Chapter Ten:
Put Up Your Dukes
The first tinges of dawn were streaking the horizon as Count Gram put down his quill with a muttered curse. He dribbled a bit of sealing wax on the last parchment and marked it with his ring. With a grunt, he reclined back into his chair, and gestured to his page. Despite the late (or was it early?) hour, the little bastard still looked hale and chipper. The energy of youth be damned, Gram thought sourly, as the page collected the last letter and added it to the small pile already in his satchel.
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The letters were addressed to various community leaders in Chernsburg. With slight variations, the letters all told the same story: the new settlement had been attacked, the scoundrels were still at large, and the Watch was on full alert. Any information or sightings should be reported to the Watch immediately. Gram was sure he would get no end of false alarms – neighborhood grudges coming out as people looked to earn a few silvers by turning in so-and-so down the lane who stole our cat umpteen years ago, and so on. But when the next attack came (and Gram had no doubt that there would be another attack), the Count wanted all the forewarning he could get.
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A ray of sunlight stabbed in through the window, murdering any hope Gram had held of getting any sleep before starting the rest of the day. The sounds of the city waking up began to filter in; the rumble of farm carts coming in from the countryside, the cries of the watchmen as the day watch came on duty to relieve the night watch, and the clatter and curses of merchants as they opened up their stalls for another day of commerce. The savory smell of bacon began to filter up the stairs from the kitchens below – Mrs. Whemple had begun to prepare the Count's breakfast.
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Gram pulled himself wearily to his feet and made his way to his washbasin, where he splashed cold water on his face and tried to make himself look presentable. “Of all the bloody days to have bandits burn down my outpost,” he muttered darkly to himself as he tried to pull a wooden comb through his bed-tousled hair. “Bad enough to have to smile for that bastard Ralen, damn his Ashford blood.”
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Duke Ralen was the military mind behind the armies of An Loch; the neighboring Kingdom to the west of Kairos. House Ralen was a distant relation to the old (and largely extinct) House Ashford. Around a century ago, the Ashfords had ruled over most of the surrounding lands, and they were known for their cruelty and greed. Following the famed Richfort Rebellion, the foundations for the present-day Kingdom of Kairos were built on the smoldering ruins of the Ashfords. Those few branches of the family which remained fled to An Loch, and bore their grudges to this day.
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While An Loch and Kairos were never formally in a state of war, clashes at the border were not uncommon. Years of saber rattling and demands from An Loch were met by patient diplomacy from the Richforts, along with an iron determination to not give an inch, militarily. This approach finally bore fruit a month ago, when the An Loch ambassador announced that the King wanted to bury the hatchet – the conflict was too costly, and peace would be beneficial to both parties. Details were hashed out between the diplomats, and Chernsburg was selected as the site where the new treaty would be signed.
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Delegations would be arriving throughout the day. An Loch was to be represented by Duke Ralen, while Duke Richfort was on his way from Chrysopolis. Both parties would be arriving with a small retinue of retainers, soldiers and various hangers-on; a handful of which were assuredly going to be spies. While the number of men at arms was to be kept to a minimum, Gram had no doubt that it would only take one drunken idiot to say the wrong thing in the wrong company, and his city would devolve into a brawl. And now that half of the Watch was out in the woods chasing bandits, the Count was glumly certain that such a brawl was not a mere possibility – it was a promise.
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After breakfast, Gram felt marginally more human. On returning to his study, he was greeted by a young man in a spotless city watch uniform – his back ramrod straight as he came to attention, with his helm held under his left arm. His fist banged loudly against his breastplate in salute, and Gram winced as his fading headache stabbed icy daggers into his brain once again. He waved the young man to a seat as he moved behind his desk.
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“Lieutenant Jaquel, have a seat, no need to stand on ceremony here.” Another salute, another grimace from the Count, and the young watchman took his seat. “I've called you here to act in Captain Dumorne's absence. I presume there isn't any word from him or his patrol yet?”
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Jaquel shook his head. “No, sir, not a word. I shouldn't expect to hear much until dusk, sir.”
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“Of course, why should anything be fucking easy today,” Gram snarled, causing the poor lieutenant's eyes to widen. “Hell with it. Since the captain is away, you get the unenviable task of sorting out the guests for this bloody festival today. I know you've been at all the meetings, but I'm going to go over this one more time. I don't need anything else going tits up today, is that clear?” Jaquel nodded earnestly, fussing with the crest on his helmet nervously as he listened to the Count recap the strategy for the peace treaty meeting.
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The idea was fairly simple, with Gram reasoning that the more complicated the plan, the more likely it would be that mistakes would be made. Both Dukes would be staying at the Manor as guests of honor. Although Ralen and Richfort were both military men, Gram trusted them not to try to stab each other at the dinner table. Their men were a different story – bad blood between both sides ran deep, peace treaty be damned. The Richforts would be quartered at a guesthouse owned by a local magistrate in the northeastern quarter of the city. The An Loch contingent would be staying at a similar home in the southwestern quarter. The Watch would be out in force, largely covering the intervening streets and byways. They were to see to it that never the twain shall meet, and keep both factions contained in their respective quarters as politely as possible.
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Gram had Jaquel repeat the arrangements back to him twice before he was satisfied. The lieutenant was sent on his way with strict instructions to report to the Count immediately if any violence broke out, or if any arrests were made. With one last salute (and resulting wince), the guardsman took his leave.
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The Count stood at his window and gazed off to the south. The fires were out, but faint wisps of smoke and steam still rose off in the distance. Gram was certain that Dumorne would find some trace of the wretches responsible – the man was an excellent officer and a fearsome fighter. And yet, Gram could not shake the feeling that the worst was yet to come... and soon.
