Barde Venit walked the Flower Path Promenade beneath the Grand Aqueduct in Capira, trailed closely by a retinue of his six honorguard. On either side of the exquisitely manicured walking path stretched the sprawling capital of Rolakkhad. Its distinct brown quartz buildings rose and fell like rolling hills among the crisscrossing network of streets. To the north the imposing Royal Quarter towered over all, as if man had set out to house God, and accomplished it. Dozens of stories tall and comprising six interconnecting palaces, the Royal Quarter was the lavish and excessively marvelous ancestral home to Rolakkhad’s royal family. These days it housed the conqueror from Iv, the Red King.
The magnificent arched aqueduct overhead provided vital water to every district of the massive city, and also vital shade from the blazing afternoon sun to the aging lord ambling beneath it. It had passed midday, and the air was starting to bake from the sun's constant attention. The usually lively streets below the promenade were now sparse; those still lingering moved in a slow languor like insects in honey.
If he were a younger man, Barde may have rolled back the sleeves of his opulent, gold-embroidered robes, splashed his face with water, and continued on his way. But he recognized now that he was getting on in years, and the flush in his cheeks could not be dispelled by a handful of water anymore. He would need to stop and recuperate, if only for a short time. His schedule for today would allow it.
"Let us make a stop at The Waiting Widow, Daer," Barde noted to the captain of his honorguard, Daer Welveton. A fiercely loyal and enthusiastic man, Daer acknowledged the command and quickly relayed the order to the other five men.
Though beads of sweat began to cascade from his forehead through his traditional laurel wreath headpiece, Barde Venit, Duke of Capira, made his way down the steps of the promenade in his characteristically stately manner. With his arms pulled back to rest behind the small of his back, his eyes tilted upward, and his smooth practiced gait of the high nobility, Barde exuded the unmistakable air of a refined man. Internally, however, his mind begged him to strip down and leap into the nearest fountain with haste.
His original goal was the estate of the Vegnoni family. The Vegnoni patriarch had recently publicly criticized Barde's treasury management in regards to the Red King's lavish spending. A personal conversation during a surprise visit had always been Barde's panacea of choice in political quarrels, and this one would be no different. The duke suddenly arriving at your estate, honorguard in tow, was enough of a jolt to set anyone on edge - an advantage he ruthlessly exploited. One does not become the second most powerful man in all of Havan by playing fair.
He would certainly look foolish if he arrived in a pool of sweat, Barde reasoned, so a stop at his favorite pub was acceptable. Besides, there was someone he needed to speak with inside.
Barde crossed the Heraldic Square, staring absently at the statue depicting the pile of heraldic shields the first Rolakk king had amassed after conquering twelve other clans to unite the country of Rolakk some centuries ago. He wondered briefly if the Red King would have this monument replaced with another of himself; it'd be the third this year if he did.
Relishing shortly in the coolness of the door’s brass handle, Barde pulled open the heavy wood door at the front of a squat quartz building at the end of the square and entered The Waiting Widow.
The light within was dim, which he appreciated. Privacy was a luxury for public figures, and torchlight was completely impractical on a scorching day like this. Daer quietly positioned himself beside the door as the rest of Barde's honorguard took up positions elsewhere in the empty pub. Oftentimes their eagerness annoyed him, but in these uncertain times he could not bring himself to rile up any annoyance. In fact, when he saw the man he was looking for alone at the bar, he quickly forgot all about his guard’s silly activities.
"Tate Coriol, fancy seeing you here!" Barde announced with a deep, bellowing tone. His toothy smile broke through his graying beard as he clapped the man at the bar on the shoulder.
"Oh, shove off, Barde. You know I'm always here," Tate responded idly. He barely acknowledged the duke.
"You drink too much, friend. It dulls the senses. Next thing you know you'll forget you're speaking with the duke," he said with a chuckle. Turning aside for a moment, he asked the barman for a mug of water in a hushed tone. He left a gold crown on the counter for the man’s trouble; the bar was empty, and he knew Daer would not allow another patron to enter until Barde had left.
"And I think you drink far too little for a man of your situation," Tate retorted. "It is hard to trust a man who does not indulge in any vices. They tend to rationalize their shortcomings a little too effectively for my liking." The silver-haired man took a long drink from the mug of ale in his hands. His hair had been silver his entire life, and age had not changed it in the slightest. It still fell sloppily around his head as it had in his youth, though he cared even less now about its appearance than the little he had then. Tate’s thin, sinewy body contrasted severely with Barde’s paunchy frame, every joint poking out from within his clothes like tent poles under heavy cloth. Despite his habit for drink, his silver duelist eyes were as sharp as ever, seeming to pierce through a lie before it left one’s lips.
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“You say that now, Tate, but you’d have never followed me this long if I had clouded my intuition with drink,” Barde retorted as the barman placed a mug of cool water in front of him. He drank deeply, feeling refreshed as the cold coursed through his body. After finishing the entire mug, Barde wiped his trimmed facial hair and placed another gold crown on the bartop. He had only intended to tip once, but discovered with a frown that it was actually his second time. He decided against taking it back, fearing it would be too miserly an action for the Duke of Capira. More often lately he found himself judging his actions against the expectations of his persona, rather than acting out his own nature. The assumed appearance of the duke rarely aligned with the natural intuition of the man Barde Venit, yet at a time like this he strove in every aspect to avoid suspicion, so he played the act of the refined lord at every public appearance.
“Aye, I wager you’re right there,” Tate replied. “You come all the way down here to reprimand me on my habits again?”
“Actually, I was on my way to visit the Vegnoni estate,” Barde answered.
“Eh? Forging a last-minute alliance?” Tate asked, surprised. The Vegnoni family was one of the few in Capira that had openly opposed the Red King’s methods since day one, yet they were fiercely independent, eschewing the typical behavior of noble families in seeking out alliances. A noble family that acquired their wealth through trade was less reliant on political maneuvering than the others who required political appointments as their lifeline to power.
“Rumor has it that old man Gernan Vegnoni - you remember him, right? The head of the whole Vegnoni trade empire. Anyways, rumor has it that he has been bad-mouthing the Red King’s lavish spending recently. Probably despises that his taxes go toward all those vanity statues - and I can’t blame him - but as the Duke of Capira and executor of the king’s finances, it is my job to confront these accusations,” Barde answered. The flush from his face was leaving, and he was feeling far more relaxed now. Speaking with a friend had helped to ease the tension exacerbated by the fever.
“Finally found your opening, I see. They’re a withdrawn bunch, but would be powerful allies. That much is true.”
“Precisely. I’ve eyes on me at all times now; Redden is as oblivious as always, but his handlers are beginning to suspect something. All of my meetings now require a pretense. This one is a little thin, but I think I can justify it with a bit of embellishment,” Barde said.
“Feels a bit surreal now as we come closer, eh?” Tate asked with a crooked smile. “It’d be a shame if all of this ended so prematurely.”
“You preach to the choir, old friend. Every sleep I lie awake for hours, wondering if I am doing the right thing. Is the world better for having been conquered, or have we accepted a cursed bargain in return for stability?” Barde asked. His eyes suddenly glassed over, lost in memory. He had returned to this subject hundreds of times now, but still debated himself over the answer. The Warring Period was over - Ivan no longer fought Temuli, who no longer fought Rolakk. Yet, the man that glued them all together was a simple-minded warlord, his greatest accomplishment being his stumbling upon an ancient power in Danet.
“I wish lost sleep were my only pain in all of this. Linoor was my greatest treasure in this world, and to keep our secret I’ve driven her away to the forsaken land of the blasphemers out west. If she had half a brain she’d escape and never see me again. I know I would,” Tate replied as he stared into his mug.
“Yes, I often wonder if I’ve done Ardenel a favor by banishing him, or if I’ve sentenced him to an early grave. Yasha knows I have been absent these past few years. Though, our children faced nearly certain death if they stayed here with us, so I did not see another option available,” Barde said, equally morose. He thought of his last conversation with Ardenel before sending him away to Danet. A man can make a name for himself in Danet. Ardenel seemed incensed at hearing it, but he had meant it to be encouraging. Become your own man - do not find yourself ensnared by the sins of your father.
“‘Are we not so lucky to lead lives of hardship, such that our children can know comfort?’” Tate quoted solemnly from Memoir of a Deornissian General.
Barde nodded silently as he finished his second mug of water. His offensive sweating had stopped now, and he no longer felt the weight of the sun fatiguing him. It was time to continue on.
“In three days we move. Be ready, Tate. You are vital to our operation,” Barde said to his old friend as he clapped his shoulder again. The man hummed a response but did not raise his head.
Barde felt a pang of guilt as he left the pub, his honorguard falling in line behind him. Tate’s alcoholism had accelerated in recent months as they approached their deadline. Barde worried about his capabilities, but reprimanded himself for his selfishness. If he had never approached Tate with his plan and enlisted his aid, he’d have never taken to drink in the first place. He would still be the ideal supportive father, standing at the sidelines of his daughter’s duel, cheering as she won yet another title.
The hot afternoon sun awaited him outside. Barde knew he could hide momentarily, but eventually everything would come to light.