Chapter 20 – A Shitty Game

  Demi

  Demi hadn’t spent much time in the office before heading toward central Woodpine, she’d been there just long enough to ensure the staff had shown. Stephan mentioned something about that cat-folk, Olivia, having a curse she was dealing with; and he’d sent her off to sort it. Normally, this would have captured Demi’s immediate attention, but the countess couldn’t alter her schedule to address the issue. In fact, it was one of the rare times she decided to overlook it. She could have problems with her workers after the banquet.

  The dress Demi had chosen was vibrant red with white trim and gold lace. The cuffs were slightly flared, reminiscent of wartime fashion, yet she modernized things by leaving her shoulders and upper chest exposed. As far as makeup, she’d powdered her face and lined her eyes; but could not bring herself to paint exotic colors upon her lids and cheeks as was the modern trend. It looked foolish to her. Besides, the older and more powerful families would still be looking primarily at jewelry, and that’s where she’d spared nothing.

  Upon her fingers, she wore her polished steel dragon claw rings. The small, articulated pieces curved with elegant ridges toward the ends. Cut amethyst had been set onto each knuckle. Her necklace was similarly steel-smithed with intricate chains, containing three amethysts on either side of the silver Dragonstar that sat heavy on her chest. Her earrings were steel crescents dangling beneath her pointed ears, a single purple gem in each. Each piece featured a bit of smith-work only known to an elite clan of Rhodean craftsmen. Uncultured lords would see steel and assume Demi was on hard times; while anyone worthwhile could spot authentic Kane Dwarf work and know she meant business today.

  The stone path – Castle Street – slanted upward. Demi, approaching from the east, was at the base of the tallest hill in the center of Woodpine, the original motte that Castle Dotour had been built on. The elevated land ended abruptly at the Crescent river on the west side of the grounds, forming a high cliff defended further by a stone wall. The keep faced east, so anyone westbound on Castle Street could peer through the main gate and see the expansive front courtyard leading to the keep’s dusky stone fa?ade and grand pine doors. The keep’s four towers all bore tapestries of green, brown, and gold; their symbols displaying the Dotour coat of arms: a pine tree on a hill, with a hawk perched atop, wings stretched back in preparation for a kill.

  Chamber music, the tones of cello and harp, reached Demi’s ears as she reached the bustling main entrance. It was heavily guarded by a unit of Dotour’s castlegard – if his regular soldiers had a reputation for excellent training, his castlegard men might well could hold the motte indefinitely while outnumbered ten to one. They’d formed a perimeter around the main entrance and worked to keep too many commonfolk from crowding up the walkways, and when a well-dressed highborn approached, two would escort them into the front courtyard. A soldier with a large sword on his back spotted Demi, made a quick motion with his hand, and soon she had an armored escort through the east wall into the courtyard.

  “Welcome to Castle Dotour, countess,” one of her escorts said. Demi nodded at them as they both saluted and returned to the entrance.

  The music was coming from an orchestra playing in one corner of the courtyard, Demi recognized it to be from the ballet Crimson Regicide, one of the most popular post war productions. The central courtyard was arranged with tables laden with baskets of fruit, bread, and wine; and to one side, castle staff spun spitted beasts over several fire pits. The scent of the cooking meat wafted over her, prompting a hunger pang. Demi had neglected breakfast, and Dotour wouldn’t be here until it was time for his speech. Rather than join the tangle of well-dressed lords and ladies milling around the tables, she took a plate and a roll from the near end and went toward the mutton pit. The halfling girl who spun the lamb, dressed in castle staff uniform, smiled at Demi and carved a slice for her.

  “Is that The Flaxseed Countess?” a woman’s voice came from behind Demi. She recognized it immediately, sighed, and turned with her full plate. The human who addressed her wore a red dress with gold trim, extravagant jewelry, and a haughty expression.

  “Lady Madea,” Demi responded, gazing into the shorter woman’s brown eyes. “How nice to see another Rhodean lord at one of these. I suppose that’s why they’re playing your music.”

  Madea smirked and performed her greeting: open palms for artisans, but really, she was just playing a game, waiting for Demi to have her hands full before doing so. The countess simply nodded an acknowledgement instead of returning her own.

  “Tut,” Madea made a judging noise. “Won’t put your plate down for me? I see you still think muchly of yourself. Tell me: what’s it like having but a single crop?”

  “I imagine it’s much like having a single ballet,” Demi said.

  Madea’s brows furrowed.

  “Crimson Regicide is a masterpiece,” Madea said hotly. “What would you know about the world of fine art, anyway?”

  Demi felt a disgust. Of course she could get into it with her, ask her if she knew who originally wrote the arrangements – that would be Johanes Baptiste, a commonfolk with a noble patron far removed from the Madea family. Through back-handed agreements and outright stealing, somehow it had become theirs. This woman in particular, Eveline Madea, generally had nothing to do with the art her people created. Demi couldn’t stand this behavior. No Delacroix told others to sew and harvest without first mastering it themselves.

  She wished the Madeas weren’t so influential in Rhodea, inviting too much anger could be a problem. Demi switched topics.

  “How does the gold path treat you?” Demi asked. Oros’s Fortune was the gold spoke of the Dragonstar. There had been a mass conversion of Rhodean nobility after King Janusson fell, nobody wanted to publicly walk the red after the war. Most of them wasted little time at all committing themselves to Oros. Madea calmed herself and put on a smile.

  “We certainly have fortune,” Madea said. “It is nice to have a dragon smile upon your legacy and know what’s important. We need not channel his magic, only purchase those who can. You should really try it out, Demi – that Morgana has you tighter than a stone golem’s ass!”

  Demi pursed her lips to hide the full extent of her disdain.

  “The Dragon of Order makes no secret of how difficult her path is,” Demi stated. “In generations past, it was assumed you would walk the purple if you were of station.”

  “Yes, well,” Madea said, mocking, “the times are changing, Demi. You should catch up with us.”

  “Indeed,” Demi said idly.

  The orchestra reached the end of the number and went quiet, causing a hush to come over the crowd.

  “Aha,” Madea turned, “time to hear about how amazing everything is from the man himself. What a lovely chat, countess, ta!”

  She watched Madea rejoin a few other lords, who shot Demi poisonous looks as they left.

  They were inconsequential.

  Demi took her plate toward the growing crowd near the tables. The nobles stood near the seats they’d chosen, all facing the platform at the far end and the keep’s entrance beyond. The band played again, pianissimo. A soft start.

  Two castlegard soldiers grabbed either door’s large handle and slowly swung the grand doors outward. Inch by inch, they revealed the grand hall of the keep, resplendent with torchlight and green-gold decor. A human man and woman emerged, flanked by three castlegard on either side. They were led by a black-haired elven woman clad in an embossed breastplate decorated with a blue-green sash and gold badge.

  The elven woman’s name was Camillia Blackthorne, captain of the castlegard and prior to that, leader of the adventuring guild. They had a very long meeting last year. She was sharp. The guard took positions near the entrance, their halberds held stiff.

  The humans, of course, would be Radavan and Aurelia Dotour, the lords of Woodpine. Strings swelled at the arrival of the two grey-haired lords, who proceeded hand-in-hand toward the raised stage. Their faces were warm and light with wrinkles, both in their sixth decades. Radavan’s hair was longer, well-oiled, and thin toward the front, while Aurelia’s lay curled and short. They both wore daytime finery: Aurelia a colorful dress, and Radavan a green vest and tailored leather overcoat.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The pair stepped on stage to a fanfare of horns and waved until its conclusion. Then, Radavan took Aurelia in arms and kissed her, prompting polite applause. After sending her to her seat, he motioned to the standing audience.

  “Please, sit! You’re making this old goat tired!” Radavan called, with a voice like well-aged rye spirits.

  Demi sat among the nobles, ignoring her mutton to focus on Radavan. He waited for everyone to settle down before continuing.

  “Thank you all for coming! The more time passes, the more things stay the same,” Radavan said. “Same people, same place, same food, different year! And my hair is still gray.”

  Polite laughter filtered through the crowd. Demi frowned and wondered if there would be anything of substance to listen for. There wasn’t. Radavan launched into one of the safest highborn speeches she’d ever heard, a collective patting of backs devoid of sincerity. He delivered it with his usual jovial conviction, commanding, yet warm. Sighing, Demi speared a chunk of her mutton, hints of doubt creeping in. Was this really a man with a grand plan?

  Demi ate and listened until a noblewoman across the table reacted to something out of turn. A stifled giggle, yet Radavan had not joked.

  Demi raised an eyebrow at the noble, who quickly covered her mouth and looked around. If not for the too-nervous glancing, Demi would dismiss it. She watched the woman out of the corner of her eye for the rest of the speech and observed her occasionally look away from Radavan to stare at another noble for several seconds. There was an intentionality to it, almost like she was listening to an entirely different speech. The countess frowned. Was there some kind of code?

  Before Demi could piece any more together, Radavan concluded to more polite applause. The music restarted, calm and quiet; and the chatter between nobility resumed. Radavan took a seat next to his wife while a castlegard delivered their personal meals; certainly prepared away from the guests’ food. This began the phase of the party where lesser lords crowded their way toward him, hoping to win his momentary attention. He would be surrounded for the rest of the party.

  And, damnit, Demi would have to join in.

  She tapped her steel claws on the table, annoyed, before rising and moving toward the throng of people around Radavan. Keeping her distance, she stepped around the gathering, wondering how best to avoid looking like she wanted brown on her nose. As she did, however, Radavan was occasionally breaking eye contact with the man who spoke to him to glance at her. She paused, and he did it again. This time, with a small wink.

  Lady Delacroix, Radavan’s voice came from inside her ears, I see we mean utmost business today.

  Demi stared. Radavan looked back to the man, smirked, and didn’t miss a beat responding to him casually.

  Just think a response, Radavan’s voice again, you’ll feel it go.

  Magic, certainly. Not the kind Demi had ever used. Still, she focused on words in her mind, as she did with Morgana.

  I must speak with you at length, Demi thought. The words in her mind changed their color to blue, then flew away. Radavan nodded in a way that looked directed at her and the nobleman silmutaneously. He then held up a finger to say something to the man, but Demi heard something different:

  I warn you, Radavan’s voice was amused, I’m at risk of making your life quite interesting, Lady Delacroix. If you wish to remain comfortable, you have approximately ten seconds to casually walk off.

  Demi was not practiced in avoiding her own thoughts: who says I’m comfortable? This is all a shitty game.

  That got sent to Radavan before Demi could realize it was happening. She held her hand over her mouth, as though she’d spoken out of turn. Luckily, Radavan’s reaction was to laugh uproariously and stand, putting his hand on the nobleman’s shoulder.

  “You are a jester, sir!” Radavan cried. “You really must make a show of your stories; they are far too good to stay in the courtyard.”

  The nobles around shuffled in as he collected his plate and stepped away from his chair. He gave another easy laugh and gestured in Demi’s direction.

  “You all must grant me a thousand pardons,” Radavan called, “my adventuring guildmaster has a sensitive matter we must discuss.”

  The crowd looked at Demi, their faces annoyed and disappointed, but she ignored them and joined Radavan as he walked toward the keep. He held his plate and motioned briefly toward the castlegard captain, Camillia, who left her post in front of the door to meet them.

  “We’ll just be going to the side garden,” Radavan said. Camillia saluted with her halberd, then escorted them toward the keep’s eastern wall. Demi felt a little uneasy as they walked.

  “This is an awful lot for a rural Rhodean countess,” Demi commented.

  “Oh?” Radavan responded. “Perhaps so, but I think it’s the right amount for my guildmaster, yes? Especially one who’s taking the job seriously!”

  Radavan had never once come to the guild or even written to her in the past year.

  “How would you know?” Demi said. “I could be lying on my monthly debriefs.”

  They arrived at the eastern wall and crossed into a gated section nearby, where arrangements of winter blooms sprouted from well curated soil. The moment the three of them were out of sight of the party, Camillia heaved a great sigh and casually put her back against the wall. She set her halberd aside and crossed her arms, all of her knight’s bearing replaced with a tired irritability.

  “You’re not though,” Camillia said. Demi paused before responding, wondering if Radavan would tell his knight not to speak out of turn. He did not.

  “Stephan is all about you, actually,” Camillia continued, respect in her tone. Radavan nodded his agreement.

  Demi understood now.

  “My reports meant nothing,” Demi concluded, “you got what you really wanted to know from the commonfolk.”

  “They have a way of being truly honest that you don’t get anywhere else,” Radavan chuckled. “Suffice it to say, if Stephan likes you, we like you.”

  Camillia nodded along, clearly the we. This was no mere military captain, Demi decided.

  “So you reveal your – dragon-speech – magic to me?” Demi asked. “Is that where the real speech was happening?”

  Radavan beamed.

  “Indeed,” he said. “A relatively simple bit of weavework that’s made statecraft much easier! After all, I am replete with enemies. For instance: Lady Madea is here today spying for the Florentines.”

  Demi started. She wasn’t surprised that Madea was being underhanded, she was surprised Radavan told her.

  “Should you not be more careful?” Demi asked. “You do not even know what I-”

  Radavan raised his hand.

  “The chapter trouble on the far side of the Lacians that one of the magisters got into, yes,” Radavan said. “The good Archmagister Rafflesia let me know. Really, what a curious take on Lanya’s Path, policing what adults do in their bedrooms.”

  Demi could not stop her annoyed reaction.

  “Curious?” she spat, “it’s vile, the dragons care not how you lay provided the proper ages and willingness.”

  “Indeed,” Radavan said. “So, then, how do you suppose those spiritual leaders came up with it?”

  Seeing her confusion, he added: “in your clerical experience, my lady.”

  “Well,” Demi thought. “It takes much practice to clearly hear one’s dragon. One must learn the discipline of separating one’s own truths from their dragon’s. Sometimes, when things are unclear, a conjured notion can appear to come from the dragon.”

  Radavan nodded along.

  “So, a case of miscommunication with unfortunate results?” Radavan asked.

  “It happens often,” Demi said.

  “And what if it was, perhaps, done with intent?” Radavan said.

  “The thought stills my heart,” Demi grimaced. “Not even the Redwalkers were keen on lies. Such a charlatan should be stopped.”

  Radavan scratched his chin thoughtfully.

  “Lastly,” he said, “what if said charlatan had been paid to do so, along with the spiritual guides of neighboring towns?”

  Demi grew impatient.

  “Do you enjoy exploring the depths of evil?” Demi asked. “Such a scheme would be fit for the stage-”

  Radavan’s face was not jovial. It was quite serious. As was Camillia’s. Demi felt a frigid stone in her stomach.

  “You can begin to understand why my hair is disappearing,” Radavan smiled without amusement. “And why I might be so careful about selecting my allies.”

  There was a brief silence while Demi regained her composure. She became steeled again, internalizing the new levels of depravity.

  “Sounds like Florentine work,” Demi said at last.

  “Well, yes, but we’ve no proof yet,” Radavan sighed. “So, my attention rests on how they’re attacking me closer to home. A situation exists in my city that would best be solved by, say, adventurers, rather than my soldiers.”

  Demi couldn’t hide her doubt. Was this really happening? Radavan bringing her into the fold just like that?

  “Just to be clear, Lord Dotour,” Demi said, “your intent is to wield your adventuring guild – me – as a weapon against the Florentines, arguably the most powerful family in the realm?”

  “I did warn you that I might make your life interesting,” Radavan smiled. “Were you keeping your options open for them?”

  “I was not, I-” Demi trailed off, quite unused to lords speaking so plainly. Perhaps she should do the same. “I honestly fucking hate them, actually.”

  Radavan laughed at her response, even Camillia cracked a smile.

  “Then perhaps you can stop them from acquiring my dragonquartz,” Radavan said. “You’ve heard the rumors about how Cintra is able to remain so wealthy during a soft trade war?”

  Demi knew of dragonquartz: an exceptionally rare mineral only found in sparse deposits deep underground.

  “It’s rumored the only plentiful dragonquartz mine is near Woodpine,” Demi said. “Is that-”

  “Real? Yes, it’s what Lady Madea is trying to find,” Radavan interrupted. “Don’t worry – she won’t. What is happening is someone in the city is breaking the embargo and selling it directly to the Florentines, and that is what I’d appreciate your help with.”

  The countess took a deep breath, considering everything. Radavan didn’t have his noble air, he was slightly stooping and appeared far more tired than he had before. Camillia remained leaning, eyes cold and regarding Demi like she would a recruit.

  Nobody was playing the shitty game in this garden. It felt like doffing a corset.

  “The Delacroix would be declaring for the Dotours in no uncertain terms,” Demi finally said. “We would suddenly find our enemies multiplied a hundredfold.”

  “Yes,” Radavan replied.

  Silence.

  Demi thought about bringing up her objections to his work with the commoners.

  Then, she thought about Madea and the Florentines. Violet flame roared inside. No commonfolk was capable of such evil and baseness. Yet, they endured the rule of those who were.

  For the first time in Demi’s life, she could not explain why a noble was better than a commoner. From here, they looked worse.

  “Do you have any leads?” she asked.