Not Much of a Jester

Our subtle battle of wits has ended at long last, and Count Drisford is ready to announce his verdict. I’ve held my ground until now, but I feel on the verge of breaking my composure. Still, I force myself to not show any signs of weakness. I can’t falter after how far I’ve come. All that remains is to listen to the old gargoyle’s words.

“Let me begin,” He starts speaking softly, my heart beating hard and hanging to every last word. “By telling you that once I make up my mind regarding someone’s character, it is nigh inconceivable to change my opinion. Yet, throughout one conversation, you’ve managed to do just that. While I consider myself an excellent judge of character, I drastically overestimated you.”

“...What?” I tilt my head, unsure if I heard him correctly.

“You are worthless, Guild Master, and every word out of your mouth is as good as sludge.” He says, his tone distant and yet full of piercing spite that could rival the sharpest of daggers.

Before I can process the sinking feeling in my chest, Bertrand breaks out of silence to laugh at my misfortune with all the vigor of someone who escaped a sanitarium. “I knew it!” He says amid struggled gasps between raucous laughter, the Chamberlain barely able to break out of his lunacy. “I knew you were trash, you piss-ant peasant!”

I stand up off of my chair, ready to finally punch Bertrand’s teeth in and ensure he’s unable to sire an heir to House Brimley, only to watch as Count Drisford angrily throws his half-emptied whisky glass off the table and into Bertrand’s face. It breaks, and shards of glass sprinkle down like rain. “You absolute fool!” He hisses at the Chamberlain.

“AGH! But... but you just said he was worthless...!!” Bertrand cries, holding his face but making sure not to accidentally wipe off any of the mashed potatoes less he incur more of the old man’s wrath.

“That was my attempt at humor,” The Count turns to me, and with a truly wicked grin, he teases, “I warned you I was no good at it, Guild Master.”

“Sweet fucking Gods, Count Drisford...!” I finally break composure and collapse into my chair. While I didn’t mean to swear in his presence, it just sort of came out. I can hardly be blamed. I felt like I aged half a century just from his ‘attempt at humor’.

“Please,” He shows me his palm in a friendly gesture, saying, “Relax yourself. And for that matter, I am Solomon to my friends.”

“So, I take it this means...”

“Yes, my true thoughts are quite the opposite. I was thoroughly impressed by your rhetoric, confidence, and skill at turning my own words against me. In my many years of service, I’ve negotiated with diplomats, Realm ambassadors, self-styled merchant Lords, other Guild Masters, the Royal family, and more. Few have made me budge quite so much as you, and I believe your true potential could be much higher than I previously expressed. Certainly higher than Bertrand here, who displays an inability to follow even the simplest of directions for more than a few minutes.”

Bertrand takes this insult by keeping his mouth shut. One would hope he’s starting to learn if not for his own sake, then for mine.

“I must admit, Solomon, you gave me quite a scare.” I laugh a bitter laugh, wiping some sweat off of my brow.

“My apologies. If it makes you feel any better, you were correct in every single assumption you made.”

“I know,” I smirk at the old man, perhaps coming off as a bit too arrogant but not caring despite this.

“Heh.” He smiles himself before continuing on. “The quests are indeed bounties we’ll be putting out on the self-titled Duke of Dewhurst and his chain of command, and as you guessed, we don’t want it known that we are using a Guild to rid ourselves of this problem. These days, our primary focus is on keeping Duke Glorigold’s grubby hands away from our borders. This would be quite embarrassing were he to find out, and he might use it as an excuse to march...”

“Duke Glorigold’s daughter is the current Queen, yes?”

“That’s correct. He’s been slowly using this to gain standing in the King’s Court. With our own Duke in the sorry state that he’s in, we’ve been unable to make much headway in our arguments...”

“You needn’t justify yourself to me. It’s like I said, I won’t ask why you need this kept secret.”

“I’m aware, Guild Master. I’m attempting to ‘vent’, as it were.” Count Drisford sighs as he strokes his beard between his fingers. Nearby, a particular Chamberlain stares at me in both disbelief and jealousy that the Steward would openly vent his frustrations to a near-stranger instead of himself.

“I see. Back on the matter at hand, I have one question regarding our business deal. We captured Sir Pimpington and surrendered him to Duke Gloomcrest’s custody before this deal was set in stone. Do you plan on retroactively-”

“Unfortunately, that matter is up for the Duke to decide.” His tone becomes distressed and distant. He shuts his eyes, reclines back into his chair, and sighs. “I like you well enough, but I’m still Lord Steward and as such, managing the Province’s financials is my priority. If I had it my way, you would not be paid for his capture as we could surely use that gold elsewhere. Count yourself lucky that Miss Hart convinced Duke Gloomcrest to see you personally, as I cannot go against whatever he decides. Your meeting will be at one in the afternoon tomorrow. I will also be present, as will Miss Hart. While my Duke may supersede my authority, I’ll still be advising and help to negotiate. Until then, I ask that you drop any business questions you may have. I tire of such things.”

“I understand, Solomon. I won’t hold anything you say against you. We have different agendas. I’m out to gain as much funding for my Guild as possible, while you obviously wish to keep it within reason. One thing, though. About Sir Pimpington-”

The Count nods his head, deeming my question worth an answer. “He’s locked up in the bottommost layer of our dungeons. Thus far, our attempts to interrogate him have proven unfruitful. After tomorrow’s meeting, you’ll be allowed to speak with him as long as you wish. Does this please you?”

“Very much so. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to stretch business out any longer, but I simply had to know.”

“You’re alright. Slave,” His sharp eyes slide over to just barely glance at Bertrand, who whimpers just slightly so. “Fetch me another glass and fill up our guest’s drink.”

“That won’t be necessary.” I raise my palm toward Bertrand, who sighs with relief. “As much as I’ve grown to enjoy your company, Solomon, this has stretched on long enough, and I must prepare myself for tomorrow.”

“I suppose I did keep you away from your lady...” Count Drisford grins. “Very well. Take the night to rest, and our battle shall continue on the morning. If there is anything that can be provided to make your stay more comfortable, then please feel free to command Sir Brimley here, and it shall be brought.”

“Actually, something comes to mind. Bring me a comfortable chair and set it outside the door to our room.” I order Bertrand around without any courtesy, which pisses him off to no small degree.

“Outside?” The Count questions. “Why would you want this?”

“Lady Abigail sent me a message before dinner using her pet dog, and we wrote small notes back and forth for a time after that. I promised that I would continue to write her back for even longer after dinner, and it would be much more comfortable than sitting on my ass on the hard, stone floor.”

Solomon’s eyes open so broadly that they look like they’d pop out if you struck him on the back of the head. His jaw falls, too, and his hand clutches his chest. “This... this can’t be!” He stands up, staring at me in horror... or wonder. I genuinely can’t tell, but I’m concerned nonetheless. “Did the young Lady truly reach out to you, of all people?!”

“...Yes, I’m sure she could verify it if you don’t believe me.”

A thick, whiny sobbing fills the dining room with even more dread and misery than there was before. It’s coming from Bertrand. His overwhelming sadness cancels out whatever fear he feels towards Count Drisford, and the melancholic Chamberlain cannot remain silent. “No. No, you’re lying. She wouldn’t. You’re just some... some nobody...!” Bertrand falls to his knees. “I’ve known her since we were children! Everything I’ve ever done was to one day court the young Lady and secure myself as the next Duke through marriage! I LOVE HER, DAMN YOU! I ALWAYS HAVE! DAMN YOU! DAMN YOU, DAMN YOU, DAMN YOU!”

I find myself unable to respond to Bertrand, who is crying so hard that it wipes the last bits of mashed potatoes from his face. When I look at Count Drisford, he makes a similar uncomfortable expression before saying, “...You’re dismissed, Bertrand. Go and get our guest that comfortable chair.” Perhaps out of pity, Count Drisford resists the opportunity to torture the Chamberlain further.

This makes the neurotic nobleman even more unhinged. He falls to his knees, sobbing but too afraid to argue back with his orders. Bertrand leaves the dining hall on all fours, chugging along as slowly as a snail and leaving a veritable waterway of salty tears in his wake. He opens the door and then disappears into the hallway. His voice shouts a distorted succession of ‘damn you’s before fading off into the distance with pathetic finality.

“What in all the Realms is that man’s fucking problem? I’ve been asking myself that one question ever since I first arrived.”

Solomon shrugs his shoulders and cradles his forehead. “Like many nobles, he was born with a silver spoon and no one willing to spank his ass with it.”

I laugh at the thought. “You’re funnier than you give yourself credit for, Solomon.”

“Perhaps.” Another dry smile cracks across his lips for but a moment before it fades. Then, he walks towards me. I rise up from my seat to meet him. “I don’t know why our young Lady Gloomcrest has chosen to speak with you, although whether it was the machinations of a certain motherly witch matters not.” It seems I’m not the only one wise to Opalina’s ways around here.

The Lord Steward goes on, saying, “Abigail is special, Guild Master, not just to me but everyone within Castle Mourneheart. Although only twenty-six, she has suffered more than many people do in their entire lifetime. As such, Abigail doesn’t speak to just anyone. She isn’t like your typical noblewoman. She doesn’t have ladies in waiting, she doesn’t waste an exorbitant amount of gold on fashion or beauty, no, she’s just a good... good girl. Wholesome. Innocent. Pure. Please...” Count Drisford raises his hand, so I shake it. The old man then pleadingly places his opposite hand onto mine as well, clasping tightly around my hand with warmth and desperation. Small tears form in the corners of the man’s eyes, the man who until now had effortlessly hidden his emotions behind a veil of stone and grimness. “Please, keep talking to her. Goddesses know she needs a friend.”

While I don’t know very much about the noble Necromancer, it’s plain to see that Abigail means the world to this man from the way he talks of her. When asked a personal favor with such seriousness out of a man so guarded about his feelings, there’s no way I can refuse him. Especially if I planned to do what he requested anyway. I nod my head and give the old man as confident a smile as I can muster, telling him, “Of course, it would be my honor to continue speaking with Lady Abigail. Especially if it keeps making Bertrand cry.”

PunishedKom

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