Fatcher was bored.

Sitting in the sprawling halls of The Condor, an Ignatium bath house, his eyes began to wander.

Interesting magics were everywhere. Upward spiraling waterfalls, pockets of air that massaged the skin, earth that rose to match the arch of one's foot with every step.

A dowser could go blind in a place like this.

Then there were the Dolls.

Kadenite pleasure creatures, bred and raised for incomparable beauty. They toed through the halls like spirits, grace personified.

He watched a group of girls playing naked in a swirling pool. A man and woman leaned against a pillar deep in each other's embrace.

A handsome young man breezed past him caressing his cheek, fingers soft as silk.

Fatcher smiled. He’d had that one before.

None of that interested him, however. It was the tree in the center of the heated pond that held his attention.

It was some sort of Willow, but it's whisps moved with purpose, gently touching lilies and flowerbeds, organizing them, adjusting their positions.

The young Lord grimaced.

There was a sentience to the creature that unnerved him. A purpose in its movements. A will that went beyond simple task taking. Beauty was its goal, and it was succeeding.

But beauty was subjective, which could only mean…

Fatcher shook his head. Dispelling the thought.

The tree was one of Crecius’ creations.

The whole place was his design.

The Lord couldn’t deny that Crecius was a genius. Maybe not on the level of Fadien, but a generational mind to be sure.

Fatcher glanced around, observing the marvels again.

He shook his head.

Perhaps the greatest achievement was that Lord Crecius Vorva hadn’t managed to parley any of his genius into political power. He was always fumbling his advantage, and letting petty insecurities cloud his judgement.

Fatcher smiled.

He did so love sending trouble that man’s way.

“What are you smiling about, Fatch?” Dorlan asked, “Some little plaything catch your attention?”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Fatcher turned to face the portly Baron.

“Something like that.” He grinned. “I was thinking about an old rival of mine.”

The Baron put a hand through his dark beard.

“The Vorvan brat?” He asked, age lined brow furrowing.

“You really must find better enemies, child.” Baroness Elson commented from beside her husband as she fanned her beautiful features.

Fatcher bowed to their wisdom, covering his irritated frown.

“Of course, Auntie.” He replied.

Fatcher Doene did not like these people. As was the case with most provincial families, they didn’t understand the true order of things. They lorded their rank over the Ignatium Lords like the kings of old, when in reality, as a Lord of the 5th Inkhold District, Fatcher far outstripped them politically.

The young Lord would never tell them that, however. The Baron and Baroness were well connected in the Doene homeland, which made them useful friends to have. So, Fatcher was happy to take a few barbed comments here and there to preserve the relationship.

“The boy’s name was Crecius, right?” Baron Dorlan asked, rubbing caviar from his chin. “He’s been in the missives recently, hasn’t he?”

“He’s in the missives more than most.” Fatcher nodded, “He’s always inventing some useful thing or another.”

He gestured to the room around them.

“This hall is his design, actually.”

Dorlan looked around, nodding in appreciation.

“It’s the rumors that interest me.” The Baroness cut in. “I’ve heard he’s having trouble with his citizens.”

She gave Fatcher a meaningful look.

“Someone’s been feeding them the Prophet’s Refrain.”

Auntie, you’re better informed than I thought.

Fatcher shook his head.

“It’s not me. I’ve got more important enemies than him to worry about.”

It was true, too. This wasn’t his doing. In fact, he’d put significant resources into finding out who the culprit was. It frustrated him that none of his church sources had been able to find anything useful about any of the Criers involved..

“They’ll have to be reeducated.” The Baron commented, taking a bite of a green apple.

Fatcher perked up a bit at that.

“I might be too late for that.” Elson noted. “Things could tip any day now, I hear.”

The young Lord nodded, reappraising his relative again.

Far better informed…

“He’ll do a culling, then.” Dorlan suggested.

Fatcher grimaced.

Cullings were a dreadful thing, best avoided.

The Baroness shook her head.

“Looks more like a salting to me.” She stated, picking at a pastry with her fork.

Salting… wiping the whole district…

Something in Fatchers stomach turned.

The Baron put a greasy finger to his chin.

A sly grin grew on his bearded face.

“I don’t think House Vorva can afford the mark.”

He shook his head.

“The damned scribblers are on the edge as it is.”

Fatcher stood abruptly.

“Apologies, Auntie. Uncle.”

He put a hand to his stomach.

“Something’s not sitting right.”

Elson gave him a look of affected concern.

“Oh, it’s alright dear.” She soothed. “I hope you feel better.”

He bowed his thanks.

“Please stay.” He suggested. “Enjoy your lunch. I’ve already covered it.”

They nodded their approval.

Fatcher turned to leave, Baron Dorlan chuckled behind him as he headed for the door.

“Can’t run a district. Can’t even cook a meal.” The man said, “You really must find better rivals, Nephew.”