As the small black coach creaked, squeaked and rolled it’s way through the busy, shit filled streets of the city, Bal Das indulged in the rare moment of isolation and stretched his legs, sliding down into the seat and breathing easy. It had been several years since he and Lord Albert had gone off on any kind of adventure or mission, and he was still getting back in the swing of the constant state of alertness and stress. Exclusively filling the role of servant for a master as upstanding and grateful as Lord Albert was as pleasant and rewarding a profession as any man could ask for, but it certainly could not compare to keeping up with the likes of William and Gavina in a hunt for some mysterious and potentially monstrous secret society. If he was perfectly honest with himself, he was quite glad of the change in pace. Lord Albert was aging, and had earned himself a quiet retirement at home with his family, but Bal still had enough fire left in him to crave the sense of purpose, consequence and danger that came with a life of action and risk. He was much more of a thrill seeker than most would ever assume, but it was not for him to chase danger, but to chase after his master. Being tied to William was a new set of challenges the likes of which he had never faced before, but he would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit it was certainly shaping up to be entertaining if nothing else.
Ms. Gavina was another matter entirely. He spent the great majority of his life in almost exclusively male company during his masters many years as a soldier, entrepreneur and hunter. When they finally settled down permanently in England, most of the women he found himself around were either high above his social standing, of unsuitable heritage for him to fraternize with, or, in many cases, both. He by no means considered himself well versed in the ways of women, but he was far too observant not to notice the odd tension that seemed to fill the air, and the uncharacteristic nervousness that came over Gavina when they shared any moment that seemed to grow just a little too personal. He too felt a certain sense of unease around the willful and independent young woman that he could not properly categorize, but he did his utmost to suppress these feelings so as not to further distress her. Instead he found it much easier to put on the worn yet comfortable facade of the simple buttler. Ever faithful, un-judging, above any and all complicated personal matters. Someone who you could confide in with no fear of scrutiny or condemnation. Talking to him should feel like speaking to a statue, therapeutic, and without consequence. That was far easier than attempting to insert himself in anyone else's personal matters, or becoming part of the drama of another’s life. His color and status had long ago taught him that if he were to attempt to navigate such mazes, his opinions, thoughts and advice would ultimately be dismissed and written off as a servant overreaching his bounds. Only the Blackthorns truly let him in, and he had far too great a respect to presume to tell them anything. A true catch 22.
The clopping of the horses hooves and turning of the iron rimmed wheels came to a steady halt, and Bal Das knew he had arrived. He stooped low to step down out of the coach, smoothed out his uniform, and reached out a hand to pay the driver, who thanked him with a tip of the hat before flicking his whip at the horses rump and continuing on his way to a safer part of the city, where people could actually afford a cab.
Bal walked along the filthy streets, his eagle eyes on constant lookout for street toughs and pickpockets who may foolishly attempt to relieve him of his belongings, or threaten his person. It was always a toss of the coin whether his intimidating size, or his foreign appearance would win out as the deciding factor in his potential harassers minds. It was a fascinating thought process. His country was the one that had been subjugated and colonized, and yet by the looks he often received, anyone would think that he was the foreign invader in this Kingdom. He did catch several nasty looks and a few filthy, scrawny boys who couldn’t have been more than fourteen stared at him longer than the others. Bal saw the tell tale signs of movement to suggest they were going to make an attempt, but at the last moment, they relented and eased their postures. To reward this act of supreme good judgment, Bal granted them a polite bow of the head, and flicked them a shilling each, which they accepted with a combination of shock and gratitude.
Bal traveled north several blocks on foot, enjoying the exercise if not the stench, after so much time spent riding from place to place. After about fifteen minutes he reached his first stop. “Wegman and Son’s” chemist. He entered the cramped but tidy space and queued up to speak to the elderly gentleman he could only assume was Wegman behind the till.
“How may I help you”? The old man greeted Bal Das, a cheery smile plastered across his kind, and rather content looking face for someone working in one of the rougher areas of the city.
“Hello sir, I am here on special assignment to inquire about any unusual orders, or particularly notable customers you may have had in the past few months? Ingredients no one else asks for, quantities that a single individual would never need, odd pick up schedules, or anything else of that nature”. Bal requested, assuming an air of authority and officiality that he certainly did not possess, but that in his experience, people of the lower classes tended to accept and respect out of sheer reflex, despite any doubts they might have about someone as...exotic, in appearance as he.
“Well that is quite the request my good man. I’m afraid I don’t handle quite as much of the business as I once did, mostly just the walk-ins and basic ingredients. Let me call up my boy, Rodger. He handles all of the larger orders, I am sure he could help you”. Wegman shuffled off to through a stack of boxes and crates to an unseen room, and a few moments later, returned with a much taller, much younger looking man with sandy colored hair and a long white coat over his simple laborers clothes.
Though not quite as dulled with age, he shared his fathers soft gray eyes, the color of a fine old sweater you couldn’t bring yourself to ever throw out.
“Rodger Wegman, at your service, how can I be of service mr….?”. He trailed off as he extended a hand in greeting.
Bal received the outstretched hand with a firm and friendly shake.
”Farhan Patel, at her majesty's service, pleased to meet you”. Bal lied as easily as he breathed.
“Good lord, what business might the Queen have with our little shop”? Wegman questioned, surprise painting his voice, never expecting anything of much importance to be tied to his family business.
“I am afraid the details are not mine to divulge to the public, but as I told your father, my interest is in any out of the ordinary purchases or behaviors from your customers. Larger than average orders, unusual ingredients such as heavy metals or rare plants, pickups being scheduled at irregular hours or any customers who appeared simply apprehensive about being seen or noticed. Does any of that sound familiar to you? Please do think carefully, as this is a matter of the utmost importance, and lives may very well be at stake”. The tension and sense of urgency Bal infused into his interrogation visibly moved the shopkeep to a state of heightened concern.
“My goodness, is it as important as all that then? Well let me think….I do seem to recall finding it quite odd that someone was ordering so much silver nitrate. Nearly 5 liters in the span of a year. Maybe for a hospital, but a single customer? Odd indeed. Comes around every four weeks like clockwork for the past three years”.
Bal could hardly believe his good fortune on his first try. He pressed the man further.
“Do you have any information on the customer placing these large orders”?
Wegman pondered for a moment.
“Hmm well he likes to come by near closing time. Pays us extra to wait for him till well after dark, says he has quite a few errands to run in the city that time of the month. Never get much of a look at his face, keeps his collar up, but I did get a good enough look to see he had a nasty looking scar over his right eye a few times. Looked like an animal or a piece of metal had gotten him. Always seems to be in a hurry, not much for conversation. Bit of a sour attitude on him if I am to be completely honest. If I didn’t know better I would have thought someone was after him. You coming here today seems to confirm that suspicion. Tell me sir, are we in any danger? I have a family what live upstairs and I should like to know if we need to watch ourselves.” There was a level of concern and trust in the man's voice that Bal sympathized with and appreciated.
“No, I am sure that there is no reason for you or your loved ones to worry. I am simply following a lead that I am sure will ultimately go nowhere. Such is the way of government work, always in a hurry to nowhere haha”. He infused his speech with a lighter tone in a bid to diffuse any of the poor fellows fears and concerns.
“We aren’t in any sort of trouble for doing business with this fellow are we”? Cut in the senior Wegman.
“No no sir, of course not. You have done nothing but provide impeccable and accommodating service to a customer. This man’s potential issues with the crown will in no way affect you and your son’s business”. This seemed to calm and please the old man.
“Now, you mentioned that he says he is quite busy on his pick up days, does he ever mention any of his other stops, or do you perhaps see any of his other packages or purchases when you serve him? Any little detail would be of the greatest help and interest to myself and her majesty”. The mention of the Queen stirred the men to search the furthest corners of their memories for anything to aid them in their patriotic duty.
“Can’t say as I ever heard him mention anything so specific” Replied the elder Wegman.
“He was quite guarded, but if you ask me he always had the strongest smell of herbs, or maybe flowers about him. Might be that he made a stop at a greenhouse, or maybe one of them Chinese medicine shops, not that I would call what goes on in those places medicine”. The old man scoffed.
“Would you be able to point me to the nearest such establishment sir? This is very helpful information indeed”.
“Absolutely. Four streets south, and two streets east. You won’t miss it, bright red front door. If you should find any reason to close up shop, I would not be ungrateful. Charlatans pass off all kinds of powders and roots as proper medicine. Ought to be a crime.”
“You have no use for such things eh father? Certainly no need for any red powder under the kitchen sink for invigorating your….humors, eh?” Richard interjected with a sly grin cutting it’s way across his face.
“You’re a rotten little bastard, you know that?”
“Gentleman, I will leave you to your business. Her majesty and I thank you for your assistance today, and I bid you farewell”. Bal cut in before he got caught in the middle of any sort of unpleasant verbal sparring.
Keeping a sharp eye out for potential followers, pickpockets or assailants, Bal followed the old man's instructions and made his way four blocks south, passing more than a few shady looking characters, but none who appeared to be unusually interested in him or where he was off to more so than taking in the novelty of a well dressed Sihk casually strolling through their neighborhood, and pondering on what valuables he may be carrying before taking his size and build into consideration and deeming it not worth the trouble.
Turning east, it wasn’t long before Bal Das found himself standing in front of a bright red door with a wooden sign covered in chinese hanzi characters that Bal knew enough of to know they confirmed the shop’s identity as a traditional medicine provider. Bal entered the dimly lit shop and was immediately hit with a wave of powerful smells.
The air was earthy, musky, aromatic, spicy and many other scents he couldn’t identify. There were a half dozen tall shelves with row after row of jars, boxes and burlap bags stuffed and overflowing with a plethora of ingredients ranging from the common to the exotic to the exceedingly rare. Roots, twigs, husks and bones. Powders, pastes, seeds and leaves occupied every available space. Behind a long wooden counter at the back of the shop stood a man even older than the senior Wegman. The gentleman couldn’t have been more than four feet tall, and appeared absolutely ancient, with liver spots and wrinkles occupying every available inch of exposed skin. He wore a simple, loose fitting dark blue shirt with brass buttons down the front right side, and wide loose sleeves that concealed his hands, and a matching pair of loose blue trousers. He was bald as an egg, but had a moderately long, wispy mustache perched over a kindly smiling mouth.
“How may I be of service”. Came a soft, but not frail voice, that to Bal’s surprise was only lightly accented.
“Greetings sir, I am here on behalf of her majesty to question you about some potentially dangerous individuals who we believe may be carrying out their illegal purposes with the aid of materials purchased at your establishment”.
“Oh yes, that does sound quite serious. I should hate to imagine anyone misusing my arts for anything harmful. I seek only to aid in the healing process. Health and vitality are my trade, nothing criminal”.
“Of course not sir, I am sure everything here is above board. But these men are gathering a great deal of supplies for a purpose I am not at liberty to discuss, and they have spread their purchases out among multiple businesses to throw off the scent as it were”. Bal reassured the old man, not wanting to spook him into withholding information from fear of legal consequence.
“Very wise of them indeed”. The elder responded with an almost amused tone to his voice.
“What is it you are needing from me then mr…”? He trailed off, his serene smile never leaving his face.
“My apologies. I am special inspector Ishaan Davi. I would like to know if there have been any customers out of the ordinary for you in the past few months, perhaps even years. Men who keep strange hours, or who make unusually large orders of specific items you may not sell much of to the ordinary customer, someone who seems not to want to be seen or noticed? Anything of that nature would fit the profile”.
“You get to know your customers very well in a business like this. I maintain the health and wellbeing of my patients. They trust me as much as they trust their own families, sometimes more. This profession is just as much about relationships and knowing your customer inside and out as it is simply understanding the cause and effect of illness and medicine. Anyone deviating from this would be highly recognizable. Yes I do have a customer who matches your description very well. He has come here once a month for over two years, demanding quite impressive amounts of dried wolfsbane and powdered wolfs hearts. Very expensive, imported all the way from America. If anyone but him ordered such an item, I would not be able to keep it in stock for them with how anxious he is to get his hands on it. He always arrives just after closing time, and I am afraid I have never gotten much of a look at his face, he is quite careful about that. I can tell you that he is a military man. On occasion he has help with him, and more than once I have heard his assistant refer to him as sergeant. He did not seem pleased by this slip of the tongue, and if my ears do not deceive me, which they never do, the young man earned himself quite the slap for his mistake”.
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“That all fits with exactly what I am told to expect. Thank you for helping to solidify this lead sir, your Queen and country are grateful”.
“Yes, if I ever see her I will be sure to return the sentiment. While you are here, may I interest you in an invigorating medicinal tea? You appear the type to spend long hours hard at work, and I sense you do not always perform your due diligence in taking care of your own body properly. Only the lowest of prices for someone so dedicated to serving the...Queen”. He ended his sales pitch with an oddly accusatory and knowing upturn of his voice after the pause, like he was sarcastically playing along in some secret plot.
Bal did not like being so easily seen through, but there was nothing to do about it. He wasn’t sure if the offer was made out of genuine concern, simple good salesmanship, or perhaps some form of mild extortion, but he decided to indulge the old man regardless as it could not hurt to leave on a positive note.
“Of course good sir, whatever you suggest, I am certain it will keep me well and in good spirits. It is as you say, I do tend to work a bit too hard, and can often neglect my own health in service of the greater cause. You are an astute judge with a sharp eye. I imagine there is little your patients hide from you”. Bal said, hoping to communicate that he was not entirely ignorant to the old man’s veiled comment.
“My vision may be faltering, but people are easy to see through. I am confident when you find whoever it is you are looking for, they will have some beastly secrets to reveal. But those are not the matters I can afford to concern myself with, I simply give the customer what they want, and when I can, what they need”. He then stepped out from behind the barrier of the counter, and began to walk his way through the maze of shelves and isles, gathering a pinch of this, a spoonful of that, until he had filled a small basket with everything he seemed to think he needed.
He returned to his fortress behind the wooden counter and set about mixing, grinding and chopping the plethora of roots, leaves and seeds until he was satisfied with the consistency of each. He then bundled it all up in a small bundle of cheese cloth and set it on the counter.
“Three quid should be just about right” He said as he reached a pale skinny hand over the counter top in an open gesture.
Bal produced his purse and withdrew ten coins, placing them in the old man's palm and closing his hand over it, giving a respectful shake and a slight bow of respect.
“For the tea, and the aid, thank you good sir, and have a pleasant day”. Bal released the shopkeeper's hand and took the bundle of medicines, placing it into his right trouser pocket.
“A thousand blessings on you and your journey. May you find him in good health”. Was the response.
Bal moved to exit the shop, but paused and marinated on that comment, and the potential meanings behind it before walking out into the daylight. He had very little faith that the old man was referring to the mysterious shopper, and that left a disturbing few options for who he was meant to find safely. Bal was a spiritual man, but already the supernatural air of this mission was beginning to sink in and become a far starker reality than any prayer or meditation, and he was not sure how he felt about it. However, there was no time for his own questions and discomfort, he had a job to do, and work was the best distraction from such abstract concerns.
The rest of Bals day was spent circling out from that point of the east end and stopping in at each and every physician, chemist, herbalist and practitioner of traditional medicine that he came across. There were an astounding number of the latter in the poorer parts of town, as they were often considerably less expensive, if not nearly as effective as more conventional treatments from the Dr.
Unfortunately though he pressed each and every owner and employee he came across to the best of his abilities, sharing what information he had already learned and offering financial compensation when he felt it might inspire memories, nobody could or would tell him anything new. Most simply appeared not to have any run-ins with his mysterious soldier or others like him, but there were more than a few individuals whose eyes reflected a clear sense of fear at the description of his quarry and his habits. These would suddenly remember pressing business and excuse themselves from the conversation as quickly as possible and demand Bal Das leave immediately so as not to distract them from their labors, and would hear no more. Frustrating as this was, it did provide information in and of itself by confirming the strangers pattern of movement.
Bal was beginning to develop a clear picture of someone who went to great lengths to throw off the scent of his activities through a combination of subtlety, bribery and threats. Whatever it was he was aiding his employers in, if indeed he was not the mastermind himself, seemed to require great amounts of chemical and medicinal aid, and on a very regular basis. There was something much deeper than simple kidnapping and sensless murder going on here, though he was far from being able to paint even the foggiest picture of what that might be. He hoped that whatever the notes left behind by Gavinas father would be of use to mr. Smelyanski in sorting this whole mess out, and that perhaps his own efforts today would help to clarify the situation.
The sun was beginning to set when Bal finally decided it was time to return home and check in with Agwe on the status of master William and Gavina, not that he held much hope that either youth had chosen to return home so soon. William was likely drowning himself in cheap poison in some dive by the river, and Gavina would be spending the rest of the time until they were instructed to return to the library sniffing out any scrap of information she could, and inflicting her growing frustrations on any poor sod dumb enough to give her the excuse.
He hailed a cab, grateful for the chance to rest his legs. His endurance had not been aided by these past years of easy life in the manor, serving tea and acting as a secretary rather than carrying Alberts kit through the mountains and jungles of the subcontinent in search of man-eating tigers or blood thirsty bandits. He was thankful for the gymnasium on the property, otherwise he would have lost much more of his youthful vigor than he had already. He would need to get used to physical action again, he could ill afford to allow harm to come to his charge or ms. Gavina because he was unprepared and out of shape. Though this harsh criticism of himself would likely shock any who heard it, as Bal Das Singh struck a figure that would impress or intimidate any but the most foolish observer.
The coach reached the home and Bal tipped the driver, approaching the steps to the town house and finding the door being held open in anticipation of his arrival by Agwe. The man always seemed to anticipate whatever it was that someone was going to do or ask for, and made a point of beating them to the request.
“Masta William and the angry woman aren’t home yet, and ah don’t expect them to be any time soon”. He said in his warm, thick island accent, not even needing the question to provide the answer.
“I expected as much, thank you Agwe. Have you eaten yet? I was just about to prepare some supper”.
“And take me job away from me? I don’t tink so you white devil. I have your food waiting for you in the dining room. Pepper pot stew. A letter came today from the big boss, I left it at your seat”.
“Thank you mr. Agwe, allow me to wash up and I will be there immediately. Though your comment does confuse me, considering…”. He then gestured at his dark cinnamon colored skin.
“You all white to me”. Replied the admittedly darker, nearly ebon colored servant.
“And be sure you hurry, stew ain't no good cold”. With that he disappeared down the hallway to attend to who knew what, considering that nobody but him had spent the night here in the last several days.
Bal retreated to his room upstairs, stripped himself bare, grabbing a sponge and dipping it in the full, blessedly cool basin of water on his nightstand and scrubbing himself down from head to toe. The last thing he did was to unwind his blue turban and brush out his near waist length hair and beard with a tortoise shell comb that had been a gift from Lady Blackthorn. The mirror reflected his dark, tightly muscled body in all it’s scarred, naked glory. It was a sight he was careful to keep from practically everyone, modesty and privacy being deeply important to him spiritually and personally. He took it in for a moment, not as cynical of his physical fitness as he had been earlier when complaining about his sore feet. He was still in fine fighting shape, and felt that he would be more than capable of aiding and defending his master from near any threat. He might present the ever humble servant, but he still had his pride as a man and a warrior.
“How long has it been though”? He questioned himself in his head.
“I can hardly remember the last time I really stepped up and kept my oath”. Though this was a lie.
He remembered perfectly well. It was the very day that he and Alfred left India for the final time together. A member of an extremist hindu-nationalist organization had taken it on himself to slay Sir. Alfred for his contributions to the continuing colonial rule of the country. A white christian war hero and his Indian sikh servant playing such a vital role in the occupation with his arms factories and numerous victories against rebels and warlords across the subcontinent was the perfect target to gain him and his group the reputation to draw new blood into the fold. Bal Das was following behind Alfred as they strolled towards the docks where they were to board the steam ship bound for home, when out of the corner of his eye he saw the short, angry looking man launch himself with total abandon at Lord Alfred, a dagger clutched tightly in his fist.
Bal took immediate action and threw his master to the ground behind him by the collar of his jacket. Having removed his master from the path of harm, as if seeing the world in slow motion, Bal turned his body sideways, allowing the blade to simply cut through a shallow layer of flesh, rather than pierce anything important. He then grabbed the assassin by the wrist and twisted hard. A loud snap was heard followed by a scream of pain, and the man dropped the weapon, but Bal was not finished with him. He took his free hand and brought down a hammering blow to the mans face that earned a gush of blood from his nose, before sweeping the legs and pinning the would be killer to the ground. The soldiers who had been standing nearby finally came to their senses, the whole thing taking no more than a few seconds, and rushed to take custody of the bleeding and crying assailant.
Needless to say the embarrassing and well reported failure did little to gain the group who sent the failed killer any sympathy or support. Alfred insisted, as he had so many times before, that this act had more than settled whatever debt Bal Das felt he owed him, but as always Bal refused. He didn’t simply serve his master out of some primitive sense of a blood oath, at least not any longer. Alfred's influence, and Bals need to serve him, had improved his life beyond measure, and he would never willingly abandon the man who had given him so much, and who had made him into what he was today.
That was all years ago. Now Bal had the chance to perhaps regain his old life of adventure, and become someone truly useful to the next generation of his beloved masters family.
He dressed himself in simple blue cotton trousers and a shirt, placed his hair back into a tight roll and donned a clean turban before going downstairs to the dining room. The stew smelled heavenly, as Agwe was an excellent chef, particularly where his native cuisine was concerned. The smell of stewed goat and spicy peppers warmed Bals soul, reminding him of many fine curries he had enjoyed while staying in Bombay.
Beside his plate was a single envelope bearing the wax seal of Lord Alfred. Bal took a bite of the heavenly stew before taking the letter opener he had been so graciously provided and cracked the seal. There were two documents inside, one, a letter written in Lord Blackthorn's strong yet elegant script, and the other an invitation of some kind on rather expensive looking paper. Setting the invitation aside, Bal Das began reading the letter quietly to himself.
Bal Das
Yesterday evening I received the enclosed invitation to a ball, to be held at Briar Woods, at the request of Lord Nicodemus Redvers. What is alarming about this invitation is the fact that Briar Woods estate is known to have burned to ashes some twenty five years ago, with all members of the much diminished family aside from the eldest son being taken in the blaze. Lord Nicodemus was believed to have died on the continent after leaving England behind in his grief. Nothing has been heard from the Baron in all this time, and now someone claiming his name appears from the ether to hold an event at a mansion that should not exist. I can not help but believe there may be some connection to the unusual venture that you and my son have become involved in, and have thus included the invitation that you may escort William in my stead, and take this opportunity to investigate the matter further.
Regards,
Alfred
Bal placed the letter back on to the table and continued spooning chunks of goat and peppery broth into his pleasantly burning mouth as he thought over the contents of the short letter.
Lord Alfred was undoubtedly correct in assuming that something as odd as a dead man inviting people to a party at a destroyed mansion was part of a wider conspiracy.
“But what could that connection be? What was the link to the gypsy murders, the mysterious soldier, the kidnapping”? All he had were dead ends and assumptions.
He would just have to wait for Gavina and William to return, and confront mr. Smelyanski for hopefully more concrete revelations. He might even be able to add today's discoveries to the scholars and draw a clearer picture of the whole situation. He was at least confident that Gavina would be glad for the news, as she needed anything to make her more confident that there was at least some progress being made in the search for her father.
Agwe entered the room, the same bland look on his face as he had maintained for as long as Bal had known him. He had been the head butler in the manor before Bal Das had come along, and for years there had been a tension between them due to Agwe feeling he had been shoved out of his place of honor by someone undeserving. But over time the frost had thawed between them. Agwe realized that Bal was indeed more than qualified to occupy such a position within the household, and had come to enjoy the more relaxed life that running the London home provided. Far less work to do, and far less noise. He treated it now as retirement rather than banishment.
Bal looked to the wizened old servant and complimented his dinner.
“Excellent meal as always Agwe. It isn’t a taste of home, but it is a wonderful reminder. As I am sure you can sympathize with, the state of cuisine in this country leaves something to be desired when one is used to-”
“Flavor? Yes it is quite de shock to live among folks who boil and roast every-ting dey eat like day are trying to punish demselves for some heinous crime”.
This earned a small chuckle from Bal Das, who could not disagree with the old man’s assessment. He then thought about the letter again and decided to utilize Agwe’s considerable years of experience in the matter.
“What do you know of the Redvers family? They were mentioned in Lord Blackthorn's letter, but I can’t recall hearing anything about them in my time at the Viscounts side”.
The already sour face of the servant grew even more dour if possible.
“Mm, shame what happened to dem. Very old family, not many left. About twenty five years ago a fire broke out in de family home. Whole lot, mother, father, uncle, aunt and cousins, burned to death. No survivors. Youngest boy, Nicodemus was away at boarding school. Dey say he nearly trew himself in da grave wit his parents. Not long afta, he took a ship bound for St. Petersburg. No one heard anyting about him for some time. Don’t know who started da rumor, but people start talkin that he died of consumption not long afta reachin the city. Easy enough to believe, climate not good for the lungs. Nobody heard a word since. Always possible none of dat was true and he been livin healthy in the east, but I don’t know how anyone rebuilds a huge house without bein noticed”.
“Thank you, I was not aware of any of that. I suppose in the grand scheme, it wouldn’t have been of much concern to Lord Alfred while he was so busy in India. I shall do my best to learn whatever I can while we attend this party. I am sure it will take little convincing lord William to attend and cause some type of a distraction.”
“You have a harder time gettin da boy not to cause a distraction. Dat all he is.” Agwe chirped back, finally sitting down to his own meal.
Though it would be easy to accept that as fact, Bal felt the need to come to the young masters defence.
“It can appear that way from time to time, but I find William to be a surprisingly capable and decisive young man when the moment takes him. His greatest challenge has always been simply finding something he cares about enough to truly grip his attention and direct his energies”.
“You mean besides flesh and booze”? Agwe shot back without looking up from his stew.
“Actually yes, despite his affinity for more base pleasures, I am finding him to be far more...well not mature, but certainly more brave and loyal than I would have guessed. He seems truly dedicated to aiding Lady Mckinnon in her goal to find her father. I have never seen him put himself at such risk, nor endure so much for anyone, much less someone he has scarcely known a week”.
“Maybe dis all be good for him. Good for everyone, either he straighten himself out, or he die. Either way, de house will be much easier to take care of, Lord willing”.
“Yes, lord willing”.