Morgan looked up at the church steeple, the carving of a vaguely maternal figure gazing back at him with what the original artist thought passed for a benevolent expression. For what was, as far as he knew, the dominant religion of the Empire and the surrounding regions, the priests of the Church of The Mother had never been able to really develop any consistent official imagery.
This one had gone for a bunch of statues and carvings of beautiful women – ostensibly meant to represent The Mother herself. This of course runs into the classic theological problem of how one visually represents your patron deity. The old church managed to attract a localised crusade when one of the mothers in town – probably Mrs Ailef, if he remembered correctly – discovered that her son, and as it turned out, most of the town’s youth, were using a particularly well-endowed mosaic for less than virtuous activities. Morgan’s gaze slid a little lower. Not matter how many times it happens, they still haven’t learned. Though at least they’ve taken steps to compensate for Her fearsome bust, he peered closer, someone’s etched some crows-feet into it.
The central churches back in the capital were trying to introduce an official symbol. The last time Morgan was stationed anywhere near Caithurt, the higher-level priests were workshopping some variation on a star – no idea how many points it was meant to have. The whole process seems to take a certain something away from the purity and grace that The Mother is meant to embody, but he can’t blame them. It’s so much less expensive to throw a few simple symbols round than it is to commission whatever flavour of theological representation was in fashion. Not to say he wouldn’t miss the elaborate art pieces – He had been one of those youths.
“Any word from the boss?” The sudden question startles Morgan out of his reverie, just then noticing Sir Reynard’s swordsman companion – David or something.
“Nope, nobody’s left the building in the last hour.” David probably outranked him in that nebulous ‘Empire business’ way that Reynard was so fond of trotting out – He really should be more polite. David just shrugged lethargically, unruffled by Morgan’s less than professional address. That’s why he liked David, he just seemed like a normal guy. They’d shared a few tankards of ale over the past few days. Remarkably friendly for an Imperial enforcer.
David looked lazily up the hill to the white priest’s quarters, “Wonder what’s taking him so long?”
Probably breaking out the thumb-screws, or something equally pious.
“Should a Sergeant really be saying something like that?” asked David, a wry grin on his face.
Damn, “did I say that out loud?” Imperial enforcer, got to remember that.
“Yes, you did Sir!” Morgan swallowed a yelp as a squeaky voice piped up on his other side. He whirled around, David spasming for his sword. They were met with the big wide eyes of some kid in an oversized cuirass. The bloody scribe, how long had he been following along? The kid started scribbling something down, “I’ve been with you since Weld Sir, I’ve recorded everything – like you asked.” Said that out loud again, didn’t I? “Yes Sir.”
Morgan sighed tiredly. He’d have to look over whatever the kid wrote. He tried to scan back through his memory, had he said anything absolutely incriminating? He grabbed the papers as the kid finished writing. A few notes on the interview in Weld, a collection of orders he’d shouted over the course of the journey, a few dozen pages of I Spy – By Her light, this had everything.
He ruffled through pages on end of drinking songs before he found what he had been looking for. A lengthy conversation he’d had with David and the boys on the finer points of the few women in the troupe. They may or may not have included Melanie in the debate. As nice a guy as David was, Reynard’s other enforcer was much less personable. These documents could have unfortunate – and indescribably painful – consequences if it were to fall into the wrong hands. With a few deliberate motions, Morgan accidentally spilled a bottle of ink over the entire conversation, as well as his earlier remarks – just in case.
“Ah, he’s coming out,” David murmured, a twinge of what must be professionalism seeping into his voice. Morgan immediately straightened up, thrusting the papers back into the scribe’s hands. With a tone like that coming from David of all people, it was probably best to drop everything and salute. He whipped around to see the imposing form of his superior, Reynard – even if ‘Hand of the Empress’ really isn’t a proper rank. The vague promise of death emanating indistinctly around him tipped Morgan off to the presence the third enforcer. Why Her Majesty needs three hands, he would never know. Maybe it’s in the name of having more of anything than anyone else. The scribe started scratching again, Morgan stifled a sigh, he should really get that under control. David nudged him in the side, “heads up Sergeant, boss isn’t looking too happy.” And indeed, he wasn’t.
“We leave immediately!” came the bellow from Reynard, though he wasn’t even halfway down the hill. Morgan waved a hand over his shoulder; the rest of the men began to get ready to leave without a word. With duties done with, Morgan forced himself to approach Reynard, best that he put in a token effort to stay current with this outing.
“My lord,” he still had to force it out, but it had really begun to get easier after a few days of tacking it on to every other sentence, “how goes the search?” Reynard looked down with a scowl. Morgan had however, been confronted with any number of disgruntled superiors – many of who were magnitudes more likely to randomly kill him, so he stood firm. The scribe, who was still tagging along for whatever reason, wilted like a daisy in summer.
“The priest claims to not have seen the fugitive since he departed a week ago.” Growled the nominally holy knight, clenched fists audible even through the leather and steel of his gauntlets.
This momentarily confused Morgan, leading to a momentary lapse in sense when he didn’t immediately accept this and head back to his men. “But I thought we had confirmed sightings of the group heading back towards the church.” Reynard’s scowl grew deeper still, luckily turning his glare on the priest’s quarters instead of the Sergeant.
“I am aware,” he ground out, “It means that he is lying.” He gestured sharply towards David, assumedly for input, his own gaze stuck firmly on the white walls of the monastery, as if it had personally wronged him. David straightened up and spoke in what Morgan recognised as a pitch perfect imitation of his own ‘professional’ voice. He coughed quietly to stifle his sniggers.
“So the priest – this Rodney – is covering for Emmet.” He thought for a moment, Morgan only then notices Melanie slink into his view, making no effort to hide the fact she had apparently been hiding behind nothing at all. David continued, “Is he likely to have directed them anywhere?” He asked the group. When no answer was forthcoming, his eyes shifted, directing the question at Melanie, wiggling his eyebrows as though he wasn’t being subtle enough.
She sighed, “I’ll check,” and began heading back up the hill. Morgan took the opportunity to slink away, back to his men. He hoped the priest had some scintillating answers. He shivered, wondering how pointed her questions would get.
O – O – O – O – O
I sit vacant and bleary eyed as Scab stares deep into my eyes, as if she’ll find the secret to forming complete sentences somewhere in those inky depths. I stifle a yawn and slump harder against my fist, at least half my body weight supported by my elbow on the table, a position that is visibly irritating Fourey as he intermittently glares at me from the head of the table. I, of course, lean all the harder. I make a show of picking at the congealed blood and miscellaneous crust off the sleeves of my robes, trying to ignore the fact that I hadn’t bathed since before the farm. Fourey concedes defeat to me as he turns his head away, boring a hole in the blank wall to his left. Serves him right for calling me a servant, the bastard. No longer having the emotional outlet of Fourey’s twitching brow, my gaze crosses the empty seat next to me. Where’s Evelyn? It’s been at least fifteen minutes now, how long does it take to go through her ablutions? And why can’t I go through mine?
Even as the thought passes through my mind, the door creaks open and Evelyn shuffles in, followed by the other guard – still haven’t gotten a name for her, Blondie? Eh, that’ll do. Blondie takes a seat beside her co-worker, while Evelyn slumps down next to me. She gives an exaggerated shiver and exclaims, “how are the toilets worse here than out in the forest?” Just loud enough to put another crack in Fourey’s notion that we have any class to speak of. “Have you seen it? The, er… privy?” I nod, I had actually – the classic bucket and a convenient window to empty it through.
No one else at the table seems ready to begin whatever this farce is meant to be, so I reply, “back home we have enchanted privies. A few material specific vanishing spells, and there’s nothing left to deal with.” I lose myself in my fond recollections for a moment, only to be met with Evelyn’s almost manic eyes, a quarter inch from my face.
She grabs my shirt violently – nobody around the table takes umbrage with this – “And you can cast these spells? They’re in that book?”
Her eyes shimmer with all manner of complex emotions. My own shimmer has conversely settled on fear. “Er… probably?” The shimmer only grows more chaotic. “Though they haven’t given me my bag back yet…” She drops me and turns to Scab and Blondie. I’m actually shocked it’s taken me this long to remember my book – I usually sleep with the damn thing under my pillow. Blondie, though probably not physically capable of wilting, looks vaguely uncomfortable under Evelyn’s gaze, and with a motion from Fourey, bends over and throws my satchel across the table. I snatch it up and check if they harmed my treasure. No obvious scratches or bumps, I flick it open – still complete gibberish. At least it looks like they haven’t messed with it. The moment I have it open, Evelyn makes a grab, to which I spasm and almost throw the book out the window.
Without a word she begins flipping through the pages like one would with a recipe book – flippantly searching for a chocolate cake amongst the salad recipes. I suddenly feel a tightness in my throat, seeing her so easily reading Darke Mag’kx, something I’ll probably never manage. My stomach feels hollow; an indistinct sensation settling somewhere in my gut, sense of loss without even having had a chance to own it. I turn away after a few moments, though I could get lost in the sight of someone actually reading my book. That ugly feeling still churns inside me. “Are we going to start whatever this is?” I ask Fourey, probably more snappish than is wise. He frowns at me – well, screw him too.
He stares at a point somewhere above my left shoulder, probably wondering if it was worth continuing with his power play – yeah, I know what’s up here. He sighs and turns to face us, his hands smoothly threading themselves together and resting on the table, in what I imagine is his psychologically ingrained ‘down to business’ pose. Scab and Blondie already having taken their places behind him, moving in a synchronicity I would have thought beyond them. The solitary window in the corner casts the rest of the room in shadow, the early morning sun only able to illuminate those sitting at the table. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that Fourey had meeting rooms for every hour of the day. It’s almost quaint how the plebs struggle along without the convenience of magic and its capacity for dynamic dialogue mood lighting.
With the three of them arranged in the classic negotiation phalanx, it looked positively intimidating. It’s almost a shame as Evelyn unknowingly licked her finger and turns another page. I suppress a twitch as she reaches for yet another page with her disgusting saliva coated fingers – the savage – but I remain impassive. Don’t want to interrupt our counter power play. Nothing irritates drama queens like having theatrics ignored – not that I’m speaking from experience or anything.
I settle in for the kind of juvenile staring contest that only two professional adults who hate each other can manage. Unfortunately, Evelyn chooses that moment to look up and ruins everything. Fourey promptly snubs me and launches quickly into his speech.
“I am going to dispense with the formalities, in an effort to not waste any more valuable time.” I hope your thugs are on an hourly wage. “I will have the two of you gain employment within the Havaille family mansion. There, your orders will be communicated to you through a third party. Failure to perform satisfactorily will be met with consequences. Altering anyone to my goals will be met with severe consequences.” Oh, now the setup feels ominous. He must feel the sudden tension because he indulges in a dramatic pause, his lips twisting into a smirk. “I feared my use of the carrot hadn’t quite communicated the situation appropriately, so I find myself reaching for the stick. Fail me and you best hope that the Empire finds you first, for I will not be nearly as lenient.” He’s silent just long enough for us to swallow audibly before carrying on.
“Today you will start working at the mansion. I don’t care what history you decide to present to the curious, just make it believable. You wouldn’t be the first to sweep in with the rest of the trash in search of making something of yourselves – and regretfully not the last.”
More so in an attempt to not let a megalomaniac trample over me I interject. “And what’s this all in service of?” Not like I can easily refuse at this point anyway.
He leans forward and steeples his fingers – ah, this must be his master plan.
“At some point in the near future, my forces will infiltrate the mansion and overthrow Lord Havaille.”
“Nice and simple.” Evelyn nods as a stupid grin ghosts over her face. Fourey, like a true politician, ignores any sarcastic overtones.
“Towards these ends, I have contracted the assistance of an extremely skilled individual to lead the assault. In fact, it was by his direction that this entire strategy has bloomed to fruition.” Well at least there’s potentially some masterminding at work. “In fact, it was he who wrote the play you have no doubt had the privilege to peruse.”
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Never mind then.
I stare blankly at the ream of paper in front of me, ‘Apoxolas Nox’ emblazoned across the cover in egregiously flamboyant cursive. Below that, the name ‘Rhapsody’ is written in barely legible chicken scratch. Fourey must have completely misinterpreted my dazed countenance as he continues unabashed.
“Under the guise of a theatre production, no one will question the need of a dozen grizzled warriors and their selection of realistic weapon props.” On second thought, not the worst plan I’ve ever heard. “Now, I have more important matters to attend to. Scab, Sylvia,” I choke at the name, what a pair they make, “take them to get cleaned and fitted. Be back within the hour.” He gives us one final glare then bustles out of the room. Scab and Sylvia turn to file out, and after Evelyn returns my glance with a shrug, we follow them out into the hall.
A few turns later and there’s a cleric poking at my various scrapes and bruises as if she actually knows anything about medicine. Apparently satisfied that the dark blue splotch across my nose was in fact a bruise, she starts whipping up a miracle.
“Planted a fern in spring time – paired with urn it did rhyme – the green lord Kom – doth merit aplomb – and sealeth these wounds di-vine” she finishes the chant – limerick? – with a twirl of her staff and green mist sprays out the top. I have a moment to enjoy the pleasant chill of a shaded forest before every cut and bruise on my outstretched arms start to sharply sting. My eyes water up – uh, must’ve gotten in my eyes as well. The cleric has the nerve to pat me on the shoulder as I fight the urge to itch at the rapidly closing scrapes. She moves on to Evelyn next, though not before poking at my black eye, no doubt wondering if it could benefit from another stanza or two.
Evelyn presents her hands, somehow coming out of those fights with only a few burst blisters. Maybe because she stayed upright and didn’t end up scrabbling at goblins empty handed – might be worth a try in the future actually.
“Pickled plums and fragrant hair – Lord Kom, I entreat your care!” a puff of green later and Evelyn’s hands are once again blemish free. She wiggles her fingers and eyes them intently, her plebeian mind once again overcome by such simple displays of magic.
“Thanks a bunch, those were killing me,” Evelyn thanks the cleric, I abort my exit and guiltily lower myself back into my chair. The cleric nods in response and starts pottering around, sweeping up the various twigs and pine needles she’d thrown around when we first came in. I didn’t ask. I once again get up to leave but am quickly interrupted as Evelyn speaks up, idly toying with a left-over pine cone. “What’s with the rhymes and foliage?” She asks, “we have this friend who’s a cleric too. But he usually just says ‘heal’ and flashes some light.”
The cleric pauses as she finishes blowing out some strategically placed scented candles. I look around the room as it’s rapidly de-cluttered. Oh, that might be a pentagram. I peer closer at the table where someone has smeared honey in the classic shape of the ritual magic equivalent to salt and pepper. Might try that some time, it definitely smells nicer than the blood I’m used to. The cleric straightens up to respond to Evelyn, jaw in the distinctive set of professional rivalry.
“And what sect is your friend from?” she asks, a definite edge to her tone.
“His sect?” Evelyn looks slightly taken aback by the harsh tone but quickly rallies to make a response before encountering another problem, “er...”, she glances to me, to which I can only shrug. I wonder, is it weird that we managed to be in the company of a priest for most of a week and not once did he quote scripture at us? Truly he might be a miracle worker.
“Bright lights and no respect for proper incantations, eh? Must be one of those mummy’s boys.”
Evelyn snaps her fingers quietly and mutters, “Ah. The Mother… er, Holy Mother?” The cleric continues her muttering, having apparently no need for an audience.
“Bloody establishment bastards. Anything they want for some mumbled scripture. It’s all written down for them anyway – entitled embarrassments, the lot of them.” She stuffs the last of the recovered foliage into a pouch and storms out of the room. Apparently, we have ruined her day.
“Gosh, must be some mad religious beef there,” exclaims Evelyn after a slightly awkward silence in the wake of the cleric’s episode. Scab and Sylvia finish their conversation and motion for us to follow. Evelyn once again looks to me for my worldly wisdom. I shrug, surely, she would have learnt better by now.
“Don’t know what that was about, I’m not really current on theology. I don’t think we’ve even gotten their latest book back home. The local church is at least two editions behind anyway.” Scab grunts and we follow along behind her like good little ducklings. She yanks a door open a little way down the hallway and I’m unceremoniously shoved inside. The door slams shut and the muffled clunks coming through the wall is probably the same thing happening to Evelyn. The room is pretty barren, just a bucket and a pile of rags in the corner, no furniture, what is this room even for? I walk over to the corner and pick up the rags, no wait, clothes. And the bucket is full of water Wait. I look back to the shirt and trousers, am I expected to wear those? There’s a bit of fabric in the bucket so they’re probably not meant to be washing rags. Oh well.
After a bit of quality time with a damp rag, I pull on the shirt and trousers, off-white and beige respectively, the whole ensemble smelling faintly of sawdust and strongly of barn hay. Gods, if anyone back home saw me now, ergh. Though anything’s better than stewing in goblin offal.
The door shudders violently and it takes a second to parse it’s intention of a polite knock, an impatient shout clarifies the issue. I stuff everything into my bag – wrapping everything in my cloak so as to keep blood off of my valuables – and run to the door before anything escalates.
I’m at the door just as it swings open and am met by Scab’s lovely visage. Even with the few inches of height I have on her, she suddenly feels a lot more threatening. The scruffy tunic feels itchy and stuffy against my chest, though so much thinner than her chain armour. Slinking around her I’m met with the door of the neighbouring room open and Evelyn resplendent in her new garb. By that I mean she’s wearing a puffy, light-grey smock. She pats at the long skirt uncertainly, as if unused to moving in that much fabric. I find myself swallowing back something no doubt witty and cutting. It’s weird seeing Evelyn clean and in a dress, no matter how hideous.
She must notice my gaze as she spins around, “So? Don’t I just absolutely rock… er… what is this? Padded canvas?” she swishes her skirt around in a way that makes me miss my robes, “feels like I’m wearing an entire sheep.”
“You make an exceptional serving girl.”
She rolls her eyes and we both fall in step behind Scab as we wind our way through the building. I don’t understand how this place can be so big, it’s definitely not nice enough to be Fourey’s home. Surely he’s at least rich enough to have carpets in the hallways – I hope so, or this coup is going to be even more disastrous than it’s already shaping up to be.
Blondie – I mean, Sylvia – gives us a once over and nods as if satisfied by the new look. I hope this isn’t what Fourey meant by getting us cleaned and fitted. My fingernails are black with all manner of unholy gunk. My hopes are steadily ground down to nothing as we continue to pass door after door, each one might well have housed a bath. But no, with uncharacteristic and dismaying quickness, we arrive at a slightly sturdier door and are unceremoniously pushed out of the building and into a dingy alleyway.
The stuffy air I’d almost gotten used to is abruptly replaced by some foul sour stench, somehow tinged metallic. To our left someone had seemingly cleared a space for refuse disposal, but neglected a method to get rid of it. The pile, capped by what must be this morning’s breakfast, covers the entire spectrum of green and brown, ending in a nauseating black at the bottom. A pool of bile-yellow liquid seeps from it and forms a steady flow down the middle of the alley. I shift my gaze only to find a similar arrangement outside the other doors of the buildings that line the alleyway. I breathe in and choke, recoiling and bumping into Evelyn whose nose is scrunched against the smell. I quickly splay my fingers and conjure up a cloud of tangerine freshness. With my magic combating the acrid stench I lean over gagging with hands on knees.
Something impacts my back and I stumble out of my sanctuary. Trying to keep my balance, my foot lands dangerously close to the bile stream and I awkwardly hop away, holding my breath and searching for my attacker. It inevitably turns out to be Scab who walks over, though not before gingerly stepping over the seepage. She grabs my shirt and leans in.
“Don’t let me see you doing that again. Lord Fourey was very clear.” she growls dangerously. “Serving boys don’t do magic.”
Right, the cover story. She releases me and I scoot away, striding towards the mouth of the alleyway. I step onto the street and am met with a wall of noise. Before me, hundreds of people bustle passed. A carriage trundles along, pedestrians dodging out of the way as it forges through the human river. A merchant advertises his wares. A man shouts something, lost in the din. A dirty old man thrusts a wooden bowl in my face, his begging muddled by his lack of teeth.
A hand lands on my shoulder and Evelyn turns me around.
“You alright Lucien?” The smell from the alley wafts over me again and I flinch. Evelyn frowns, concerned. I absently grasp at the wall to steady myself.
“Er… Yeah. Just a bit of a sensory overload.” She stares at me and I turn away, back towards the street. Please just drop it.
I feel her gaze on my back as I try to move into the crowd, but she acquiesces as Scab and Sylvia reach the street. She brushes past and effortlessly follows the flow of the crowd. I lurch to follow in her wake. Our guards simple push through the throng, guiding us through the sea of people as the surroundings become recognisable as a marketplace, though on a scale of which I’ve never seen before.
“So, you’re a country boy eh? wouldn’t know it with how much of a princess you can be” Evelyn somehow modulating her voice to be heard through the clamour around us. Princess? I breathe in, preparing to shout my rebuttal when her hand shoots out and jerks me forward as another carriage trundles through the spot that I’d just been standing in.
“Fucker!” she shouts as I struggle to regulate my breathing. Gods above, how does anyone live here? She pats me on the back and she follows on after Scab, unruffled and already returned to her earlier goading expression. As if this chaos was a normal occurrence. “C’mon Lucien, just watch out for the traffic. Can’t have the big city chew you up.” I bumble after her as she threads her way through the crowd, dodging the odd elbow.
After what feels like hours the masses start to thin out and I’m left gasping for breath having washed ashore on a blessedly depopulated boardwalk. I look over my shoulder, the sea of human heads, market stalls and gaping alleyways. Hang on, I recognise that one.
Gods, we’d only crossed the square.
“Bloody market days.” mutters Sylvia, “trundling along like they’ve not got anywhere better to be.” Scab chuckles at that and picks up the pace down the street.
It doesn’t take much longer before the market stalls are replaced by proper storefronts and those soon give way to residential buildings. The buildings get progressively nicer as we head deeper into the city. It’s when most of the houses have glass windows that I know we’ve entered what must be the rich district. The brightly painted facades don’t quite hide the general miasma of decay that seems to pervade the city. The old beggar from before wasn’t alone it seems. Every few houses have someone dressed in rags sitting near the door. From the alleys I can see shadowy figures and the same trash seepage that’s apparently ubiquitous around here.
We turn a corner and I’m met with a black fence, intricately carved with those meaningless designs that blacksmiths tend to employ when they’ve been paid too much for a simple wrought iron gate. The spiked fence stretches down both sides of the street, it must encircle then entire block. Within the enclosure and through the sculpted hedges is an expanse of green grass and tended gardens. A large mansion sits towards the centre. Its walls made intermittently of stone and painted wood, as if slowly added to over generations of stagnant wealth. Finally, a taste of home.
Scab leads us to the giant, ornate gate and mutters to the guard on duty. The guard shoots Evelyn and I a look, then calls for his colleague. Sylvia joins in and the four of them start muttering, no coin is changing hands so maybe everything is still above board. Evelyn idly fidgets with her smock, tugging at it around her hips and none too subtly itching under her arms.
Looking away, I focus on the gate. With it closed, the decorations form a crest of an elaborate shield overseen by rearing unicorn on either side. All in all, it’s completely without inspiration. I mean, unicorns, really? Might as well be dragons or lions for all the creativity it has. The shield is bad enough, just a generic kite design. The only remotely impressive part of it – aside from the scale being almost one to one – is that the whole thing is gilded. Not the gilding itself though, simply the fact that the owner has put outward facing gold on their gate within arm’s reach of any passer-by and it is still there. Either the family is well respected, or these guards are all too generous with their batons. From the lack of pedestrians around the gate, I’d lean towards the latter.
After a few minutes of bickering the guards step back and Scab calls us over. The older guard presses his hand against a panel on the gate post which lights up. Then nothing happens. A moment passes and the gate remains closed, the guards and our handlers all standing straight backed. A full minute later and a metallic clunk is heard, which finally seems to get the gates moving. Inch by pain staking inch. It’s the way that the guards remain at attention throughout the ordeal that tips it off, the gate itself is a gigantic, ornate power move. As I waste another minute watching the gilded unicorns split apart, for the first time since this all began, I find myself rooting for Fourey. Not even the estate back home would house something this diabolical.
Sylvia pushes through as the gate passes the halfway point. The guards make half-hearted protests but don’t seem terribly invested in the whole charade. We approach the mansion along a gravel walkway, whites flower beds lining the sides. At the first opportunity, Scab turns and leads us down another path that winds around the complex, towards the smallest wing of the building. The painted wooden panels give way to classic cobblestone and a few paces down the path, the gardens lose that manicured touch. Evidently, we’re out of view of the main gate. We end up in front of a small wooden door. The peeling blue paint looks like its seen better days, in sharp contrast to the pristine white of the main building.
Scab knocks and the door opens to a tall, thin man with deep-set frown lines. His silent gaze sweeps over the four of us before settling back on Scab. Sylvia moves to enter the building but the man crosses his arms and widens his stance, blocking the way.
“So, who do you lot belong to?” he asks finally breaking the silence. “Rankins? Fourey? Sirbhin?” Neither Scab nor Sylvia even twitch at the names, I don’t know why they bother if it’s apparently this obvious. He redoubles his glaring, looming over the two women. Neither one backs down even with the massive height difference. Though I’m pretty sure Scab could snaps this guy’s wrist without even trying. “I’ve told you lot before, we don’t need any more hands.”
“Whatever,” growls Sylvia dismissively, pulling out a bundle of papers, “It’s all already been decided, just take them.” He doesn’t bother taking the proffered documents, likely knowing full well what it contained. All of this was posturing. At his lack of a response, Evelyn and I are pushed forward and after another round of staring, the man steps inside to let us through. Without even a glance to either of us, Scab and Sylvia stalk off, hopefully never to be seen again, but I somehow doubt we’ll be that lucky.
The man slams the door closed and follows us into the room, which turns out to be kitchen. Ignoring us, he walks over to the counter and puts a black pot back on the glowing coals in the oven. He stirs the pot a few times, muttering curses to himself than moves to the counter to chop up onions. I stand awkwardly waiting for something to happen, Evelyn fidgets and glances towards the chairs around the table, though deciding that it’s probably not the time to make ourselves comfortable. A door across the room bursts open and a maid hurries in, a stack of plates in her hands. I quickly step out of the way as she rounds the table and bustles through another door to my right. I press myself against the wall and try not to fidget too much.
Our new boss finishes with the onions and throws them in the pot, only then turning towards us. He glares at us then sighs.
“You,” pointing at me, “out that door, go help Emily with the laundry.” When I don’t move immediately his frown hits truly apocalyptic levels. I’m out the door before something catches fire.
The door opens to an enclosed courtyard with a well in the centre. A girl in a smock similar to Evelyn sits expressionless, scrubbing fabric against some kind of torture device. I wander up and clear my throat to get her attention, she doesn’t react at all. Hopefully this isn’t the kind of mindset one needs in order to survive here.