by Paul Dale
Penbury felt his heart quicken. “Very good. Are the reds ready?”
“They have been opened and breathing for an hour, sir.”
Of course they had. Chidwick had been doing this for decades.
“I’ll be right out.”
Chidwick made his exit and Penbury readied himself. It was unlike him to be so nervous. Taking a key from his waistcoat, he went to the door of the antechamber that abutted his study and let himself in. Lady Deathwing was where he had left her, at the window, staring over the gardens. For a God’s Dust addict, she was looking remarkably healthy. And human. She hadn’t assumed any of her more dragon-like forms for over two years. As far as she was concerned, she was a woman like any other. A good looking woman at that; there was still something regal about her. Her features remained precise even if her eyes had lost their fire. God’s Dust had seen to that. Her appetite for the drug had not lessened and she consumed it in quantities that would have killed a mortal man, either through heart attack or starvation, for once God’s Dust got a strong enough grip, even eating was uninteresting. Outwardly then, she was fine. Otherwise, she was a loon. Penbury hoped Lord Deathwing wouldn’t be too upset.
Ever since the ‘itsy bitsy spider’ at dinner when he had first introduced her to the drug, she had developed a thing for insects, arachnids, and small, cute, furry animals. Every time she saw a butterfly, she squeaked with delight, which was often, as Penbury’s garden attracted a host of butterflies, bees, spiders and, unfortunately, aphids and other pests—even the odd rabbit, which Penbury normally enjoyed as a loin with greens if caught.
She looked over at him briefly when he entered and then returned to her butterfly watch.
“My lady,” said Penbury, stopping short of the window seat Lady Deathwing was sitting on. “Would you care to join me for lunch? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“Can I have those macaroons? The nice ones?” asked Lady Deathwing, without diverting her attention from the garden. “Oh! A butterfly!”
Penbury looked to where she was pointing as a Royal Wingtip landed on a peony.
“I’ve had some specially made. The pink ones, with extra filling as you like.”
Lady Deathwing sprang to her feet and clapped her hands. “Lovely!”
She took Penbury by the arm and let herself be led out. Lord Deathwing had already been seated when they got to the dining room. Penbury’s nerves made his palms sweat and he dabbed them on his trousers. Next to Deathwing was a young woman, who Penbury assumed was Griselda. She was attractive, in an obvious kind of way. Penbury’s taste in many things was for the more refined and unusual, and in Griselda’s case, he found her pretty but not beautiful. All the bits were nice enough, but there was nothing of real interest. Perhaps too perfect in her figure and blonde hair. Artists who Penbury much admired, had, in recent years, taken to painting portraits of the fuller woman with quirky features, like a dimpled chin, or even a double chin, and strangely alluring folds of fat in their nudity.
At first, there was no reaction from Lord Deathwing at their entry. Then he rose from his chair, as any gentleman would when a lady entered the room, his face remaining impassive. Penbury led Lord Deathwing’s wife to her husband. Griselda remained seated and looked on with clear curiosity.
“My lady, I’d like you to meet an old friend of yours. You may not remember, but you’ve known each other for … years.”
“Old friend?” whispered Lord Deathwing, and then more loudly, “My lady.”
Lady Deathwing regarded him with a puzzled look. “I do remember you. You’re my husband!”
She launched herself at Lord Deathwing, who staggered back under her weight, which seemed odd considering her slender frame. She then proceeded to cover his face in kisses. “Where have you been?” she managed, when she eventually grew tired of the kissing. “Oh, a fly!”
A fly had indeed buzzed into the room and alighted on an apple in the fruit bowl on a side table. Lady Deathwing went over and put her nose to it and it flew off. She then chased it around the table.
“Is she always like this?” asked Lord Deathwing.
“I’m afraid so,” said Penbury. “At least she remembered you.”
Lord Deathwing shot a glance his way that would have split a lesser man in two. As it was, Penbury thought he was going to have a coronary.
“She’s crazy,” said Griselda. “Must be to be married to you, I suppose.”
“Penbury,” said Lord Deathwing. “Griselda. Griselda, Chancellor Penbury. I’m sure you’ll get on famously.”
“Why?” asked Griselda. She reached for her wine glass and took a sip of the white it held. It was as dry as a trade agreement and had been selected specially by Penbury to go both with the opening and fish course, a feat which few could manage when the first course was an endive salad followed by a bouillabaisse. “Very nice.”
“Because the Chancellor’s love of vulgarity is so well-known, and you have so much of it to offer.”
“We should eat,” said Penbury. Food was always a peacemaker, and the food at his table could not be matched.
“Given what you did to her,” said Lord Deathwing, indicating his wife, “I’m not sure I can trust anything you feed me.”
“Understandable, but I’m going to eat. Chidwick, bring in the first course, please.”
“Good. I’m starving,” said Griselda.
The fly by now had made its escape. Lord Deathwing had managed to accost his wife and guide her to the seat next to his, where there was a plate of pink macaroons. Lady Deathwing clapped her hands at the sight of them, sat herself down, and plucked one from the plate. “My favourite!” she managed between mouthfuls.
“They do look good,” said Griselda, and she reached across to take one.
Lord Deathwing’s hand shot out and gripped Griselda’s firmly. “I wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Why do you think? Because you have to eat your greens first.”
Griselda looked at Deathwing as though he were as nuts as his wife. “You’re joking.”
“Because,” said Penbury, from where he had sat himself at the head of the table between the two warring parties, “you would enjoy them far too much. If you get my drift.”
“Oh,” said Griselda. “You mean I’d become like her?” She made a twirling motion with a finger. “You know, barking mad.”
“Manners, Griselda,” said Lord Deathwing.
Griselda’s mouth snapped closed and Penbury could see the fury raging as her body tensed and went rigid.
“Ah, that’s so much better,” said Lord Deathwing. “I don’t envy you, Chancellor. The gods know what my son sees in her.”
*****
The rest of lunch had gone well enough. Lord Deathwing had let his grip of Griselda go when she had nodded her assent to behave. Then, when the first thing she had said was, ‘Fuck you,’ he had clamped her mouth shut again until the cheese board had arrived. Lady Deathwing had nibbled her way through a dozen macaroons and then nodded off, leaving the Chancellor and Lord Deathwing to make their way through the lunch at a leisurely pace, filling the time with small-talk. Among the chit-chat, they covered the importance of a good sauce, what grows well in an acid soil, and the impending invasion of the Dark Lord Morden and his orc host. Penbury had rather enjoyed himself.
That afternoon, Griselda had settled herself into her room, with what, by her standards (as far as Lord Deathwing had indicated), was relatively little fuss. By way of easing her back into normal society, Penbury had arranged a trip to the theatre that evening, and Griselda had acquiesced.
And so, that evening, Penbury was in his personal carriage with a well-turned-out Griselda sitting opposite, heading for the theatre. It was a pleasure that ranked almost as highly as food in Penbury’s list of life’s pleasures. As well as a pleasant climate, excellent food and wine, an aesthetic about the buildings that spoke of hot summers, and the bustle of vibrant commerce, Firena was also blessed with a t
heatrical tradition unequalled in the civilised world. While he occasionally attended a concert, and even less frequently the opera—he was not a fan, having an ear that gave him migraines when subjected to soprano—the theatre was what drew him on a warm evening.
Firena boasted three theatres that housed playwrights and the troops of performers to bring their works to life. They were in constant and fierce competition for the theatre-going public and this competition had pushed them to new heights when it came to the plays and acting. Another fine example, Penbury thought, of market forces at work. Healthy competition driving progress for the benefit of all. With such competition, it meant ticket prices were more than reasonable and the theatres packed them in at the low end. In Penbury’s mind, this was good; there were far too many snooty aristocrats as it was.
He was looking forward to this evening’s performance, a comedy called The Lady and Her Fool. While Penbury had never been a romantic, he did have a soft spot for the romantic comedy. It wasn’t complex, or challenging. It required none of his mental faculties to enjoy. He could sit and watch, indulge in decadently covered honey corn, wash that away with a bottle of Rosé D’Altana, and laugh along with the audience as boy meets girl, loses girl, and so on. For two hours, he could leave business behind and enjoy life in a pure and immediate way that could hardly be matched.
Tonight’s performance was in the Firena amphitheatre, a legacy of an empire long gone, that had been renovated in recent years gratis an anonymous benefactor. Penbury thought it money well spent to see the weeds between the stones removed, the masonry re-pointed, and a brand new stage put in, made from imported oak that was hard to come by in these southern climes. The amphitheatre had such good acoustics that not only allowed the actors to project without having to bellow, as they did in other theatres, but also resonated well with the crowd in their reactions to the events on stage, whether it be cries of laughter at the crude slapstick, or wails when a tragic hero met his end before being able to consummate the love he had so fervently pursued. As a generally private man, the theatre offered Penbury an opportunity to be part of this collective experience he rarely shared. It was not unknown for him to laugh out loud at some crude innuendo, or wipe an eye with the rest as an unfortunate end was met at dagger point, or in a poisoned draught.
Naturally, Chidwick was ever present, despite Penbury’s assurances he would be fine for an evening. Penbury suspected, under his outwardly stoic countenance, Chidwick enjoyed the performances as much as he did, when he wasn’t keeping a careful eye on those around; theatre assassinations had come into vogue in recent times as means of forcing political goals. It was real life imitating art in the place of its performance given the level of backstabbing, double dealing and death acted out on stage.
It being election time for the city’s council, there was a good deal of electioneering of the more violent type going on in Firena. Not that Penbury thought he should be concerned. The elections had been his idea when democracy had first got a foothold a few years back. He’d been impressed with it then and decided Firena could do with democracy to keep the people happy and well away from the actual running of things.
But tonight, Firena politics could take a back seat; Penbury had bigger concerns. Griselda was looking out of the carriage window, enraptured with the city as it passed by. While familiar to Penbury, he reminded himself her experience of the world had been limited to a small village in the Western Marches and a Dark Lord’s fortress. Hardly civilisation at all. Firena must seem very different to her. It was a bustling city of commerce that grew ever more cosmopolitan by the year. It was wealthy and successful. The wealth was spent in many ways, the most overt being the large estates, townhouses, and public buildings put up by the philanthropist elite, such as Penbury himself.
They were travelling through the market sector, and it was still a hive of activity in the warm early evening. Bargains were to be had—but only if you were quick, if the hawkers and shopkeepers were to be believed. It had been a long time since Penbury had made his first sales. While his story was not one of rags to riches—his father was a wealthy merchant—it was one of early entrepreneurial zeal. He had been ten when he had set up a roaring trade in playground sweets. He had help, of course, from the street urchins, who would pass him the goods through holes in the school fence, to the muscle he hired to protect his business when the playground bullies got interested. It had not been dissimilar to Morden’s own achievements in his boarding school in Bindelburg. Penbury had gone on to be the wealthiest, most powerful financial leader in the western world and Morden had become a Dark Lord demagogue for the orcs. It was amusing how things turned out.
“How do you like Firena?” asked Penbury, strangely feeling the need to make conversation with his new house guest.
Griselda glanced his way. “I love it. It’s so … alive.”
“It is busy. Getting busier by the year. There’s not much you can’t get in Firena. It’s well situated, you see. Location is so important when it comes to trade. There’s a good harbour, access to the seas to both the east and west, and good overland routes to the interior. As good as you can get. It’s no accident it does so well.”
Griselda fixed him with a stare. Not one to hide her feelings, it was a stare that suggested Penbury was an idiot. He wondered how often Morden had been on the receiving end of it.
“Are you always this boring? I heard you had a reputation for having led an interesting life. When I say it’s alive, I mean it’s alive. Not dead. You wouldn’t understand.”
“You must forgive me,” said Penbury, “if I bore you. Please, do explain. In simple terms, so that I may grasp it.”
Griselda pinched her lips and her chin raised an inch. “Sarcastic bastard, aren’t you? We’re going to get on well. In case you didn’t know, Morden has become an undead Lich Lord. He reeks of death. He does his best to hide it, but it’s not so much a smell as a feeling. Like when you find a dog at the side of the road. Sure, it stinks, but there’s also that dead thing. And it’s not just Morden. Death is everywhere in that bloody fortress. It’s in the rock, it’s in the air, it’s everywhere … sorry, can’t help myself. I’m a poet, you know. Anyway, I used to think it was pretty cool. I did some of my best work in that first year. But after a while, it’s so depressing. Even for me. And I know about depression, I can tell you. I bet you’ve never been depressed about anything in your life. Well I have. How about finding out the first man you ever slept with was your brother? Not that I’m suggesting you sleep with men. You don’t, do you? I do. And I did. Then follow that up with your second boyfriend being a Dark Lord, who’s more interested in building fortresses, raising armies, and conquering the world than in you. That’s fucking depressing. So, yes, Firena is not an unpleasant change. I suppose I’d best make the most of it.”
Penbury’s mind was reeling. He had expected some kind of dread queen, not unlike Lady Deathwing. And instead he’d got … this. The vernacular, while not unfamiliar to him, was not something he often heard used so liberally. “Why is that?” he asked, unable to help himself.
“Because when Morden comes, this all goes to shit unless we can stop him.”
“You think we can?”
“Fuck yes. He’s an idiot for letting me go. He has no idea what he’s missing. Wait until you see what I have in my trunk.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, your ‘trunk’?” Penbury hoped it wasn’t what he thought she meant. The cruder pamphlets were full of this kind of reference. He was far too old for that kind of thing.
His thoughts must have betrayed him as Griselda gave him a lascivious smile. “Not that trunk. The trunk with my clothes and stuff. I’ll show you when we get back. It will be a surprise. I think you’ll like it. Now, what’s this play we’re going to see? I hope it’s well-written. If there’s something I can’t stand, it’s bad writing.”
“The Lady and Her Fool. Quite appropriate, from what you’ve been saying.”
Griselda laughed
. Unlike her language, it was a sweet laugh, though filled more with irony than joy.
“I’ve never been to a play before,” said Griselda. “I’m looking forward to it. Will there be snacks? I’m feeling hungry again.”
“Yes, there are very pleasant snacks. The caramelised macadamia nuts are especially good. As for the play, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. The playwright is very good. I’ve seen a number of his works, and this is his latest. I understand you are somewhat of an artist yourself. A wordsmith?”
“A poet. I’ve brought as much of my work as I could with me. Perhaps you’d like to read it?”
“Of course. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
Seemingly satisfied with his answer, Griselda went back to staring out the carriage window. Shortly after, the carriage came to a halt, and minutes later, Chidwick ushered them to the prime seats in the amphitheatre. Griselda was furnished with a bag of nuts, which she crunched through enthusiastically, and Penbury took a mellow glass of red in hand. There was an expectant buzz about the crowd that quietened as a man dressed in gold finery came onto the stage and silenced them with a bow. Rising, he turned and backed away to one side of the stage as two players came on. A man, a drunken lout by his looks, and a woman. Perhaps the hostess.
“I’ll fix you, I swear,” said the drunk.
“You thug! I’ll call for a pair of stocks!”
And so the play began. Not the greatest opening, thought Penbury, but he’d learnt to give a play a chance to develop. He was sure it would turn out well in the end.
*****
At first, Griselda had laughed with the rest of the audience. Penbury, himself, had managed a chuckle or two but the humour had been dampened as the play progressed and Griselda’s mood had changed for the worst. By the end, she was silently fuming. Given her fruity tongue, silent fuming was far better than the not-so-silent kind.
“You didn’t enjoy the play?” asked Penbury, once seated in the carriage and on the way back to his estate.