Round 2: Amen Vs The International

[Silence Sei]

You have 2 weeks to complete your battle, may the best man win!

[The International]

Screw Corone

“I know what you’re thinking.” That forever condescending voice of Vespasian’s mother rang in his right ear as the two of them floated in a deluge of Humans, Dwarves, and Elves in formal attire. He glanced over at Alix Villeneuve, who didn’t even bother to look at him as she spoke. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Alright then.” Vespasian looked at the ornate wrought iron gate he couldn’t exactly call ‘gilded’. Six armored guards with spears, swords and crossbows stood before them checking the guests against their lists. More were turned away than let in. “What am I thinking exactly?”

“I can’t say it aloud with all these Coronian patriots around.” Alix sighed. Perhaps she did know what he was thinking. “You’ve been working hard these past few months, and I figured you’d appreciate a little luxury. Try to enjoy this night.”

She gave their names to the guard, and after a moment or two they were permitted to enter. Beyond the moderately tall brick walls of the property’s parameter stood the Harthworth mansion. Vespasian slumped his shoulders in disappointment. “Concrete, limestone, and bricks… more bricks. A red terra cotta roof, and a plain front yard. How patriotically plain of the Viceroy. Hs really is a native of this island.” He waited for a rebuttal from his mother only to get silence. His jaw dropped as he leaned in and whispered. “You’re scouting the place out, aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t do us any harm.” Alix shrugged her shoulders. “We may never get the opportunity to see it again, but we may have to infiltrate.”

“As far as I’m concerned, we are infiltrating.” Vespasian rolled his eyes as he took his mother’s hand and helped her up a large flight of grey stone stairs. “That might make this night more interesting.”

The stairs led the two of them up to a tall set of wooden doors where six more guards stood. They were just as armed to the teeth as the guards at the gate, and they were confiscating everyone’s weapons. Vespasian unstrapped the scabbard from his belt and handed them his schiavona. Alix handed them her new whip, they glanced at one another with confusion. “I use it to keep my boy here in line. If he begins to act out just remember to hand that to me.”

They laughed as the high usher of the house approached and greeted them. He escorted them through a marble clad atrium and into the grand hall where the Fallienic incense stung Vespasian’s nose. “Someone’s trying a little too hard.” He said just before he sneezed.

The hum of conversation came from all around as guests of the Viceroy occupied every nook and cranny of the hall, from the second story colonnade to the hardwood dance floor. The walls were covered with limestone figures depicting Corone’s culture and progress, from Radasanth the Savior, to Corone’s custom made trinity of gods and there was even a statue of Eimien Harthworth himself. Vespasian snarled. “I wonder if he told the sculptor to take out his little beer belly.”

Vespasian nervously adjusted his white doublet as they walked through the hall and greeted familiar faces. He only just now realized how out of place his choice of attire made him. Yes, Radasanth was the melting pot of the world, and the Viceroy’s party was an ode to that, but that was the problem. Elves lost their signature elegance, the delicacy of the Dwarves here would bring shame to Kachuck, and even a few Fae had clipped their wings to become more Radasanthian. All these atrocities of the identity occurred amongst a mundane earthen hue color palate that made Vespasian the odd man out. He looked at his mother, who wore a maroon dress. “You could have sent me the memo.”

“I would have if you were on the job tonight.” Alix stabbed him with her hazel eyes as she adjusted her blood red hair. “But you’re not. You’re a civilian, Vespasian Villeneuve. Not Vixil’Nova, not Vokali, not even V. You’re just Vespasian. Son of Alix & Esme, the successful merchants. Now have some fucking fun.”

“I don’t see any eligible ladies to have fun with.” Before Vespasian could laugh at his own joke his mother gave him a stern elbow in the stomach. She knew just where to hit to screw up his breathing for a moment, and the memories of foiled teenage antics came running back… one for every short breath. “See. This is why I don’t go out with you. Dad’s a better wingman.” Another elbow. “Ow.”

“May I have your attention please!” The same high usher who greeted them at the door now stood at the top of a flight of red carpeted stairs as stiff as a board. The only thing that moved now was his mouth. He waited until the noble crowd quieted. “On behalf of the Viceroy I would like to thank you for attending this wonderful celebration to commemorate the successful commencement of the Serenti Invitational. It is comforting to know that even in these times, we can come together to keep such an important tradition alive. The first round has finished without any major incident, and we are excited for the next round. Sir. Harthworth is running somewhat late due to his administrative duties, but he will arrive shortly. Until then enjoy the drinks and one another.”

[Amen]

“It chokes.”

“Are you complaining again, boy?” Emien Harthworth said, finishing the knot on his silken tie with an experienced flourish.

“It’s choking me,” Marcus said, hooking a finger into the collar of his shirt.

Emien stared at him for a long moment. “Couple weeks ago you marched in here covered in dead men with half your scalp hanging damn-near your chin and could have asked for tea, but if I put a shirt on you I get a blubbering child. You’d best straighten right the fuck up. I have a lot riding on you.”

“I won’t have breath to cry long,” Marcus complained. “This last button is necessary?”

“Julian, put the damn tie on him. And leave it a little loose so the petunia can breathe.”

Book loured at the tailor murderously, but the man feared Harthworth more than any rank soldier and did the tie up anyway. “Stop touching it,” the tailor chided, smoothing the silk back in place when the job was done.

“Now the jacket,” Emien said as he adjusted his cufflinks. “Good. An excellent cut, Julian. Splendid, as always. Hell, he almost looks a man.”

“What is this?” Marcus said.

“The tail,” Julian hissed, slapping his hands away from it. “Don’t tug, buffoon. This jacket is worth more than you’ll ever make.”

“A tail,” the templar said drearily, “like a dog.”

“Nonsense,” Harthworth chided. “For the first time in your life, you’re dressed like a human being.”

“And yet, my shirt has a collar, and even a little leash. Even my feet are choked. Is this necessary?”

“Yes,” Emien said. “Now look here. You think I like dressing up like a clown and inviting a horde of braying merchants into my house to bandy words and favor like some simpering politician? It’s necessary. It’s a battlefield like any other: the battlefield behind the battlefield, and I must win this war before I can win any other. And yes, the suit is necessary. It’s an equalizer, you see? We’re all ridiculous and uncomfortable, from the strongest man to the weakest, that’s the only way these craven moneylenders will do business. I won’t hear another word of it. Straighten your back and put on a gods-damned smile, or so help me I’ll carve one onto your face, have your head off, and put it up for display. You'll be the happiest damn corpse anybody's ever seen. Got it?”

“Sir,” Marcus said. “But did it have to be purple?”

“Violet,” Julian corrected. “It’s violet.”

***

“Esteemed ladies and gentlemen of Radasanth, may I present to you your host and friend, the Viceroy Emien Harthworth.”

Harthworth revealed himself fashionably late on the top step in the foyer, and began to welcome his guests in the finest show of aural pomposity Marcus had ever been privy to. Book, on the other hand, entered the foyer on the first floor and kept himself in the background. He garnered a few glances, and forced himself to look pleasant.

Throughout the viceroy’s opening speech his eye drifted repeatedly beyond the staircase to a set of wide windows on the far side of the hall, and the torch-lit garden beyond. He caught himself reaching to tug at his collar, and clasped his hands behind him instead.

The entire speech ate up maybe fifteen minutes, but it seemed closer to an hour later when the viceroy descended the staircase and began to shake hands, and another half hour still before he furtively waved his mercenary over. Book obeyed.

“Philip,” Harthworth said to a pleasantly rotund merchant to his left, “let me introduce you to one of my favorite pet projects. This is Marcus Book.”

Marcus smiled as he shook the merchant’s hand.

“Ah, Marcus! Allow me to introduce myself, if you would. Philip Owerth. Rumor is that you were involved in that dreadful business at the city watch some weeks ago.”

“I was,” Marcus said. Emien gave him a hard look. “I mean, yes, I was! The viceroy dispatched me personally to investigate certain irregularities and, well…”

“Dreadful, dreadful,” Owerth said, shaking his jowls from side to side as if to banish the ordeal from thought. “You certainly have my thanks, and that of the city I’m sure! Forgive me if I’m being forward, if you would, but your accent…Salvic, is it?”

Book glanced briefly at his employer, but Emien returned a blank stare. “Not at all,” Marcus said. “You have a discerning ear, sir. I was raised in Salvar.”

“So far from home! Tell me true, Marcus, does Knife’s Edge smile favorably upon our movement?”

The effort required not to glance to Harthworth for help was almost painful, made ever more-so by the need to keep his face blank and not betray his frantic thoughts. The viceroy again made no effort to rescue him. “Well,” Marcus began, and cleared his throat. “Given Salvar’s own political troubles, the motherland’s nobility could not officially show favor to anyone. You will note that I am not the only Salvarman in the Empire’s service, however, and Salvar has a well-known love of bold, powerful governance.”

Owerth stared vacantly for a long moment, and Book’s guts began to tie knots of panic, until at last the merchant’s face broke into a beaming gap-toothed smile from ear to ear. “I knew it,” he said with clenched fists, as if it took every effort not to pop out of his skin. “With Salvar’s support, even if only spiritual…I knew it!”

From over the merchant’s shoulder, his face frozen in stern approval, Emien mouthed the words, “Well done.”

What followed was a social gauntlet, rife with adrenaline and tedium. Philip introduced Marcus to nearly every big-name merchant in the room, and to the minor nobility that favored Harthworth’s spit-shined iron gauntlet over the ancient velvet glove of Sivien Arundiel.

“Such shoulders, it is nearly an ape in a tailcoat. Does it speak?” One merchant’s wife asked, smiling imperiously behind a waving fan.

“Only when bidden by a lady,” Marcus offered with his best smile, which elicited a titter. She sashayed away later, lowering her voice not quite enough to comment on his ‘queer eyes.’

Book’s face ached from one extended false smile as a young nobleman held him captive, speaking boldly about what he would have done had he been present at the city watch when traitorous Rangers dared show their faces within the city’s walls. Others spoke to Emien or Owerth as if the templar weren’t there, and some spoke as if he did not know Tradespeak. There were pleasant meetings too: an ornery old woman who fearlessly made jokes at everyone’s expense, the viceroy’s included, and when Book laughed it was genuine. Blushing daughters were introduced, the noble ones expressly beyond his means, but the merchant fathers intimated at matches should he return from the field a hero.

Marcus was horrified at how little time passed. His cheeks were sore, his throat was raw from speaking, and he felt both exhausted and thrilled by the unending tension. He was preparing to beg off to find his own fine glass of ubiquitous wine when Owerth surprised him, clasped his shoulder, and turned him to another new face.

“Ah, there she is, lovely as always! I tell it true, milady, you haven’t aged a day since I first had the pleasure of laying eyes on you. Marcus Book, hero of Radasanth, allow me to introduce you to the radiant Alix Villeneuve.”

Marcus raised his eyes to hers, and found himself instantly befuddled. Merchants’ wives and noble ladies were possessed of a false confidence and hollow bravado: they clung to their station as a flimsy protection and carried with them always a sense of righteous indignation. In the presence of men outside their families, especially hard and dangerous men, they knew instinctually how little their standing meant.

But this woman gave Marcus Book a cool once over, and her eyes said I could take you.

Struggling to maintain his composure, Marcus took her hand when offered, bent low in his best impression of a Salvic gentleman, and placed a delicate kiss upon her knuckle. When he glanced up at her, he had the distinct impression that he was being measured from on high and remembered – an ant with the misfortune of being catalogued. It put a chill on his spine.

“A pleasure,” she said. “Philip, you remember my son, Vespasian?”

Marcus stood straight and his eyes followed her hand, and then he very nearly choked on his own tongue.

[Silence Sei]

Amen Advances to Round 3!