1 Soul Bound
1.2 Taking Control
1.2.3 An Enchanting Original
1.2.3.8 A fitting entrance for a fashionable establishment
7:00 am, Wednesday June 7th, 2045
2 bells of the afternoon watch
Droday wax, 5th day of the month of KrevinBelember, A2F1600
They would have arrived in plenty of time but, as they passed the Grand Market, Kafana heard a minstrel singing a song full of innuendo about Pantalone’s great big horns and stopped to learn the lyrics. Then Bungo spotted a tent run by a new consortium of bulk shippers, and he dived in to acquire samples of as many different substances as he could, hotly followed by Wellington, who wanted to check some prices. Bulgaria started competing with Alderney at levelling up a skill which seemed to involve spreading and investigating rumours, and by the time Tomsk had used the monks to round them all up and escort them away from temptations, they were running late.
She was surprised by the interior of the shop, which was small, dark and pokey. To the left was a waiting room for guards and other retainers. To the right was a hatch manned by a bored balding clerk who was busy with a courier from the Messengers Guild and didn’t so much as look up to acknowledge their presence. Neither way looked inviting, which only left the arch of aged stone blocks directly across from the entrance but her view through it was obscured by a rippling surface of blue light. Did she have the right to enter, or should she wait for permission from the clerk?
Hang on, her aura of power must be on full - due to the blessing of the deities she didn’t have a choice about that, and she could see the light from it brightening the wall beside her. The clerk must be doing it deliberately, so this was an insult or a test. Either way, humility wasn’t the correct response. She imagined herself as the lady riding a tamed lion from the Tarot card in Olga’s hut. Strong but gracious. She could do that.
Kafana: {Bulgaria, shall we do this in style? Can you go forth before us, and handle protocol, like you did when we first entered Torello?}
Bulgaria grinned delightedly, and slipped through the arch. A moment later his voice came over chat.
Bulgaria: {Give me a minute. I’m going to build you up a bit. This place is spectacular. You enter via some sort of crystal bridge over a large pool of water in the centre of a square atrium, supported by four massive marble tree trunks wrapped in vines of crystal. Lots of silver and other reflective surfaces directing beams of light from the stained glass cupola high above. People are looking down from the higher levels, and I suspect they take delight in watching newcomers stumble to a halt in awe, so when I give you the cue, enter like this is a friend’s house that you visit every week - hardly worth commenting upon.}
When she stepped in, head high, she imagined herself on a stage after a performance, walking forwards to receive the deserved plaudits of an adoring audience. To her right, lightly holding her arm, walked Bungo and they chatted about the clouds they’d seen outside and whether they portended rain that evening. She took her time, enjoying listening to Bulgaria’s voice as he poured grandeur into increasingly dramatic titles: “... Devilsbane, The Saviour of Basso, The Twice-born Bard, The Queen of Song, Chosen of the Deities, Suor Kafana Sincero!”
Kafana: “Yes, yes, no need to go on, I’m sure they’ve better things to do than listen to that stuff. I’m just here to return Signora’s dress; it was so thoughtful of her, a delightful little thing, just right for the occasion.”
The gimlet eyed woman who’d been confronted by Bulgaria’s verbal barrage looked relieved and flattered. She turned to Kafana, putting genuine welcome into her voice.
Bartola: “Suor Kafana, please do stay. Signora is dying to meet you. She had to go deal with another client, but she left me here to greet you in her place. Can I show you around and answer any questions you have until she gets free?”
She glanced around, spotting life-like mannequins arranged in tableaux around the pool, dressed as nobles engaged in various indoor and outdoor activities, from dancing and dining, to promenading through a garden.
Kafana: “Why, how kind of you. I’m new to Torello, and the ways of the nobility here differ greatly from those of the lands where I originate. Could you tell me more about the ranks and titles, and who decides upon them? What makes a noble, a noble?”
Bartola led them beyond the atrium, through a sales area where a bevy of assistants stood ready by tastefully displayed hats, bags and other accoutrements.
Bartola: “In the Age of Kings, the answer was simple. The High King had his seat at Pentapolis and, though he may have answered to the mages of High Vilac on matters of international importance, he was the unquestioned supreme ruler of the Etruscan Kingdoms. Your rank was what the High King said it was. He could raise you to the nobility, and while he normally defaulted to confirming an heir upon the father’s death, he could strike the name of individuals, or even entire houses, from the golden book.”
On the wall were posters offering preferential treatment at specific suppliers of food, jewellery, perfumes and more abstract things such as personal protection.
Bartola: “Social rank was a bit more complex. It wasn’t just the purity of your blood and its proximity to the line of kings. Titles of rank were generally attached to roles requiring responsibility, usually involving owning or administering a particular piece of land.”
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Alderney went wide-eyed at the visual feast, and looked like she was torn in five directions. It was, perhaps, a good thing that she didn’t have a magical ability to clone herself, or she’d surely have used it.
Bartola: “Under the High King was his heir, the High Prince, and after that his right hand, the chief official of his court and lead administrator of the whole region, the Arch Duke. Below him in rank were the Sovereign Kings who ruled each city, the rest of the High Royals, the heirs of the Sovereign Kings, the Sovereign Princes and the lead administrators of each city, their Duke, then the remainder of the Sovereign Royals. The pattern continued down, with a Lord Primus controlling a district, a Lord Secundus controlling a major town, a Lord Tertius controlling a minor outpost, and at the bottom of the true nobility, a Feif being controlled by its supremo, with his heir and his sworn knights. The petty nobility, with neither kin-right of a great house, nor rulership of significant land, were in those days accounted no higher respect than masters of professions, regardless of their wealth. They had no social rank, and the laws granting additional rights to nobles didn’t apply to them.”
Tomsk: “You sound like you miss those days.”
Bartola: “It was nice and orderly. Everybody knew where they stood. It was the longest, stablest, most glorious period in our history. But it ended more than 400 years ago, when Thalimus was lost. Without his support the Sovereign royals soon fell and the Age of Nobles started. Each city would select the foremost of their Counts to represent the City at the annual Moot held in Pentapolis, and from these Marquis a temporary Principe would be elected for the duration of the Moot, under whose name the Moot’s edicts would be disseminated, binding upon all the signatories until the following year.”
Bungo looked confused: “Is Principe the name of a social rank or a role?”
Bartola: “A role, but one which comes with rank and its own style of office.” Seeing the blank look on his face she continued “The style is the honorifics by which the holder of a role must be addressed when referring to them formally. For example, the ruler of the Mercato district is Lord Landi, head of House Landi, which is a House Primus, so when attending a formal event he would be announced at the door as ‘Count Mercato’. Technically ‘Count’ is the honorific for the ruler of a district, not the name of their social rank, because there might be others with equivalent rank who are not counts. Rulers of major towns are addressed as ‘Viscount’, Outpost rulers as ‘Baron’, Feif Supremos as ‘Baronet’ and sworn Knights as ‘Sir’. Or their feminine counterpart.”
Bungo whined: “You’re right, I do prefer the older version. Simpler.”
Bartola gave Bungo the look of a predatory bird spotting a tasty morsel.
Bartola: “Oh, it gets worse. After the Age of Nobles came the Age of Priests, who systematised granting honorary social status to foreign travellers. Rulers of foreign lands were accorded the same status as barons, their ambassadors gained the protections of baronets, and even their high nobles got to carry swords around - the same as sworn knights. There’s still resentment about it among the great houses, even centuries later.”
Wellington asked her a question about money, and she directed him to a discreet door marked “Accounts”. She wrinkled her nose, as though even the thought of coins smelled like sewage. Obviously, if you needed to ask the price of something here, this wasn’t the right shop for you.
Bartola: “Then, driven by the great naval battles of those times, sailing technology improved, and the money from trade overtook the money from land ownership. Guilds gained in strength and the Age of Merchants arrived. The ruling council of the city was widened to include those lacking noble blood, and councillors were accorded the same status as barons. Even some lesser functionaries gained status, such as the Captain of the Watch being held equal to a sworn knight, despite not being in life-long service to a specific noble house. The guilds demanded the same for their High Masters, and the Grand Master of each guild gained the same status as a baronet. The Archmage, when she visited, was fêted like a viscount. Goodness knows what would have happened if a Legend had arrived. Nobody can keep track of all the honourifics granted to individuals as opposed to roles held by the individuals. As far as I’m concerned, we live in days of chaos with rank just an illusion sustained by collective belief.”
Kafana: {Sys, a little help here? Can you add to the annotations I see above people’s heads when I focus upon them, an indicator of their social status and how to address them?}
System: [Yes Kafana, when the information is known to you or your party. Wellington is marked as having read the Libro d'Oro, and I can represent rank numerically according to the information you have just gained from Dame Bartola.]
The display over Bartola’s head altered to include “Dame (1)” in purple text.
Kafana: {Sys, Thank you!} She concentrated on feeling the emotion of gratitude as she spoke the words, knowing the System could read that too, via her tiara. She stopped paying attention to Bartola, who was focused upon poor Bungo, and had System summarise the information in a document which she shared with the others.
Bungo was eventually saved from Bartola by Wellington’s return, but not before she’d finished rhapsodising about the organisation of court officials, back in the Age of Kings. Their sole purpose appeared to be preventing merchants from intruding upon the High King’s time with their petty concerns about taxation, and she described each layer of social shielding in loving detail, complete with sartorial comments about their uniforms, from the lowest wearing one sash, who verified the petitioner’s identity, to the highest wearing seven sashes who having ascertained the petition was important and couldn’t be dealt with by any lesser personage than the High King, scheduled an audience, arranged for the High King to be briefed upon the petitioner, the petition and independent summaries of pertinent issues, and sent the petitioner to be indoctrinated in the very rigid protocol he’d be required to adhere to during the audience, involving much bowing, and little speaking beyond answering direct questions. Bungo looked like he’d have preferred to be repeatedly beaten over the head with heavy practice weapons.
Alderney approached with an innocent wide-eyed expression and her hands coyly grasped behind her back.
Alderney: “Bartola, that was fascinating! Bungo is modest about it, but I know how much he values history. You mentioned a tour. Could you tell him more about the history of fashion?”
Bungo's horrified voice immediately rose in protest on the group's channel: {Alderney! Nooooo!}
But before anyone else could react, a reinvigorated Bartola found herself with a clear path to Bungo's side, as Alderney stepped back again. The cute beret the smallest womble was wearing entirely failed to hide the satisfied smile upon her face.