The Man in Shadow

by Taylor O'Connell

  Lady Camilla Talwater scoffed, but Sal felt a pang of satisfaction and ticked off a second tally in his mind's eye.

  "If a woman desired a position on the High Council, I should think she would deserve it were she capable and qualified," said Lady Edith Prescot. "Though, for my part, I would never wish it upon any woman. From my experience listening to the issues of state, I find I would be driven mad by the tediousness. Leave the rule to the men, I say."

  “Here, here,” called Lord Baldwyn Prescot, raising his wine cup and looking as though he felt vindicated by his wife’s comment.

  “Ah, but you err in your presumption, My Lady,” said Lord Hugo. “If the women of Dijvois only knew what we Councilmen discussed behind the closed chamber doors of the High Council meetings, why, they would all be clamoring for a seat, I assure you.”

  “Oh, and what might seven old men gossip about that would pique the interest of all the women in Dijvois?" asked Lady Gabriella.

  “What of the Commission, Lord Hugo?” Lord Baldwyn Prescot took a swig of his cup, a rivulet of red wine dribbled out the corner of his mouth and dripped from his chin to his shirt front. “You say we should disband the Guilds, but what of this secret Guild, this Guild of Thieves?”

  "The Commission?" said Marco with an uncertain smile.

  Lord Hugo nodded. “Yes, the Five Families, as well. I would disband them and any gang like them.”

  “You aren’t serious,” said Marco. “The Commission is a myth. A tale they tell to frighten children.”

  “A ridiculous tale,” said Lady Camilla Talwater. “Civilized men should not idealize such barbaric myths.”

  “No myths, My Lady,” said Lord Hugo. “I fear the Commission is very real. The Five Families of Dijvois have been around for ages.”

  “What My Lady wife means to say is that this pathetic collection of thieves and vagabonds hardly amounts to something as influential as a Guild."

  “Lord Admiral,” said Lilliana, “Perhaps it is forward of me to say, but is it not that those who are ignorant of facts should be ignorant of how inaccurate their suppositions are, and therefore can be forgiven, but those who have all the fact readily arrayed before them, yet chose to ignore that which they are presented, ought to be despised?”

  Silence fell.

  Sal didn’t know if everyone was stunned to silence by the power of the statement, or whether they were simply trying to work out precisely what Lilliana had said. He supposed it was most likely a mixture of the two. By the smile at the corner of Lady Edith Prescot’s mouth, it seemed she’d understood just fine.

  Lord Hugo cleared his throat. “Lady Camilla, tell us, what shall we all be pining to wear this upcoming season?” the fat lord asked in hopes of changing the conversation.

  The next four courses were served as expected. The salad was followed by a pasta dish. The fifth course, lamb chops in a mint sauce was paired with sautéed vegetables. By the sixth course, a platter of assorted fruits and cheeses, the wine was no longer served. The crystal goblets were taken from the table and replaced with thimble glasses. A sweet almond liquor, as tasteful as it was potent, would pair with the remainder of the meal. For the seventh and final course, they were served frittens, a fried dough, rolled in sugar, and drizzled with honey.

  They all seemed to like the frittens, so much they all had seconds, including Sal. Lord Baldwyn Prescot was so partial to the things he had seven, one for every course of the meal.

  “Good Ladies,” said Lord Hugo, turning his palms up, “I dare say your company has been my pleasure.”

  “Come, I will lead the way to the drawing-room," said Lilliana, accepting the footman's assisting hand to stand. "I've a special surprise, Gabriella."

  Lady Edith Prescot gave a ladylike giggle of excitement, clapping twice and grasping her daughter’s hand.

  Lady Gabriella, for her part, seemed as unimpressed by the announcement as Lady Camilla Talwater.

  While the four ladies filed out of the dining hall, the thimble glasses were replaced with tumblers. One of the footmen passed about cheroots, lighting them for the gentlemen, while another footman, holding a crystal decanter filled with amber liquor, began filling the tumblers.

  The men sat about the dining table another few hours discussing issues of state and the High Council. Though, it seemed to be Lord Hugo, who did all the talking.

  Lord Fabian Talwater made the appropriate gestures, keeping his responses terse, his inquiries null, while Lord Baldwyn Prescot seemed too deep in his cups to string together a coherent word, no less, a full sentence.

  To Sal’s favor, despite the fact that Marco was the son of a lord, he seemed to have as little to contribute to the conversation as Sal. The end result culminated in Lord Hugo giving sporadic diatribes with much coughing and grunting to break up the long spans of silence in between.

  Eventually, Lord Fabian Talwater stood. “My Lords, I bid you evening.”

  Lord Baldwyn Prescot snapped out of his slumber, a rivulet of drool running down his chins and onto the front of his wine-stained shirt. “Off already?” slurred Lord Baldwyn wiping at his chin with a sleeve and looking somewhat bemused.

  Lord Fabian Talwater nodded and was escorted from the dining hall by one of the footmen.

  The conversation turned from law to finances, a topic about which Sal was forced to lie very decidedly.

  Marco, however, seemed to be quite the shrewd investor. Even Sal’s uncle, Stefano, would have been impressed. It might have been simply talk, but considering the man’s station and parentage, Sal doubted that to be the case.

  Somewhere between the discussion of horseflesh and town coaches, Lord Baldwyn Prescot fell back to sleep. His snoring continued even after Marco Horvat finally excused himself, and was escorted out by another of the footmen.

  “My boy, would you accompany me to my solar?” Lord Hugo asked quietly. “I’ve matters I’d wish to discuss.”

  Sal nodded, somewhat surprised by the request. He'd been about to excuse himself under the conviction that he'd failed to make a worthwhile impression. Yet, now, hope had returned.

  Lord Hugo nodded, stood, and closed the distance, rather unsteadily, to where his fat friend sat, eyes closed, chins tucked, a pool of drool on his collar. Lord Hugo laid a hand on Lord Baldwyn Prescot’s shoulder. Lord Baldwyn snapped awake, blinked twice, and looked about the table.

  “My Lords,” said Lord Hugo. “You know I am not a man to cut short a revelry, but I fear I tire and find myself wishing to retire to a comfortable bed.”

  Lord Baldwyn Prescot harrumphed and took a swig from his tumbler. “Offs to beds ready?” he asked, chuckling and shaking his head, a string of drool running down his chin. “My fwends grow old and freeble bout me. Am I the orney man mongs us whos retains his lively youf?”

  Lord Hugo chuckled, placing a hand on Lord Baldwyn’s back. “Age catches up with all of us eventually, does it not?”

  “Most assedly,” agreed Lord Baldwyn Prescot, turning to one of the footmen. “You fare, help me uff. Be quick bout it now.”

  Sal stood and followed as the footmen and Lords exited the dining hall and made their way for the grand entryway. Lord Hugo held Sal back while three of the four footmen helped Lord Baldwyn Prescot, as he stumbled drunkenly down both flights of stairs, and disappeared into the foyer.

  21

  The Answer

  Once Lord Baldwyn had been escorted from the dining hall, the last remaining footman helped steady plump little Lord Hugo. The serving-man walked beside his lord the rest of the way through the vast halls of Bastian manor. When they reached the solar, Lord Hugo plopped into a plush armchair and motioned for Sal to do the same.

  The footman served them each a thimble glass of almond liquor and lit them each a cheroot.

  “I must thank you for the gift, my boy,” said Lord Hugo Bastian, his words somewhat slurred by the night’s drink. “A fifty-four Chatouneff deVioau. Tu-rely,” Lord Hugo hiccupped. “Truly, this is a gift for a king. I woul
d not ask it, but you may tell me how you got your hands on it if you desire.”

  Sal smiled and shrugged nonchalantly. “It was nothing really.”

  In truth, he’d stolen the bottle from his uncle’s cellar—an empty bottle which he’d filled with a mixture of a few different cheap red wines and recorked himself before presenting it to Lord Hugo as though it were a priceless gift.

  “Nothing!” Lord Hugo said. “My boy, it is far from nothing.”

  If only the little lord knew how wrong he was, but Sal merely smiled. He felt good, happy that his scheme had gone over so well. If only Lilliana had been half so charmed by it as her father had. But then again, she knew the truth.

  “You know, Ewan. I’ve not known you long, but I tell you, I like you, my boy.”

  Sal smiled awkwardly and nodded. “I like you, as well, My Lord.”

  “Ah, but that’s swell, swell, swell,” said Lord Hugo with a sigh. He blinked and bobbed slightly. “Ewan, do you know why I’ve asked you here?”

  Sal smiled. “I’ve not the slightest, My Lord. Though I am grateful for the invitation.”

  Bastian chuckled. “You’ve a quick tongue. I like that about you: a hero, a true hero, and a man of integrity. Ah, but if there were more men like you, my boy, this world could be something. Ewan, I have a mind to do something, though, I fear deep in my cups as I am, well, I’m not like to do it now.”

  Sal nodded. “Aye, that is wise.”

  “Wise, yes, wise,” said Lord Hugo. “You know, my boy, I once thought wisdom was something that came with age. Yet now that I am older, I believe wisdom is born of experience and eyes that are open enough to perceive what is happening in each moment.”

  Sal was a touch stunned by the words. He’d not expected such thoughts to come from this drunk little lord.

  “Tell me, My Lord, you spoke of taking on the Commission. Just how is it you would do this?”

  Lord Hugo smiled. “Why I’ve been doing it already.”

  “How so?” Sal asked, though more out of propriety than curiosity’s sake, as he thought he already knew the answer.

  “The tariffs, my boy, levies, taxes, the threat of embargo. You see, everything these thugs depend on to make their coin must be brought in on the waters. I will go to battle with these gangsters by hitting them where it hurts most—their coin purses. Tighten the strings of their coin purses, and these Five Families will go to war with themselves. Don’t you see?”

  Sal did see, and it seemed a sensible plan, but Sal had also seen first-hand just how illogical the plan truly was. The more Lord Hugo tried to hurt the Commission’s illegal trade through taxes and tariffs, the more profitable the illegal trade actually became. But Sal wasn’t going to try and explain that here and now.

  Instead, he nodded. “A sound solution, My Lord.”

  “Sound, yes,” agreed Lord Hugo. “Sound and effective. We shall rid this city of the underbelly of crime soon enough.”

  Sal smiled. “My Lord, I find you not only wise but admirable. You, sir, are a good man.”

  Lord Hugo Bastian smiled and raised his glass.

  Sal and Lord Hugo spoke for some time, and yet, for all that was said, very little of it was of consequence. Eventually, the round, little lord swayed dangerously before he finally stood, steadying himself on the footman’s arm.

  “But alas, the night has grown late,” said Lord Hugo. “I dare say, I am truly wary and long for my bed.”

  “My Lord, I bid you good eve.”

  “Yaron, escort the gentleman out.”

  Sal hesitated. “All due respect, but I do recall the way, My Lord,” Sal said, locking eyes with the footman. “I would feel better knowing you got to your bed safe. Certainly, one of the other three serving-men will help me to the door.”

  “I would like to accompany you, My Lord,” said the footman.

  Bastian nodded. “This evening has been a pleasure, my boy.”

  “The pleasure was most assuredly mine,” Sal said.

  The footman escorted him to the door of the solar before turning back. Once out in the hall, Sal felt a sort of giddy freedom. He’d been in many of Dijvois’ estate houses at night, but this was one of the few times he’d ever been invited into one.

  Sal felt on top of the world. He was full as a hog the week before the Fitzen slaughter and content with the euphoria of the alcohol. If only he had a pipe and a cap of skeev, his night would have been complete. That—and perhaps a kiss from Lilliana. It was a shame she was likely asleep that very moment.

  Sal entertained the idea of sneaking up to her room, confessing his love and hearing her do the same—of taking her in his arms and making love to her there and then.

  But even as he considered how he would negotiate the route, the thought of Damor Nev cleaved right through his fantasy. If Sal went so much as a hundred paces from Lilliana’s bedroom, Nev would have his head, and he might not stop with the one on Sal’s shoulders. A thought which brought to mind a question: where was Damor Nev?

  Sal made his way down the hall and back onto the balcony overlooking the grand entry hall, when suddenly he was grabbed from behind.

  He dropped for his boot knife and spun, but found himself face to face with Lilliana Bastian.

  Lilliana still wore her dinner gown. Her raven-black hair was done up, to bring attention to her teardrop diamond earrings.

  “I like your earrings,” Sal said.

  Lilliana slapped him.

  “Gah!” Sal cried out, rubbing his cheek. “That really hurt.”

  “Let me see it,” Lilliana said, speaking softly.

  Sal sighed and moved his hand to show her.

  Lilliana slapped him again.

  “Lady’s sake!” Sal cursed. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Shut your bloody mouth and follow me.”

  Sal followed, quiet, but disgruntled, massaging his stinging cheek all the while.

  She led him down the grand stair, but rather than continue on to the foyer, they turned and entered a hallway that branched off the entry hall. They went through a door and down another stairway. This one far less grand, and far less opulent.

  In fact, the stairwell was nothing less than ordinary, a utility passage, devoid of art or ornament. The following hallway was much the same, bare walls, no wainscoting or baseboards, low ceilings, and so many doors along the hallway Sal could only presume the rooms within to be quite small.

  When they encountered one of the footmen in the hall, the look on the man’s face was nothing short of pure dismay.

  It was then that Sal finally realized where they were. The servant’s quarters must have been capable of accommodating half a hundred staff.

  “I require a lantern,” Lilliana said.

  The footman sprang to action. He was in and back out of a room in a flash, returning with a lit shuttered lantern in hand.

  Lilliana accepted the lantern, thanked the servant, and led Sal through the hallway of the servant’s quarters, through another door and down another stairway. Once through a pair of doors, they found themselves in a graveled loading round, which must have been the servant’s entrance. Sal smelled horses, and sure enough, just around the corner, they passed the stable, and just beyond that, the coach house.

  “Where might you be taking me, My Lady?” Sal asked cheekily.

  Lilliana didn’t look at him, she continued along the tended footpath across the lawn, past the paddock and the stable, moving directly for the orchard.

  A few paces past the tree line, Lilliana grabbed Sal by the wrist and yanked as she turned sharply. She led him down a stairway cut into the stone, partly hidden by the foliage. The stone steps led them to another pathway through the fruit trees. Sal could hear running water, but there was little visible outside the light of Lilliana’s lantern. The Lady White was waning, giving off a half light. Sal could make out the dark silhouettes of branches hanging overhead and the stone pathway underfoot.

  Lilliana stopped, and Sal nearly tripped
over his own feet but stumbled into Lilliana all the same.

  She shoved him and slapped him again.

  “Lady’s sake, woman!” Sal said, the sting returning to his throbbing cheek. “That’ll be enough of that.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Lilliana scolded him.

  “Why?” Sal said. “Why should—”

  “Because neither of us wants to be overheard at the moment, I assure you.”

  “Fine, what’s this all about?”

  “You think I owe the explanation?” Lilliana asked. “How about you, Salvatori Ewan?”

  Sal was grateful for the darkness, as he was certain he’d begun to blush a bright shade of scarlet. “Ah, yes. Well, your father—”

  “My father didn’t give anyone a false name. That was you. I’m certain you recall?”

  “Well, yes, but I had a good reason. See the man was going to swindle your—”

  “I am certain you had an excellent reason for lying through your teeth, but you can just save those lies for someone with wool between her ears. I see what you’re doing, and I want to tell you it won’t work. Not on me, and not on my father. Light’s sake, I am going to be married, Salvatori.”

  Sal felt something break inside him. It was like the shattering of glass.

  “I won’t give up so easy,” Sal said. “There’s nothing Marco Horvat can give you that I can’t.”

  “I don’t want to talk about Marco. This is between us—you and I—and I’m asking you to leave off.”

  The pain within grew, and he could feel a panic welling—boiling just beneath the surface. Things had seemed to go so well. How could the night end so wrongly?

  “I’m asking you to leave me alone and let me begin my life with Marco. Can you do that?”

  Sal sighed. Despite everything that had happened night—all the progress he had thought to have made—she had managed to crush him in one fell blow.

  Sal nodded.

  They stood there in silence for a moment, looking at one another in the faint light.