My favorite bourbon is a nice, old, smoky drink that rests upon the senses. It lingers with an oak finish and a warm and lively coating. I pay extra for this specific flavor and mellowness because my refined pallet can appreciate it.
Unfortunately it retains none of these qualities when returned from the stomach.
This was a great mystery to me and a horrifying visual to the person I was talking to. He had already looked uncomfortable as I had ranted about my noble birth, the war my family lost, and the cruelty of the monsters that took our lives at random. My unbidden expulsion of the night’s various liquids looked to be the final large nail in the coffin.
That was fine by me as he was my own last nail in any chance of me enjoying my evening. I had woken up mad as hell at the crack of 3 in the afternoon. The wrong side of the bed quickly turned into the wrong side of a glass and the wrong side of a pair of fours.
To be fair, this revolted gentleman wasn’t the first to pay me any attention. My first exchange had me pushed against a wall held up by my collar on suspicion of cheating. An absurd accusation considering the money I’d already lost. One bad hand played well had earned me the unfair treatment. In response he received a gob of spit in his eye and a swift kick to the crotch. The interruption barely gave me a pause as I returned to the table and my losing streak.
That brute had a brother though.
His words were a slurred fog, though I don’t know if he or my memory is guilty for that, but it definitely included, “sorry,” and “he’s a sore loser.” My response, thinking itself brilliant in my head and instantly horrendously awkward out loud, was an attempted overture with a sore winner pun. Luckily, the brother had a much more pleasant disposition and offered a much more tender take on physicality.
But even before the forceful removal of my favorite whisky, he was a disappointment. His casual praise for the Empire had earned him a history lesson from the drunkest angriest teacher I expected he had ever experienced.
With one last strong cough, I cleared the last of the choking bile into a bucket. Now alone, I leaned against the outer wall of the inn I called home. Its stone was unyielding, but invitingly cool after a heated evening at yet another tavern.
I pushed the brown haze that was my sweat drenched bangs out of my eyes and congratulated myself on the decision to keep it short as I eyed the unsightly mess. I had just proven there wasn’t any dashing gentleman ready to take my jacket and hold back my hair. I tried to picture the person I was just talking to, was he dashing? The only adjective my mind clung to was blurry.
Blurry and still pissed.
The same alcohol twice had done little to dull my unfocused anger that quickly approached rage. Without a true target, I was left muddled in stewing annoyance. The names of people I knew I hated were far outside of screaming range, but I still had to resist the urge to let the night know of my boundless fury against those that had wronged me.
My hands, soft as only a lifetime without labor can make, were covered in the viscous debris only a night wasted can supply. They pushed me laboriously from the wall I leaned against as I teetered towards the door. Its wooden frame was just barely illuminated in the dawn’s rays. Already my murky thoughts turned to an imagined bed and myself face first in it. The mental image vibrating and shaking with each bang of my heavy boots. My brown eyes were half open as I reached towards the entry, a silver talisman above it in the shape of a kettle with little goat feet.
I mumbled a greeting to the gleaming monstrosity and giggled at no one.
There was a yelp.
There was pain.
Adrenaline forced my eyes open and fists clenched. The sound came from my left in an alley behind a squat two story building. The echo lingered hauntingly as it reverberated off the walls. My anger celebrated the sound of violence and like a clumsy arrow, I shot off.
My feet pounded as my body rounded the corner to the sight of two men. One lay bloody and unmoving while the second stood on one leg. His other was arched back preparing for what appeared to be a vicious kick to the ribs. Both attacker and victim shared the uniform of imperial soldiers, black tabards trimmed in crimson red over well worn black and red checkered shirts.
The crack of boot against the now broken bone couldn’t drown out my thunderously unsteady approach. The standing soldier turned towards me. His scowl curled a black mustache upwards into the facsimile of a smile. “Run along. Official contest of skill between two knights of the realm,” the words bubbled from the back of his throat sounded more like a startled asthmatic’s coughing fit from a than a respected officer’s command.
My disgust with anything imperial ran deep, but this man had seemingly found a shovel.
Blood boiling and head swimming, there was still the voice in the back of my head on repeat, “The best won fight contains no blows.” Tibor Zukal, my old arms instructor at the academy would say this constantly while nodding to himself, as if the contradiction of a warrior talking about peace made him mysterious and wise. Of course the results of the war made his instructional guidance felt just as hollow now as it did then.
Still, inebriated, tired, and facing a foe of unknown skill and temperament, I could see the wisdom in his infuriating bobbing head. “It looks like you’re the victor,” I growled, hoping the challenge of an upright opponent might persuade him, “I think it’s safe to call your battle over.”
The left corner of the mustache lifted and dropped followed by the right corner as he seemed to roll the words over in his mind. His unfocused eyes looked upwards at something not there, like trying to peer into his own thoughts. There was a little nod as his head rolled back to face me. There was a glint in his eye that implied nothing good and his lips cemented the fact, “Naw, I don’t think I’m done winning yet!” He turned back towards the prone body with another heavy kick slammed into the loser’s knee. It now rested at a terrible angle. The owner’s lack of response made it obvious he lost consciousness between the crack of his ribs and now. At least I hope he had just lost consciousness.
I thrice damned diplomacy, false wisdom, and my instructor. Now I had to hope his lessons on fighting form held more weight than his carefully said nothings. My hands curled into fists. Rage drowned out the words in my head as my voice erupted in a challenge or maybe just some bellow of noise and displeasure. The uniformed sadist turned towards this new threat. For a moment there was hesitation as he gave an excuse or an insult, but unless the intended end of his sentence was a wheeze and a curse, I’ll never know what he meant to say. My fist connected low in the gut knocking him back and the air from his lungs.
Every inch of me was dull from the proceeding night, but my knuckles reverberated pain and my suddenly extended arm groaned in sympathy. My form was shit and I had just struck padding instead of exposed flesh. It was the worst attack at the least strategic target possible. The past instructor clucking in my head irritated me as I took a moment to rebalance myself.
Still the clumsy strike winded the soldier and I took solace in the fact I was, at worst, an excellent blunt force instrument. He started to speak again, ugly, angry lips sneering around words. He made a desperate lunge when one wasn’t called for. It was less of an attack and more of a throwing of his body. Zukal hadn’t prepared me for such a hapless opponent, but I could see why it would be a waste of time as I lifted my knee to connect to his jaw. His lips now swelling around loose teeth as he howled.
Traitorous, underhanded, and weak, I found no redeeming feature from the sniveling creature on its knees. His profanity was muffled by wet bleeding gums and a distended jaw. I tried to consider how to detain him as I got help for his original target. Blinking in the bleary post-battle haze I couldn’t seem to focus on a solid plan.
My fingers kept absentmindedly twirling the gold signet ring on my left hand. Spinning the metal round and round as its over-designed V popped in and out of my vision. My molten hot fury was quickly cooling into mushy and woozy indecision.
There was a yelp.
There was pain.
This time it was my yelp and my pain. The kneeling toothless warrior had grabbed a loose cobblestone and taken a wild swing from his low position and caught me in the thigh. My gentle hesitation evaporated into a scalding steam. Proportional violence was one of the honorable concepts drilled into me, but at that moment I didn’t care about the exchange rate of a bruised thigh to a thumb being pushed into an eye socket.
I was rewarded with a soft pop as I shoved the screaming man aside. He lay murmuring from the shock as I took stock of my victory. My leg hurt like hell, but hopefully nothing deeper than a bruise and my clothes were stained in every bodily fluid imaginable.
Taking a step forward, my battered leg buckled under me. Resting on my knee I ignored its protests at making sudden contact with the road as I surveyed the scene. Everyone was breathing, that was a start. I fell back and slumped against an alley wall.
The sound of creaking wood announced the presence of another person as she stood in the doorway. Her blond hair tied back smartly as her face contorted as if she was about to scream, but couldn’t find the right pitch.
“Miss,” I started looking to avoid yet another loud piercing sound, “Could you help me with all… this?” I gestured vaguely and then through exhaustion or exertion, darkness overtook me.
There was movement inside my room. I did not like this. The lack of intervening memories between stone on back and face in pillow was also alarming. That mystery was going on the back burner though as the person rummaging through my bathroom earned top priority.
The sound of strangers in my room was almost a comforting childhood memory, but this was no stately manor and I no longer had any servants. The fact I had no memory of how I got here removed any chance of happy remembrance. Flashes of danger splashed through my mind as bitter nostalgia stung the back of my throat, or so I hoped it was nostalgia as I hacked up a cough.
“Take it easy in there. You had a rough night,” a woman’s voice came from the bathroom.
With her words, reality started to come back into focus. Memories of my life lost to war and my family’s surrender melted away, morning light tinged purple by the drapes burned away past regrets. The sound of running water hitting a familiar tub and silk against my bare feet grounded me. This was my room in the inn. The set of boots by the door were mine. The second pair of dainty shoes I had never seen before, probably belonged to the stranger in the bathroom.
At the foot of my bed rested a trunk, solid and unmolested. I let out a sigh of relief. Everything of real value was in that large locked box, but considering the night I just had, someone could’ve taken an axe to it without waking me.
The sound of running water stopped and the woman from last night came into the room. Her sleeves were rolled up and her neat hair looked a little more disheveled than the first time I saw her. I didn’t want to imagine what I looked like.
“I ran a bath for you. The innkeeper helped me get you into your room. He seemed… unsurprised by your state, which makes me worry more about you more than anything else last night,” she seemed chatty through nervousness, “How are you feeling?”
I blinked. I hadn’t considered that line of thinking. Stranger, danger, potential theft, had all taken priority. Now I started thinking about my state of being. My mind roiled in pain at the attempt of forming a thought. I pushed myself out of bed, the grime of last night sticking and sliding across the sheets. I steadied myself against the bedpost and opened my mouth to give a report of my mental findings, “I’m…” and with that another wave of nausea filled me and covered the floor.
“Well, there’s that answered.”
Stomach emptied, I hunched over the woodwork of the bed, “I’m…” I tested slowly, “just dandy. Who are you?”
Her face paused for a moment, her lips moved half a flutter, as if she was mentally repeating something she had been practicing, “I’m the wife of the man you saved last night. I’m Eva Baptista.” She gave a half curtsy as if she wasn’t sure if it was expected or not.
“Charmed,” I said dismissively. I wiped the corners of my mouth pondering on the saving aspect of last night. Drink, displeasure, and fight all took center stage. “Uh, I’m Victoria,” I gave after an awkward pause after noticing Eva’s expectant look.
I restarted my mental checklist, past and present solved, did I have any future obligations or could I sleep off last night like a bad hangover. Well, a bad hangover and a clumsy street fight, noting the tenderness of my left thigh. My mind swam through anything that would distract from my urge to crawl and hide away from the world. I was interrupted though, not by a sound, but a smell, myself.
My nose wrinkled and as if on queue Eva stepped to the side to present the promised bath. I took a couple lurching steps forward towards the warm tub. My hands absentmindedly unbuttoned my top and let it drop to the floor. Eva averted her gaze. I finished the journey hopping as I pulled off each sock.
The tub was a gaudy thing that had no place in this room, or any room in the city. Its clawed feet knew a home of extravagance resting easy on polished tile. Now it dug slightly into warped wood. I slid myself in, head just above the water line.
Closing my eyes, I let the night soak out of me. Strained muscles going from screaming to subdued grumbling. My mind held onto simple thoughts. Warm bath. Good. I basked in one of the few heirlooms of my previous life. The Cloven Kettle had become my home simply because they were the first inn to accept me bringing in this monstrous piece. I was surprised when Mason Greggs, the owner, responded to my request with a smile and then helped me set it up.
I thought of my previous life as a marquess and of my father. He was a duke first and parent second. With every day planned in mercurial detail, a night well wasted had to be stolen away instead of simply embraced. He planned for his death in excruciating specificity. I was to take over all that was his and be better than he ever was. Now he had nothing, he was nothing, and there were no lands.
His body lived still, but his soul died with a signature. His name signed right next to the Dark Sovereign’s. It was a war that I was born into and matured with me. My coming of age rushing as fast as the front lines. Far off fighting treated as idle court gossip changed into shouting matches as the combat neared.
What little warmth he had shown shriveled with his signature of surrender. He gave everything generations of our family had earned to the empire that swallowed our lands. The Vidals were replaced by barbaric werewolf lords. My land, my people, simply spoils on an ever expanding blot on the map.
“Miss Victoria,” Eva’s voice was small behind the door she had closed.
I began speaking only to find water rushing into my mouth. Sitting straight up, I sputtered the mistake out, “Yes?”
“My husband, Charles, was hoping he’d get to see you. He wanted to thank you in person.”
I rested my head back. The porcelain’s cool was a perfect combination with the hot water, “Well, let him know he’s welcome whenever. Just have him walk on over.”
“Oh, well…”
I muttered a curse that coasted across the still bathwater as the images of last night took keen focus in my head. The sound of cracking bone and sight of limbs bending in unfortunate ways, “More of a me visiting him situation, I should assume.”
“Yes, they took him to the barracks's infirmary. The men who picked him up said he would need some time to rest. If you’re free in a day or two’s time, I know he’d appreciate it. That’s not a problem is it?”
I rubbed my temples knowing there was no way I could quickly explain two decades of decidedly avoiding every concentration of imperial forces, “Of course not, I’d love to stop by. Just… Just leave the information on the desk.”
“Very appreciated!” came from the bedroom and then a door closing loud enough to make me wince.
I slide back deeper into the bath. The water was quickly losing its warmth, but my mind was elsewhere replaying the number of things I could say about the legion Eva’s husband was a part of. The literal monsters that gave their commands, that when they let loose the dogs of war, men, women, and children were all valid targets, of defeat that had broken my father so that I had joined a distant academy not only to finish my studies, but get as far away from my decimated home and ruined family.
My ring clinked against the tub as I stretched. Vidal, a family name of history and note, now just a father and a daughter, allowed to keep an empty title by the Dark Sovereign. All the prompt and circumstance, but no threat. Just a regular person with a fancy letterhead, never to be remembered or of importance. Twelve years of disappointed tones and stern looks demanding perfection followed by a decade of nothing, flitting from education to debauchery. Now knowing the exact degree to hold a fork at a dinner or the lineage of royal families was now just useless information I couldn’t seem to shake.
All the families of note were now mythics, vampires, werewolves, and worse all under the command of the barely human Dark Sovereign. Each swearing fealty for a tax of blood. Their constitutions demanded the spark of sentient death that only the human body could provide.
I clumsily dried myself off and felt like another piece of human chattel. Though I had a fancy word before my name and enough funds to keep my body fed, I felt no gratitude. I was just a garnished snack ready to be chosen as a “tax.”
Mostly dry, I returned face down to the bed.
The Cloven Kettle had been my base of operations for almost two years now. I’d spent some time after the academy living with a shadow that used to be my father. My time home gave me no idea of my next move other than anywhere but near him. I arrived in the town of Cormbe right before it became the target of major renovations with the empire making a large infrastructure push.
In fact once they had finished their work they’d renamed the town of Cormbe as the city of Tombsilver. The grand reopening had brought many merchants that had later stayed. The small town I first met was now the center of the silver trade. I knew my historical lands to always be rich in the material, but the amount that flowed through the stalls and stores now reflected like a second sun in the market.
Mason had complained to me over a game of chess about our long term arrangement the week of the festivities. “Other inns are doubling their prices and are still having to turn people away.” It had been true, the other three occupants in the building were paying quite a bit more than I was. Before I could I offer any rebuttal he had continued, “but I know you have no plans to go anywhere. If you actually found more permanent lodging, you’d have to admit this wasn’t just some whimsical vacation adventure. Plus, you’re more valuable to me in the long run.”
I remember laughing with him at the comment, but feeling very exposed. If I did find a home, I’d consider myself settled down. Maybe it was a small illusionary line, but it gave me a glimmer of hope that the future held something different. As much as I mocked Mason for his establishment, I felt more comfortable in it than anywhere else. It was a decent building not yet weathered by too many years, but already falling behind on the style of all the new constructions.
Its four offered rooms had only me as their constant. The other three saw regular enough business. Some of which would join us for drinks and gossip, some that would shutter themselves away as if hiding from something. I related to both equally. The only unchanging face was Mason, a reedy man in his late 40s. As dependable and ordinary as his Inn, his blond beard hid flecks of gray and was trimmed around a constant grin of someone who had spent his life in service and hospitality.
Despite our routine of complaints as only those who share a home can, I liked him immensely. He held no judgment for someone looking to wake up at noon, go out prowling for drink and company, and then returning late and wanting to argue the finer points of occupational philosophy for invading armies.
Surprisingly well read, Mason said it was a hobby he said he picked up from the books left behind from the guests. I knew for a fact that his personal study now held more literature than any library in the city. Oftentimes a debate would end with him storming off, coming back with a book, tossing it at me, and saying good night. I don’t think he enjoyed the conflict, but took perverse pleasure when I would return the book with a sheepish acceptance of his point.
He never missed a chance to say “I told you so,” in his special way “I’m happy we could be on the same page” he would always say as he returned the book to the specific hole it left in his collection.
“Should I be adding married women to the list of guests to expect to come in at all hours with you?” Mason said with a wink. Noon had come quickly today and I had employed my greatest talent of appearing respectable despite what occurred last night and what would probably come later.
“I wouldn’t mark it off the list, but I’m not looking for a repeat of last night,” I punctuated my retort with a stack of bedding and soiled clothes.
“Offering laundry services was the worst professional decision I’ve ever made,” he shook his head at the mess.
“And here I thought I had earned that title.”
“I think they may, in fact, be related,” he said, his eyes going between me and the pile. He stepped out for a second to grab a basket as I secured a cloak around myself. He returned and started to sweep the clothes from the counter in the basket against his hip, “Any plans for the day, Marquess?”
I stretched my neck, hearing it crack. My body was still in open revolt over the previous night. I pondered his question and reported the results, “I thought I’d start with some meandering, followed by some loitering. If I’m feeling daring I might even try some lollygagging.”
“If that’s what the kids are calling it these days,” he remarked suggestively
“Don’t be absurd, finding a good lay is saved for the night. Anyone offering a screw to a stranger in the middle of the day is a character of ill-repute.”
“So, that couple you brought in before lunch last week?”
“Completely different, I met them the night before, there were just a lot of flat surfaces between the tavern and here. Took us a while to make our way here.”
“Much more respectable.”
“I am glad we’re in agreement,” I said, making a final unneeded adjustment to my gloves.
The door I never got to open myself last night was now a portal to an overly bright world. I pulled up my cloak’s hood, gray with a silver thread etched on the hem. It graciously protected me from the worst the day had to offer to my hangover.
I looked back on the two story building. It was never tall, but was quickly being dwarfed by numerous new buildings in progress around it. I knew Mason was entertaining offers to sell his location. He joked that he only took the meetings since they paid for the meals. The humorous part is I knew if he took the money, he’d probably open up another small inn in some other equally small town.
Taking his indifference as savvy negotiating, they kept increasing the size of the offers. Despite my own mental grumbling about the annoyance of moving, I truly hoped he took the money before they discovered it wasn’t a ploy, he just really enjoyed scallops and scallions.
I tried to broach the subject once, but he had shut me down quickly, “I may not be greedy, but I’m not stupid. I’ll make the right choice for me.” I remembered it vividly since it was one of the few nights he’d beaten me in chess. We always had a game going in the main room. Each of us moved pieces as we moved in and out throughout the day and night. Twice a week we’d sit down and add banter to the conflict.
I envied his conviction and wondered if his new inn would have space for a lay-about pseudo noble. Though I doubted he’d offer the same laundry services. Distracted, my foot slipped in something wet and caught the edge of a bucket. I closed my eyes as I heard it clatter.
It gave a hearty splash rather than a sloppy gush. Looking down I saw the soapy water I had knocked over. Replaying the bucket’s location relative to the building and last night's activities, I was grateful to Mason’s timely reliability. Of course he helped carry me upstairs, took my ruined garments, and cleaned the stoop I had so aggressively covered with the various liquors in my stomach.
Stolen story; please report.
He truly deserved a gift, both in gratitude and to hopefully mollify any thoughts of increasing rent. It was also the perfect way to kill a couple hours before anywhere actually interesting opened up.
The town was alive and frustratingly loud with the sounds of trade, business, and life. I saw a blacksmith selling a sword to a young man, who was quick to show off to his friends, cutting the air in front of him. Getting uncomfortably close to them, all laughed while lurching back from their overeager compatriot.
I scowled as I noted their matching haircuts and black, single buckled boots. More imperial military, obvious even out of uniform. They were an increasingly common sight with the new base set up on the edge of town. Men and creatures that all shared a uniformity as they all came from the same pile of dirt into and pressed into vaguely humanoid shapes. I swore that the last group I saw drinking even laughed the same.
The only thing that stood out was one was holding a poster around its center in the most destructive fashion. Even from the edges of the page, I recognized it. The “Hero’s Conclave” announcements. They were going up around town, offering a safe space to talk about the monsters in control of our lives. The poster even made mention of deciding what to do “next.” There was an obvious implication and rumor had it the association had turned from talk to action. I avoided them for the same reason the soldier was holding it. It was only a matter of time before it got imperial attention.
The sleepy town I had once sequestered myself away in was now a trade hub and soon to house a major contingent of the region’s imperial forces. The rumor mill was wild with the curiosity of the unwed about the soldier's intentions and potential imperial benefits.
A local brothel had even started a pool of which members would be the first or last to get picked up by young hotshots who fell head over heels for the first thing that showed them attention. While I detested the soldiers as a whole, I did appreciate Lieutenant Bilter who had earned me some silver coins for her taste in redheads.
A couple noisy streets later, I found my quarry. Rows and rows of silver wind chimes covered the front of the shop. The fact it was a book store was completely hidden behind decoration. A sudden gust made the building an assault on my eardrums and sensibilities. As I entered the store’s bell let out a ding as an exclamation mark to the tintinnabulation that followed me.
Mason loathed this place for two specific reasons. The first was the risk of cacophony every time a breeze rolled through and the second greeted me from behind the counter. Ms. Uma Pop was an aggressive woman of 30 something years. Every aspect of her was dedicated to conflict and calamity, brass trinkets lined her black hair with a shock of blond in the front, which she claimed was a family affliction. Her clothes were always a clash of colors and today’s light green blouse seemed to be in open war with her pink and blue striped pants. A sash of dull red was a demilitarized zone between the factions, but it may have been the worst offender with its polka dots of various sizes and shades.
The chaotically unique fashion wasn’t what kept Mason from this store and, when possible, this side of the city. No, on his first visit he had made the mistake of disagreeing with her on the germination time for carrots. Ms. Uma Pop had been unrelenting in her assertion of less than a fortnight. Mason had been unyielding that it took longer. He even offered that possibly she was such a skilled gardener that she had surpassed every piece of information he had ever gathered.
The sarcastic compliment and forceful debate had been enough to make her smitten with him. On his next, and final visit, she had dropped the book she was discussing with a customer to rush over and assist him, as well as offer “after-hour” services.
The true shame was Ms. Uma’s “bookland emporium” was one of the best sources for eclectic and eccentric books. The shop matched its owner in every single way, including uniquely painted walls that caught or reflected light in horrendously different ways. If she had a different romantic distraction, Mason probably would’ve spent weeks pestering her for her sources.
This made her my perfect conspirator. In return for the perfect one-stop shop with hand selected gifts, all I had to do was report back his reactions to her choices.
“Donald Lyland’s Coastal Erosion Findings and Solutions!” She shouted at me in the small shop, startling a man in the back trying to figure out why a cookbook on radish delicacies was next to a poetry book espousing the nobility of wartime desertion.
“He found it a little too sensational, quite overwhelmed him,” I baited back. It was part of the ritual. I knew she wanted the fight almost as much as she wanted the information.
She stared through thick glasses that made me wonder who even made half silver, half gold frames, “You’re not irreplaceable, just the easiest to pay off and I have quite the winner lined up next.”
I relented in mock resignation, “Forty Five pages, third row, fifth in.”
One hand was pulling up a new book as the other took notes, “Forty five pages! His taste is as refined as it is deep!” she exclaimed before starting the mumble to herself, “Third row, fifth in. Better than the Catapult construction guide, worse than the short stories on childbirth.”
That one had been a weird gift, but she made me swear to put it in his hands and return with the reaction the same day. She had decided without input nor agreement that the number of pages he read before putting it in his collection reflected his interest in the topic and its placement the deciding factor in how much he enjoyed the author's work.
It was true, his collection didn’t follow any alphabetization table, a fact that earned me two free books, but I was now scared to ask him his method. I couldn’t decide if the idea she was right sight unseen or wrong and dedicating so much effort to the pursuit was more horrifying.
Having finished her notetaking she released the book under her right hand. “A treatise of mid game offense” was emblazoned on the front, on the back a portrait of a vampire with a chess piece between his fangs and a cocksure smile looked back at me. Despite the fact the artwork made this a first and, judging by the highly specific topic, only edition. I was excited to call her out. For admittedly, I reveled in the conflict as well.
“Is this what I sell out my dearest landlord for? Two pages was the last chess book. You’re setting me up for failure and charging a premium for it.”
I had fallen into the trap, as soon as the words left my mouth. I knew my false righteous indignation was exactly the opening she had planned. “Mason has a learned pallet. Lady Orgthel’s ‘The Art of Chessfield Conflict’ was too commonplace for him. She’d won an Imperial open, there’s no way he didn’t already have one of the 10,000 printed copies. It took less than two pages for him to remember he’d read the exact words before. If my spy put any effort into her work, I could have known this months ago. It changes the entire algorithm. Instead I have to use estimations to fill in your shoddy groundwork.”
“And you’re sure this book won’t fall into the same trap of the previous attempt?” I asked, looking to change the topic.
She looked down her nose over her glasses at me, before sliding them off completely, “Twelve copies before the publisher discovered Ronald Yurt’s demand of a painted portrait on the special edition, meant every single copy. To quote the pompous asshole ‘every book is special because it contains my wisdom.’ He has earned the third invite in the last four tournaments. And while he may claim politics for the invite slot not being higher, he’s more than worthy as an educational source.”
Her reasoning was beyond reproach plus it allowed me to make a subtle stab at his chess game while being a gracious guest, “I concede. Excellent work.”
She returned the glasses to her face, feigning indifference, but there was a skip in her step on the way to help the poor patron who was now hopelessly lost between cookware restoration guides and fictional horror novels.
I left just as a particular gust caused my exit to become a racket of silver.
“She finally figured out that I already owned a copy of ‘The Art of Chessfield Conflict,” Mason mused as I handed him the book, “You can let her know first row, third slot.”
I gave a slight smile, “The author would be irate to hear that.”
He didn’t even bat an eye at the remark, “Part of the reason I made the decision.” I was both impressed and unsurprised that he knew the rankings and petty drama of imperial chess, “You make an excellent double agent, Victoria.”
“That seems adjacent to a compliment,” I jabbed back. The arrangement had been my idea as soon as Ms. Uma had propositioned me for spycraft. It allowed Mason his books, Uma her obsession, and for the cost of a brief stroll I got to stay on my landlord’s good side.
Their literary cat and mouse could’ve been romantic, but Mason seemed deathly allergic to the concept. A very handsome guest had joined to watch us play in our bi-weekly ritual, claiming his utter fascination with the game, only to compliment every move Mason made and turn every brief response into a double entendre. I had never seen Mason so uncomfortable nor won a game so fast.
When I brought up the event after the guest had left, Mason was deflective and curt. Not enough to be rude, but enough to establish the subject was closed.
He had much to say on love, romance, even sex, but it was all in relation to something he read or observation of someone else’s endevors. A critique in the most clinical sense that seemed more akin to professional interest than personal connection.
I appreciated that he didn't seem to mind my rants of poor lovers, retelling of humorous bedroom moments, or drunken pining for future opportunities. In turn, I never pressed for any of his personal musing. I could accept the one way street, no matter my curiosity.
Mason already had a glass prepared next to my seat. He didn’t ask if I wanted to play, he simply sat down and moved a piece on a mess of our board. This round had slowed to a crawl over the week with both of us indecisively moving pieces back and forth.
I took a sip, “Revolting, what is this?”
“Water,” he said with a smile, enjoying our old bit.
“Can’t stand the stuff,” I finished the joke, but felt uncomfortable even with the practiced routine. There was something strange in the air and not whatever was coming out of the mug on his side of the table. It smelled divine, “What are you having?”
“Peppermint hot chocolate,” he said, sliding it over to me, “I suspected you’d find it more interesting if it was ‘mine’ first.”
The gesture felt overwhelming in a frustrating way I didn’t want to think about. Instead I took a sip from the mug. I allowed a moment more of silence before I struck to the heart of the matter, “You’ve decided to sell.”
“That’s more of a champagne kind of event with the kind of numbers they’ve started to offer,” He looked pained, “No, this is about last night.”
I wanted to wonder which part crossed the line. It would’ve been a line long past with any other person, but it seemed simpler to ask directly, “Which straw broke the camel’s back?”
“I’m not upset,” there was a bite in his words as he started, but instantly softened, “I’m worried. Are you so disassociated with your own life that everything from last night feels normal to you?” he took a deep breath, his exasperation palpable, “Soldier’s came while you were out. You’re not in trouble, but they explained what happened. You need to give a statement. But I need to know, you witness a brutal assault, commit another one, both by and against people you’ve sworn your entire life against, then you’re ready to go out carousing again in less than 24 hours?”
I wanted to make a joke about wishing there was something stronger in the mug, but I felt it would only prove his point. Also it was completely untrue, the hot chocolate was perfect. Peppermint was such a rare treat when I was young. Though becoming commonplace now, it still gave lovely holiday chills.
“Victoria, I just want to know you’re alright,” Mason had taken my silence as a moment of revelation. That I was questioning the core of my character after a chaotic night.
I tried to force the emotion he was asking, to be, what, horrified, aghast? I couldn’t truly muster any strong feeling, “I’m not some self-destructive berserker. I saw cruelty being committed, I had the ability to stop it, so I did. The fact they were imperial just means more paperwork after the fact.”
“But are you alright? I’m not asking if you did the right or noble thing. I want to know if you, Victoria, washed his blood out of your mind as easily as you did your hands.”
“Mason, I am alright. I am sure you have books in your back room that say the fact that I’m alright is a sign that I’m not alright, but I know I am alright,” I felt anger at his pestering, but it seemingly cooled with another sip of hot chocolate. The questions obviously came from care. Maybe I was flawed growing up with after-battle reports or broken by that day I stood in those blood drenched fields. I looked for a way to end the game and luckily our dawdling on the board had left an opening for me, “Checkmate, you should really go read your gift.”
I had suspected that sleep wouldn’t come easily to me. But as I blinked, morning light streamed in. My body had jumped on the chance for a full actual night to recuperate. I cuddled the blankets closer to me, they still smelled fresh. This only made me feel more guilty. It was an abrupt exit last night. Mason had done nothing wrong, if anything he had proven himself to be a true ally and friend.
I had taken the easy path to just avoid the conversation. I knew that metaphorical slam of the door would stop any follow-up. Mason would give me space to open it at my convenience, I suspected he would be waiting forever. What was past had passed. The rights and wrongs couldn’t be resolved, history had written its victors and no sense of justice would touch the lives of the perpetrators nor the graves of their victims.
The urge to leave and run away, pushed me out of bed as assuredly as it was pushing me out the door. Luck had my side with an excuse to get out and go report to the imperials for a needed statement and check in on Charles Baptista. Hopefully this simple errand would be the last of the bothersome event. I preferred my physical altercations to have much less paperwork.
Furnished in one of my better outfits, it was less out of respect and more of expectation. White lace gloves, a black blouse, with matching trousers. Finished with a white neck tab, I felt the height of sophistication and quite foolish. Confining higher fashion always made me feel stiff. It was the opposite of empowering to feel unable to spring into action at a moment’s notice.
The lobby was mercifully empty. I could hear Mason rummaging in the back. I offered up thanks to whatever powers control chance meetings and made my way outside. Glancing over at the table, a white pawn had been moved forward. On the black side a small pastry sat on a plate with a little note, “good luck.”
Mason had never had a child, nor did he seem to have plans to, but he obviously had mastered paternal guilt. The pastry was delicious as I exited the inn, but its flaky goodness and jelly center didn’t assuage the pit in my stomach. In fact, the baked good made the task seem much more monumental. What horrors lay in store that I needed to be so prepared and plied with tasty treats?
I pulled the hood up on my cloak as more of a habitual move than requirement. The sun was still climbing and only a light chill of the dawn remained. As I continued towards the edge of town towards the outpost, I passed numerous streets I knew more by specific memories than by name. Down that road was a tavern that experimented with cherry brandy, the next one over had a bakery that specialized in cherry pastries, the next road had a small bank that treated me exceptionally well, after that a brothel who’s workers made for good company, conversationally rather than professionally. Joining them after a shift had led to some of the most entertaining nights.
There was a hustle in the morning that I wasn’t expecting. My leisurely gait getting me jostled by more motivated folk. Some apologized as they zipped past, some did not. I couldn’t begrudge any of them, I was officially in a dawdle. I was more focused on the large cherry supplier that had a stranglehold on specialty treats than I was on my destination.
My laced fingers clutched the note that Eva had left behind. It was badly crumpled already, but legible. I referred to it frequently before gripping it just a bit too tight. The town started to thin out and my distractions lessened as I got closer to the base. Civilian attire was fast turning to more and more uniforms. Despite feeling increasingly out of place, I hardly got a second glance. Most of the soldiers had the same look as the townspeople just heading into work or completing errands. The focus on their task and a small frown implied they’d rather be anywhere else right now.
Composing myself, I stood in the line of the entrance. A young woman in a black tabard with red lining greeted me offhandedly as I reached the gate. “Hood off,” she demanded, not unpleasantly and with a practiced routine to it. I obliged, “Name and reason?”
“Victoria Vidal. I was requested for a statement by some soldiers and visitation by Mr. Bapitsa.”
“Sergeant Functional Baptista or Elevated Private Baptista?”
“Charles? The one in the hospital,” I responded wondering about the odds of two people with the same name on the same base. I wanted to ask if they were related, but this didn’t seem like the time nor the place.
The young woman took out a pamphlet of papers and shuffled through them. She moved quickly. It was a speed born of repetition and efficiency that was obviously cultivated from an urge to do as little as possible.
The sound of paper stopped as her gloved hand rested on a name, “Duchess Vidal for investigative statement and visitation. You’re free to go in. Take a right and just past “the Tower” is the hospital and next to it is the offices of military affairs which will want your statement.”
“It’s Marquess, my father is the duke,” I corrected out of habit, hoping she would comment no more on it. The last thing I wanted was to have a long discussion on the topic.
She glanced down at the page and then back up to me, “Must be a clerical error, I just go by what’s on the paper.” I breathed a sigh of relief as I passed her, happy to be just another name on her list.
I followed the directions given. Temporary tents stood next to scaffolded buildings and dorms under construction. Workmen in half-stripped uniforms placed bricks and compared against blueprints. Somehow the dirt and stone dust clinging to them seemed uniformly dispersed. I was enthralled by the amount of work that had been completed in such a short amount of time. Yellow trimmed tabards lay both folded neatly and thrown carelessly near them.
Thunder rumbled the ground, turning from the construction I saw a full formation of troops marching the opposite way. Their uniforms had a wolfish skull printed on their left shoulder pad. Eyes front and feet in step, they were an impressive and imposing force. A werewolf marched to their side. Taller than any man in the unit, he wore the same uniform, but a small extra symbol below the wolf skull seemed to imply extra authority. Though from his figure alone, I doubted anyone would dare question him. A few of the soldiers broke display as they marched by to glance my way. I felt completely out of place. My “respectful attire” felt clownish in this serious place. It’s uniqueness isolated me and demanded attention I did not want.
I stared down at the path, avoiding the curious looks of uniformed people. As I got deeper into the compound, canvas walls turned into furnished stone. Glancing up I saw the metal signpost in front of each structure. Each sign held a name so serious it felt like a satirical mockery: “Dormitory Fang,” “Dormitory Crescent,” “Meeting Hall Timberthicket.” My curiosity abounded to the person who wrote these with a straight face. Their attempts to sound dark and vicious seemed more childish than threatening.
“Execution Tower” was the most over-the-top and I almost laughed, but the man hanging from a metal rod showed that this name was well earned.
The figure dangled, swaying to an unheard song. My momentary revulsion turned to shock as I recognized the figure. Well, almost recognized, he was missing an eye and his head slightly deformed. The mustache and cruel look that even death couldn’t rob still burned in my memory. I never learned his name, but I did have to clean his viscera from under my fingernails and that leaves an impression.
I felt blood pound in my ears as I replayed the night. Shock settled into vindication, whatever my statement needed to be, it appeared justice was handed out. I had no sympathy for this monster and for once it was nice to see the empire agreed with me.
As promised, once past the tower, I found the infirmary. A striped circle above the door being its only unique decoration to the other buildings. Inside there were numerous desks with little signs that said things like “family medicine,” “fight status,” and “herbalist clinic.” None of the uniformed people behind the desks looked up when I entered. Each scrawled away on different notes. The scratch of their pens was discordant and the first element of individualism I had seen.
I walked up to fight status. It was a guess and the man behind the desk had one of the less aggressive note taking sounds, so even if I was wrong, hopefully it would be less of an offense.
He gave me a look up and down before I had a chance to speak, “Wrong section, but what can I help you find?” He was just under 20. Boyish features mid-transition to more manly ones. He spoke with authority from knowledge, but without the preconceptions of actual command. A sign in front of him said Sergeant Select Meldred.
“I, uhhh,” I got annoyed at myself for the stammer, “Sergeant Functional Baptista?” I finished. Only noticing after I closed my mouth that I hadn’t completed a sentence, it was barely useful information.
“Visiting?” He asked, but continued anyways, “talk to family medicine, they’ll get you to the right place.”
I looked over and saw the person behind the desk give a little wave and smile. He appeared to have been waiting for me since I walked up to the wrong desk. I was not the first to take this misstep in their song and dance. Sheepishly, I stepped over and repeated my almost sentence. I added the word visiting, the verb almost salvaging the thought fragment.
He asked me to sit for a moment and stepped away from his desk into a hallway. He returned and said someone would be out in a moment. I took a seat and played with my gloves. Looking around I had the sudden feeling that I was slouching. I sat up straight, maybe too straight? I suddenly couldn’t seem to settle on how I normally sat.
The doors opened from the inside and a smiling face popped out. He had on the same uniform, but his sleeves were rolled up to his impressive biceps. He gave me a little come here motion.
I paused for a moment before following, “I’m the sergeant’s attending,” the smiling man pointed down the hall, “You’ll just go down to the end of the hall and it’ll be the third to last door on your left.
And then he was gone. Run off to some other task or emergency. I stood looking at all the doors that seemed identical. Little color coded tabs seemed to be attached to the frames, but I couldn’t make out any information from them. Was red bad? Did green mean infectious? Did blue signify a live surgery in process?
I continued towards the end of the hall. I made it to the third to the last door, double checking multiple times that this was in fact three doors from the last one in the hall. A pink tab and a blue tab indicated something of some sort of importance.
Opening the door, I half expected to be walking into a surgical theater with blood and sharp objects held by people yelling at my presence. Inside there was just a bed though and a man I had never seen conscious before.
He smiled at me meekly before putting a right fist to his chest. I had seen the move before. It was some sort of salute. I didn't know what I was supposed to do in return. Before I had a chance to start to stress about military decorum he started to speak, "I wanted to thank you personally for the other night."
"It was..." I fiddled with my gloves behind my back, "nothing." I was a little proud of stepping up in the heat of the moment, but recognition for it felt wrong. Like getting praise for returning a lost dog, a good thing, but expected. “I would hope anyone would step up. I was just lucky to have some training to back up my righteous indignation.”
The sergeant winced as he pushed himself up. I noted the cast around his leg, "Pish posh, nothing, I was astounded to find out you had not only stood up to that psychopath Kowleski, but defeated him in one on one combat. Though I guess I shouldn't expect anything less from a duchess."
It was my turn to grimace, “Marquess, my father is the duke.”
Charles shrugged, “That’s military intelligence for you. I’m just quoting what was said in the tribunal. It was a… brutally short affair.”
I thought of the body tethered to this world by nothing, but a rope, “Quite the dark joke.”
The sergeant quickly expressed regret, “My apologies, us grunts only know how to do two things, complain and make uncomfortable jokes.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” I smiled, “Quite the dark joke, I approve. Everyone here has been so serious, well other than Captain Biceps.”
“Major Culpepper,” he answered without further explanation, “That smile is just one of the perks of leadership. Based on the force he uses on dislocated joints, I also think he enjoys his job too much.”
“Strong and in charge, don’t wingman too much for him,” I joked. The formality of the day finally slipped off me at the first opportunity.
“Well, he said no to me already so feel free to take a swing. If it works out, can you mention my name? I’m getting out on medical disability and I’ll have a lot of paperwork I need signed off on,” despite the topic switch he didn’t stop smiling. I noticed now one of his teeth was a little crooked, I had no idea if that was a new development.
“I’m sorry,” I wanted to add more, to find a solution, “There’s no place for you, even on some sort of desk job? Seems like there’s a lot of them around.”
“Nah, the imperial military doesn’t want a gimp. We all have to be ready to deploy. I am not deployable, ergo, I am not military. Don’t lament, I joined for a paycheck and now I’ll have a guaranteed one for the rest of my life, plus I can scoop up one of those civilian desk jobs and double dip.”
“You seem in astoundingly good spirits.”
“Things always change. As they say, ‘Man plans, the gods laugh.”
I spent longer than intended with the sergeant. Partly since he was such good company, mostly since I didn’t want to return into the stern looking world that surrounded me. As I left the infirmary I resisted the urge to give the major a wink. The urge to blend in returned the second I saw uniforms.
The sun was low now and I was beginning to worry about the office closing. Would they be offended by the time I showed up? When did they expect me? Would that change how they took my statement?
I tried to calm myself from the what if’s as I crossed the road, but I had a noticeable shake as I opened the door.
Yet another short hair, clean shaven man sat behind another desk and looked up at me as soon as I entered, “Can I help you, miss?”
I took a deep breath, “Victoria Vidal, I was told to come here?” I answered, not meaning to make it a question. To the best of my knowledge all those statements were true.
“Of course, we expected you a bit later. Chief Pute just has some paperwork for you. I’ll grab her now.”
I stood and looked over at the chair in the room. Would he be gone long enough that I should take a seat? I debated with myself how each would appear. Wouldn’t it be better to appear more casual or would that be disrespectful?
I was halfway seated when a brunette in what appeared to be a formal version of the uniform walked in, “We weren’t expecting you until later. Don’t worry, I have everything ready in my office. If you’d follow me please.”
I tried to nonchalantly turn my sitting motion into a standing one. Chief Pute mentioned the weather, being assigned here recently, and really enjoying the city. I dutifully made noises in affirmation when it was my turn to respond. Undeterred she continued talking about her kids’ school and husband’s new arrangement for their kitchen.
The office was deep in the bowels of the building. I couldn’t tell if this was a sign of high rank or low. It was a long walk which seemed a punishment, but it was close to the center of the building, was that valued?
The Chief stopped suddenly and presented me with an open door. I took a stab at actually being a part of the conversation, “Why were you expecting me later?”
“Your landlord, he made it abundantly and repeatedly clear it was unlikely we would see you during daylight hours. I hope you didn’t go out of your way to rush down here.”
My paranoia was suddenly overwhelming. Something about so many little things in the day felt wrong. Like the feeling before a storm, my mind rushed to find the incoming clouds.
Unperturbed, Chief Pute pulled a sheet of paper from her desk and put a quill next to it, “We’re already written up the statement,” her smile faltered for a moment, “I’m sure you saw that the trial is officially already done. This is just a formality for our records.” I couldn’t find any words and simply nodded. I looked down at the paper. “As you can see, there’s the official statement, there’s a box underneath for your comments. Before you write down anything please run it by me. I expect this to just rot in some file, but I’d hate for you to write something casually that opens up issues later. Once that’s done, just sign at the bottom and you’re free to go.”
Her tone was friendly and seemed earnest, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of something being off. That I hadn’t noticed something that would be glaringly obvious, but only in hindsight. I tried to shake the feeling and read over the page. My eyes were having trouble focusing and suddenly I noticed I was sweating.
“There’s no rush and if there’s anything that’s confusing just ask. I know there’s a lot of acronyms and oddly specific language on the page,” the chief looked at me concerned. This wasn’t surprising, I, myself, was exceedingly concerned. I was holding a document that would bind me permanently to its words.
I tried to calm down and start slowly and at the top. Name: Victoria Vidal, check. Title: Duchess. Same issue that’d been happening all day. I felt reassured tackling a familiar problem, “It’s marquess. The duke is my father.”
The sergeant’s smile froze and then broke, “Governor Briggs was here yesterday with the Sovereign’s Minister of Finance. His attendants made the change. I saw the file when I was writing this up. I thought it was just clerical. Have you… have you spoken to your father recently?”