05-03-2017, 01:07 PM
(This post was last modified: 05-03-2017, 06:57 PM by King Ghidorah.
Edit Reason: Minor cleanup, and a few missing words.
)
"You can talk about it all you like," I hiss, flexing my clawed fingers. I can't help wondering if Chatterly is faster than Brock Coxley was. "I'll do as I please. Now. I believe we had a deal."
"Yes," he says, adjusting the fit of his black leather gloves. "However, you'll recall that you were supposed to ask for me when you reached this place - Not the Duke. Do try and remember that the ability to follow basic instructions is part of what separates us from the stolid masses, hm?"
I grimace as my irritation increases. The suggestion that Chatterly and I are even remotely comparable, let alone that we exist on the same plane, is as laughable as it is demeaning. Fortunately for him, my self-control is increasing with practice. The last person to make such an insinuation was Dawnika Snow, and while her abominable notions of kinship were't the main reason I killed her, they certainly didn't make me want to kill her less.
"I don't see the difference. You work for the Duke, and you said that if I fulfilled my side of the bargain I'd get to meet your employer. So I am here to see the Duke."
Chatterly nods, and makes a small bow, his cloak falling open very slightly to reveal a sword at his hip. " It's true. I am an agent of His Grace, the Duke William Conrad von Harnburg, master of this castle and its lands. However, my point was that the form of these things can be important, no matter how trivial. Especially when dealing with nobility, one must appreciate the details."
I can't help it - I laugh out loud, my warbling cackle echoing in the tiny stone room. The self-proclaimed agent has just hit upon the very heart and soul of his continued existence; My need to observe and understand the finer complexities of this doomed valley is the only reason there's still more to him than a set of blackened bones, and the irony is sheer perfection.
"Of course," I agree, reveling in my secret joke (a strange and intriguing concept, jokes - one I feel I don't entirely understand). "Everything is in the details. Speaking of which, you said you'd tell me about the reasons for our previous arrangement - and your servant said you had another task which I might enjoy."
"Indeed," says Chatterly, straightening up and crossing to the far door. "I'll fill you in while I show you to your room. Dawn isn't for some hours yet, and while he's eager to meet you, His Grace the Duke is a man who prefers to sleep through the night."
The agent's cloak whispers as he opens the door, and I picture the surprise on his long, narrow face if I were to just kill him, right now. Betrayal: the more I think about it, the more appealing the shape of thing grows, but this isn't the time.
Together, we step out onto the flagstones of the torch-lit yard beyond the curtain-walls. The flat, cool tiles chill the bottoms of my golden feet. Chatterly begins to speak, and a fascinating picture unfolds.
"The first thing you need to understand," he says, adjusting his scarf, "Is the economic background. The Duchy of Harnburg and the County of Shatterdun - the province for which the caravan you intercepted was bound - compete directly with one another to export wool, barley, and quarried stone to the larger Duchies to the west. If Harnburg can corner those markets, the Duke hopes to weaken Shatterdun's tax-base enough to cripple them militarily, and annex much of the Countess's territory in the highlands. That would make Harnburg the fourth-largest Duchy in the region, and provide an adequate industrial base for grander ambitions. Do you follow?"
"Yes." I nod, my mind churning as this latest addition to my understanding of the valley snaps much of the information I've already absorbed into stark, shining context - all of the little lives, activities and hopes, laboring towards the larger dream of their master. Many of them probably aren't even aware of the goal, but they pursue it regardless in the success of their own daily struggles. I'm so delighted at the hierarchical synergy of it that I practically float.
"Good," says Chatterly. We arrive at a second set of walls, higher and thicker than the last, and with a more imposing entrance - nested portcullises instead of gates. Currently, however, they stand open, and we simply stroll through. The agent waves idly to the two bored guards who flank the barbican (a highly specific word that I'm shocked I know, though not an unpleasant one). The men stand a little straighter as we proceed through a narrow stone passage and into the inner courtyard surrounding the keep. Dark and brooding in the faint light of dozens of wall-mounted torches, orange and black and red dancing upon its bloody crimson walls, the heart of the castle looms above us. It's easily the most intimidating structure in the entire valley, but in the dead of night its a thing of shadows.
I can hardly wait to bring it crashing to the ground, to stand in its place, shining in superior golden grandeur.
"The caravan you destroyed," Chatterly continues, pitching his voice lower, "carried vital supplies for Shatterdun's quarries and farmers - and would have served, on its return trip, to carry their goods to market. Three or four more incidents like this one, with the addition of some clever sabotage, and their barley-harvest will rot in the silos. Their quarries grind to a halt, deprived of replacement spars, tools, and life-giving revenue. You see?"
I do see - more than he expects me to. There's an opportunity here for me to ruin not just this valley, but its rival polity as well. I will raise Harnburg up only to destroy it, and in the process reduce Shatterdun to an impoverished shell.
I'll have to find out more about them, too.
This just keeps getting better. I don't think I'll ever return to that strange place of uncertainty regarding the smiling bastard who brought me here - he'll die in his turn for the peerless indignities to which I've been subjected - but its not as though there's been no compensation. Still, the sublime agony of waiting! If I don't ruin something soon, something better than just another caravan (though I am looking forward to doing that again) then Harnburg is going to burn regardless of my preferences5.
"Of course," I say, my hands twitching in time to imagined bolts of cosmic destruction.
Chatterly leads us around the side of the keep, away from the main entrance, past several small outbuildings - a chapel, a smithy, a walled garden - until we reach a servant's entrance. It's on the second floor, accessible by a high set of stairs built into the stone the facade of the castle, and the agent unlocks it with a large iron key. I have to duck in order to make it through the tiny frame.
"Excellent," he proclaims. "We will, of course, want your assistance with the remaining caravans. Your next task, however, the one which the Duke wishes to discuss with you personally, is something more complicated."
I smile, and I almost fancy that I can feel my eyes flash.
"Tell me."
Chatterly locks the door behind us, and leads me down a stone-built gallery. It's lit by candles and lined on the interior side by windows, looking down into a vast, darkened chamber. My guide removes a candlestick from its holder, to better light our way as we walk. By its flickering light, I'm extremely aware of the difference in height between he and I. The shadows, which in the outdoors seemed somehow to enhance his stature, in these narrow spaces reduce him to a stump.
"Harnburg's own economic interests," the agent continues, "not to mention the fabric of its civil society, are being threatened. A tribe of elves has moved into the western forest, just outside the valley, beyond the falls. People don't like them, merchants don't trust them, and we can't convince them to leave. They need to go away, for the sake of the general peace. It's the Duke's hope that you can be persuaded to assist. You will, of course, be handsomely paid."
Stalking like a golden wraith through the corridors of Harnburg Castle, led by the shade of man who doubtless believes himself clever but offers me all I desire, it's all I can do to keep from laughing again.
Everything is falling into place.
"Yes," he says, adjusting the fit of his black leather gloves. "However, you'll recall that you were supposed to ask for me when you reached this place - Not the Duke. Do try and remember that the ability to follow basic instructions is part of what separates us from the stolid masses, hm?"
I grimace as my irritation increases. The suggestion that Chatterly and I are even remotely comparable, let alone that we exist on the same plane, is as laughable as it is demeaning. Fortunately for him, my self-control is increasing with practice. The last person to make such an insinuation was Dawnika Snow, and while her abominable notions of kinship were't the main reason I killed her, they certainly didn't make me want to kill her less.
"I don't see the difference. You work for the Duke, and you said that if I fulfilled my side of the bargain I'd get to meet your employer. So I am here to see the Duke."
Chatterly nods, and makes a small bow, his cloak falling open very slightly to reveal a sword at his hip. " It's true. I am an agent of His Grace, the Duke William Conrad von Harnburg, master of this castle and its lands. However, my point was that the form of these things can be important, no matter how trivial. Especially when dealing with nobility, one must appreciate the details."
I can't help it - I laugh out loud, my warbling cackle echoing in the tiny stone room. The self-proclaimed agent has just hit upon the very heart and soul of his continued existence; My need to observe and understand the finer complexities of this doomed valley is the only reason there's still more to him than a set of blackened bones, and the irony is sheer perfection.
"Of course," I agree, reveling in my secret joke (a strange and intriguing concept, jokes - one I feel I don't entirely understand). "Everything is in the details. Speaking of which, you said you'd tell me about the reasons for our previous arrangement - and your servant said you had another task which I might enjoy."
"Indeed," says Chatterly, straightening up and crossing to the far door. "I'll fill you in while I show you to your room. Dawn isn't for some hours yet, and while he's eager to meet you, His Grace the Duke is a man who prefers to sleep through the night."
The agent's cloak whispers as he opens the door, and I picture the surprise on his long, narrow face if I were to just kill him, right now. Betrayal: the more I think about it, the more appealing the shape of thing grows, but this isn't the time.
Together, we step out onto the flagstones of the torch-lit yard beyond the curtain-walls. The flat, cool tiles chill the bottoms of my golden feet. Chatterly begins to speak, and a fascinating picture unfolds.
"The first thing you need to understand," he says, adjusting his scarf, "Is the economic background. The Duchy of Harnburg and the County of Shatterdun - the province for which the caravan you intercepted was bound - compete directly with one another to export wool, barley, and quarried stone to the larger Duchies to the west. If Harnburg can corner those markets, the Duke hopes to weaken Shatterdun's tax-base enough to cripple them militarily, and annex much of the Countess's territory in the highlands. That would make Harnburg the fourth-largest Duchy in the region, and provide an adequate industrial base for grander ambitions. Do you follow?"
"Yes." I nod, my mind churning as this latest addition to my understanding of the valley snaps much of the information I've already absorbed into stark, shining context - all of the little lives, activities and hopes, laboring towards the larger dream of their master. Many of them probably aren't even aware of the goal, but they pursue it regardless in the success of their own daily struggles. I'm so delighted at the hierarchical synergy of it that I practically float.
"Good," says Chatterly. We arrive at a second set of walls, higher and thicker than the last, and with a more imposing entrance - nested portcullises instead of gates. Currently, however, they stand open, and we simply stroll through. The agent waves idly to the two bored guards who flank the barbican (a highly specific word that I'm shocked I know, though not an unpleasant one). The men stand a little straighter as we proceed through a narrow stone passage and into the inner courtyard surrounding the keep. Dark and brooding in the faint light of dozens of wall-mounted torches, orange and black and red dancing upon its bloody crimson walls, the heart of the castle looms above us. It's easily the most intimidating structure in the entire valley, but in the dead of night its a thing of shadows.
I can hardly wait to bring it crashing to the ground, to stand in its place, shining in superior golden grandeur.
"The caravan you destroyed," Chatterly continues, pitching his voice lower, "carried vital supplies for Shatterdun's quarries and farmers - and would have served, on its return trip, to carry their goods to market. Three or four more incidents like this one, with the addition of some clever sabotage, and their barley-harvest will rot in the silos. Their quarries grind to a halt, deprived of replacement spars, tools, and life-giving revenue. You see?"
I do see - more than he expects me to. There's an opportunity here for me to ruin not just this valley, but its rival polity as well. I will raise Harnburg up only to destroy it, and in the process reduce Shatterdun to an impoverished shell.
I'll have to find out more about them, too.
This just keeps getting better. I don't think I'll ever return to that strange place of uncertainty regarding the smiling bastard who brought me here - he'll die in his turn for the peerless indignities to which I've been subjected - but its not as though there's been no compensation. Still, the sublime agony of waiting! If I don't ruin something soon, something better than just another caravan (though I am looking forward to doing that again) then Harnburg is going to burn regardless of my preferences5.
"Of course," I say, my hands twitching in time to imagined bolts of cosmic destruction.
Chatterly leads us around the side of the keep, away from the main entrance, past several small outbuildings - a chapel, a smithy, a walled garden - until we reach a servant's entrance. It's on the second floor, accessible by a high set of stairs built into the stone the facade of the castle, and the agent unlocks it with a large iron key. I have to duck in order to make it through the tiny frame.
"Excellent," he proclaims. "We will, of course, want your assistance with the remaining caravans. Your next task, however, the one which the Duke wishes to discuss with you personally, is something more complicated."
I smile, and I almost fancy that I can feel my eyes flash.
"Tell me."
Chatterly locks the door behind us, and leads me down a stone-built gallery. It's lit by candles and lined on the interior side by windows, looking down into a vast, darkened chamber. My guide removes a candlestick from its holder, to better light our way as we walk. By its flickering light, I'm extremely aware of the difference in height between he and I. The shadows, which in the outdoors seemed somehow to enhance his stature, in these narrow spaces reduce him to a stump.
"Harnburg's own economic interests," the agent continues, "not to mention the fabric of its civil society, are being threatened. A tribe of elves has moved into the western forest, just outside the valley, beyond the falls. People don't like them, merchants don't trust them, and we can't convince them to leave. They need to go away, for the sake of the general peace. It's the Duke's hope that you can be persuaded to assist. You will, of course, be handsomely paid."
Stalking like a golden wraith through the corridors of Harnburg Castle, led by the shade of man who doubtless believes himself clever but offers me all I desire, it's all I can do to keep from laughing again.
Everything is falling into place.