“I look ridiculous.” Dell had never been more uncomfortable in a suit of clothes in his life, but he hadn’t tried to move in them yet, either. Maybe his ordeal was just beginning, and he would look back at this moment and scoff at how naive he’d been. However things turned out, he was certain he’d be miserable.
They had come down off the roof and crossed the street, before sneaking into a townhouse owned by a Bishop of Scaeptrius, who was conveniently not at home. Ransacking his wardrobe and closet had yielded a selection of elaborate vestments, as well as plenty of fine, expensive secular clothing. Dell had wondered briefly if he should be concerned about stealing clothes from a member of the clergy, but devotees of the god of power, wealth, and ambition were famously shady characters. He wasn’t the god of honesty, after all.
“That’s good, we need that. The outfit needs to be ridiculous enough for you to be somebody powerful and important, but not so ridiculous that it goes too far and you’re either an emperor or a traveling clown.” said Erasmus, standing back and examining Dellromoz’s disguise. “If you look too ridiculous, but you don’t have enough attendants, they’ll see right through us.” He crossed his arms and tapped an index finger against his cheekbone. “I think it needs more hat, that’s really the key.”
“The key to impersonating important people is wearing a big hat?” Dellromoz asked.
“No, the key to being an important person is wearing an outlandish hat. It doesn’t have to be that large, if it’s gaudy and impractical enough. Don’t move, I’ll see if I can find another one.” He dashed back into the closet, while Dell glumly regarded himself in the mirror again.
The shoes they’d found probably added six inches to his height, which was good, because the robe he was in was much too tall for him.
“What do you mean about hats making people important?” he said, mainly to distract himself.
“Think about it! When does a king become a king?” Erasmus called as he rummaged around.
“Well, at his coronation, I suppose.”
“Right, a magic ritual in which they place a hat of gold and jewels upon his head, conferring upon him all the powers and authority of a monarch.”
“The king makes the crown important, not the other way around!” Dell insisted.
“Is the king more powerful before or after the coronation?”
“Well, after technically, but not because of a magic hat! You can’t just grab the crown, put it on, and suddenly be king!”
“It’s not my assertion that the crown is all it takes to become king. But we're talking about a ceremony attended by thousands of people, in which they perform ancient rites to convey upon a chosen one an ancestral artifact symbolizing sovereignty over an entire nation. I couldn't tell you exactly what effect it has, but it's clearly magical.”
“Well...”
“Moreover, look at bishops, or guild leaders, or generals. Most have an official hat for their office. Even unofficially, do the nobility go around bareheaded, or do they clothe themselves in elaborate fashions, complete with matching hats? And, would you not, if you saw a person wearing such a hat on the street, assume them to be wealthy and important?” Erasmus asked, as he returned and placed a ceremonial mitre of purple silk embroidered with gold thread on Dell’s head.
“But that’s just an assumption, it’s not really magic!”
“It changes what you believe to be true, which seems pretty powerful to me. A person can do all sorts of unlikely things if they have the right beliefs.”
"Like what?"
Erasmus reached up with both hands and lifted his head off his shoulders. He held it high in the air with one hand, then rolled it down his arm, across his shoulders, all the way to his elbow, flipped it into the air, and caught it back on top of his spine.
Dell refused to be impressed. "That's because you're a weird ghost, not because of beliefs being magic."
"My boy, you don't get to be a weir-," he caught himself, "mistwalker through the power of cynicism. What's more, I'm about to prove it." He grabbed his own outrageously impractical hat. "Let's go magically open some doors."
Anselmo stood at the gate to Count Trevallion’s townhouse, leaning on his halberd, watching the traffic go by. He didn’t have much else to do, the Count was out, and most of the people who might stop by had gone with him. Not that he missed them, the best of Trevallion’s associates were terrible people, and they went downhill from there. He leaned against the wall of river rock and mortar, and took out his pipe. The Count would scream at him if he was still smoking when he got back, but Anselmo was sure he had plenty of time. The Count of Kinsborough had gone to scream at the watch commander, and he liked to take his time and savor it when he got the chance to do that.
Anselmo was blowing smoke rings when the cab pulled up. The driver had a strange expression on his face, but Anselmo ignored it as he affected his “Count’s Guard” persona. The head butler had once told him that good servants functioned as an instrument of their master’s will, so he tried to act as though his purpose in life was to create as much suffering as humanly possible.
The driver opened the door and a strange pair exited the cab. They were dressed extravagantly, with an abundance of silk and gold brocade, but there was definitely a theme, and one he recognized. The royal purple color, contrasted with gold ornamentation, and numerous symbols of Scaeptrius (a grasping, golden hand) on display made it clear that these were clergymen.
The taller one exited first, placing a tall, feathered hat of purple velvet on his head, then holding out his hand to help his companion disembark. The shorter one seemed to have difficulty walking, and Anselmo noticed that his hands shook slightly as he accepted the assistance. The holy man’s face couldn’t be discerned, as he wore a neck ruff, one veil of silk, and then another veil of long, golden tassels that hung down from his hat. He could have been a tall gnome, or a short human, but he made up for his lack of height with a silken mitre that was half again as tall as he was. He accepted an ornate cane from his companion, which he leaned heavily on as he shuffled up to Anselmo. The tall one removed a lorgnette from a jacket pocket, unfolded the spectacles from the handle with a sharp flick of his lace-covered wrist, and spoke first. The shorter one reached a white-gloved hand into a pocket and fished out an ear trumpet on a gold retaining chain, lifting it to the side of his head as his companion began to speak.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“It is your pleasure to receive His Grace, Patriarch Josalphiaz Hornigold, and his honored servant, Comptroller Harlow.” the tall one began, his nose in the air and chest puffed out. Half his face was obscured by a silk scarf and the neck ruff the Scaeptrians refused to surrender to the tides of fashion. He regarded Anselmo through the lenses as though the guard was some sort of impertinent insect that had dared to alight upon his shoe. “You will be delighted to inform the Count of Kinsborough that mortal representatives of Our Holy Lord Scaeptius have arrived, and to send a valet for our luggage.”
Anselmo had been about to direct them to the Bishop’s house down the street, but stopped with a lurch. “We weren’t expecting you,” he said, giving the Comptroller a suspicious look.
“That was rather the point.” replied Harlow, as if he’d just heard the stupidest statement ever uttered by a being capable of speech. “We didn’t come all the way out here to this... quaint little settlement on a social call.”
“I don’t know where you think you are, but you don’t get to drop in on the Count of Kinsborough unannounced and impose on his hospitality based on your own inflated sense of self importance.” Anselmo replied, puffing on his pipe. “Now, seeing as that cab driver over there only has room to hitch one horse’s ass to the front of his cab, it looks as though no one around here has any use for you. You should find someplace else to be. I’d suggest down by the river, there’s a lovely wharf you can fall off of.”
“What I am implying, sir,” sneered the Comptroller, the feathers on his hat waving in the breeze, “is that this is an audit, and as long as we’re out here rusticating among the animals, ogre clans, and other miscellaneous barbarians there is plenty of time for us to review the-” The Patriarch smacked his ankle with his cane.
Comptroller Harlow closed the lorgnette as he leaned down close to Patriarch Hornigold’s face, obscured though it was, and listened as the Patriarch told him something in a furious-sounding whisper. Anselmo wasn’t able to make out the words, but when the Comptroller replied he seemed to be trying to explain himself. The Patriarch wasn’t having it, and banged his cane on the ground, hissing out an unintelligible rebuke. Harlow stood up, his back straight as an arrow, and spun on his heel to face Anselmo. Again, he snapped his wrist, opening the lorgnette, and looked at Anselmo through the thick lenses of the spectacles.
“It is my hallowed duty to apologize for my previous conduct,” he began, forcing the words out through a clenched jaw, “In my zeal to serve our Lord, I may have spoken hastily, and without due deference to the Count and his household.” It appeared that uttering the apology was causing the pompous man physical pain. Anselmo congratulated himself mentally on a job well done.
Comptroller Harlow looked back and forth to see if anyone was within earshot before he said in a lower voice, “Publicly, the Patriarch has accepted an invitation to visit Count Trevallion and provide spiritual guidance.” The holy man inclined his head slightly at Anselmo, who returned the gesture.
“Privately,” Harlow continued, “there have been a number of...irregularities noted between His Lordship’s tax records and the Church’s tithe receipts. Out of respect for His Lordship, we have been dispatched from Ostron by His Excellency the Archon to bring the matter to a swift and discrete conclusion.
“In the unfortunate, and I’m sure purely hypothetical, circumstance that we are unable to do so, the Church will be forced to send a team of Inquisitors to resolve the matter. They will not ask gently, and, given the Count's considerable resources, they will be extremely thorough. There have been some changes made to Inquisitorial procedure since the new Secretary General took over, and they now travel with... a variety of polished metal instruments.” he paused. The tone of his voice changed, and the Inquisitor sounded less arrogant and more uneasy. “I’m told the polishing makes them easier to clean after they’ve finished asking their questions.”
Anselmo considered what Harlow had told him. Sure, the Count paid him to make people miserable, but he supposed the Count himself was an exception to that rule. That was probably the job of the severe-looking woman who stopped by sometimes in the evening. Still, there was quite a difference between a stern lashing by a provocatively-dressed professional, and having some religious fanatic in a frilly shirt pull out your toenails with a pair of pliers until you tell them where the money is.
In any case, the pair were certainly dressed like the sort of people who could schedule an audience with His Lordship. If the audience went poorly, that was hardly the fault of the man watching the gate.
“Ernust!” he shouted through the open gate toward the stable. A young man in a straw hat stuck his head out the door. “Come and get these gentlemen’s luggage!” The young man took off his hat, set down a pitchfork, and started over. Anselmo turned back to the clergymen. “This way, sirs. We’ll send a page for His Lordship, you can wait for him in the parlor.”
Erasmus chuckled to himself as he slipped the lorgnette into his pocket. He was going to leave the Bishop’s clothes behind, but he’d had too much fun with the fancy spectacles. The wealthy cleric would just have to do without them. His regular pince-nez spectacles perched upon his “nose”, he checked his outfit one last time and, finding nothing out place, left the study and returned to the parlor, swaggering as he walked through the doorway. The servants’ eyes widened in recognition, and several gasped, or at least as close as they could come to gasping while tied up and gagged. He swept his feathered hat off his head and gave them a gallant bow.
“The good news, ladies and gentlemen,” he crowed, “is that we are not from the church.”
Dellromoz, who had been watching the captives, rolled his eyes. The gnome had already changed back into his regular clothes.
“Now, while you have been fantastic hosts, haven’t they been fantastic hosts?” he asked Dell, who nodded.
“The tea was very good.” he said.
“Right, while you’ve been fantastic hosts, I’m afraid we need to be going. That page should be back shortly to untie you, and we need to be on the road before then. Please tell Isnard that I appreciate his generosity.” Erasmus wasn’t sure if it was possible for a person to become angry enough to actually die from it, but he had found a test subject, and he was doing his best to find out. Dellromoz might actually know, but some things it was just better to learn for yourself.
With that, the pair set off down the hall, then out the door. After cautiously peeking around the corner of the townhouse to make sure that the surly guard at the gate wasn’t looking, they crossed the courtyard and crept into the stables. There was a two-wheeled cart that was half full of manure, seven horses in individual stalls, and an assortment of tack. Erasmus walked up and down the stalls, sizing up the horses. He reached out and picked up the straw hat Ernust had left behind, then placed it on Dell’s head. He had an idea, and if he could pull it off, people would be talking about it for years...
“Okay, here’s the plan.”
Anselmo stood at the gate, cleaning his nails with his belt knife. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t take out his pipe. The Count would probably be back soon, and he was probably going to be in a bad mood. Not that that was Anselmo’s fault, he wasn’t the one foolish enough to try and short-change the Scaeptrians. Of course, the Count had never really cared whose fault anything was; he took it out on whoever was convenient.
“The strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must,” Anselmo muttered to himself. It was Scaeptrian doctrine, ironically enough.
His ruminations were interrupted by the clatter of a horse galloping across the paved courtyard, and he turned in time to see the damned Popinjay tip his hat as he rode past on one of His Lordship’s horses!
“HEY,” shouted Anselmo, as he began to give chase, “STOP, DAMN YOU!” He drew his shortsword and ran after the thief, who wasn’t riding terribly fast, likely because the horse’s iron shoes limited its traction on the bricks the road surface was paved with. The Popinjay weaved around pedestrians and cabs as he cantered down the street, just in time for a luxurious carriage drawn by a team of four horses, and bearing the heraldry of the Count of Kinsborough, to come around a corner.
The Popinjay seemed to be emboldened by the arrival of his enemy. He stood up in his stirrups and urged the horse into a gallop as he bore down on the carriage. He lifted a leg as he passed and delivered a sharp kick with his heel to the carriage door, shattering the glass in the window.
Anselmo paused to sheathe his sword, then ran up to a man on a horse who had stopped to watch the spectacle. Seizing him by the lapels of his coat, Anselmo dragged him from the saddle, and leaped onto the horse. “I’m the Count’s man,” he told the outraged passerby, “you’ll have your horse back when I’m done!” Standing up in the stirrups himself, he kicked the horse with his bootheels and set off after the thief.
In all the excitement, nobody noticed as a short man in a straw hat drove a cart full of hay out the gate of the Count’s townhouse and set off towards the wharf, snapping the reins as his horses began to trot.