Chapter Thirteen:
A Party to Die For
What a fucking waste of time.
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For the dozenth time, Armand tried to surreptitiously scratch his ass through his uniform trousers and failed. The damnable things were stiff as a board, how in the hell did anyone ever fight in these things? What he wouldn't give for his old hunting leathers right now. Sure, they're a bit dirty, but at least a man could move without feeling like his balls were being sanded off...
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“Quit fidgeting, man,” Duke Ralen muttered. “You're a bodyguard, try to look the part.”
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Armand manged a stiff nod and folded his arms across his chest. “Sorry, your Grace. Just a bit rough in the nether-regions. Won't happen again.”
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The Duke rolled his eyes and moved off into the crowd. Armand ground his teeth and followed to the Duke's left. Damn their bloody dinner, damn their bloody protocol, and damn these bloody trousers, thought Armand, as his eyes roved around the crowd of mincing nobles, fat merchants and washed-out old whores. Bodyguard my ass. There's not a one of these little shits that's got a violent bone in their body. But then his eyes fell upon their special “guest”, and even Armand couldn't help but repress a small shudder. But that one... little fucker makes my skin crawl.
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At first glance, Alayn was unremarkable. Average height, slim build, perhaps a bit bookish. He dressed better than a commoner, but didn't care overmuch for whatever the current fashions were. He wore drab colors, and was somewhat disheveled. His hands were long-fingered, delicate - almost effeminate. But they were each marred by a pair of scars, running across the full width of his palms. He was clean shaven, and wore his long hair pulled back into a ponytail.
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It was the eyes which made Armand uncomfortable. Not the color; Alayn had the same dark brown eyes that his father did. He didn't tend to stare (usually had his nose buried in a book); nor was either eye off-centered or lazy. No, it was the way he made you feel when he did look at you. You could tell a lot about a person by the way they looked at you – merchants calculated how much money might be in your purse, nobles (when they bothered to look down their high and mighty noses) looked to see where you fell in the social order, soldiers looked at your gear and planned out how they could kill you. Alayn did none of those things. Armand wasn't much good at thinking in metaphors, but if he had been, he would have said that a bull probably felt the same way about a butcher sizing him up for steaks, hide and bones. Alayn didn't look at people, he looked at things. And right now, that emotionless gaze was fixed on Count Gram.
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Old codger has some stones, Armand admitted. If the little creep was looking at me like that, I'd be drawing steel. And indeed, Gram seemed to be paying little mind to his estranged son – chatting amiably with Duke Richfort despite Alayn's soulless gaze boring into him. Armand's hand absently checked the hilt of his dagger (one of many), making sure it was loose in his sheath as Duke Ralen walked up beside the Count.
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“...treaty should do us good in the long run, though.” Duke Richfort broke off, looking over his shoulder as Ralen approached the group. “Ah, speak of the devil and so he shall appear. Duke Ralen, it's good to see you.” Ralen raised an eyebrow as he reached out to clasp Richfort's proffered hand. “Am I the devil then, Duke Richfort? I hope you don't actually believe those old Ashford legends?”
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“What, the one about your great great grandaddy being born of a daemon?” Richfort laughed heartily, and Ralen smiled in return. Eyes aren't smiling though, Armand thought as he watched the exchange from the side. “No, Duke, these are enlightened times. Daemons and goblins be damned for the stories they are," Richfort concluded with a wink.
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A soft, rasping voice cut through the Duke's laughter like a rusty blade. “There are stories, and there are... stories, gentlemen.” The three nobles turned toward Alayn, who had sidled up to send beside his father. Gram offered a faint frown of distaste, but stood aside to make room for his son in the circle. “For each story there is a grain of truth. Why, my father's own lands have such tales aplenty. Perhaps no devils, but the lands to the south were once considered... sacred." Armand watched as Alayn turned his head toward a window, and seemed to be... sniffing? How the hell did we get saddled with this lunatic? The boy shuddered slightly, licked his lips, and continued. "Certain rites and celebrations were held there. More importantly, there is reason to believe that some artifacts from those rites may be there still.”
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“Still the same old tales, I see.” Gram shook his head. “And here I thought some time spent in Chrysopolis would wean you from those childish fancies.”
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For a split second, Armand saw a flash of emotion cross Alayn's dead eyes – utter, unreasoning rage. But before he could react (the thought that he would have to cut the boy down before the little madman went for someone's throat certainly crossed his mind) Duke Richfort's boisterous laughter rolled across the room. “Fancies? Gram, your son here is one of the Capital's best-known and respected researchers! How many ruins have you uncovered this year alone? Seven?”
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Alayn visibly regained his composure. “Seven? Ten, your Grace. But the numbers are unimportant.”
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“And these southern lands,” Gram asked, skepticism still dripping from every word. “No doubt they have ruins of their own?”
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“Oh yes. Although the forests have reclaimed much, the lands have not forgotten the ones who once built their cities beneath the stone.”
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“Oh, wonderful. Perhaps these stone folk are the ones that burned my settlement to the ground then, eh?” Alayn said nothing, only stared at the Count for a handful of seconds. Gram finally turned away in disgust, and Alayn slunk back to his table in the corner after a halfhearted nod to the two Dukes.
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And stay there, you creepy little shit...
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“Speaking of your settlement, Count, I do have news you may find interesting.” Duke Ralen gestured toward the stairs up to the Count's personal study. “Duke Richfort, you should hear this news as well. But perhaps not where there are so many eyes and ears, eh?”
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Gram frowned, and darted a questioning look at Duke Richfort. Richfort's gaze moved over to Armand, and this was clearly a type three look – the Duke was checking him for weapons and evaluating the threat. Armand did his best to appear bored, which required almost no acting on his part whatsoever. Finally, Richfort nodded. “Alright, lets talk. But leave the cutter down here, Ralen.” Ralen returned a cold smile, but gestured for Armand to remain where he was. The three men headed upstairs to the study.
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Armand sauntered over toward one of the windows in the hall, grabbing a bit of food from one of the tables on the way. He munched on a haunch of roast hare as he gazed out at the rooftops of Chernsburg's central district. Year ago, I'd have been happier than a pig in shit in this town. All those posh houses, money just waiting for someone to come in and walk off with it. A wry grin crossed his face. But why just steal a few trinkets when you can have the whole town, eh?
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There, a deeper shadow up against a roofline a couple of blocks away. Jared was in position. Armand very deliberately crossed his arms across his chest, then raised his right hand to scratch at his ear. The shadow on the rooftop vanished.
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Armand grabbed a mug of ale from a passing servant and raised it high. “Lords, ladies and gentlefolk of Chernsburg! A glass to your health!” A few of the guests returned a hearty cheer, but most of the nobility graced him with a type two look – clearly putting him in the “scum and filth” stratum of society. Armand shrugged and drained his mug in a single pull.
Oh well, fuck 'em.
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He grabbed another mug as the first cries of alarm filtered in from outside, where a flickering orange glow was beginning to dance in through the windows.
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And fuck their health, too.
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Finally, the party was about to get interesting.
