by S. G. Night
“Well, well, Brahn!” Monger said exclaimed, pleasantly surprised. “Brought me a marvel, here, you have! I’ll be sure to remind Hikshaa that fifty scion is money well spent when it comes to your services.”
Brahn smirked and bowed again. “As you say, My Lord.”
“Go on, now,” he said to the merchant, brushing him off with a perfunctory wave. “Leave us to get better acquainted. Enjoy the party, Brahn.”
Brahn shot one last glance at Nelle, and then headed up the stairs alone.
“Now then, my fair flower,” he leered at Nelle again, offering her his hulking arm. “Why don’t you come join me at my table, and we can get to know each other.”
Nelle’s perfect smile did not falter as she climbed up a step and slipped her arm through the loop of his. “It’d be my pleasure, My Lord.”
FORTY-NINE
Love
The high walls of the banquet hall were festooned with vibrant tapestries, interspersed by tall windows. Protracted tables set with silver dishware and flower arrangements filled the floor space. For every chair, there was a servant waiting behind it, ready to serve the specific needs of each individual at the table.
The slew of guests found their places at the banquet tables — Nelle guessed the seating was pre-arranged — and the servants drew back the chairs for them to sit.
Monger led Nelle to the table at the head of the hall. While shorter than most of the others, this table was swathed in rich, crimson cloth, trimmed by golden tassels. Jewels encrusted the handles of the utensils at this table, as well as the decorative edges of the plates and bowls. The chair at the center was not a chair at all, but an elegant, high-backed throne of superior craftsmanship. The throne did not have a single servant waiting to attend it like the others did; instead, a pair of scrawny, shirtless slaves in clinking iron shackles. The Human slaves stared blankly at the floor as they dragged the heavy throne away from the table to allow the Baron his seat.
Monger did not give the slaves so much as a glance as he sat. Nelle took her seat on his left. She almost stopped to thank the servant who offered her the chair, but checked herself — if she wanted to blend into polite company, she couldn’t afford to actually be polite.
When all the guests were in their seats, Monger nodded at Rodgers. The man clapped his white-gloved hands twice and the servants stood at attention.
“Bring forth the soups,” Rodgers commanded.
The servants obeyed. In unison, they served steaming bowls of food to their respective attendees. The soup placed in front of Nelle was a dark amber color. There was only broth; no potatoes or vegetable. The only addition to speak of was a vain little sprig of garnish floating on the surface. Nelle frowned at it; she hated soup.
But she tucked into anyway, anxious to make a polite impression. The broth nearly burned her tongue but she didn’t complain. Instead, she took the time to get her bearings, sweeping her eyes across the crowd. She watched closely, picking up tips about the foreign social dynamic.
It wasn’t long before she figured out that those guest who sat at Monger’s table were those of particularly high rank…and all of them were Demons.
As she put that last bit of information together, she realized that she wasn’t just sitting next to Monger: on her other side…was another Demon.
For obvious reasons, I can’t personally attest to this, but I’ve heard tell (from Nelle and others) that there is no feeling in the world as unsettling as sitting between two Demons.
A creeping shiver crept into her body. Slowly, she turned her head to stare at the creature on her left for the first time.
It was a woman. A beautiful woman. Her graceful turquoise gown left the flawless skin of her shoulder bare beneath a tumble of perfect ebony hair. The cut of the dress advertised her breasts shamelessly, but left just enough modesty intact to leave some freedom to the imagination. When she looked at Nelle, her eyes were an unwavering crystal blue. There was an inexplicable draw to her, a pull that tugged at Nelle’s shoulders like a magnet.
Nelle had seen this archetype of devil only once before: she was one of the greater Demons. A Succubus — an ensnarer of men.
“It is proper,” the Demoness whispered to Nelle. “To wait for the soup to cool to room temperature before partaking.” Even in her distain, the she had a voice like the roll of honey over bread. Imperious, irresistible, so innately carnal that even a remark about soup sounded sensual.
Nelle flushed. Looking around, she realized that no one else had even looked at their bowls yet. The guests seemed to be ignoring the soup completely in favor of resuming their petty chatter with each other.
“Um…” she stammered, feeling heat rising in her neck. “I’m s-sorry, I didn’t—”
“You are not of the court,” the Succubus stated, her sharp eyes raking Nelle up and down. “You have no training in propriety. You are of low birth.” She was listing these things as observations, criticisms, like she was explaining to Nelle why the boy down the street was refusing to pay attention to her.
Nelle dropped her eyes. Not out of respect, deference, or even shame — but to make sure the Demoness could not see the Majiski shape of her pupils. “Yes.”
“Why are you here, then…” the Succubus mused.
“She is with me,” the Baron’s resonating voice announced over Nelle’s shoulder. “Be about your business, Kestra. She is mine.”
The Succubus, Kestra, pierced Nelle with her eyes once more before turning her back on her.
“Don’t mind her,” Monger murmured to Nelle. “She is jealous. Her pride has been stung ever since she failed to charm me after I cast her aside.”
Nelle picked up on the obvious implication — Kestra had been another of Monger’s conquests. She wasn’t sure how to respond. Perhaps now was a good time to change gears — best, she thought, to stay in character.
“I’m sorry about the soup.” She gave an easy shrug, pitching her voice in such a way that she sounded faintly contrite, but also flippant, as though the rules of the court were beneath her. “I’ve never been to a party like this before.”
Monger shook his head magnanimously. “No trouble, my darling.”
Nelle frowned down at the bowl of unpleasant broth, again unsure as to how to proceed.
“So,” Monger said as he blew away the remaining heat from his first spoonful. “How did you fare this evening? Before I arrived downstairs.”
She shrugged again. “I don’t really know anyone. But Brahn introduced me to some of his friends.” She jerked her chin toward the table where Brahn sat with his friends on the other end of the room. “Those three. Hurst and Sumner. And the Ritter Musgrave’s wife.”
“Ahh…” Monger said. “Esma. A rare woman, that one. Remarkable hips. Can’t stand her out of the bedroom, though. That voice of hers just murders my ears.”
The Baron spoke of this like he was talking about yesterday’s leftovers. This wasn’t at all the way romance was supposed to be, the way it was described by Basti and other poets. Wasn’t the man supposed to be all gentlemanly as he tried to win the girl’s heart? Why in God’s name was Monger talking to her about the other women he’d been sleeping with? Was he trying to impress her, somehow?
It occurred to Nelle that the axiom all men are fools extended to Demons as well. In fact, out of any species, Racath seemed to be the only exception.
“So what do you think of our little peerage?” Monger asked when she did not reply. “Now that you’ve seen some of the best and worst of us?”
Nelle bobbed her chin noncommittally. “Well enough, I suppose. The gossip seems a bit…” she rubbed her fingers together like she was looking for a word. “Tawdry?”
Monger raised his red eyebrows at her. “You think so?”
“It just seems so needless,” Nelle said, letting condescension slip into her voice. “Needless and rather petty.”
“Oh, I disagree!” the Baron said conversationally as the servants removed the half-finished bowls
of soup and replaced them with fresh garden salads. “The gossip is the lifeblood of the nobility. We thrive on it. It is a tool, a means of communication and surveillance. And that is the purpose of these parties: to facilitate the implementation of that tool.”
In all honesty, Nelle couldn’t have given piss about the sordid workings of the rumor-mill, but she couldn’t see any better way to hold the Baron’s attention than to let him ramble. So she pretended to care. “What do you mean, My Lord?”
“It’s all a game, you see,” Monger explained, tucking into his salad. “The affairs, the gossip, the socialization of the court. It’s all a game. And power is the prize. Take me, for example. I control a sizable estate and have a good standing within the lesser Demonic gentry. But even so, there are those who do not wish me well. People of the court who wish to destabilize me, whether for spite or for personal gain.”
There was something strange in Monger’s red eyes. Nelle wondered who could possibly have the gall to try to undermine a member of the lesser Demonic gentry. But then again, while Monger’s peers were just lower Demonic nobility and sycophantic Humans…Tayran’s peers controlled the entire Dominion.
Were the other false gods of the Mnogo Pantheon out for Tayran’s blood? Maybe he wasn’t well-liked among the Mnogo. Maybe this whole façade of the Baron Monger wasn’t so vain after all — maybe it was bid to gain the support of the lesser gentries in an effort to protect himself from the others of the Nineteen.
“And so,” Monger continued, perfectly content to keep talking about himself. “In order to survive in the court, I must cultivate allies, surround myself with powerful peers, and scope out those who would wish me ill. A party such as this is an investment of sorts, an expense through which I can play the game. Some of my guests — those seeking my support or wish to join their interests with mine — come to these events to enjoy my hospitality, curry my favor, and exchange pleasantries. By ingratiating them, humoring them, and providing them with an enjoyable evening, I earn myself allies that can support me in times of need.”
“And the others?” Nelle inquired.
Monger smirked. “The others come because social obligation mandates that they accept an invitation offered to them by one of their betters. Under the shield of etiquette, however, they detest me. Through careful observation, I can deduce which of the guests here fall into such a category.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the main course. Plates and platters overflowing with beef, pheasant, and suckling pig. A thousand smaller side dishes were placed around the table by the hustling servants. The nobles began to eat with fervor, digging into the delicate meats. Nelle filled her plate as well. The pheasant was over-sauced and the beef was too rare.
“So what role does gossip play in all this?” Nelle asked to get the conversation moving again.
“Ahh, yes….” Monger dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “The gossip serves to further my assessments of my guests. The gossip tells me which of my guests are enjoying themselves, which of them have weaknesses in their estates, businesses, and personal-lives. This allows me the ability to offer aid to those I wish to ingratiate, manipulate anyone who wouldn’t aid me willingly, and blackmail or threaten those who would stand against me.”
Monger continued for quite some time to talk about the intricacies of the court. He boasted about the magnitude and power of his estate, and Nelle was careful to compliment him on every point of pride. He explained how everything was merely part of the game of power — to win the game, one had to amass power, maintain power, defend power, and wield power. Money, Monger told her, was meaningless. He had plenty of money. But power was always a resource worth pursuing.
It made her stomach tense. And as dessert began and a dozen jesters in colorful mollies danced out onto the floor, she couldn’t help but feel like she was missing something. Like there was something more about this whole thing — Territh Umbra, the persona of Baron Monger that Tayran had adopted, the parties, the social games — than just ego.
Oh, the ego was definitely there, and with each vain word that came out of Monger’s lips, Nelle hated him even more. But…there was more to it than that. Something darker. Something more complicated.
——
“It’s time,” Notak announced.
Alexis and Toren, now dressed in their Shadows, joined him at the darkened window of the ship’s cabin.
“You think it’s dark enough?” Toren asked, squinting through the glass.
Notak nodded. “It is nearly six-o’-clock by my estimate. I have not seen any more guests arrive for twenty minutes now. We should get to work before it gets any later. Alexis, are you ready?”
Alexis felt a shiver of nervous energy run down her back. “Yeah,” she said, but her voice was shaking. “Ready.”
Both the Elf and Toren looked at her.
“You okay?” Toren inquired concernedly.
“Yeah,” Alexis said unconvincingly. “I’m good.”
“You’re lying. What’s wrong?”
Alexis frowned, shifted on her feet. “I’m still not used to the idea of field missions yet…” she murmured. “I’m just a little skittish.”
Notak nodded impassively. “It does take getting used to. You will be fine. Do not let the nervousness affect your concentration.”
“Easier said than done.”
Toren slipped an arm around her. It was only then that Alexis realized just how tense the muscles in her shoulders were. She forced them to relax, allowing herself to nestle into Toren’s one-armed hug. She fit snuggly beneath his embrace. He was very warm.
“It’ll be fine,” Toren assured her. “We’ve got your back. If you run into trouble, just yell and I’ll come running.”
“Okay…” Alexis took another shaky breath. “Thank you.”
“We need to get to work,” Notak told them. “Are you sure you are ready?”
Toren squeezed Alexis once, and then released her. Alexis sucked in a breath of air. Held it. Nodded.
Notak moved to stand directly in front of her. “Brace yourself,” he instructed.
He raised both hands to her, narrowed his eyes, and leaned forward. A ripple of energy emanated from Notak’s body, projecting outward onto Alexis. The energy encased her, enveloped her, wrapping her in itself inch by inch. When the ripple settled, Alexis was gone. She looked down at where her own hand should have been and saw nothing but air.
A nervous laugh burbled out of her in spite of herself. “Amazing…” she whispered. “Pure fauling magic….”
“That’s incredible,” Toren gasped, staring at the place where Alexis had been standing only a moment before. “What’s it feel like, Alexis?”
Alexis shrugged invisibly. “It’s…weird…kind of cold and slippery. Like being under water.”
There was a pause. Toren frowned confusedly as he looked around the room. “Alexis?”
“I’m right here,” she answered, as though it should be obvious.
Toren looked at Notak. “Where did she—?”
“She is still there,” Notak told him. “The Shroud is a peculiar illusion. It is a form of Shadowmancy — something that I have only a superficial understanding of. The light is not bending around her or even passing through her — the dark energies are merely preventing the light from affecting her in any way. It also muffles sound and body heat. She can hear us, but we cannot hear her.”
“Damn,” Toren murmured admiringly. “That would have been useful on any number of occasions….”
“Quiet, please,” Notak directed, closing his eyes. “The Shroud is difficult to maintain and I must concentrate. Alexis, you may proceed.”
Alexis did so. She ran a check of her belt pouches to make sure she had everything she needed. Breathing deep, she visualized the act of shunting her nervousness to the back of her head. Gradually, the shaking in her hands slowed. It didn’t stop, but she couldn’t ask for much more.
She left the cabin before the anxiety
had a chance to return. It was only when she nearly tripped on her way down the gangplank that she discovered just how tricky it was to walk without the ability to see your own body.
The three Navy corvettes were docked at the westward end of the harbor, bobbing in place like a trio of twenty-foot buoys. Alexis moved soundlessly down the pier towards them, ducking behind crates to avoid the occasional Arkûl guard wandering nearby.
After a few minutes, she reached the first ship. Standing on the edge of the pier, she contemplated the distance between the dock and the railing of the boat six feet above her. For a Majiski, it would have been an easy jump to perform…but the rocking of the boat and the necessity of a quiet landing made things more difficult. She’d have to compensate. Alexis bit her lip, crouched, and leapt.
She caught the railing and flipped over it, landing silently on the deck. But before the smirk of satisfaction could reach her lips, she saw an Arkûl sitting on a pile of rope by the opposite railing — staring directly at her.
Alexis froze, mortified. But the Arkûl did not react. It was looking straight into her eyes, but it did not see her. It just looked bored, tired, idly munching on a carrot stick as it rested in its seat. The Shroud was working. Alexis let out a sigh of relief and surveyed the deck. Two pairs of ballista emplacements sat on pivoting bases along the port and starboard rails. That was her first target; Alexis left the Arkûl to its carrot.
She went to the first ballista and began to search for a means to tamper with the engineering. But before she could find a mechanical weakness, something else — something much more interesting — caught her eye: rotendry. There were rotendrial runes etched into both the firing mechanism, and the bolt that rested in the slot. The bolt itself was thick and long, its head covered in a sticky, tarlike concoction.
Alexis read the runes carefully — from what she could see, the magic would activate when the weapon was fired, and the syrupy coating on the bolt would then burst into flame. The second set of runes would then activate after the bolt made impact, causing the bolt to explode.