Jackal Among Snakes

Elias opened a set of thick stone doors, stepping into a cold hall. His father sat there at his desk. At Elias’ entry, he set down a dagger.

“Father,” Elias greeted a bit stiffly.

Margrave Reinhardt stared at his son. He said nothing for an uncomfortably long period, and Elias felt the need to squirm. He managed to stay still, though only with his best effort.

“Where is your fiancée?” the Margrave asked.

“I… introduced her to Rose,” Elias stepped forward. “I figured she should know my sister if she is to be… a part of the family. They seemed to be getting along when you called me,” he said optimistically. “Both enjoy books. The two are similar, I think. Ridia is near as sweet as Rose.”

The Margrave nodded. “I’m glad there is some affection forming between the two of you.”

Elias hung his head. “…I’m sorry. I know I should have—”

“Don’t apologize. You did well,” Reinhardt interrupted.

Elias raised his head back up, red eyes wide.

“You made a decisive choice as a leader to earn a benefit, and to protect your people. This is something that I wanted you to learn, and you learned it.” Reinhardt spread his arms out. “The fact that you ignored my authority doesn’t matter, because you considered the people first.”

“Well, I… Argrave is the one who made this happen,” Elias deflected, his promise of not mentioning Argrave vanishing when blame turned into praise. “He was the smart one. He saw what would happen and made it a reality. I just… was led around.”

“That one seems to be the sole force for change in this family,” Reinhardt looked away. “It doesn’t matter.” Reinhardt grabbed the dagger on his desk, tossing it aside. He retrieved a paper, handing it to Elias. “This came not hours ago.”

Elias took two steps forward, retrieving the paper. He oriented it to read it properly, then furrowed his brows. After a time, he rose his head. “Elbraille declared its support of our cause?”

Margrave Reinhardt nodded.

Elias smiled. “That’s… that’s great!”

“That boy you brought, Stain…” Reinhardt continued, not sharing his son’s jubilation. “He tells me of some things. He’s been… he said he was ‘keeping his ears on the beating heart of the underworld.’ I didn’t know what he meant, but he elaborated that he was keeping track of rumors.” Reinhardt sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know what he’s saying half the time.”

“He’s a good one at heart, even if he does like to do some… less than reputable things. He didn’t have a good chi—”

“Let me finish,” Reinhardt held out his big hand. “Despite this letter… Stain says a lot of people are talking about unrest in Elbraille. He says people claim someone is stirring the people against the lord, bringing to light certain injustices. Unjust taxes, corrupt guards, malfeasance by those near the Duke…”

“That’s… is that true? These incidents, that is,” Elias questioned.

“I’m not saying Duke Marauch is a saint—far from it—but we need his support in the war, and someone is moving against him, trying to oust him from power.”

Elias stepped away, thinking, then turned back and nodded seriously. “What do we do about it?”

Reinhardt leaned back in the chair, his brawny frame completely hiding the backrest. He sighed for a long, long while. “I don’t know.”

Elias was taken aback, as though he’d never heard his father say that.

“But we need to figure it out,” the Margrave said. “Tomorrow, I’ll call together some advisors I trust. We’ll discuss this, decide how to act. Personally, I think that you and Stain should go there and maintain order. Doubtless the Duke will welcome it.”

“If someone is trying to undermine the Duke, it’s definitely going to be a supporter of Vasquer,” Elias said. “It would be dangerous to go there.”

“I will keep that in mind, should this come to pass,” the Margrave shook his head. “But this person, or group of persons, evidently lacks the strength for an outright coup.”

“I see,” Elias nodded.

Reinhardt pointed at Elias. “Tomorrow, I want you up early. Come to me, here. We’ll talk more then. For now… ensure your fiancée is comfortable here.” Reinhardt leaned forward once more, picking up the dagger he’d set aside and examining it.

“Thank you, father,” Elias said, lowering his head slightly. He turned and opened the stone door, stepping out. As he made to leave, he stopped.

Elias turned, grabbing the stone door. “Argrave told me something at the Tower of the Gray Owl.”

Reinhardt kept the dagger in hand, looking up coldly towards his son. “And?”

“He said there was a… salamander. On the hills of Vysenn,” Elias proceeded carefully.

“Is this pertinent?” the Margrave questioned.

“Argrave seemed to be under the impression this salamander might hold some secret in healing Rose.” Elias took his hand off the stone door and stepped back into the room. “I looked into this… and, well, some of it holds true. There are barbarians in Vysenn, known for their regenerative abilities. These salamanders, too…”

The Margrave turned his ruby eyes away from his son. “If you think it has merit… look into it further.”

“Thank you, father,” Elias said once more, a little more excitement on his tone. He left and shut the door quickly.

The Margrave dropped the dagger, and it clattered against the desk. “This boy… maybe I need to meet him once more.” Reinhardt rubbed his forehead, clearly torn.

#####

Argrave sat on a table outside in the chilly air of the dawn, warming himself up beneath the sun’s beams. Anneliese sat adjacent to him. The inn they’d stayed at had goat for breakfast—the cost had been exorbitant, but Argrave did not lack money even still. Though Argrave might’ve found the prospect of a new type of meat unappealing, for the first time in a long while, the meat was seasoned—rock salt, peppers, and other such things to give it flavor.

“Those people outside…” Anneliese spoke, gaze distant.

“Still thinking about that?” Argrave questioned. “I told you, it does nothing for us to get involved. Even if we could change things—something that’d take years—it does nothing for the bigger picture. We, alone, should fight an entire region’s religion, fix an entire region’s problems? I feel guilty too, but I’d feel guiltier if I had to watch Gerechtigkeit kill each and every living thing alive because we spent our time tackling something beyond our capability.”

She nodded, refocusing her gaze on Argrave. “Why do they refuse to submit to the Vessels?”

“Revoked liberties, delegated tasks, forced non-violence, forced worship of Fellhorn, and long-standing hatred,” Argrave summarized quickly. “They refuse to surrender their cultural traditions.”

“Yet life here does not seem so bad,” Anneliese looked around. “If they would simply submit, then…”

“Because this is a trading town, sustained largely by farming,” Argrave summarized. “Beyond forced labor in the fields, we can’t see much injustice. Elsewhere… mining settlements, plantations… we’ll see the worst of the place soon enough.” Argrave tapped his finger on the table. “Unless you can think of an alternative I’m missing, feeling guilty will just distract us.”

“Okay,” she said with a resigned sigh. “It is difficult to suppress guilt when people starve outside the walls. And you would eat things like this constantly?” Anneliese spoke, leaning in close to Argrave.

“Well, yeah. But come on,” Argrave pointed to her. “You had salted meat in Veiden. It was sea salt, granted, but it’s not much different.”

“We salt our food for preservation, not for taste,” she countered. “Yet hearing you describe your home, I suppose I can understand why you detest being dirty so much.”

Argrave tapped his fingers on the table. It still felt a bit awkward to speak of his home so openly, and he somewhat loathed the feelings of homesickness that would swell whenever he confronted it. “I was an outlier, even there,” Argrave shook his head.

“What do you miss most?” she asked, placing her arms on the table.

“Music,” Argrave answered without missing a beat. “I… there were so many instruments, it’s difficult to even begin to list them all. Millenia of cultural traditions and developments were distilled into countless types of music, each and all wonderful and unique. And above all, music wasn’t something reserved for special occasions—parties, festivals, what have you. Anyone could listen to music, anywhere. We have electricity to thank for that.”

Anneliese’s stared up at his face, bright-eyed. She opened her mouth to speak but Galamon stepped up to them, still wearing his backpack with Garm on it. The elven vampire removed the pack, setting it beside the table, and then sat down.

“Galamon, you’re back,” Argrave greeted.

“Sandstorm’s still raging, and it shows no signs of subsiding,” Galamon reported as he settled himself. “Roads are blocked—no travel to or from the town. Even the merchants refuse to go.”

Argrave sighed. “Damn it all.” He looked at Garm, encased in Galamon’s helmet. “How are you, Garm?”

“Fine, I suppose. This one has the steadiest step—the least shaking. And he’s the tallest, so I can see more,” came his muffled voice. “I’m satisfied with this arrangement.”

“You tell me if you think of anything long-term for disguises.” Argrave tapped his chest. “Or whoever. I suppose they can transmit it to me.”

“I like the helmet,” Garm said. “Feels safe, I suppose. Craft something around the stake, turn it into a walking stick, encase me in a decorative helmet… that might work.”

“Something to consider,” Argrave nodded. “Just difficult finding a craftsman that’s trustworthy,” Argrave scratched his lip, trying to conjure names.

“As I said, this seems to suffice for now,” Garm concluded.

Argrave nodded, letting the silence stretch out. “Guess we have more time to do nothing. It’s more than a little welcome, after what happened in the Low Way, but I feel like I’m wasting time.” Argrave leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “What should we do? Beyond waiting out the storm, of course.”

“Ideally…” Galamon looked around, eyeing the passersby. “We should secure a place with a caravan. It’ll be slower moving, but should a sandstorm hit in the middle of the road, we’ll have plenty of supply and a good navigator. We’ll also have a safer place to take shelter without draining your magic.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Argrave agreed. “But it’ll be difficult to get anyone to agree to that. People around here… they don’t seem especially trusting,” Argrave waved his hands about.

Even sitting, they were still watched. People didn’t bother them overtly, necessarily, but there was an inherent caution of them that marked them as outsiders.

Galamon leaned back in the chair, and it creaked against his weight. “True,” he conceded. “You don’t have any ideas on that front? Something sweet to worm your way onto the back of a luxury carriage?”

“Decided to ease on the genius plans, at least until they’re needed.” Argrave tapped his temple. “Let the juices ferment in my head. When they’re needed… boom.” He emulated his head exploding. “It’ll go as perfectly as Jast. Trust me on this one.”

Anneliese laughed and lowered her head into her arms, slouching. Her hair fell over her face, and she moved it aside to stare at Argrave with one amber eye.

“I am glad to see you regained some confidence lost in the Low Way,” she said.

Argrave raised a brow, only realizing that fact when she mentioned it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Galamon straighten, turning on his chair. Argrave followed his gaze, and then caught sight of four white-robed guardsmen approaching them. Their leader held a piece of paper, while the other four bore only knives.

Galamon stood, turning, while Argrave remained sitting casually.

The guards came up to Argrave’s party. The one bearing paper stepped forth, bowing slightly.

“Gentlemen. Madam,” he bowed to each in turn. “We come on behalf of Mistress Tatia of Delphasium.” He held out the piece of paper, holding it above his head as he bowed. It was a small roll, bound by a purple sash.

Argrave gestured towards Galamon to take the paper. The elven vampire took it gingerly, being sure not to crush it.

“Why?” asked Argrave.

The man’s back straightened. “Mistress Tatia is curious about your party of three and wishes for you to join her for a feast tonight in her palace, in hopes you might share stories of the northern lands. Little news passes beyond the Lionsun Castle.”

Argrave bit his lip, thinking his response carefully. “Say, purely hypothetical, we can’t make it. What happens?”

“The Mistress would be quite sad, but I am sure she would understand,” the man said, expression indiscernible beneath his cloth mask. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen, madam.” He bowed once more, and then stepped away.

Argrave raised a brow, turning to look at Anneliese as the guards walked away.