The lesser lord Fidelity Brand leaned on his sword as he stood. His wounded mustache frayed on its severed end, but in time it would regrow.
In every way but the one that mattered, Brand’s words weren’t news. In his heart and hopes, Rhode had been chasing after the Third all night. But the homunculus hadn’t seen a shadow, or even much of a hint of his newborn brother. Instead, he’d met Ed.
So. Oughtn’t a man be overjoyed to be offered a second chance to reconnect to home? To find another of his own people on the other side of death?
“Yeah. I will. Of course I will,” Rhode said. There was a towel clumped up within reach, and he swiped it across the floor under him.
Ser Fidelity Brand offered his hand out. What kind of person did Rhode think he was? A little silly, a little strict. Demanding, but kindly. Overworked and perhaps underappreciated: a commoner raised by the merit of his deeds to be (at least on paper) a peer of true-born elves. He seemed like someone you could trust. He seemed like a decent gob.
But he still wore the orange and black.
Rhode took the man’s hand in his grip. As a simple matter of leverage and of comparative size, it shouldn’t have been possible for Brand to lift Rhode up. But leaning on the half-elf’s strength, the homunculus dragged himself slowly to his full height.
If the homunculus' smile wasn’t wide enough, or warm enough as he shook that hand – then maybe that could have been understandable, considering the abused and weary state of his body.
“So how’s this going to work?” Rhode asked.
Brand ever so slightly indicated with his chin, and then turned away from Rhode. “Your Grace,” the constable declared. He secured his saber to his belt, with practiced ease, and brought his free thumb to his brow to make a military salute. “With your leave, I will direct Goodeman Irving from here.”
He knelt, and Rhode sidled up beside him. The homunculus patted tenderly at his aching legs, but before he had a chance to go down to his knee again, the Prince’s voice forbade them.
“The Goodeman Irving will await instruction outside. We will address Our constable.”
“I can just leave?” Rhode asked fairly doubtfully.
“Refreshments are to be made available. Inquire with Warrant Officer Seng.”
There was a sour, acid taste on Rhode’s tongue. “Yes, Your Grace,” he excused himself. He shuffled backwards, then threw a glance towards Ser Brand.
The Constable only expelled him with a harsh whisper. “If His Grace says go, then go.”
Passing through the shadow caul was more disorienting on the way out than in. The thin layer of darkness felt like a soap bubble against Rhode’s skin, but passing through it was like breaching from underwater into air. Light and sound had been stifled through the barrier: in the adjoining drawing room, they flared into voices and disorienting colors.
Rhode blinked as his pupils constricted.
Edilberto Santos stood by the hallway door. Gold jewelry hung, heavy and glittering off of his throat and wrists. The [Brave]’s arms stretched lazily ahead, resting provocatively across the shoulders of a woman Rhode did not recognize. She was a full-blooded elf, taller than the Prince’s dour goblin bodyguard. She had her wine-dark hair up in a tight bun, which Ed’s fingers picked at from behind, as if to loosen it.
The woman’s colors marked her as a squire-scribe of the Illuminance of Bronze, and her costume was tailored in a prim and professional dress-suit cut.
Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
“Ser Santos, I need to get you to bed. You have an early start tomorrow.”
“Come on, won’t you drink with me? The night is still young!” the Hero crooned. He swayed gently from side to side with a wide grin, and the young woman reluctantly moved along, guided by his arms.
“Ser Santos, I very much would prefer not to drink tonight,” she politely refused.
Four healers sat in a huddle by the far window, they faced one another, but their attention was only on the Heroes. They did not speak.
The Prince’s bodyguard stood a pace away from the [Brave] and his minder. The man’s expression was stony and his hands were raised as he pushed forward at the air, so as to usher them out the door without touching them.
“It’s three hours past midnight, and the palace is secure. Squire Moesha will direct you to your room,” growled the goblin.
Warrant Officer Seng’s eyes flashed over and met Rhode’s. His fingers reached for his wand, and a peaceful expression of relief crossed over his face as his touch brushed his wand, then pulled away. His smile was more open and calm afterwards.
“I have to deal with Goodeman Irving. It will be boring for you, and I also don’t want you here. Go to bed, Goodeman Santos.”
The Hero protested, but the bodyguard insisted; he went so far as to call in the Rifle Captain from outside. In short order, the steady, military sharpness of the soldier’s uniform (and bayonet) proved to be convincing arguments.
“Hey Ed,” Rhode called out. “Come find me. I still want to talk.”
<
Edilberto Santos laughed and waved, as Squire Moesha shrugged his other arm off. The guard captain ushered the Hero out from behind as the squire led from ahead. Bodyguard Seng shut the door behind them.
Before Rhode spoke up, Warrant Officer Seng clapped his hands loudly. All four healers were on their feet in an instant.
“Alright, what are you waiting for. Patch him up,” he barked.
Rhode was under attack before he knew what was happening. Brother Eloft and Goode□■□■ ▯i□a□ were at his side first. A swampy, quinine smell turned the homunculus’ stomach as a healing tonic was shoved under his nose. By habit (a habit he didn’t remember acquiring) he drank it immediately.
“That’s for clotting and replacing vital blood humours,” Eloft muttered. “Raise your arms so we can bandage you.”
“[Medicinal Quench], or [Honeyhint Spring]?” asked a soft spoken voice.
“The [Spring],” three voices answered in unison. The military medics had chimed in agreement with Eloft.
Painpricks along Rhode’s wounds marked the work of the two unfamiliar doctors as their needles reinforced his torn sutures. A pair of gruesome shears cut off his bloody clothing, then the healers unwound long, resin soaked gauze and wrapped his body uncomfortably tight. Their ministrations were efficient and hurried.
The [Honeyhint Spring] tonic occupied a heavy leather wine-skin, and it tasted like pure water with a hint of sweetness. With encouragement, Rhode drank deeply of it.
Then he bent forward at their request. It took four goblins to throw a billowy shirt over Rhode’s head. They stepped away as he replaced his leggings with a pair of elephantine hose. Mim■□ had to secure his new clothing at his knees with ribbon and string, as the military doctors strung his pants into his shirt somehow and tied the rest of his over-sized clothing tight.
“I look ridiculous, don’t I,” sighed Rhode.
“It’s not so bad,” lied ▯i□ai.
“It’s the most humiliating thing I’ve seen a grown man wear in my life. Complain about it after you’ve cleaned up the mess you made,” Seng growled.
The floor beneath the homunculus was ruined, spattered with tacky, clotting ichor. His old clothes lay in a mass thrown in a corner. The glowing crystals which had been laid on top of the tables had dimmed.
“We’ll have to do redo his feet,” apologized one of the doctors as they backed away.
“It can wait until he’s asleep,” replied another. “He’s going to need surgery.”
The grim warrant officer cut them short with a slicing motion of his hand. “Deal with it after we’ve put down an insurrection.”
Brief anxiety washed over Rhode, and he let it wash over him and recede. He forced a smile. “Thanks everyone. I know I don’t make it easy.”
Eloft patted Rhode’s arm. “More fun this way.” The priest motioned towards the door. “I’d better take him, then,” he offered.
But he was refused by Seng immediately. “No. Management has determined that Goodeman Irving no longer requires you. The creepy one takes him. Penitent, an officer will meet you at the foot of the Pondwing Stairwell, and he’ll accompany you from there.”
‘Sorry,’ Rhode mouthed.
Eloft shrugged back and tapped his arm with a feather-light punch.
And just like that, Rhode was led out of the room and out of the reach of shadows. The squad of musketeers stepped aside without a word as the homunculus followed the bouncing curly hair of his sh□■□ hornupant guide. They walked and followed the curve of the narrow hall.
It seemed so easy. That was why Rhode Mortimer Irving clutched at his racing heart.
Not a gram of him believed that he had been forgiven. He was surely doomed and worse, he couldn’t remember exactly why he deserved it.