NIghtbird (Empire of Masks Book 2)

by Brock Deskins

  Rastus clapped his fellow city leader on the shoulder. “Nonsense. I took no offense. It is a grand event. Congratulations on Trina’s graduation. I hear she is going to make an exceptional pilot.”

  “Yes, Vulcrad’s first since the cataclysm! Who would have thought this old iron banger would have produced someone with that kind of talent?”

  “It is not as great as Bertram’s accomplishments,” Safia cut in, “but we are very proud.”

  “As well you both should be. Even Velaroth found only a single suitable pilot in this class’ batch, and I hear he made it by the skin of his teeth.”

  Zibaran replied, “It is not as though such an imbalance is unexpected. Nibbenar has always boasted the most numerous and most talented pilots and arcanists.”

  “Nonsense,” Esmerelda interjected. “Our pilots and arcanists are what enable us to compete with your materials and manufacturing, Rastus’ powder and access to shimmersilk, and Glisteran’s stranglehold on our food supply. It is not an imbalance but quite the opposite. It helps us all be friends.”

  A shrill voice cut through the group as a rotund woman sidled up to them. “What’s going on here? Is something exciting afoot?” Krysten asked.

  Esmerelda gave the cow-eyed, corpulent duchess of Glisteran a dismissive glance. “Just politics, dear. I am sure you will find something of far more interest at the dessert table. I think I just saw some servers bring out a cake.”

  Krysten stood on her tiptoes and tried to peer over the heads of the crowd. “Really? I just left the dessert table.”

  “Likely the reason for the fresh cake,” Esmerelda replied, with a waspish smile.

  “We were just talking about our graduates, Krysten,” Rastus said, stifling his grin. “How are things in Glisteran?”

  “Glisteran is still an oasis. It saddens me when I see how desolate almost everything else has become. I could not imagine living in a city where I could not look out over the walls and see something other than an endless sea of red sand and stone.”

  “It is a harsh life but we manage,” Rastus replied.

  “Yes, I see the land’s brutality in the grizzled faces of the people.” Krysten looked pointedly at Esmerelda, “But Glisteran is not without trials of her own. A terrible pest has infested our goldenberry field this year and I fear we may not be able to get shipments of them out to everyone. I am so sorry, Esmerelda. I do know how you love them and I will do my best to see that you get what you deserve.” She swiveled her head toward the dessert table before Esmerelda could reply. “Oh, they did bring out another cake.”

  Esmerelda glared daggers at the woman’s back as she waddled away. “Did you hear the direct threat that fat, manipulative bitch just laid at my feet?”

  “I don’t think she intended any threat, Esmerelda,” Rastus assured her.

  Zibaran chortled, “I fear the same assurances cannot be made to that cake, however.”

  Safia slapped her husband’s arm. “You are awful. Krysten is a sweet woman.”

  “Given her diet, she would have to be,” Zibaran retorted.

  “It is a good thing she is as stupid as she is fat, otherwise I would have to give her threat some credence,” Esmerelda said.

  Rastus blew out a long breath. “Well, this conversation has taken a dark turn.”

  Zibaran nodded. “Indeed it has. Come, it is time for you to toast your nephew. I have a gift for the honor graduate.”

  “As do I,” Esmerelda added.

  Rastus crinkled his brow in a curious look and climbed the few steps to stand on the orchestra’s dais. Raising his glass, Rastus tapped the side of it with the ornate dagger he wore on his hip.

  “Bertram, son, please join me on the stage.”

  Bertram cast Lysse a smile as she pushed him toward the dais to stand next to his uncle. The two did, at least to appearances, make a nice couple. Both were attractive, blonde, and possessed an air of superior ability and status. While standing just five-foot-eight, in boots, Bertram carried himself like a man a full head taller than he was.

  Rastus turned his gaze from his nephew back to the assembled guests. “I call Bertram son because that is what he is to me. I am as proud to be his uncle as any father could be of his son. Because of his drive for personal excellence, Bertram is this class’ honor graduate, and as is customary, we have some gifts to bestow upon him.”

  Rastus took a step back and nodded to Esmerelda. The Duchess of Nibbenar motioned to a servant who strode forward and gave to her a polished wooden box inlaid with gold in the design of House Velarius’ crest. Flipping the silver clasp, Esmerelda raised the lid to reveal a stunning pistol resting in the padded interior.

  “Bertram,” Esmerelda said, “I thought long and hard on how I could give you a gift rivaling that of my beautiful daughter.”

  Bertram reached into the box and lifted out the pistol. He stroked the polished handle and marveled at the gold filigree inlaid into the barrel. His eyes widened when he noted that instead of a flint hammer and striker, it used a small piece of mage glass to directly ignite the powder inside the barrel as opposed to requiring a flash pan and frizzen.

  “As a gentleman, I am obligated to say that you failed,” Bertram replied. “It is magnificent. Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Lysse gave him a playful punch on the shoulder.

  Esmerelda’s lips curled up into a smile below her half mask. “Well said, Bertram.”

  Bertram slipped the beautiful pistol into the red sash wrapped around the waist of his blue naval dress uniform and passed the ornate case to a nearby servant as Zibaran Cienne stepped forward to bestow his gift.

  While paying tribute to the honor graduate was customary, the lavishness of the gifts presented to Bertram was not. With Rastus being childless and unlikely to produce an heir before stepping down or dying, it was no secret that Bertram stood to become the next duke of Velaroth.

  Even though his ascension was likely decades away, barring any unfortunate events like illness or assassination, as happened to Rastus’ older brother some seventeen years ago, Bertram was also first in line to be nominated as commander of the fleet when the position became available. Commander of the Fleet was a rank considered by most to be second only to that of a city ruler, and their favor was highly sought after.

  Zibaran held out a sheathed rapier. Plated in gold, the hilt resembled an airship, and the basket flowed around the hand in an artistic rendering of its shimmersilk sails. Gasps rippled through the gathered onlookers when Bertram drew the sword from its sheath and revealed the black void-steel blade.

  “It is incredible, Your Grace. I cannot imagine what I have done to deserve such beautiful gifts.”

  “I think I speak for all my regents when I say that we want you to know that you have a much larger family than you might realize even though your mother is unable to be here with us.”

  Someone shouted from the crowd, his voice quivering with laughter, “Or his father, whoever that may be.”

  Bertram’s face went slack and became colder and more emotionless than the porcelain mask covering it as he turned to find the speaker. Several people in the crowd gasped and murmured at the outrageous comment. A few tried to alleviate the tension by adding their nervous chuckles.

  Lysse grabbed Bertram’s arm in both hands. “Ignore him.” She turned, her eyes boring into the speaker, and announced, “Everyone knows the only thing Gilbert holds more poorly than a woman is his liquor.”

  The crowd laughed, partly from the jest but mostly in hopes of defusing a potentially deadly confrontation.

  Bertram relented to Lysse’s urging, buckled on his new sword, and handed his dress sword to an attendant. “Thank you again, Your Grace.” He ducked his head at Esmerelda. “Both of you.”

  Confusing the crowd’s laughter for encouragement, Gilbert chose not to let the issue drop. “Oh, wait, maybe Bertram’s father is here. Has anyone else noticed that Bertie bears a profound resemblance to the wine steward?”

  Rastu
s’ face burned red and he was about to order the young, obviously inebriated, upstart removed from the grounds, but Bertram was already in motion. Gilbert’s laughter died on his lips when Bertram hopped from the dais, strode up before him, and doffed his mask.

  “Remove your mask,” Bertram ordered, his voice as cold as death.

  Gilbert’s throat undulated as if going into a convulsion. “Bertram, I apologize. I fear I have imbibed too much spirits and it went to my head. Please forgive me.”

  Darynn Vanos took a step forward and attempted to intercede on behalf of his inebriated friend. “Bertram, ignore him. He’s drunk and stupid.”

  Darynn was the son of Farelle Vanos who was the titular head of Little Thuum, a section of Velaroth carved out for the Thuumian refugees who arrived after their city was destroyed in the cataclysm. Darynn’s Thuumian heritage was easily discernible by his tan skin and black tribal markings favored by those Thuum who sought a closer connection to their ancestral ties. He was slightly taller than average for his people, a result of his mother being from Nibbenar.

  Bertram chose to ignore Darynn instead and pulled the pistol from his sash, cocked the hammer, and pointed it at Gilbert’s head. Looking over his shoulder he asked, “Your Grace, is this thing loaded?”

  “Of course it is, otherwise it would be just a very pretty club,” Esmerelda replied with a touch of amusement.

  Gilbert held his hands up near his shoulders. “Bertram, please, I am sorry. I misspoke.”

  “What precisely did you misspeak? Was it when you affirmed me a bastard or when you implied that my mother was a whore who bedded servants?”

  Gilbert could feel the sweat gathering in his mask and trickling down his face. He had good reason to be afraid. A nobleman removing his mask was a clear demand to a duel, a required action when challenging a fellow nobleman or person of rank.

  Bertram was one of the most notable duelists in the naval academy’s history, having participated in no less than eight such contests in his ten-year attendance. His first duel was shortly after he began his prestigious education at age nine. An older classman insulted him in much the same way Gilbert just had.

  Dueling to the death was against the rules until both challengers were considered of age. Bertram’s first duel left him with a scar on his left cheek and marked his only defeat. In his rematch six months later, he took the offending boy’s right eye. Since then, he had engaged in seven more such contests and left three young men dead in his wake.

  “Remove your mask or label yourself a coward and forever sully your family name.”

  Gilbert reached up with a shaking hand and lowered the mask from his face.

  “Swords or pistols?” Bertram asked.

  Since Bertram was the one issuing the challenge, Gilbert was allowed the choice of weapons. “Swords, and since you refused my sincere apology, I am allowed to set the standard of satisfaction.”

  A cold smile crawled across Bertram’s face. “There is no need to inform me. I am confident that I am the more knowledgeable of us when it comes to dueling etiquette. Name your standard.”

  Gilbert set his jaw and tried to appear brave. “First blood.”

  Bertram’s arm snapped up, removing the pistol’s gaping maw from Gilbert’s face. “The challenge has been made and the terms accepted. Let us converge to the garden. I do not wish to be discourteous by spilling blood on the ballroom floor for the servants to clean up. After all, one of them might be my father.”

  As the crowd shuffled from the ballroom to the garden, Gilbert’s mother, Adele, rushed to the dais. “Your Grace, please put a stop to this!”

  Rastus’ voice held not a trace of pity for the woman or her son. “Gilbert is a man, and men must accept the consequences of their actions and words.”

  Adele turned to Esmerelda. “Cousin, please, surely you can intervene?”

  Esmerelda turned down the corners of her lips and shrugged. “I suppose I could, but I won’t. He was beyond rude and insulted not just the guest of honor but our host as well.”

  Zibaran laid a hand on the concerned woman’s back and guided her toward the doors leading to the garden. “Come, it is only to first blood. Gilbert will get a nasty scratch, apologize once again, and that will be the end of it.”

  Adele clenched her fists near her face and allowed the duke to usher her to the garden. Bertram was what many considered the shining example of nobility. His high cheekbones and perfect jawline earned him the attention of almost every woman who laid eyes on him. However, he also had a reputation. He was confident to the point of arrogance, often excessively so, and was not one to forgive easily if at all.

  Torches cast a large section of the garden in flickering orange light. Bertram strode into the dueling area with a confident swagger, swiping his new sword in front of him to get the feel of its weight and balance.

  Bertram grinned at his opponent who failed to show anything close to his enthusiasm. “Relax, Gilbert. Perhaps my unfamiliarity with my new blade will compensate for your inebriation and terrible sword skill.”

  Gilbert scowled, no longer feeling the least bit intoxicated. “Somehow, I doubt it.”

  “So do I, but it seemed like a polite thing to say.”

  “That explains why you failed so miserably. Politeness never has been your forte.”

  “Nonsense. People just confuse honesty with rudeness. I cannot be blamed for their failures and inadequacies. I simply point them out.”

  Gilbert drew his rapier. “Unless you want to accept my apology, let us get on with this.”

  Bertram brought his blade up in a loose, almost sloppy, guard position. “Your blood shall be the only thing I accept from you.”

  Gilbert advanced with wary steps as if approaching a dune drake. Despite Bertram’s nonchalant guard, he deflected Gilbert’s sudden flurry of thrusts and swipes with ease. The moment his attack relented, Bertram surged forward with a vicious counterattack.

  Gilbert felt several tugs against his clothing and watched one of his gold buttons fly off into the darkness. He retreated with swift steps and raised his arms over his head. “Strike! I have been struck and yield to my opponent’s superior skill.”

  Bertram wagged his head while mimicking the motion with his blade. “Look closely, Gilbert. You are not bleeding yet.”

  Gilbert fingered the half-dozen cuts in his dress uniform but found not a single drop of blood. Licking his lips and trying to swallow the lump in his throat, he stormed forward and met Bertram back in the center of the dueling area.

  “Why don’t you just end this already?” Gilbert demanded.

  Bertram gave him a tight smile. “Because I want to humiliate you first just like you did me. Only then will I end you.”

  Gilbert’s jaw fell slack and he took a step back, eyes wide. “You agreed to the terms of satisfaction. You cannot kill me!”

  Bertram cocked his head to one side. “Can’t I?” He rushed forward in an attack, opening several more rifts in Gilbert’s uniform and relieving him of two more buttons.

  Gilbert retreated until his back met the crowd. “Hit! Another hit! I yield!”

  “Still not bleeding, Gilbert,” Bertram crooned.

  Gilbert’s eyes were wide and shifted frantically in their sockets. “He means to kill me in violation of the terms! I yield!” he cried, and tossed down his rapier.

  Bertram sighed and rolled his eyes. “Don’t be boring, Gilbert. I find it worse than being rude.”

  “I am done. I yield. Draw your blood if you must, but I will no longer fight you.”

  “It was hardly a fight, Gilbert.”

  Bertram’s slender blade darted forward faster than the eye could track and sank precisely three inches into Gilbert’s chest to sever the aorta. The stricken man’s mouth gaped open and worked up and down, but the only sound was that of the crowd’s murmuring and Adele’s wailing.

  Bertram wiped his blade clean on the tattered remains of Gilbert’s uniform coat before sheathing it. “Now G
ilbert is bleeding. The terms have been met, and I accept his apology.”

  “Murderer!” Adele screamed as she rushed to her stricken son’s side. “You killed him! It was a duel to first blood!”

  “Yes, and that is the first blood I spilled, as the rules clearly state,” Bertram answered without emotion.

  Adele lurched to her feet, her eyes blazing grief and hatred from behind her mask. “You mock the rules of order and chivalry! You know precisely what first blood means, but you hide behind literals and ambiguity like a monster and coward.”

  “If I have unfairly slighted you or your family, you are well within your right to remove your mask and demand satisfaction.” He stared at Adele’s trembling form standing before him for a moment before turning and walking away. “I thought not. I would not find him worth it either.”

  The slain young man’s mother stood in shocked silence, her mouth agape as her fury rolled off her like heat from a discharged musket barrel. Bertram strode back into the ballroom with an air of triumph in his step.

  Farelle Vanos intercepted him not far inside the room. Farelle was shorter than his son, bearing a stature more in line with most of his people, but he exuded confidence and strength. He was Bertram’s uncle’s age. His half mask revealed a short-cropped black beard spattered with grey, but unlike much of the younger generation, he chose to eschew the traditional facial tattoos.

  “Bertram,” Farelle called out as he approached, a glass of whiskey, clearly only the latest of many, held in his left hand.

  Bertram frowned as he ducked his head. “Sah Farelle. Come to chastise me as well?”

  Farelle laid his free hand on the duelist’s shoulder. “Absolutely not. You gave him precisely what he deserved. No man should accept such disrespect to his bloodline, particularly in such a public setting. It is what a true Thuumian would do. I only wish my son possessed such a sense of honor. Sadly, he has too much of his mother in him.”

  “It was murder, not honor, Father! There was no honor in what Bertram did,” Darynn said as he stormed up to the two men.

  Farelle turned to his son. “His actions warranted a duel, a duel he lost.”