—”
“Sister, don't be a silly goose. He can't marry you. He is a traitor to the crown. If he attempts to return, he will be arrested and put to death immediately.”
“No.” Sally vigorously shook her head in the negative. “No. It's a lie! That duchess is lying! She thinks she's going to steal him from me! He said we were meant for each other!”
Martin sighed, wishing more fervently his father wasn't away on law-related business. She glared at him.
“Sally, you will not speak falsely of the duchess.” He knew his father would not approve of his sister's accusations.
She uncrossed her arms, hands in fists as she leaned forward and screamed at her brother. “She ruined my life! And Father doesn't care because he can't stop rutting with her! Mother was right!”
The slap across both sides of her face came as a surprise. Her cheeks stung along with her buttocks.
Her brother stepped back, breathing hard, eyes glittering in anger.
A shocked, strangled sob escaped her clamped lips.
“Sally, it's true you are older than I by several years, but you are impudent and unwise. Most girls your age are already married, with families. Father will be further disappointed in you. As head of the household, you are forcing me to make choices I would rather not. But I will, because I am duty bound to do so. You will be remanded into the care of your slave. You will be sequestered from any visitors. Unless you have a preference, I shall write tonight to the suitor I think would best suit you and inform him of your acceptance of his proposal. I suggest you begin work on your trousseau immediately. You are dismissed.” He rang a bell to summon slaves.
“What? Martin! I'm your sister! How can you be so mean?! I hate you! No! I won't! I won't!” Sally's shrieks echoed throughout the mansion as she was hauled to her room by the house slaves.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The lawmen rode into town on weary steeds. Behind them plodded a small crowd of starving villagers. Most only had the rags on their backs and a few guided animals as thin as they. A two-wheeled cart rattled and creaked at the rear. It held those too sick or elderly to make the journey without help.
As they made their way through the remains of Macinas, a male voice floated toward them on the semi-still air.
“Repent! Repent, I say! Sinners! The Death Lands wait for us. The Emperor of Death and his minions are eager to drag off those who turn from the Undying Lands. Who has brought this evil upon us? None other than the foreign harlot. The scarlet whore. The duchess. Her house is made of ravens. Birds of ill intent. Birds who feast on carrion.” He stopped to take a nip from a jug at his feet before continuing.
“No, I say; no! And our king? He does nothing! He feasts and lies with his harem of whores. He has forgotten his people. He has left you to your misery and starvation. And what of the nobles? The merchants of wealth? They all have sold their souls to the Death Lands. They throw their scraps out into the streets, as if we are dogs. We are not. We are men, women, and children who have been spit upon and forgotten for too long. Come, join me so we may rid our town of such a pestilence. I have food and shelter for those who will join and be born anew.”
Saizar groaned as Priester Joseph and Brother John came into view. The two holy men stood on a frozen pile of slush. The elder man shook his fists, alternately at the town and toward the palace. The younger was laying his hands upon the heads of people who kneeled in the snow before him. When they stood, he dipped into a basket at his feet and gave them a misshapen loaf of bread and small, dried fruits.
Saizar brought his horse closer to the earl's, using a lowered voice to comment. “I like this not. I know the people have been looking for someone to blame, but it seems more a way to stir up trouble.”
“I will warn the king and those I can about the danger that’s brewing,” the earl promised.
The lawmen tossed worried looks at the raving man as they rode past. He did not fail to notice them, and flung a hand out at the pathetic sight.
“See? They bring more trash, more refuse to pick over our bones. They will steal what little is ours.” Priester Joseph pointed his finger, his body trembling—whether from cold or outrage, the lawmen didn't know.
Saizar made a motion. Guts and Merrit broke off and rode up to the priest. They were eye level.
“Here now, it's one thing to preach your religion, but you are trying to incite a riot. Those people are just as much in need as those who live here,” Guts firmly spoke when the priest drew air in.
“Liars!” He hissed at them. “Men of law you are not. You are just more wolves, covering yourselves in sheep's wool and claiming you are not predators. I know what you are.” Spittle flew from his lips, a crazy madness lighting up his eyes. “You will not silence me. I have a right to speak the truth. You may have slandere
d Lord Nicky, driven him to run for his life, but you will not do the same to me.” He gesticulated wildly.
Merrit didn't like what he saw. Those who had come to worship listened to the priest. Many of them nodded, a few voiced low agreements. “Priester Joseph, we do not deny your right to preach. We are only asking you don't incite a riot. There are many people, noble and commoner alike, who are willing to help those in need.”
“Do not listen to him, my faithful. He lies. They all lie. They have serpent's tongues,” the priest screamed.
Guts nudged his horse around the slush pile so he faced those milling about. “There is help if you need it. The palace will feed and shelter you, as will the duchess. Times are hard for everyone. But if you attack fellow townspeople, we of the sheriff's office will have no choice but to arrest those who do. Please, if you need help, seek it at the palace. Thank you.”
Guts and Merrit rode off, back to the sheriff's office, taunts from the crowd and threats of the Death Lands from the priest following them until they rode out of sight.
* * *
Sydney led the displaced people over the bridge and up the hill. “You may set up camp on the greensward. There are only a few homes which are not occupied inside the town itself. The palace will see to feeding you.”
Eyes, dulled by hunger, sickness, and the unending cold, only stared at him. Sydney did what he could to see they had feed for the animals, and tents for shelter donated from the former army stores. He sent for the town healer, and even helped to build bonfires at which the people could warm themselves. Once this was done, he started back down the hill, meaning to stop at the family town home.
* * *
“Is there anything else I can get you, my lord?” Sydney's valet asked as he completed brushing off his master's coat.
“No, thank you, Roger,” came the weary reply. The earl turned from his mirror, a costly piece not many could afford. His father would never have stooped to such vanity. Chadrick had originally given it as a present to his first wife.
Sydney walked downstairs, the thick wool runner in his family's colors muffling his steps. His skin showed signs of the bitter cold and relentless winds. The white in his hair had grown a little more, and to him, the sapphire of his eyes seemed dull. The nap he had taken upon arriving at the mansion only made him feel more exhausted instead of refreshed. The earl paused outside the door to the dining room. Martin had requested his mother's presence. Sydney would not let himself be upset by his wife's malice. He entered the room in time to hear Elizabeth's harangue.
“It's disgraceful. There is no reason why we should be dining in near-darkness.”
“Because, Mother,” his son calmly replied, voice only betraying a little exasperation. “We don't know when ships or supply trains will be able to get through. I would rather conserve what lamp oil and candles we have, than waste it. There is sufficient enough illumination to see what we eat.”
“I know very well what supplies we have. It was not all that long ago your father,” she spat, “threw me out as if it was I who was trash, and not that whore of a duchess. If our stores have grown so low, it is because you allow them to. It means you are too lax with the slaves.”
“I will not be wasteful when others go without. Our stores are no more depleted than they should be through use.”
A slave silently stepped forward and pulled a chair out for the earl. He sat and motioned for his goblet to be filled.
“Ah, Father!” His son broke off the discussion, relief evident. “I am pleased you and the others made it back safely.”
A displeased snort came from the countess.
“Thank you,” he replied.
Martin signaled for the food to be served. A hearty fish stew was brought around, with bread. The family sat and ate in near-silence. The drapes and tapestries swayed from gusts of wind through cracks in the stone and wood-paneled walls. A small fire crackled in the grate, not doing much to warm the room, half of which, along with a long, polished table, lay in darkness.
While the slaves cleared the dirties in preparation for the next dish, Martin attempted conversation. “What was the state of the villages, Father?”
“Oh, who cares about them!” His sister tossed her curls. “Martin has been an absolute beast while you were away!”
“What can we expect from him?” Elizabeth said to no one in particular. “He would rather chase after infamy than glory.”
Sydney took in a careful breath, reminding himself to keep his temper as he turned slightly to reply to his son. “Most have been decimated. Only a few have managed to repel the bandits.”
“The marquis has been at the palace every day these past few weeks, helping His Majesty when our king will permit it. He, at least, has his priorities straight. I will not be surprised if he is named advisor. If you had just stayed here and done the same . . .” Elizabeth droned on. Her family made an effort to ignore a favorite new subject of hers.
“Martin wrote to the most horrid suitor! He promised him I would marry him! Father, I can't!” Sally wailed.
The slaves silently placed new plates and brought out a platter of mixed vegetables in a heavy sauce, meant to disguise the shriveled state from being in storage. More bread accompanied the dish.
“My sister insulted one of her suitors. He then spread about town what she had done. Four of the six immediately wrote to withdraw their suit.” Martin tossed a warning look at Sally.
She ignored him, continuing on. “Now my brother says I'm to be a wife of some flax farmer!” Her nose scrunched up in disgust. “He has no table manners! He—he—he's a beanpole! He's ugly! He lives in the country!”
“My sister, Meanna, agrees with me. You must forget about that—that duchess, and the sheriff's office. I expect you to be at the palace come daybreak, asking the king to assign you a task. You must not come home until you have redeemed yourself in his eyes. He must see you as a viable candidate for advisor,” Lady Elizabeth firmly instructed her husband.
Martin gave a sympathetic grimace to his sire. “Does this mean we should fear more attacks from the bandits? I don't suppose you heard . . .”
A third time plates were changed, and another dish came out. It consisted of bread pudding with its own sauce, smelling of brandy.
“It's not time for dessert, you stupid slaves!” Elizabeth could be heard berating. “Martin! This is entirely unacceptable. I expect to have a proper dinner when I am here. I do not care what you do when I am not in attendance.”
“Oh, I'm sorry, Mother. Did I not tell you? I have instructed Cook to keep our meals simple,” Martin quickly replied.
His mother stared for a moment, speechless, then let loose with a volley of criticisms.
“Father! Did you hear what I said? The country!” Sally repeated in horror.
Sydney sighed, counting the minutes until he could politely excuse himself and leave his mansion.
CHAPTER NINE
Jenabram's mansion shone with light, and music could be heard emanating from inside as highborn and rich merchant guests feasted. His blatant unconcern for those he considered beneath him angered those who starved outside. He added to his insult by having his slaves dump the scraps from his nightly feasts outside his mansion to be pawed through by the desperate.
Kendall sat regally in his chair, a golden, jewel-crusted goblet of wine in one hand, with his ever-present sneer as he presided over the elaborately laid dinner table. His guests could not help but note the new suit he wore, the height of fashion. Nor could they miss the small fortune of jewels and precious metals which winked at them in the light from shirt studs and cuffs, including a cravat pin, several heavy rings, and his newest affectation: a diadem around his carefully coiffed head.
All four of the marble fireplaces, carved to represent some of the more disturbing legends of half-people, half-machines which had lived before them, roared with flame and heat. Overhead, massive chandeliers burned perfumed oil, throwing more heat and light about the room. Six
-armed candelabra with beeswax tapers sat surrounded by hothouse flowers. Over a dozen slaves in formal attire in almost-constant motion moved about the room as they saw to the guests’ needs.
Baron Stavic, in a new suit of tailored velvet and brocade, frothing with lace, was babbling inanely to anyone who would listen. “Of course, I am still keeping tabs on the royal food stores for Her Grace. Does anyone else find it very odd she had to suddenly leave on a trip? And in this weather? What could possibly be so important for her to risk her life?”
“It seems she is showing her silly, female side. What have I always said? Women cannot be trusted with important matters; their little brains become full and they can't handle the responsibilities,” Sir Dalton replied. He was not a supporter of the marquis, but kept his true opinions of the man to himself.
He thought it best to appear distant, yet cordial, to those with higher standing so he would not miss any information. He had clothed himself in an outfit which had been reworked from out-of-date fashions. It was simple, yet elegant and functional.
“Really, Sir Dalton, I object on behalf of all my kind,” Baroness Rothsbury protested. Her chins quivered.
The old knight snorted. “'Tis true, after all, you are in charge of rationing food. Work for a woman, keeping her menfolk fed properly.”
Her large bosom heaved in outrage as her reply was lost in the babble of voices. Whatever advantages she enjoyed as a crony of the duchess was not being spent on new outfits, given the slightly faded state of her dress, three seasons out of date.
“Does anyone know what was really found beneath the palace? Did anyone see the traitor Nicky actually leave?” another minor noble by the name of Flouten asked.
Jenabram himself wondered such things. “It is rather convenient the only reports come from the duchess, a recently freed slave, and a pair of foreign merchants.”