“Who in the name of Kalim would be out in such weather?”

Trenton Briarwood looked up from his steaming cup of tea and raised his eyebrows at the cook, Janith Staten. The chubby woman was peering out the window over the cutting block, her graying hair hanging in wisps about her flour-powdered, round face. Trenton could make out her reflection in the rain-washed glass, but he couldn’t see to whom she referred.

“Poor sod, whoever it is.” His voice was monotone, as usual. The individual that Janith referred to was none of his concern, despite the fierce storm that raged against the architecture of the city.

“Oh dear.” Janith’s voice was overflowing with concern. “The poor dear is coming up to the door. I’d better begin brewing another pot of tea.”

“You don’t say.” Though Briarwood’s voice was flat, he was more than mildly annoyed at the disturbance. He’d already seen most of the household staff through their duties that morning and was taking--what he felt was--a much-deserved break to warm his old bones from the spring storm. The kitchen was by far the warmest room in the drafty old manor available to the servants, and so it was here that he took his tea.

A pounding on the door announced that the cook’s concerns were legitimate and, without showing the annoyance he felt, Trenton Briarwood rose from his chair and straightened his black tunic by tugging on the pointed hemline. “I’ll be sharing in that pot of tea once I return, Janith. Mine will have gone cold by then, and I’ll not suffer that indignity.” He heard the chubby old woman call out an answer, but didn’t respond as he made his way to the door.

The entry hall of the manor was a solid three paces across and ten deep. Its flooring was made of hardwood, polished and lacquered to a nice sheen--one that Trenton made sure maintained its luster through the efforts of Tiena, the maid. The walls were part wood, part plaster, with the lower half consisting of the paneling. A cast iron chandelier hung from the three story-high ceiling and it was from this that the room was illuminated. There was a small wardrobe set to the side of the door, and a picture of a stately looking man in purple judge’s robes opposite. Trenton was one of the few household staff that knew the history of the man in the portrait: Jaffer Hewson II, arguably the first influential Hewson, and the man who began the family’s climb to power.

The wind fired large droplets into his face as he opened the door, whipping his loose gray hair about the back of his head and forcing him to squint against the storm. The visitor didn’t wait on ceremony. Spurred on by the ferocity of the storm the uninvited guest strode straight past the manservant into the center of the hall, dripping puddles on the newly mopped floor.

“Where is Lord Hewson?”

Trenton blinked--the only sign of his surprise at the man’s abruptness--as he closed the door. “Lord Hewson is taking his tea in the library, sir. May I inform him of his guest?”

“You may.” The man rolled the soaked hood from his head and stripped the cloak from his shoulders. Trenton found himself looking at a red-faced individual with wavy brown hair that was shot through with white and in quite the state of disarray. He wore a high-collar jacket made from dark brown leather that was in style among the higher class at the moment, and a pair of black leggings that led to soaked black boots. Trenton immediately recognized the man as a senator of some power within the political forums and all of his ill-born thoughts were summarily dismissed.

“Immediately, Senator.” Trenton acknowledged the visitor’s rank with a stiff bow. Taking the man’s cloak in hand he ignored the wetness of the cloth as it seeped in through his sleeve and turned abruptly towards the sitting room that connected to the entry. “Would you care to await Lord Hewson in here, Senator?”

“That will do.” The politician was a broad-shouldered man and though a slight bulge was forming about his waistline he was obviously still strong. It seemed to Trenton that whatever action the man took he appeared in complete control--a general on the battlefield of life.

Trenton led him into the room and made sure he was seated in a comfortable spot near the dwindling fire before he exited to go inform his lord of the arrival. With an uncharacteristic frown upon his face, Trenton Briarwood paused to deposit the cloak in a closet to dry and then wove through the halls of the manor until he had achieved the library. Along the way he encountered Tiena and asked her to see to the fire in the sitting room as well as provide the senator with a warm cup of tea as soon as Janith had prepared it. Then he was off again like a deer avoiding the hunt, despite his years.

The Hewson library wasn’t as filled-out as some, but it had served the lords of the manor well for generations. Nestled in the corner of the west wing, the room was cozy and small. The walls were lined with bookshelves, though none so high as to need a ladder, and the floors were carpeted in a deep, wine-colored plush. The true centerpiece of the room, however, was the fireplace and the black marble mantle over which hung a painting of a very beautiful young woman. Every time Trenton entered the room he took pause to admire the alabaster hew of her skin, the auburn of her hair, and the poise in which she held herself. The current lord of the Hewson line had placed the portrait in the library shortly after his wedding, as it was a painting of his wife.

Trenton hadn’t conclusively figured out the reasoning behind the sentimentality of the action in the five years since its undertaking; he’d just come to accept the presence of the woman who constantly watched those within the room. Others among the sparse manor staff speculated that their lord had placed it there to remind himself of the sacrifices he took to further the influence of his house, but Trenton didn’t believe the current Lord Hewson was given to such fey thoughts. No, whatever the reason it was to be kept protected within the vault of secrets his lord kept under lock and key, and it wasn’t Trenton’s, nor any other’s place to try and pick that lock. Still, whatever the reason, Lord Hewson would often take his tea in the library and sit before the fireplace with his back to the door--lost in thought--and it was just so on this stormy day.

“Milord, Senator Mirrows is awaiting you in the sitting room.” Briarwood kept his voice carefully neutral despite his curiosity at the means, and time, of arrival by such a powerful man.

“Mirrows?” Hewson’s voice was raspy, though not from age. It was quiet as well, never more than slightly above a whisper. “In this storm?” Trenton remained still as he was quite sure the question was rhetorical. “I’ll be along straight-away, Briarwood. Make sure he is comfortable for the duration, and see immediately to something that will warm him.”

Trenton bowed and hastily made his way from the room to carry out his orders. The manservant had often found the dealings that Jorman Hewson undertook interesting and devious. He knew that his lord wasn’t well liked among those whom he interacted with. He also knew that most considered Jorman Hewson an underhanded, swill-minded backstabber. Despite common perception Trenton Briarwood found that he admired Jorman. Unlike the previous lord of the manor, Verus Hewson, Jorman’s company was intriguing. Though the man might sit still, his mind was ever at work and the aging manservant found it challenging to try and predict his lordship’s demands based on what little he observed of what went on around him. Thus part of Trenton’s haste to carry out his orders was so that he might be privy to the majority of this meeting between two of the city’s most powerful politicians.

“Janith.” Trenton’s arrival caused the cook to jump nigh out of her skin. Gasping, the older woman turned about and stuck a handful of flour-covered dough to her bosom.

“Blessed be! By all that is holy unto Kalim, Trenton Briarwood, I’ve asked you not to sneak up on me like that. You’ll send a poor old woman to her grave.” Janith quickly circled her heart with the same hand that held the dough as a ward against such an evil thought.

“Janith, put some soup on,” Trenton directed without apology. “When you have it heated, send Tiena into the sitting room with two place-settings.” The staff always thought that he snuck around, but he was just naturally light-footed; a trait the aristocracy found appealing in a servant.

“Should I prepare more for dinner?” Janith looked mildly alarmed at the sudden change in plans, but true to form she immediately set about the task given her.

“Yes,” Trenton said, “just in case. Now, how is that tea coming?”

“It is just about to boil.”

“Good. Send Tiena in with two cups as soon as it is ready.” That taken care of he stepped quickly to the sitting room.

The place of a manservant was at the side of his master, and with someone as prominent as Senator Mirrows waiting in the sitting room, Trenton would need to be present to immediately see to their needs, or Lord Hewson might lose face. Despite his haste, when he arrived, Jorman was already seated across from Mirrows. Trenton found a place against the wall near the doorframe, to the left of a white marble pedestal bearing a crystal vase, and clasped his hands in front of him.

“I apologize about the spontaneity of my visit, Jorman.” Mirrows’ right hand motioned towards the door and Trenton noticed that his curly hair had been somewhat maintained since his arrival.

“There is no need for an apology, Senator,” Jorman whispered, the light of the fire playing off his large forehead and casting a deep shadow about the scar that cut through his right brow and down onto his cheek--a scar sustained through an accident rather than a duel as most thought. It added flavor to the myth that was Jorman Hewson, so his lordship never countered the hearsay. “I am honored that you’ve graced my humble home with your presence.”

Trenton watched as Mirrows gave study to his host. No doubt taking in the sharp contrast between Jorman’s impeccable attire and the lack of style in his flat, shoulder-length brown hair. Briarwood had often wondered how Jorman could be so successful in such a public appointment with the lack of any outward charisma when most in his position relied on such attributes to gain favor.

“A frightful storm, no?” Mirrows leaned back against the couch.

“One of the worst in years,” Jorman agreed with a slight nod.

“And how is your wife?”

“She enjoys the country, Senator,” Jorman acknowledged the polite conversation with a brief answer that brought the portrait in the library to Trenton’s mind. Alissa had been sixteen when she gained the attentions of the middle-aged Jorman. Though Trenton didn’t know every aspect of the story, he had been present for much of it. He knew that though she was extremely beautiful, Jorman’s interest had been purely political. Alissa’s father was a prominent judge and her brother a lawyer. Trenton believed that the marriage had been nothing more than maneuvering to bring that particular family under Jorman’s control. A woman of her social standing did not often find herself betrothed to a member of the higher caste. The manservant’s assumptions were strengthened when--almost immediately following the wedding--Alissa had been sent to a small country estate to live in comfort, but relative solitude. She’d been allowed but one or two visits to the city each year since.

“Ah, yes,” Mirrows said with a ghost of a smile. “I’d forgotten that she had taken her leave of the city’s affairs. Tell me again Jorman, was it her health?”

Trenton tensed at the obvious barb. Mirrows, of all people, would know that the location of Jorman’s wife had nothing to do with her health, his prominence within House Mosfin giving him a certain insight to most things political. Jorman returned the smile, though his was something more of a grimace.

“The Lady Alissa’s health is in a fair state,” the lord of the manor said calmly. “I’ll inform her of your concern. She’ll be quite taken by your interest, I’m sure.”

Conversation died for a moment and the crackling of the fire, the roll of thunder, and the patter of rain blown against the windows filled the room. Trenton watched the two men sit and stare at each other. He considered whether they were battling in some unseen fashion, or whether they had just ran out of pleasantries. Despite their affiliation to the same political house, the two were obviously not friends--for that matter, Trenton didn’t suppose Jorman had anyone he could truly call a friend.

“I’ll get to it then,” Mirrows finally said, apparently deciding Jorman was waiting on him to introduce the reason for his visit. Hewson nodded and waved the man on. “Two nights ago Larion Eldrin presented a successor to the throne: the Duke of Moss Lake. You know him?”

“I’ve seen him at the opera,” Jorman acknowledged. If he was surprised or concerned at the announcement, Trenton couldn’t tell.

“And your evaluation of him?”

“A man with many vices...like all of us.”

Senator Mirrows shifted in his seat, but never took his eyes off the flat face of his host. “Indeed. Is that all?”

“What more would you have me say, Senator?”

“I was hoping for a more lengthy description. Something to indicate you had observed the threat of his position long before this bold announcement by the upstart faction.” Mirrows spat the last words as though it disgusted him to have to admit the validity of the Veteran’s Guild’s standing.

“To what end?” Jorman turned his palms towards the ceiling and shrugged. “I’ve never had reason to catalogue his virtues or vices. I’ve but noticed his indulgences upon occasion, the same as any man in my position would have.”

“Indeed.” Senator Mirrows frowned just a bit and lowered his head so that he was peering at Jorman from beneath his brow. At that moment Tiena arrived with a silver tray bearing two porcelain teacups on saucers with steam rising from them like ghostly whispers. Trenton moved to intercept, giving her a brief nod as he took the tray and sending the raven-haired young woman back to the kitchen without ever uttering a word.

“I trust that the Council of the Crown has found the Duke in good favor?” Jorman didn’t appear cowed by the man’s gaze, when Trenton knew that he’d have buckled under the scrutiny. Briarwood offered Senator Mirrows one of the saucers and then moved to his lordship’s side as soon as the important politician had accepted.

“There is an inquisition being started. You know how long these things can take. Our only hope is that they somehow find him unfit.” Mirrows straightened and rested an arm over the back of the couch while he lifted the steaming cup of tea to his lips with his other.

“Oh?” Jorman wasn’t offering up any ground. Trenton knew that the senator wasn’t there for a social visit, or to gossip over a Veteran’s Guild move towards the crown. He suspected that Jorman had come to that conclusion long before he’d sat down to talk with the man, but that his lord was playing at an aggravating game of cat and mouse, and, not surprisingly, Senator Mirrows was currently the mouse.

“As near as we can tell, everything looks legitimate.” Mirrows’ frown deepened, but he continued on the same line of thought. “There is a connection about four generations ago in the Duke’s lineage that puts him in line for the throne. I needn’t detail the threat this poses to our own house...”

“No, I suppose not.” Jorman smiled--though to Trenton he looked more like he was about to be ill--and put the teacup on the table next to him.

“All right,” Mirrows sounded exasperated, “enough is enough Jorman! What can you do about this?”

“Me?” Jorman raised his thin eyebrows and looked thoughtful. “I don’t know that there is anything I can do--”

“Jorman--” Mirrows looked about ready to rise from his seat, his face flushing red.

“--but I will certainly look into it.” Trenton barely suppressed a smile as his master finished his statement. The tactic had become clear; at least Trenton thought it was. Jorman had been drawing the other man into a rage as payback for the reference to Alissa. Senator Mirrows settled back into his seat and gave his host a hard stare.

“I’ll expect news shortly,” the senator whispered with a deadly tone.

Jorman had been busy--that is to say that Trenton had been very busy.

Senator Mirrows had left the manor shortly after arriving. So soon, in fact, that he hadn’t even been there when the soup was ready, let alone dinner. The fact that the man had arrived incognito and left afoot, in the rain, left much to be said for the level of secrecy he wished involved in this counter action. Trenton was an intelligent enough man to understand the implications of what had been said in the meeting, and these were the thoughts that filled his mind as he went about the remainder of his duties that afternoon. He knew that current events brooked a change in House Mosfin policy. They were preparing to make a run for the throne, and most likely had their own puppet to put in place once they achieved it. As far as Trenton was concerned, the Duke of Moss Lake was nothing more than the same cut of wood for the Veteran’s Guild--a puppet waiting to be put into action.

It wasn’t until after supper that Trenton was summoned to his master’s side, a rather lengthy amount of time in the manservant’s opinion. This time, Jorman was in his bedchamber and wished to prepare for the opera. There was a grand display being put on at the opera house, and the weather wasn’t likely to keep most influential people from attending. Lord Hewson certainly wasn’t going to miss the event, and Trenton had a sneaking suspicion that the Duke of Moss Lake was just as likely to be there.

“The black with the purple waistcoat,” Jorman instructed from where he stood in front of a full-length, silver-gilded mirror. From experience Trenton knew that the lord of the manor wasn’t admiring himself, but instead was looking for any sign of outward emotion. He was practicing his game face, and that told the manservant that there would most likely be some sort of contest this evening. He obediently fetched the black jacket with the purple vest from the wardrobe in the corner. Nothing was said during the dressing period, and when he was properly attired Jorman studied his appearance in the mirror for only a brief second before giving Trenton a nod.

“Have the carriage brought around. We’ll take wine in the antechamber before the curtain rises.”

The opera house was a familiar place for Trenton. Though he never had the luxury of actually sitting during a performance, he had quickly discovered he enjoyed the powerful voices woven within the symphonic movements. What a lot of people didn’t understand about the pomp and ceremony of the opera was that it was a place of politicking just as much as any forum. Trenton often considered the place a forum in and of itself, but he had never spoken to anyone concerning his views. As near as he could tell, most people didn’t publicly acknowledge the undercurrent that swept the audience during intermission, before and after the rise and fall of the curtain.

When they arrived, two young men dressed in white hose with deep red tunics marked by gold trim rushed forward with a large canopy and stood at ready while Trenton placed the step stool in front of the carriage door. Jorman practically glided from the compartment, impeccable in his appearance as usual. Lord Hewson didn’t bother acknowledging the canopy bearers; Trenton was responsible for making sure the servants were properly rewarded for their efforts, a thing he did before entering the lavish building.

The grand hall was filled near to bursting with the wealthy, the noble born, and those that had earned their positions through service. Trenton walked slightly behind Jorman, close enough to hear should his lord issue an order, but far enough away not to appear as an eavesdropper. Years of service had given him a certain knowledge of his master’s likes and dislikes, and as a tray of wines came near Trenton fetched Lord Hewson a fine white in a crystal goblet. Jorman made an effort not to engage anyone directly as he moved throughout the crowd. Despite his abstract path, Briarwood knew that there was a goal in mind. He wasn’t surprised when they drew near a small gathering of people prominently wearing the red and silver of the Veteran’s Guild.

Even to the old manservant the center of attention was more than evident. The Duke of Moss Lake was a thin man, not overly so, but enough that he looked positively small surrounded by soldiers as he was. The illusion was captured in full, as he wasn’t shorter than those who protected him, but his width didn’t provide him the same prominence. He wore his brown hair long, held in a ponytail by a red band and his eyes bore years of laughter about their edges while his mouth seemed painted in a permanent grin. Trenton doubted he’d had a day of worry in his life, and that alone made the old butler resentful of his position.

“Jorman.” A melodious female voice pulled Trenton’s eyes from the Duke’s display of social skills and he realized that his master had been netted.

“Lady Falant.” Jorman executed a fine bow while the sumptuous Orea Falant curtsied just enough to allow a generous view of her low neckline.

“So lovely to see you on such a cold night.” Orea’s voice was like sugar upon the tongue, her baby blue eyes dancing with life. Trenton was as entranced with her beauty as he was with Alissa’s.

“You do me an honor to think so, Lady Falant.”

“Please, Jorman. It is Orea to you.” She placed a very feminine hand on his forearm and smiled sweetly at him. “After all of the years we’ve known each other you could do me that one kindness.”

“Very well, Orea.” Jorman patted her hand and Trenton tore himself from his study of the woman to seek a suitable wine for her as well--for he knew the request was coming. “You know I’d do most anything for you. A simple readjustment of address being the least of them.”

Trenton heard Orea’s musical laughter follow him as he stepped towards a server bearing a tray of wines. Briarwood selected a nice red, something that came close to matching Orea’s lips, and then returned to his master’s side, offering up the wine first to the lady and then to his master. There weren’t any thanks, but Trenton hadn’t expected there to be. Orea’s tiny maid stood just behind her mistress, a petite woman with a thin face and a pointed chin that made her small lips look pursed and her large eyes wide with an innocence Trenton was sure she didn’t possess. Though the Lady Falant had brought her help, it was the duty of the man, and thus the man’s servant, to provide refreshment.

“--the whole of the performance. At least, that is what I heard.” Orea was just finishing a sentence when Trenton returned. A quick glance at Jorman and the manservant knew that his master was absorbing more than what lay on the surface of his delightful companion’s words. This realization very nearly caused the Briarwood’s facade of a calm disinterest to break, but his years won out and he remained impassive.

“And the crowd? They seemed to enjoy this?” Jorman asked, what passed for a smile on his flat face.

“Oh, the performers played to the crowd, Jorman.” Orea laughed her bubbling merriment again and put a hand to neck where she coyly played with her diamond necklace.

“Isn’t that always the case with those who can deftly wear the mantle, milady? The crowd fawns over them until the next great act presents itself. Then,” Jorman made a fanning motion with his fingers, “then the crowd says, ‘Oh, this is truly the best performance we’ve ever seen,’ and the previous muse is forgotten.”

“Yes, but the craze is currently with this performance and I don’t see a better one in the wings.” Orea never lost her smile, but Trenton could sense an undertone to her words that brought a shiver to his spine. He glanced back at the to-do occurring around the duke and wondered if their conversation somehow pertained to him. Was Orea telling Jorman that the Duke of Moss Lake was a bigger threat than he had possibly interpreted from Mirrows’ visit?

“All fads fade, my dear.” Jorman’s whispered voice held a little mirth in it. “There are always acts waiting in the wing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I haven’t paid my respects to the candidate.”

“By all means.” Orea curtsied again, in such a fashion that Trenton momentarily felt like a lecher at a peep show and was forced to look away. When he returned his gaze Jorman was moving towards the gathered throng about the duke and Orea had taken up with a viscount from a minor holding outside the city.

The chatter going on about the most popular man in the city was incessant. There were five different conversations running and the duke was participating in all of them. Much to Trenton’s surprise, Jorman didn’t press the crowd for position. He didn’t even join in the conversation. Lord Hewson quietly stood near a group of raucous fops and smiled as though he were included in their discourses. Trenton tried his best to maintain some order of what they were saying as well as gather what others were off about, but he was soon lost amid the sea of topics.

When the doormen appeared at the head of the sweeping staircase announcing the beginning of the opera, Trenton was positive that there was nothing of value to be gleaned from the conversations splattering the wall like so much carnage and had taken to searching through the crowd for beauty and people he knew.

“Turn here.”

Jorman’s instruction caught the manservant off guard, but with a flick of the wrist and a toss of the reigns Trenton managed to comply, sending the carriage down a cobblestone road of thin quarter and dim lighting.

The rain still pelted the umbrella and great washes of water swept the road at regular intervals, but Lord Hewson had insisted on this course once the final curtain had fallen and he’d finished his polite mingling. It was late--well past midnight--and Trenton was thankful for the rain, for it kept the hoodlums from the streets as well as it should have kept the nobility. They certainly weren’t in a proper part of town anymore. The buildings were ramshackle, bent against the winds and barely held up by some strange stubbornness Trenton couldn’t fathom. There was hardly a light in bloom and the darkest reaches of the alleys hissed at their passing.

“Left, here.” Jorman had taken the seat just behind his driver. Though he was still inside the carriage, he could easily see their road and was giving direction without disclosing their destination.

As he maneuvered through passages constructed for smaller travelers, Trenton tried to determine which occurrences in the evening’s activities had led them down such perilous trails. After the performances--executed magnificently by a woman of great beauty in a diaphanous gown and strapped-on wings of white and gold--Jorman had spent a couple of hours mingling with the debutants and dandies. He’d spoken with Orea Falant again, but their conversation had been about the selection of fine jewelry and nothing more. He’d met with Lord Chadwick of House Bluefane--a brief encounter of acid spitting and mud throwing disguised as polite conversation--and Lord Perone, of House Cromfield, which had been nothing more than an exchange of petty compliments and a small discussion on the current weather patterns. Aside from those few prominent people, Trenton couldn’t place anyone of particular interest, nor could he remember anything having been said that would promote such a sodden journey.

“Stop here, Briarwood.” Jorman’s voice was almost drowned out by a peal of thunder just seconds after a bolt of lightning cut the sky.

The building that the carriage stopped in front of was a thin structure with a small stoop that shed the rain due to its strange tilt. There was a diminutive window near the door that shone with a dirty orange blush and a set of windows on the top floor that glowed with a faint indication of candlelight. Trenton could hear a deep clamor coming from within and suddenly realized that it was a tavern they sat in front of. Blinking into the rain he began to dismount so that he could fetch the stair for his master, but Jorman instructed him to remain and so they waited. Minutes passed, then a half hour, and finally, nearly an hour of waiting had gone by when the door opened spitting two thick-looking men into the rain.

“Pardon me.” Lord Hewson was forced to raise his voice to be heard over the storm and their laughter, but his second attempt caught their attention.

“Blow me over an’ tumble me down the road,” One of them pointed at the carriage as he careened from the step. “Bu’ ain’t tha’ one o’ them fancy wagons Megar?”

“Aye.” Megar’s reply was interrupted by a fierce belch, which prompted more strident laughter to burst from both men, thoroughly disgusting Trenton.

“Oi, lordship,” The first man staggered forward a few steps, but was forced to retrace a couple of them when his upper body decided not to follow as quickly. Resting one arm on his knee he spit at the rain, laughing at his inability to move. “Wha’ can a ’umble sod like me do fer a grand sor’ like yerself?”

“I seek someone.” Jorman didn’t appear affronted in the least bit by the men’s behavior. He didn’t put himself in a position where the drunkards could readily see him, but he made his presence known well enough.

“Madam Loore’s is down the road an’ t’ the lef’.” Megar slapped his friend on the back and motioned in the other direction than he’d indicated with his head as though they’d helped enough and it was time to leave.

“I seek someone I was told worked here: a young man by the name of Ejafer. Have you heard of him?”

“E-jay-fer?” Megar looked completely dazed, as though the name had clubbed him over the head and nearly knocked him unconscious. His companion was a little more helpful.

“Aye, he’s in there.”

“Two silvers if you fetch him for me.” Jorman’s offer surprised Trenton.

Megar pushed away from his friend and began to stumble up the street, but the other remained, looking thoughtful for a moment before nodding. “I’ll gits ’im.”

Briarwood watched as the man struggled to right himself before reentering the tavern. Within moments they were alone with the rain, Megar having found an alley in which to relieve himself, and the other drunkard having made it indoors once more. They waited for another few minutes before the drunk came lurching through the door to hang from the carriage.

“He’s ’ere,” the sod breathed heavily as a young man of thin build and brown hair stepped after him, apron over a simple, tan smock, and a curious expression on his face. “Now, where’s me coin?”

Jorman dropped the silver into the messenger’s outstretched hand and then waved the other man towards him.

“You are Ejafor?” Lord Hewson asked as the drunk pushed away and went in search of his missing friend.

“Aye.”

“Please, come in out of the rain.”

“Beggin’ your lordship’s pardon, but I don’t know what business you’d ’ave with the likes of me.” Trenton could see that Ejafor’s curiosity was turning into fear.

“Nothing ill, I assure you.” Jorman tried to sound friendly, but his natural demeanor was so difficult to overcome Trenton was sure the young man wasn’t convinced.

“I’ll remain where I am, sir. I’ve work to do an’ need this to be brief.”

“As you will.” Jorman paused and Trenton tried to imagine the expression on his lord’s face. Ejafor fidgeted with his apron and glanced about as though expecting a horde of men to leap from the shadows and assault him--and Trenton wasn’t sure that couldn’t happen in this neighborhood.

“I was hoping to deliver this information in a somewhat...more hospitable atmosphere, but if you’d like to hear it in the rain, that’s your prerogative.”

“What news, milord?”

Jorman made a loud sigh, “Do come in, Ejafor. I assure you that I have only your best interests in mind.”

The youth took a hesitant step forward, and then, as though he’d just emerged from a muddy pool, he surged forward and climbed in through the door Jorman had opened for him.

“Forward, Briarwood,” Jorman said from within and Trenton skipped the horses into action.

“Where too, milord?” he asked, and was instructed to just drive. Whatever was afoot, the next phase would take place in the carriage, and if he strained Trenton could hear the majority of the conversation.

“You don’t know me, and for the sake of my position I’ll thank you to keep it that way.” Jorman’s voice had dropped to its usual hiss. “Despite this level of anonymity I assure you that when all is said and done you’ll look upon me as a friend. You see, it has come to my attention that a grave misfortune has been dealt you. A misfortune that I believe the responsibility of the aristocracy to repair.”

“A misfortune, milord?” Confusion sounded in Ejafor’s trembling voice.

“Yes, you poor boy, you don’t even realize what it is that I speak of.”

Trenton turned the carriage just before reaching a sloping hill, not wishing to risk the horses on the slick cobblestones.

“You’re mother was abandoned by your father, no?” Lord Hewson cut straight to the chase.

“Uh,” Ejafor sounded astounded.

“Oh, I apologize for the blunt words, son, but I’m afraid that the night draws on and time is short. You see, I know who your father is and I intend to see that you get full reparation for the affront he’s delivered both you and your mother. All I ask is that you bide with me and trust in me. Do so, and you’ll soon see your way from these hovels to the estates of the hills.”

“But, what do you gain, milord?” Trenton smiled at the youth’s observation.

“Me?” Jorman feigned surprise at the thought that he should gain anything from such actions. “Why, I’d get the opportunity to see a great wrong righted. Nothing more.”

There was a grand pause where Trenton could picture the two men sizing each other up. Then, the young man broke the silence, his voice a little stronger.

“And who would you ’ave be me pa, milord? Who is this devil you’ve discovered?”

“The Duke of Moss Lake, Ejafor. Candidate for the throne.”

Trenton stood against the wall in the sitting room once again. This time, the reddish afternoon sun shone in through the large, multi-paned bay window spotting the pale carpet with its refracted hues and warming the room beyond even the heat from the fire. Lord Jorman Hewson was entertaining again, and by his own invitation. The Lady Orea Falant sat across from him, delightful in a yellow and white dress that suited the spring temperatures. It left her shoulders and a good portion of her chest bare, but was heavy enough not to let her grow cold when the weather suddenly turned. She had daintily arranged a white shawl over her shoulders, but left enough revealed to send most men into a hot sweat. Her maid stood at her shoulder, dressed in a similar, if less elegant, gown and showing absolutely no interest in the conversation at hand.

“So,” Jorman picked up where he’d left off but a moment before. His black jacket was open at the collar, allowing a white, high-collared shirt to peek from beneath. “There are at least four more of these you say?”

“Yes.” Orea smiled sweetly and tilted her head coyly. “Each as naive as the first.”

“I’m sure they are, but their authenticity?”

“Bona fide.” She assured him. “Their mothers are all willing to make declarations to the council should it come to that. Of course, a small stipend will be required, but I’m sure the House won’t have any difficulty covering that fee. All you have to do is convince the children, much in the same was as you have done with Ejafor.”

Jorman waved the challenge away as though it were a pesky insect. It had been a week since that stormy night he’d first met Ejafor. Since then he’d convinced the young man that he was, in fact, the illegitimate son of the heir-apparent. What’s more--and this really impressed Trenton--was that he’d convinced the boy that he deserved all rights due the son of a duke despite his heredity; all through a few private lunch meetings.

“Five bastard children might not be enough to deter the Veteran’s Guild.” Lord Hewson peered out the window as though the conversation bored him. “Can you arrange for another four or five whores to claim regular relations with the duke?”

“At least. Once again...” Orea tilted her head in Jorman’s direction and he nodded.

“Don’t trouble me with the expense account, Orea. I want to see the results.” Jorman fell silent, chewing on his bottom lip--Trenton recognized the effort as a sure sign his lordship was deep in thought, and the Lady Falant apparently had enough skill to see it as well, for she remained absolutely still.

“Whoring and siring bastards isn’t the worst an heir-apparent has ever done, and it might not dissuade the Council of the Crown enough to discredit the claim. We need something more...and I believe I have the golden egg that sired the goose. Orea, are you familiar with one Lord Amaska?”

“Of House Bluefane, I believe.” Orea looked heavenward. “Yes, a paunchy fellow,” she chuckled lightly, “with a penchant for broiled eggs, if I remember correctly.”

“My, but you have a memory like a trap.” Jorman smiled, and Trenton believed he was truly impressed with the famously beautiful woman. “That is the man to the mark. He sits on the Council does he not?”

“Not recently.” Orea looked sad, and Trenton was positive it was an act. “I’m afraid he’s fallen ill--a rather croupy lung. He’s been replaced by Lady Foxheld, who is quite the icicle.”

“Really? When did this happen?”

“Three days ago.”

“Was it announced?”

“Yes.” Orea looked surprised. “I thought you had been told.”

“Well, I’m afraid that isn’t the case.” Jorman frowned and peered back out the front window as evening continued to fall. “That crushes the egg...”

“I believe I may be of assistance.” Orea leaned forward, her chest rising enticingly as she breathed excitedly at the prospects she entertained on her private stage. “There is a certain lord who took some liberties with a young woman my maid, Bella, is familiar with. This lord just happens to sit on the Council--oh, it was a year ago or more, but I believe that his wife would find such information very interesting should it happen to find its way into her possession.”

“Positively devilish. Thank you Orea.” Jorman gave a nod of approval.

The conversation continued well into the night while both members of House Mosfin continued to bounce ideas off one another until Jorman felt he’d formulated and solidified the remainder of his plan. During the whole discussion Trenton stood by, never meeting the maid Bella’s eyes and never imposing himself upon their line of thought. He would refill their goblets with a fine vintage of white wine and produce small cakes from a tray Triena brought in when it seemed appropriate, but was otherwise a shadow against the wall.

The Bellavont View was a fine restaurant that rested along the waterway named after the poet Romay Bellavont. It sported a relaxed dining patio with canopied tables and a roaming minstrel as well as private dining rooms with ornate and lavish decorations indoors. The food was exquisite, and the drink of the fare often only described in verse, but it wasn’t for these things that Jorman had chosen the restaurant this day. It was for the position of the Bellavont and the traffic that often traversed it. The Bellavont was famous for its romantic boat trips where young lovers, or those interested in renewing that fervor, could rent a boat and rudderman, then wend their way through the city in the early dusk while drinking fine wines and dining on berries and cream. Trenton had silently applauded his master’s choice for this meeting, as this was the engagement with Lord Ishmane of the Glory of Kalim. While not truly a lord by birth, this clergyman had accrued enough wealth to buy himself a title, and though he openly worked for the Glory of Kalim, he plotted politically and was one of the better politicians in their mix. Trenton had delivered the luncheon invitation two days ago, which put the evening spent with Orea Falant in deliberation a total of five days ago.

Lord Hewson sat with his back to the waterway, which would put the young bishop in a seat overlooking the channel, delivering a subtle reminder of his marriage vows and what the public opinion of a promiscuous clergyman of Kalim would be. Trenton nearly felt young again as he considered the play his lord had made with this bold move.

They’d been seated for five minutes when a youthful serving girl with golden blond hair arrived escorting the handsome Lord Ishmane. As the councilman took his seat, Trenton absorbed his silk shirt, open blue vest, and silver medallion depicting the eagle that commonly denoted a faithful worshipper of the goddess, Kalim. Ishmane was a man to catch the lady’s eye, with rich auburn hair that draped his shoulders in waves, a well-formed face where no feature was too prominent and yet none was lost, and deep blue eyes that practically devoured all they looked at. As he sat, Ishmane’s face was passive, almost tired, as though he was joining the Mosfin lord out of courtesy and nothing more--which was likely the case, Trenton reflected.

“Thank you for attending, Lord Ishmane.” Jorman hadn’t made any move to rise, showing what he thought of the purchased title. If Ishmane took offense at the affront, he withheld action.

“I’ll take a glass of Bree Shanton, 1250.” Ishmane directed his comment to the serving girl, who then nodded politely to Jorman.

“A Finre Debot, 1230, should be fine, thank you.”

The two men sat in silence for a moment after the waitress had left. Trenton noted, with some satisfaction, that Lord Ishmane hadn’t arrived with a manservant, a fact that would be increasingly embarrassing should he not soon remedy it.

Ishmane lost the contest of wills. “Lord Hewson, I can appreciate a fine spring day as much as the next man, but let us not pretend that we aren’t busy men and get right to the point of this meeting, shall we?”

Jorman smiled the same sort of smile a snake gives its victim just before devouring them. “If you so desire it, Lord Ishmane.”

“I do, and greatly at that.”

“Lord Ishmane,” Jorman leaned forward just a bit so that his position was a bit more intense. “I have need of your vote in a small manner concerning the crown of the kingdom.”

Ishmane barked a quick laugh and shook his mane. “I’m afraid you are speaking with the wrong person, Lord Hewson, for I cannot, and will not, surrender my vote to House Mosfin, no matter the circumstances.”

Jorman politely waited until the clergyman had stopped laughing. “I believe that you will see things my way Lord Ishmane, loyalties or not.”

Ishmane rolled his hand in the air, a large smile on his handsome face. “Please, do your best to persuade me to your cause, Lord Hewson. I am in need of good cheer this afternoon.”

“Well, then I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere for your medicine, Lord Ishmane, for what I have to say will neither sit well with you, or heal any woes that you may be enduring.” Jorman stared straight into the man’s soul. Ishmane raised his thin eyebrows, his grin retreating to a smile that was less sure in its expectation. “Do you remember Fonthann, Lord Ishmane?”

Trenton, who was watching the Kalimite’s face with no small level of enjoyment, was caught by surprise when the waitress arrived with two, tall, fluted goblets each filled with the requested liquors. She set these on the table in front of their respective customers and then curtsied before beating a hasty retreat. Trenton was pleased with her judicious exit. The woman knew her place and desired to be as far away from this table as possible. Wise girl.

“I’m afraid I am not familiar with the name, Lord Hewson. Pray, what does it have to do with me, and who might it belong to?” Though Ishmane denied it, Trenton watched as his smile had faded during the waitress’ delivery of their drink.

“Small woman,” Jorman pressed quietly. “Blond hair, large, blue eyes, porcelain skin that must have been soft to--”

“That’s enough, sir!” Ishmane hissed, leaning forward and placing his hands on the edge of the table for support. Glaring about the empty patio he licked his lips. “You are speaking of a lady...I presume.”

Jorman shrugged. “Am I?”

“I am sure that I’ve had quite enough of this.” Ishmane stood, his face splotched with contained rage.

“Ishmane,” Jorman’s voice was lower than even his usual decibel, “sit down and listen very carefully to me, or you’ll find everything you have slipping between your fingers. Your wife, your wealth, and your position will all gradually disappear and you will be left with nothing but your charm, which will do wonders to help assuage your dashed pride when you’re drinking the remainder of your life away in some gods-forsaken tavern...that is, if you don’t hang yourself from the shame of it all.”

The Kalimite stood on the verge of either running away, or thundering down upon the head of his tormentor; Trenton wasn’t sure which one, but the manservant breathed a sigh of relief when the tall man regained his seat. Jorman motioned at the wine and then scooped his goblet up and sipped from it, never taking his eyes off his prey.

“Now,” Jorman continued, once Ishmane had taken a sip of his own wine. “All of this can be avoided. All you need to do is put your vote against the Duke of Moss Lake when the time comes for legitimacy. Your reasons will become apparent, and you can step forward as the champion of fidelity.”

“And this...stain?” Ishmane practically groaned.

“Forgotten. You have my word.”

Trenton Briarwood stood with his back against the wall in common form for one of his station. To his right stood a man by the name of Loreman, and to his left stood another man by the name of Shipton. Both were of the same profession as he, though both were much younger. Trenton wore his black tunic neatly pressed over his gray trousers and polished black boots. The gray sash that labeled him a manservant, and thus gave him rights to be where he was, hung from his right shoulder and draped to his left hip. Trenton’s silver hair had been neatly combed back and was worn in the rare ponytail, tied off by a purple ribbon. His lordship, Jorman Hewson, sat four rows down in the stadium. He wore a dark purple coat with a white, high-collared shirt underneath, but unlike others of his station, his hair hung loosely about his shoulders but for one braid that had been woven into the locks near his right ear.

The hall was filled beyond capacity as every lord and lady of the kingdom presented themselves in their best to society, for this day was the day of reckoning. This was the day that the Council of the Crown’s decision for legitimacy would be announced by the First Minister of the House of Ministers, which the Council was a part of. Trenton had already picked out the major players of House Mosfin: Droman Tregorian, Rowen Tregorian, the Rickson brothers, Orea Falant, Senator Mirrows--the list went on. He had also placed the major contributors to other factions, but he knew less of these by name, though he had seen Lord Ishmane seated in his proper place among the black robes of the ministers looking quite ill.

A great drum in the corner of the room was eventually beaten by a very large man with a mallet and amidst the vibrating thrum the room fell silent--those who had been standing quickly finding their seats. Jorman didn’t pay any attention to Orea, who, in turn, paid him no mind. The two looked about as disinterested in the events at hand as a blind man at a play. Despite the declarations of fatherhood made by five young men from the dirtiest, poorest, most disease-infected portions of the city, despite the claims of relations by four of the most prominent escorts, the Veteran’s Guild had pushed forward with their favorite and Trenton was beginning to wonder if his lordship’s plans had fallen asunder. Senator Mirrows must have wondered the same thing, for the man had given Lord Hewson the wickedest of gazes upon entering the hall twenty minutes earlier--a gaze that Jorman had completely ignored. One month after the visit on a stormy night paid Jorman Hewson by an incognito Senator Mirrows, all of the kingdom would be witness to the success or failure of Lord Hewson’s labors. The very thought had left Trenton’s mouth dry, and a man in his position didn’t have the luxury of taking a quick sip from the goblet of wine at his elbow to wet his gullet.

The first minister rose to take the stand. Blanketed in beams of light directed by an elaborate collection of windows and mirrors, it would seem that he was bathed in the favor of the gods. “By the authority of the House of Ministers, on this day of April, in the year 1318, we meet to either proclaim a king, or denounce the candidate’s claim. Who makes this claim?”

“It is I.” The Duke of Moss Lake rose from his seat on the front row and stood proudly before the assembly, a red cape draped from his right shoulder in reference to his allegiance. “Reidfron, the Duke of Moss Lake.”

“And who supports this claim?”

“The Veteran’s Guild.” Larion Eldrin stood and many about him just stared at the hero in awe. Trenton was mildly aware of his own admiration despite the man’s affiliations, for Larion Eldrin was a man who had defied the odds and beaten death on many occasions.

“Thus it has been recorded.” The first minister motioned and both men returned to their seats. “The Council of the Crown has received such claims and has investigated the legitimacy with diligence and thoroughness. By vote, it has been decided that the Duke of Moss Lake is illegitimate in his claims--”

The crowd erupted into protests and cheerful calls. Trenton breathed easier, peering through the frantic crowd at his lordship who remained seated, completely calm and apparently unaffected by the uproar.

“--thus would everyone please be seated--” The first minister tried in vain to get the assemblage back in order. In due course, Jorman rose and slowly pushed his way through the crowd until his manservant had met him at the top of the stairs.

“Bring the carriage about Briarwood.” Jorman took a deep breath, savoring the victory. “We’re going home.”