image [https://i.postimg.cc/dVq6H4b3/Glorious-Revolution-Map-Ewal.jpg]
The problem with nobles, Sigurd knew, was that they had no appreciation for art. They wanted results, and they wanted them immediately. They didn’t even have the good grace of throwing more money at him for the effort.
What was even more maddening was their self-delusion, their absolute belief in their superiority. They basked in the praise of others, oblivious to their incompetence.
And so, here he was, in a lavishly decorated sitting room, sipping on imported tea from Lantea, pretending to listen to the inane ramblings of Duke Hetnia's dim-witted son.
“And surely you must know that my friend, the First Lance Bernard De Luminier, did most of the work anyway. I always told him he was too humble, letting that peasant take credit. This is why I think you should focus on his roots. I’ll tell you, everyone laughed themselves silly after he revealed he was from a peasant family. The man’s father was a fisherman, for the Light's sake!” Edward Osperry Hetnia guffawed.
Sigurd chuckled alongside him. He was no idiot. When a noble thought you didn’t share their sense of humor, they could flip on you like an angry Pepsis.
The young man before him could be called handsome in the way all nobles who had access to the resources needed to reach the Journeyman tier young did. Within a few years, he’d likely receive his third blessing, becoming an Expert.
If Sigurd had even a little less self-control, he would have reached over the table and snapped his neck. It would be easy, too. Despite his profession being a bard, he was a Master. Not that he advertised the fact.
But he wouldn’t survive the flight out of the mansion, not with all the guards posted at strategic points. Unfortunately, the captain in charge of security seemed good at their job, unlike their lord.
“Frankly, I never understood why the king gave him all that attention anyway. I remember Father saying something about him having valuable knowledge from wherever they plucked him from, but what could a fisherman’s son know? Even if his world had developed some interesting crafts, it’s not like he’d know about them.” Ronald continued, taking great amusement in emphasizing the Hero’s low birth.
“Perhaps he didn’t even understand the information’s value?” Sigurd suggested, pushing a silver lock away from his face. It always paid to present as an androgynous, pretty man, as people still took him seriously, but they lowered their guard, allowing him to slip in innocent questions like that. While he was here for the money, he wouldn’t mind getting to hear something juicy, especially if the king himself thought it important.
The ponce shook his head, sending golden curls flying dramatically, “Unfortunately, he was quite tight-lipped. It made the King angry enough that he sent him out to fight a month sooner than he should have, which caused a whole scandal when the leader of the Whiteguard complained in open court it would endanger the Hero…”
Ah, so that’s what that whole fuss was about. I knew there was a significant falling out between old Remus and the Royal Court that the Prime Minister needed months to smooth over, but for it to come from that… That information must have been something, huh?
Unfortunately, the heir to the Duchy of Hetnia seemed to know nothing more than that and resumed his prattle about using specific rhythms he had once heard from an elven bard who had toured the kingdom.
Sigurd nodded at all the right places and reassured the man he would do his very best to comply with his wishes. When a maid, collared as all the household staff seemed to be in the mansion, entered to remind the noble of a ball he needed to prepare for, Sigurd slipped out, finally free.
The mansion’s corridors were just as cursed with poor taste. Golden statues of the House of Hetnia’s ancestors decorated the hall in a ridiculous display of wealth. Fine Branderi tapestries told the history of how the House was formed, no doubt redacted and edited appropriately.
Unfortunately, he was stopped by a guard before he could go too far. “Where do you think you are going?” The man asked gruffly through his enchanted helmet.
Sigurd gave him a winning smile, projecting the air of a clueless bard whose head was filled with nothing but song. It was a skill he had developed over the decades and always served him well to keep it sharp. “Oh? You are right. Where am I going?” He tapped his lips, apparently just as stumped by the question.
Before the man could do more than roll his eyes, Sigurd slapped a fist in his open hand, “Ah! Yes, I need to go to the steward!”
The guard grunted and told him in stringent terms to wait where he was while he signaled a servant down the corridor to get another guard.
Soon enough, a possibly even gruffer woman stomped to him and gave him a curt nod. She didn’t bother with giving him her name, knowing that it was unlikely they’d see each other again.
She was more right than she knew, as Sigurd had no intention of sticking around Mellassoria. Especially since his employers would have some things to say about his choice of song.
Finally, they reached an opulent office, where a bespectacled man, dressed in a silken frock and attended to by three slaves, was parsing through an exceptionally thick tome.
If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
His guide took a moment to straighten up and soften her features, showing a surprising amount of acumen for someone Sigurd suspected of being barely sentient.
“My lord!” She called, knocking on the open door.
The steward - which was obviously either a very remunerative position in this household or someone capable enough in his embezzlement that he managed to hide it from his lord - didn’t look up, though there was no doubt he had heard her.
Five minutes passed in increasingly stilted silence, and Sigurd observed with amusement as his guide’s face steadily reddened.
A fresh hire? She certainly seems strong enough. Maybe she distinguished herself fighting the Incursion? The nobles might not like Leonard Weiss, but he certainly knows how to build up warriors. Though if they hired people he personally trained, they might have a situation on their hands once they go public with their disparaging.
It wasn’t his business if the woman had sold out. He certainly had done it often enough in the early days of his career. But he doubted this whole plan of spreading fake news about the most liked man in Haylich would turn out quite how the nobles expected it.
Finally, the steward lifted his gaze, meeting the woman’s. “Dismissed.” He sneered.
“I have been ordered to stay close to the bard until he leaves the premises- sir.” She tacked on at the end, evidently not used to the power games even petty nobles enjoyed so much.
That was the wrong thing to say because the steward proceeded to tear into the woman, lambasting her poor posture - which was ramrod straight - lacking hygiene and even lowly skills.
He went so far that Sigurd momentarily worried she’d unsheathe her sword and run him through, but she kept her mouth shut, taking the verbal beating, and snapped out a salute once he was done, walking away woodenly.
“Ah, I’m sorry you had to see something so unsightly, Mr. Sigurd. I pray you’ll forgive me.” The steward finally turned to him, giving a smile that said he very much intended for him to see that.
Sigurd was no stranger to these games. “Ah, you need not worry, my lord. I have been so busy putting together all of Heir Hetnia’s suggestions that I didn’t notice.”
Actually getting paid turned out to be a more involved endeavor than he would have liked. Especially because the steward was savvy enough to know that bards of Sigurd’s level could decide to take on an entirely new appearance and lay low for a while after getting the money and then not deliver the promised performance.
It was considered suicide to do so in Mellassoria, where Whiteguards could reveal disguises and polymorphs with their pesky true sight. However, some people still regularly made the attempt, meaning Sigurd was not getting paid the whole thing upfront.
He didn’t fight too hard on the issue, of course. Seeming attached to money was a faux pas in noble company and would have the side effect of making him look suspicious. Ultimately, he got half, which was just about what he expected when he took the job. Three gold coins were still more than enough to live off of for several months. Years, if he decided to lower his living standard, but that was an option best not thought about.
By the time he left the mansion, Sigurd was mentally exhausted and decided he needed to reward himself for not having punched anyone. It wouldn’t have been the first time, but he was quite attached to his current identity.
I’ll need to leave Mellassoria once I spread my song enough, but I should be welcomed warmly in the south. They certainly need some fun, given how grim things are there lately. Of course, if I’m wrong about what will happen next and the Hero takes the abuse without reacting, I will have to become someone else. But I doubt that’s the case. The look he gave the stockades where slaves were being punished as he left the Capital was enough to tell me things will change, whether the nobles want it or not.
Entering the Opal Maiden, the tavern he was currently residing in, Sigurd exchanged greetings with the regulars, smoothly making his way to the back. The cooks barely gave him a glance, more than used to his dalliances.
The broom closet of a tavern was not where someone would expect rebellion to be plotted, which was exactly why it happened there.
It also had the side effect of forcing the people doing the plotting to be ready to act like amorous lovers if someone entered mid-discussion, but unfortunately, it hadn’t happened yet.
Sigurd took a moment to straighten up, feeling like a schoolboy with his first crush. It was ridiculous how deeply the woman he was meeting could affect him, but she was considered one of the most beautiful in the kingdom for a reason. That she was extremely dangerous only added to the intrigue.
“Were you successful?” Her melodious voice came by as soon as he closed the door, and Sigurd turned with what he hoped was a handsome smile.
“Of course. They are plotting exactly what you thought they would and hired me to spread malicious tales about the Hero.” He answered quickly. She was not the kind of person to appreciate long-winded explanations.
“Good. It seems like the Royal Court is finally moving. They talked themselves in circles enough that I was starting to fear they would never do anything,” She replied, and even in the complete darkness, Sigurd could make out her stunning purple eyes and elegant features, crowned with a cascade of long, dark hair.
“The Heir seemed to think that the King only kept the Hero around because of some precious knowledge from his old world,” He added, hopeful to earn a smile.
Unfortunately, the woman only pursed her lips. That was almost as beautiful, though, so Sigurd didn’t complain.
“Yes, I know about that, but he’s been surprisingly tight-lipped, even with me and his little woman.” Then she sighed, straightening, “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, but if they’ve started the propaganda efforts, they’ll do something stupid soon. You should leave once you’ve sung your song a few times.”
And with that, she was gone. The Mistress of Shadows had escaped the senses of a Master bard with no visible effort.
Sigurd took a moment to muss up his clothes and exited the closet, rushing to the main room to the chuckles of the kitchen staff.
After making the rounds and lightly chatting with the regular patrons, he walked to the small podium built for the resident performers and produced his lute from the enchanted box behind the stand.
“Upon distant shores, whence heroes are rare,
Came forth a champion, bold and unaware.
Summoned by fate, with no path to retreat,
He vowed his new realm’s safety to complete.
Against the Void’s cruel and unyielding maw,
With sword and valor, he upheld the law.
Each battle fought, a testament to his zeal,
For people's peace, he brokered no false deal.
Yet shadows darkened within hallowed halls,
Where whispered treason through the gold walls crawls.
The hero, once adored by common breath,
Was met with blades of betrayal and death.
Though flesh was torn, his mighty spirit thrived,
From death’s cold grasp, he emerged but survived.
With heart aflame and revenge his solemn creed,
He swore to plant justice’s righteous seed.
Thus sings the bard of one not homebound led,
A hero scorned, yet by vengeance is fed.
Upon this tale, let none turn deaf nor blind,
For in his quest, a better world we find.”