C. Sebastian Nutt
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Chapter 171 - What We Really Know
🕑 Added 2025-05-26 18:02:01 +0000 UTCQuiet discomfort has become the theme of the sprawling estate in which the duke’s palatial estate resides. Even within the bounds of the northern district of the city, the duke’s palace stands apart, an expanse of gardens, administration buildings, and places of leisure intended to evoke the feeling of a mansion erected in a lush valley, instead of an exhibition of lavish expense in the heart of metropolia. Only the spectacle of the fountains and the manicured landscaping that once impressed Dovik has gone to rot in the past weeks. All his life, he lived in Grim, where space was the highest of commodities, luxury was measured in breathing room, and power was measured in the height of one’s residence. He shouldn’t have been surprised to find the same true in other cities, but he had been. Still, the duke’s expansive palace outstripped any of the platforms back home three times over, and that alone had struck him with sufficient awe.
The tarnishing came with the last few days. Every day, more and more people flock to the inner walls of the palace grounds, abandoning the streets outside already choked with people. Had the duke given up his vacant fields and gardens to those poor bastards, Dovik might have found majesty in reducing the ground’s stature, but those flocking into the protection of the wall are not the unfortunate.
Families of administrators, nobility, and the well-connected linger on the grounds with their servants. Throughout the once sprawling gardens, attempts at construction are underway, pavilions standing half made with splintered and warped wood, just places where the extravagant tents the people squatting on the duke’s grounds could be placed to be more appealing. Though not a single one stands complete, the servants commanded to construct them woefully ill-equipped with experience or time to complete the task, each one begun stands on stilts just a bit higher than the last.
With any luck, Dovik thinks, one will finally be finished long enough that the party of fops who climb atop it will be buried in its inevitable collapse. Because he knows that while these people congregate, pushing to escape the flood of the dirty and pressed that pour into Danfalla daily, their homes and estates in the northern district surrounding the palace grounds sit empty. Guarded fiercely, but empty.
Throughout the property, the once manicured beauty sits trampled, flowerbeds torn up with their colorful occupants pushed aside to make room for the legs of chairs, fountains made half empty and sitting lousy with elegant and damp laundry. He can’t help but sneer out the window as he follows Illigar through the halls.
“There is what happens when the bar for success continues to lower,” Illigar comments as they pass the windows.
“Why would the duke allow them to linger?” Dovik asks. “Sitting out on his lawn and ruining the place.”
“What choice does he have? The Mari clan prides itself on martial power in a world absent its need. They practice arts considered taboo in more civilized societies, and while the summoning of hellion creatures is effective, it is also easy to learn. It’s difficult to kick the cousins off the lawn when each can summon some hell beast to ruin the blue bonnets.”
“I’m sure that it is a lot easier to pull a beast out of hell and have it take care of your business for you so that you can cower safe behind your walls,” Dovik says, doing a fantastic job at keeping the venom from his voice.
Illigar comes to a stop in front of a set of strong double doors. “That, I won’t argue. But, at the end of the day, it does not matter how you kill your enemies, only that they are dead.”
“If they are so effective, why haven’t they lifted a finger to defend their duchy?”
“That,” Illigar says, pulling open one of the doors, “is a question I have been asking for weeks.”
The doors open onto a balcony wide enough to host a party of ten, but the square of stone jutting from the second floor of the duke’s palace sports only a small table set with a red cloth now, the train listing slightly in the breeze.
“And now,” Illigar says, walking over and finding a chair that doesn’t face the sun, “we wait.”
Dovik doesn’t need to ask why; he has seen enough functions of the wealthy and the ennobled to understand their penchant to make people wait for their arrival. He takes a seat near Illigar, leaning hard on years of similar circumstances that have tempered his patience into cold iron. It helps to always be able to carry around a bookshelf in your pocket containing a litany of writings to keep yourself occupied. He sinks into a novel outlining the adventures of an alchemist who toured the world. He closes it again over half an hour later, his eyes picking up on a flutter of color moving on the other side of the doors.
He and Illigar stand together, bowing deeply as two elves in their elder years enter, followed by a suite of five attendants and aides. Dovik has always found it strange, spotting the differences between the older and younger elves. The old ones unsettle him, looking to all the world almost identical to their younger counterparts, not even out of their thirties by human standards. It is the eyes that send chills down his spine, the way the irises almost seem to glow in the sunlight, the sclera retreating to a muted gray, the way their metallic hair grows stiff and shines in luster. He has always thought they seem almost unliving when they stop moving, centuries of strict control often leading to them naturally sitting or standing perfectly still and erect as their natural state.
“My lords,” Illigar says, bowing in the empirical fashion, Dovik hurriedly copying the motion. “I hope you have given some consideration and come today with favorable news.”
“That depends entirely on how you will take what we have to say,” the elven man on the left, the one draped in fine red robes, gold sewn around the collar to evoke the sun, not that anyone could miss the metaphor with six rubies stitched into the collar. “I see you have brought someone to this highly sensitive meeting.”
“Yes,” Illigar bows his head once more, motioning back to Dovik. “This is Dovik Willian, son of my guildmaster. Dovik, this dashing man in red is Madris Kar’Mari, the Court Magician of the Duke. His counterpart in green is the Master of Weights, Dane Eldrisa.”
“So, you are Harrilis’ son,” Dane Eldrisa says, an elven man whose age shows in his nearly glowing orange eyes and the stiff platinum of his long and braided hair. Without prompting, the Master of Weights gestures to an aide, who hurriedly scurries forward to pull out a chair for him.
“You know my father?” Dovik asks.
“Only of him, my boy. I managed to see one of his bouts back when he was touring the local cluster, challenging every prince and pauper to a duel to prove himself. That must have been…well, some time ago, let us say.”
“To me, it feels like only yesterday,” Dovik replies. “Likely due to the frequency that I have heard those stories. I will have to get your recollection to find if it matches the majesty my father has insisted his bouts possessed.”
“I, unfortunately, have no time for gossip or pleasantries,” Madris Kar’Mari says, sweeping his robe to the side before taking his own seat. “If you have failed to notice, young master Willian, the duchy is dealing with quite a few issues at the current moment, not the least of which being open rebellion.”
Without needing to be told, Dovik steps away from the table, taking a retaining position behind Illigar. Falling back and retreating from the center of importance is so ingrained in his notion of decorum, he fails to notice the way he mirrors the attendants behind the two elven men at the table.
“Then, to the important matters,” Illigar says, steepling his fingers. “Have you had any success with Fas?”
Dane Eldrisa sighs, leaning back in his seat. “Unfortunately, neither I nor Madris managed to change the man’s mind. He has the ear of the prince, and in the dispatch of our military forces, the royal family has final sway unless countermanded directly by the duke. The duke has decided to step away from these matters, citing his health. We have no real power to sway this decision.”
“Not that I am entirely certain it should be swayed,” Madris adds.
“So, we are still going north then.” Illigar clicks his tongue, chewing on his thoughts. “In that case, I will need my ship taken out of your impoundment.”
“That,” Dane says, stabbing his finger on the table, “I have already accomplished. Fas Cla’Mari’s influence does not extend to such matters. That he even stooped low enough to take it in the first place is an overreach.”
“The man had the girl he was courting murdered and her body displayed on the street,” Madris says. “It is not so difficult to believe that he wants the perpetrators captured. However, I do have to admit that the tall tale you spun for us before has only become more credible with time.”
Madris Kar’Mari reaches out, an iron ball covered in runic scribblings appearing in his hand. With a sigh, he places the ball out onto the table. Dovik doesn’t miss the way three of the men behind the court magician flinch as the ball thumps onto the scarlet tablecloth.
“This was discovered at the scene of the attack last night. The weapon perfectly matches those found in the Ca’Mari warehouses that the 5th has raided over the last several days. Setting aside the illegality of the device, finding one in the gutter just up the road from the destroyed building and gate is too coincidental.
“I have spent sixty-five years as the court magician to the duke and have seen my fair share of intrigue play out within this snake pit, but never have I seen anything as sloppy as what is happening now. It is too easy to solve. The evidence was found too perfect, as if there was never an attempt made to hide the connections to the Ca’Mari. I have known Evilynn Ca’Mari for three hundred years; she is not stupid. We are being led.”
“By your monster people,” Dane says.
“They aren’t my monsters, just my prey,” Illigar replies. “So, you have come to take what I told you with more consideration. That is progress at least.”
“You never needed to convince me,” the Master of Weights puts in. “Evilynn Ca’Mari is as venomous as they come, but she has never held designs on the throne of the duchy. Importing illicit weapons into the capital, we have known about that for years, but she merely sells them to buyers overseas. No, this plotting smells more like something to come from her son or perhaps her nephew.”
“But, you will not be able to convince Fas of that,” Madris says. “The man is too inexperienced and too enraged to treat success with the skepticism it deserves. He will take the easy enemy in front of him. What we have observed most directly suggests that whoever is behind the beast tide, if indeed anyone is, moves north toward Black Rock. That is where the 4th will go, to lend your assistance there.”
Illigar sighs. “You treat my information with skepticism, that I can understand. I only wish you had treated my warning of infiltration with respect.”
“I will not have you impune the honor of these men and women,” Madris says, his voice growing darker. “We have brought along with us only our most trusted attendants, each is beyond reproach.”
“I do not question their loyalty, only if they are who they pretend to be. Luckily for both of us, I have brought someone as well.” Illigar stops, turning to look back at Dovik. “Dovik, is anyone here a monster in disguise?”
A moment of tension spreads through the men and women on the balcony as Dovik’s eyes scan across them. Dovik only requires a second to take the measure of the souls arranged before him.
He shakes his head. “As far as I can tell, they are all elven, or at least possess elven souls.”
“You can tell the difference between elven and human souls?” Madis asks, arching a brow.
“Are you implying there isn’t one, my lord?” Dovik replies, earning a scoff for his remark.
“My lords, this is not merely my paranoia at play. In that massacre that happened not too far from where we sit now, yes, those scouts intended to be sent toward the north were murdered, but the others were select members of the far-ranging forces with exceptionally keen senses, those able to sniff out monsters no matter where they hid. The prime example being a young woman who not only identified one of the creatures behind this beast tide, but was capable of linking them to another incident. I can only assume Dovik Willian lives because they did not discover his powerful abilities of observation, as he was only ever used in an auxiliary role for the scouts in the field.
“That these creatures can assume the forms of others, we need only the testimony of Yul Cla’Mari. She was witnessed leaving the party by three others, and later her whereabouts were corroborated as she took an unexpected trip to a friend’s house. However, ten minutes after leaving, she was also seen to still be at the party, helping to have an ice sculpture delivered. On the same night, a guardsman logged in his journal that three people raced through his checkpoint: Priscilla Ca’Mari, Charlene Devardem, and someone matching the description of Yul Cla’Mari. It is worth noting that this guardsman was found dead in his apartment, seeming to have taken his own life.”
“While I may agree with Madris that your evidence doesn’t prove we have shapeshifting monsters moving throughout the city, I think we can both agree that there has been enough death taking place to warrant caution. The words discussed here will not be spoken again by anyone, but you cannot expect us to keep this business completely silent. We require our aides to get anything accomplished.”
Illigar nods, sitting back in his chair. “I can see your point.”
“At the very least, that someone is acting against the ducal house is without dispute. Be it your monsters or some members of the nobility. What you have failed to do as of yet is give to us a motive,” Madris says.
“Do you always operate knowing the motive of conspirators?” Illigar asks. “I have found that to be the last thing discovered in most circumstances.”
“So, you still don’t know then,” Madris says.
“I have suspicions. I cannot tell you why the hammer is swinging down, but I do believe I have informed you about the timing.”
“Something you have also failed to explain adequately,” Dane says, taking a reproachful tone for the first time in the conversation. “If I were a more suspicious man, I would think that you telling us the timing of our enemy’s move would implicate you in its inception.”
“I have already relayed to you how I know,” Illigar says, the calm tone in his voice a bit betrayed by his fingers digging into his leg.
“Meaning that what we need to trust is your ability to interpret poetry. That you would stake your trust in a riddle whispered to you in a cave is beyond the reach of sense. Why should I not visit the worship square and ask a man there when this attack will come?”
“Because,” Illigar says, “scions actually speak with the gods.”
Not much more is accomplished at the meeting other than the slow deterioration of decorum. Dovik gleans things that help the pieces fall together, that they are dealing with some kind of intelligent monsters capable of imitating people, and why Charlene was killed. When the talk turns toward the upcoming trial where Evilynn Ca’Mari will be brought before the duke’s midnight court under the full moon to answer for crimes that all three men at the table know she did not commit, he begins to tune out the meeting, turning toward his thoughts. Finally, there was an enemy he could point at, one shrouded in shadows, but one he believed he might be able to find. Hopefully, they would be at Black Rock, as that was where the army would be heading. Illigar never brought up the subject again after the initial questions.
Illigar, on the other hand, extracted quite a bit from the meeting. The innocuous questions he peppered in helped narrow the scope of the enemy’s desires. The timing, which he was certain of. Whether it was to attack the cities throughout the duchy or attack Danfalla directly, he was dead certain that it would take place on the night of the full moon. The prophecy given to him by the lips of the divine pointed too much in that direction. Despite Madris’ concerns about his ability to parse the obtuse words, decades had given him a talent for reading between the lines.
Leaving the meeting, he kept two things at the forefront of his mind. Firstly, that as the prophecy warned, he could not hesitate; that would likely bring about something terrible. The second was that he needed to head to the guild hall and make some important calls with their mirror. Their enemy wasn’t the only ones capable of putting plans into place.
